Sammy Keyes and the Sisters of Mercy (24 page)

Father Mayhew signed off on my last six hours of detention. Said I’d done plenty for the community and didn’t need to be serving any more time.

Bernice and the others, though, aren’t going to be getting out of serving
their
time. Father Mayhew told me that Clarice and Abigail had a fit when they were arrested. Abigail kept screaming, “I’m going to kill that kleptomaniac! You hear me? I’m going to
kill
her!” And Clarice yelled, “You’re the one who’s always wanting to do one more town. ‘Just one more town! Just one more town!’ ”

He also told me that they’d already traced back at least five towns where the Sisters of Mercy had been on their trek across the country, and it looked like there were lots more. He said in every town they used the same someone-tried-to-break-into-the-motor-home routine, and I guess they did such a good job framing the priest in one town that the poor guy was egged by his congregation as they hauled him off to jail.

Anyhow, Father Mayhew was so happy to get his cross back that he invited Grams and me to have Thanksgiving dinner with him and the real Sisters. And it’s not that I was worried that Gregory would be pushing vegetables on me, it’s just that Holly also called and said that Meg and
Vera really wanted me and Grams and Hudson to come to their apartment for dinner, and that sounded like fun.

So Grams cooked up a bunch of rice and baked a couple of pumpkin pies, and I put plenty of marshmallows on when I baked the yams so I could scrape the top and at least
pretend
to be eating my vegetables, and away we went, to have Thanksgiving dinner above the Pup Parlor.

When Vera brings out the turkey, we all sit around the table, looking at each other, feeling a little strange. Good, but strange. We’re not family, we’re just a bunch of people looking for family. But when Meg hands Hudson the knife and says, “Will you do the honors?” somehow it feels right.

Vera says, “I think we need to take a moment and give thanks.” She looks around the table and says, “Maybe we could each say a few words?” She webs her fingers together, closes her eyes, and says, “Lord, I’m thankful for many things this day. For the food, for the company, but especially for the chance we’ve been given to open our home to Holly.”

After a pause, Meg clears her throat and says, “Thank you, Lord, for all you’ve given us this year, but mostly, thank you for bringing Holly to us.” She starts to say something more, but she can’t. Her chin’s quivering and she’s peeking over at Holly, and Holly’s smiling over her hands at Meg, kind of crying, too.

Then all of a sudden here it is, my turn. And I
am
thankful. For a lot of things. Mostly, though, I’m thankful for the people in my life that I can trust. For Grams and the way she seems to love me no matter what. For
Hudson and how he’s always happy to talk to me and teach me things. For Holly and her digging through trash, and for Meg and Vera and how they take in strays.

And I want to list everything from Marissa and Dot to my high-tops, but I can’t. I’ve got a big lump in my throat. So when everyone looks at me like, Well? what comes out of my mouth is, “I’m thankful that that’s a real turkey and not just a roasting chicken!”

Holly cracks up and then Hudson laughs, and pretty soon Grams, Meg, and Vera are all shaking their heads and chuckling.

And if there is a God and he did happen to be listening, he’s not mad. He knows what I meant, and I bet he’s up there laughing, too.

Have you read
SAMMY KEYES and the RUNAWAY ELF
yet?

Here’s a sneak peek
.

Excerpt from
Sammy Keyes and the Runaway Elf
Copyright © 1999 by Wendelin Van Draanen Parsons
All rights reserved

I mean, cruising the streets of Santa Martina on a float with a dozen dogs dressed up like reindeer isn’t exactly something I woke up that morning wanting to do. But there I was. Again. In the wrong place at the right time.

And by the time the float turned down Broadway, well, there was no jumping off. Not when I was in charge of a dog worth more than a sleighful of cash.

Of course, if I’d known what was waiting for me just down the street, I’d have jumped, all right.

Jumped and hightailed it
out
of there!

Grams says Santa Martina is a town just like any other town, but I don’t believe it. Sure, it’s got a mall downtown and railroad tracks that kind of cut the city into halves, and the two big streets are called Broadway and Main, but after you’ve lived there a little while you start to realize that Santa Martina is kind of strange. I mean, in the foyer of our city hall there’s a statue, and it’s not of one of the city’s founders or anything historic like a covered wagon or a war hero. No, it’s a statue of a group of people down on one knee, hailing a softball.

That’s right, a softball.

And even though I’m into softball and I’m really hoping that our team wins the Junior Sluggers’ Cup in February, I’m not so far gone that I’d erect a bronze statue like that in City Hall. Mayor Hibbs is. I’ve heard he dips to one knee as he passes the statue on his way to work, and some people say he even makes the sign of the cross. I’ve never actually seen him do it, but
someone
put that statue there, and it sure wasn’t Father Mayhew.

Aside from the statue there’s our calendar. Now, Santa Luisa and other towns around here put out their own calendars too, but theirs are of normal stuff—trees, birds, broken barns—things you expect to see in a calendar.

Santa Martina’s calendar has mutts. Mangy, misshapen mutts. The weirder looking, the better. The owners dress them up in crazy outfits and take pictures of them at different landmarks around town. Last year, the July dog had on goggles and a scarf, and was parachuting from the roof of the mall. And for October they had a dog chewing on a bone, right outside the cemetery gate. I’m telling you, Santa Martina is not a town like any other town, no matter what Grams says.

Having a cat, I never understood what a big deal the calendar was to dog owners. But then my friend Holly started working for Vera and Meg over at the Pup Parlor and now I know—it’s a
huge
deal. Holly says people come in to pick up their dogs and all they talk about is what they’re going to do to get chosen for the calendar. Then they go off and launch their pets from rooftops or strap them to motorcycles or get them to scratch up their piano keys, all so they can point to a little brass prize tag and pretend they’re a celebrity, riding with their dog in the Christmas parade.

Now I have to admit, the Christmas parade is a great parade—strange, but in a good way. For one thing, it’s at night. Everyone puts Christmas lights on their float—big ones, tiny ones, icicle ones—and when all those lights come riding down Broadway, well, it
feels
like Christmas.

People go all out, too, and I don’t think it’s because the first-place float gets a candy cane the size and shape of a softball bat. I think it’s because everybody wants to outdo the guy who outdid them the year before. There are flatbed trucks with forests of pine trees, and carolers
standing on snow that’s been hauled down from the mountains. There are floats on wagons with lots of hay and people and real animals making up Nativity scenes. There are even motorcycle floats. Last year the Harley club entered, and when Grams saw them growling down the street on their hogs, decked out as rebel Santas, she called them “Biker Santas from You-Know-Where” and plugged her ears.

So it’s a fun parade to watch, but Marissa’s actually been
in
it a couple of times, and she says that’s boring. You have to wait forever in line, and then it’s stop-and-go, stop-and-go down Broadway for almost two hours. On top of that, you don’t actually get to
see
the parade.

So I’ve always been happy to sit on the curb, waving and clapping for wagons of sheep and “Biker Santas from You-Know-Where.” And this year I was planning to meet Grams at our usual spot, right after I got done helping Holly and Vera get the Canine Calendar float ready. The problem was, I couldn’t find the float. I ran down Wesler Street, where everyone lines up before the parade, but I couldn’t remember if their float was number sixty-eight or eighty-six.

When I got to the sixties, I stopped and asked a lady dressed up like the Virgin Mary, “Have you seen the Canine Calendar float?”

She blinked at me and asked, “What?”

“You know, the float with all the dogs?”

Mary shook her head and went back to arranging straw around Baby Jesus. “You got me.”

So I figured it had to be eighty-six. I kept on running,
past the firemen’s float, past a couple of Santa’s workshop floats and a bunch of horses munching on hay through the slats of a wagon. Finally I stopped and asked a clarinet player in the Santa Martina High School marching band, “Have you seen the Canine Calendar float?”

She straightened her hat. “The what?”

“You know—the float with all the dogs?”

She shook her head. “What number is it?”

“Eighty-six, I think.”

“It would have to be back that way. We’re one-oh-two.”