Dreams for Stones (30 page)

I fell asleep that night remembering the
taste of the rose petal and the sound of Mom and Dad laughing about
Ethel and Bethel’s adventure.

The roses weren’t the goats’ only adventure. One day the phone rang
while Mom and I were eating lunch. Mom said a lot of “Oh, nos,” and
“Are you sures.” Then she called Dad. “Jess, Mr. Tuppen just
called. He has the vegetable stand. You know, the one by the
cemetery? He said we better come get our goats, or he’d shoot them.
He sounded awful angry. What are we going to do? I can’t leave
Bobby.”

I guess Dad said he would take care of it.
Mom was still upset, though.

After a while, Dad walked into the house
laughing. “Em, your goats are notorious. I got an earful from
everyone at the vegetable stand. Seems they’ve been all over the
neighborhood, practicing their own version of neighborly
visitation. Folks didn’t want to trouble us with it, but now we
know, we have to do something about it.”

Brad went outside with Dad. In a few
minutes, he came back, chuckling. “You ought to see those silly
goats now. Your dad hobbled them.”

“What’s hobbled?” I asked.

“It’s tying two of their feet together so
they can walk, but they can’t run. Ethel and Bethel are hopping
mad. Or they would be if they could hop.”

“Can you get Mom to take me out? I want to
talk to them.”

Brad went over and put a paw on Mom’s lap,
and she put down her mending. “You want us to go outside, is that
it? Just a minute, I need to get Bobby a sweater.”

“Can you find Ethel and Bethel?” I asked
Brad when we got outside.

“Sure.” He trotted off, disappearing for
several minutes. He returned with a short rope in his mouth.

“What’s that, Brad?”

Both Mom and I asked the question, but I was
the only one able to hear Brad’s answer.

“It’s a hobble. Ethel and Bethel must have
chewed them off, and now they’ve disappeared again.”

It turned out, he was exactly right. When
Dad got home, the goats were just getting back. Dad laughed as he
told Mom how they’d jumped over the gate back into our yard. Brad
and I laughed too, until we heard Dad say, “Em, I’m afraid we’re
going to have to get rid of the goats.”

“Isn’t there something we can do, Jess?
Bobby loves them.”

“If we can’t keep them in the yard, we’ll
have no choice,” Dad said.

“Oh, Brad, can’t you do something?” I said.
“I’d miss Ethel and Bethel terribly if they went away.”

“What can I do? You know Ethel and Bethel.
Nothing ever stops them from doing exactly what they want.”

“Why don’t you tell them Dad said they’ll be
sent away? Maybe that will make them behave.”

“That’s an excellent plan,” Brad said.

I could hardly wait to get outside the next
day. “Did Brad talk to you?” I asked the goats.

“In the assertative,” said Bethel,
nodding.

“You mean affirmative,” snorted Ethel.

“I don’t understand why you’re always
correcting me, Ethel,” said Bethel. “My language is ever more
poetic than yours. I think you’re just jealous.”

“Poetic my hoof, pathetic is more like
it.”

“Brad talked to you, right? What do you
think?” I said. When the goats start speaking in that snippy tone,
Bethel always ends up sulking.

“Your mother doesn’t even have any roses,”
grumbled Bethel.

“But I love you, Ethel, and you too, Bethel.
You must stay in our yard, or Dad will send you away. And we’ll
never see each other ever again. And I’ll be awful sad.”

“We’re being selfish, Bethel. Bobby can’t
run at all, and here we are complaining we have to stay in this
yard,” said Ethel. “After all, you must admit, it is a very
pleasant yard.”

“You are precipitously correct, Ethel. The
place we were before this wasn’t nearly as comfabable.”

“Precipitously indeed,” Ethel muttered. “I
suppose you mean precisely. And as for comfabable. The word is
comfortable.”

“And, you’re nice, too,” Bethel said,
ignoring Ethel and turning to me. “I suppose we can try. If it’s
too bad, we can always run away later.”

“Oh, please don’t do that,” I begged.

“Since you asked so nicely, we’ll try,” said
Bethel.

Once they promised to stay in the yard, the goats had to find new
ways to have fun. On hot days, they ran through the sprinkler or
squeezed onto the chair swing Dad hung from a tree. When it was
cooler, they chased the chickens and guinea hens.

Then one day, Mom went back inside for a
minute, leaving her paints and a fresh canvas set up. Before I
could stop them, Ethel and Bethel got into the paints and smeared
them all over their tongues and noses. Then they wiped their noses
on the canvas, all the time making faces and saying “Ugh,
yuck.”

Maybe they expected the paints to taste like
roses.

When Mom came back, Ethel and Bethel ran
away. Mom stood with her hands on her hips watching them, and then
she looked at the canvas. It was a mess but quite a pretty mess.
Like a rainbow that twisted itself into a tangle.

Alan stopped reading abruptly, the memory
sharp and clear of a painting Meg had given him when they were in
grade school. When he asked her what it was, she had giggled and
said it was a rainbow that decided to tie itself into a bow.

He still had it. That picture. It had fallen
out of one of his books, when he and Meg were unpacking in their
first apartment. He’d put it carefully away, teasing her that one
day it would be worth a fortune. An early Meg Adams.

He opened eyes he hadn’t realized were
closed and looked once again at Kathy’s story, trying to read more
quickly, just to get through it, trying not to let it surprise him
again.

Mom is teaching me to talk with my fingers. She holds my hand and
asks me questions, and I answer with taps. One tap for yes and two
for no. The first question she asked me was, did I want a cup of
cocoa. I tapped once.

The cocoa was warm and creamy, the best I
have ever tasted.

I am getting bigger, and I barely remember the time before I got
sick. Brad says I am growing up. He told me most boys my age go
somewhere called school in order to learn to read and write, paint,
and play music.

Then Brad said those other boys have
forgotten how to talk to animals.

It’s all right that I can’t read stories,
because Mom reads them for me. But I would like to paint and play
music. Still, I can’t decide if I would give up talking to Ethel,
Bethel, and Brad for school.

Mom has been reading me stories from a brand new book. They are
called fairy stories, and they are about princesses, wicked
witches, fairy godmothers, and spells.

“Do you think I could be under a spell?” I
asked Brad. “And that’s why I can’t run or speak anymore?”

“Do you mean you used to run and speak?”
Brad said.

“Yes. And I even threw stones into the
pond.”

“I suppose you could be under an evil
spell.”

“Then that means I need my fairy godmother
to come.” I was very excited. “You must help me watch for her.”

“I would be happy to do that,” Brad
said.

The goats don’t like fairy stories. They
think they’re too scary. Their favorite story is
The Three Billy
Goats Gruff
. Dad built a bridge over the stream that runs into
our pond, and Ethel and Bethel use it to act out the story. They
pretend they are the Gruff family, and they make Brad play the
troll.

Whenever Mom reads to me outside, Ethel and
Bethel come over and ask me to pick their story. They watch me tap
out yeses and nos as Mom holds up the books.
The Three Billy
Goats Gruff
isn’t my favorite, but I pick it for Ethel and
Bethel because they are my friends.

The other stories I especially like are the
ones about Doctor Dolittle. I’m glad there’s a grown-up who still
remembers how to talk to animals. Maybe that means when my spell is
broken and I go to school, I’ll still be able to talk to Ethel,
Bethel, and Brad.

Mom has also begun reading me something
called poems. I like them very much and so do Ethel and Bethel. In
fact, we like them so much we decided to make up our own. Here is
mine.

Someday I know I will run and jump

And sing like the birds in the trees

The day my fairy godmother comes

And breaks my spell for me

“That was very good for a first try, Bobby,”
said Bethel. “
Trees
and
me
rhyme quite
satisfactorily, but I do believe you need to work on your other
lines. They don’t rhyme at all.”

“I think it’s perfect,” said Ethel.

“Do you have a poem to say for us, Ethel?” I
said.

Ethel lifted her head and recited:

Tippy toes, swerves, leaps, and curves

We run in the grass and roll in the leaves

Until we’re covered with garlands and wreaths

Ethel said her poem very nicely, but Bethel
broke in and said, “Really, Ethel,
curves
does not rhyme
with
leaves
and
wreaths
. It won’t do.”

Ethel lowered her head, and I thought she
was going to butt Bethel. Hard. Instead, she shook her head and
said in her sweetest voice, “And what, my dear, have you
composed?”

Bethel stuck her nose in the air and said,
“And wouldn’t you like to know that.” Then she turned and pranced
away.

I think Bethel acted that way because she
was having trouble with her poem. Poems can be very hard.

Bethel was gone for a while, but then she
came dancing back, singing out:

Clickety Clack Tickety Tack

Feedle Fiedle Foodle Frack

Weedle Wadle Woodle Wack

Tickety Tack Clickety Clack

Ethel snorted.

“You’ll notice how all of my lines rhyme
perfectly,” Bethel said, ignoring Ethel.

I liked Bethel’s poem, and so did Bethel.
She pranced around for several minutes chanting her poem over and
over, until Ethel stamped her hoof and said, “Enough!”

Bethel may be bigger, but Ethel is the
boss.

Now that I know what they’re called, I think
poems are used to cast spells. I wonder if a poem can also break a
spell.

It is something to think about.

It’s almost Christmas again, and when Dad comes in from outside,
puffs of cold air come in too. Yesterday, he brought a tree indoors
and stood it in the corner. It makes the house smell the same way
our woods do on a hot summer day.

Dad and Mom circled the tree with strings of
red, blue, green, and yellow lights. Then Mom added strings of
silver that flutter whenever anyone walks by. It is very
pretty.

A strange man has come to be with us this Christmas. When he
arrived, Mom rushed over to hug him, laughing and crying. I don’t
understand it, but sometimes Mom can be all happy and sad mixed
together.

Mom dried her eyes and led the man over to
me. He is my uncle Bill. Mom is his sister. Uncle Bill took one of
my hands in his and talked to me exactly like I was all grown-up.
“I am most particularly happy to meet you, Bobby.”

I was happy to meet him too.

He nodded his head at me as if he understood
that. Then he held out his hand for Brad to sniff and patted Brad
on the head.

“Your uncle is a good man,” Brad said to me
later.

“How do you know?” I asked, although I
agreed with him.

“He has kind eyes, and he was gentle when he
patted me.”

Uncle Bill is a teacher in a school where boys learn to read and
write and they forget how to speak to animals. I wish I could ask
him questions about that, because I’ll be going to school
someday.

Well my fairy godmother does have to come
break my spell first. And she seems to be taking a very long
time.

Spring is early this year. Mom and Dad said so. There are no leaves
on the trees yet, but when we go outside, I don’t need a heavy
jacket, and I can smell that warm spring smell.

Today when we went outside, Mom brought
along a bowl full of soapy water and blew bubbles. The bubbles
floated, spinning slowly and changing colors. Some were pink and
purple and some blue and green. One floated over and touched my
nose and popped. It tickled.

Ethel, Bethel, and Brad chased the bubbles,
but whenever they caught one, it always popped. It was funny to
watch them, although I was sad when a bubble popped, because
they’re pretty. But Mom blew more, so it was all right.

Mom blew bubbles a long time. I liked it a
lot.

Today, Mom got a phone call. It made her cry but not in a happy
way. She left the room for a while, and when she came back, her
eyes were red and her nose was all stuffy.

Brad went over to Mom and rubbed his head
against her leg, and she started crying again. Then Dad came home
and hugged Mom, and she cried some more.

“Hush, Em. You’re upsetting the boy,” Dad
said. “Bill’s okay. He’s with God.”

“What does that mean, Brad? Are they talking
about Uncle Bill?”

“I think they must be, Bobby. I was afraid
of this. I believe your uncle was ill at Christmas, and now he has
died.”

“When you die, you have to live with God?
But what if you don’t want to?” I didn’t want to live with anyone
but Mom and Dad.

“It’s what many people believe,” Brad said.
“It’s a good thing.”

I didn’t understand how going to live with
someone you didn’t know could be a good thing.

Amen to that
. Alan winced at the
memory of all the people who had come up to him at the funeral to
say, “Meg’s gone home to God. She’s at peace now.” As if that had
the power to comfort him when all he could feel was Meg’s
absence.

What an odd story Kathy had written. It was
making him uncomfortable, pulling at memories he’d rather leave
untouched. He started to set the pages aside, but the words
Little Prince
caught his eye. Intrigued by the oddity of
that, he pulled the pages closer.