Beans on the Roof (3 page)

“You can write it tomorrow,” Mrs. Bean said. “And, George, would you please bring in the clothes?”

“Mama, I haven’t got my poem!”

“Bring in the clothes for your mother, George,” Mr. Bean called.

George took the clothes off the line. Then he went downstairs.

He sat at the table with the other Beans.

He ate with the other Beans.

But for the first time in his life, George didn’t feel like a Bean himself.

“String!”

It was the next day. George was back on the roof. He was alone.

“String! String Bean!”

George looked across the street. Frankie was in the window.

“What you doing?” Frankie yelled.

George did not answer.

“Still writing your po-em?”

George frowned. It was hard to write a poem. It was impossible to write one with Frankie watching him.

“You want to play ball?” Frankie yelled. “Or would you rather write your po-em?”

Mrs. Bean heard Frankie. She called out the window. “He can’t play ball, Frankie. It’s too close to suppertime.” Then she added, “And the word is not po-em. It’s poem.”

Frankie said, “Yes, Mrs. Bean.” Then he went back into his apartment.

Mrs. Bean said to Jenny, “I thought I asked you to go up and get George.”

“I did, but he won’t come. He wants to finish his roof poem.”

“Tell him he can finish it later.”

“He won’t listen to me, Mama. I told him there were lots of people—important people—who didn’t have roof poems. I told him George Washington didn’t have a roof poem. I told him Abraham Lincoln didn’t have one either.”

“And he still wouldn’t come down?”

“He said George Washington and Abraham
Lincoln didn’t need roof poems. He said they weren’t Beans.”

Mrs. Bean stuck her head out the window again.

“George,” she said. “Come down here this minute.”

“But, Mama—” George began.

Frankie called from his window. “Mrs. Bean, he doesn’t have his po-em yet. I mean, his poem.”

Mrs. Bean said, “That’s better, Frankie. George, come down this minute.”

“Yes, Mama.”

George came down the steps and into the kitchen.

“Nothing?” asked Jenny.

“Nothing,” said George.

“Well, don’t feel bad,” Jenny said. “Anna hasn’t finished her poem either.”

“Oh, yes, I have!” Anna said.

Anna danced into the kitchen. “I have finished! After supper I will read my poem to the family.”

Mr. Bean came into the kitchen then too. He said, “I cannot wait until after supper.”

“But, Papa—”

“I love all the Bean poems. I have learned them by heart.” He smiled at Jenny:

He smiled at Mrs. Bean:

“And my own.” He threw back his head and sang:

“Now,” he went on, “I want to hear Anna’s poem so I can learn it too.”

“You might as well read it, Anna,” Mrs. Bean said. “Your father won’t eat until he hears it.”

“It can wait,” Anna said.

“No, read it,” Mrs. Bean said. “You have made us all so proud. You will be the first Bean to ever be in a book.”

“Mama,” said Anna, “my poem is not in the book yet. The teacher is going to pick the ones to go in the book.”

“She’ll pick yours,” Jenny said. “It is the best poem in the world.”

“I think She’ll pick it too,” said George.

George felt worse than ever. He had been up on the roof two afternoons. He still did not have a roof poem. And his father had not even asked about his poem.

George was beginning to hate poems.

“All right. If you really want to hear it, here goes.”

Anna unfolded her paper:

“My daughter can see all the way around the world,” Mr. Bean said. He blew his nose.

“It is so beautiful it makes me want to cry,” Mrs. Bean said. She wiped her eyes on her apron.

George looked sad too.

“You must write it down for me,” Mr. Bean said. “I will put it to music. I will sing it.”

“She does not have to write it down,” Mrs. Bean said. “It will be in the book. You can learn it from the book!”

“Now, Mama,” Anna said, “it has not been picked yet.”

“It will be,” Mrs. Bean said.

Anna folded the sheet of paper. “We hand
them in tomorrow,” she said, crossing her fingers. “Wish me luck.”

“Oh, we do. We all do.” Mrs. Bean kissed Anna and hugged her. “To think of it—a Bean in a book.”

With a proud smile, she wiped her eyes again.

“Wish me luck too,” George said.

Anna Bean ran up the stairs. She ran through the living room. She ran into the bedroom. She shut the door.

“Anna?” Mrs. Bean said. “Is that you?”

Anna did not answer.

“Anna?”

Mrs. Bean came out of the kitchen. She was drying her hands on her apron. She went down the hall. She knocked on the door.

“Anna?”

Anna said, “Please leave me alone.”

Mrs. Bean said, “Anna, are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, just please leave me alone.”

Mrs. Bean went back into the kitchen. She was standing at the sink when George came in.

“Do you know what’s wrong with Anna?” she asked.

George shook his head.

He started into the hall, and Mrs. Bean said quickly, “Don’t go in the bedroom.”

“But I need my piece of paper,” George said. “I’m going up on the roof to work on my poem.”

“Here is a sheet of paper.”

“But this has writing on it, Mama. I need my own paper.”

“George, I don’t want you bothering Anna. Something is wrong with Anna. I don’t think she feels good.”

“Oh, all right, but I need a pencil too.”

“Here.”

George looked at the pencil. It wasn’t as good as his old one. It didn’t have his teeth marks in it.

“If it starts raining, George, you come inside.”

“I will.”

George went slowly up the stairs to the roof.

He sat down. He stared at the sheet of paper. He stared up at the sky.

It was not a good day to be on the roof. There was no sun. No clean clothes flapped in the wind. There were a lot of dark clouds.

The door opened behind him. George looked around. He said, “Oh, hello, Jelly.”

“Hello, String,” Jenny said.

She sat down beside him.

“Something’s wrong with Anna,” she said. “Anna’s in the bedroom with the door shut.”

“I know.”

“Mama won’t let me go in the bedroom. And my jump rope’s in there.”

“My paper and pencil are in there too.”

“And I know a new jump rope rhyme,” Jenny said. “It goes like this”:

“Then you count until you miss. One … two … three—like that. But I can’t count my friends because I don’t have my jump rope.”

“You have a lot of friends.”

“I still want to count them.” Jenny sighed. “Mama says Anna doesn’t feel good.”

“I don’t feel good either,” George admitted.

“I never feel good when something’s
wrong with a Bean. Are you still working on your poem?”

“Yes.”

“Just make up an awful poem. Get it over with.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do.”

“Want me to do a poem for you? Then we can go downstairs and make dough people. Mama has some scraps. How about this?”

George shook his head. “You go on,” he said. “I’ll be down as soon as I can.”

“Well, hurry,” Jenny said. “It’s no fun making dough people by myself.”

Jenny went downstairs.

George sat alone for a moment.

Suddenly a raindrop fell beside George. It
left a wet spot as big as a nickel. Another drop fell.

George took a deep breath. His eyes shone.

He bent over his paper. He licked the point of his pencil. He began to write.

Then he jumped up.

George was grinning. He opened the door and started downstairs.

“I did it! I did it!” he cried. “Everybody, I did it!”

George burst into the kitchen. “I did it! I did it!”

Mrs. Bean said, “Don’t shout, George.”

“Mama! I have to shout! I did my roof poem!”

Mrs. Bean put one finger to her lips.

“Please be quiet, George. Jenny and I think we know what is wrong with Anna.”

“But, Mama, don’t you want to hear my poem? You gave me the idea for it.”

He turned to Jenny.

“Jelly, you want to hear it, don’t you?”

Jenny said, “Yes, but not right this minute.”

“Well, I’m saying it anyway. I can’t stop myself. Here goes:”

He grinned.

“Do you like it? I do. It doesn’t have the word roof in it, but it is a roof poem.”

“Every time I hear it, I like it better.”

George stopped. He looked from Jenny to his mother. Neither of them looked happy about his poem.

“Didn’t you like it, Jenny?”

“Yes, I liked it.”

“Mama?”

“It is a very nice poem, George, but I don’t want you to say it to Anna.”

“Anna has to hear it, Mama. Anna’s the one who started the roof poems. It would make her feel better.”

Jenny said, “George, we think Anna’s poem is not going in the book.”

George said, “What?” His paper dropped to the floor.

Mrs. Bean said, “That’s right. We think Anna’s poem is not going to be in the book.”

George said, “But her poem was better than anybody’s.”

“We didn’t see the others,” said Mrs. Bean.

“I know it was better,” George said.

“I know it was too,” said Jenny. “I just loved it. I wish they had let me pick the poems.”

“I do too,” said Mrs. Bean.

“How could they not pick Anna’s poem?” George asked. “Anna’s poem was beautiful.”

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Bean.

Mrs. Bean dried her eyes on her apron. Then she said, “Well, I better start supper. Your father will be home soon.”

“Does Papa know?”

“No, George. I’ll tell him later.” She looked at them. “Now, children,” she said, “when Anna comes out of the bedroom, I don’t want to hear one word about poems. I mean it.”

“I don’t even like poems anymore,” Jenny said.

“I don’t either,” said George.

“Shh! She’s coming,” Mrs. Bean warned. “Here. Start making dough people. And, remember, not one word about roof poems.”

George and Jenny took the dough. They
sat down at the table. They began to roll the dough into balls.

Anna came and stood in the doorway to the kitchen. Her eyes were red and puffy.

“Hi, Anna,” Jenny said.

Anna said, “Hi.”

“Do you want to make dough people?”

Anna shook her head.

“But we want you to, don’t we, George? You make the best dough people of anybody.”

George nodded. “I made a dough snake.” He held up his strip of dough. He wiggled it to make Anna laugh.

Jenny said, “Please, Anna. It’s no fun without you.”

“Oh, all right,” said Anna. She sat down at the table. She took a piece of dough.

Jenny said, “We can have a play, Anna. Our dough people can be the actors. George’s snake can be the announcer.”