“Worse things have happened to me,” Claire answered.
“Do the dogs miss me?” Sammy asked her.
“Of course,” Claire said.
They waited on the broad back porch while Dicey called her grandmother from the stove.
“I heard company,” the woman said.
“Come and meet them,” Dicey answered. “This is Mrs. Tillerman,” she said. “Will and
Claire, friends of ours.”
Her grandmother shook hands with Claire, then Will, and asked them to sit down on
the porch because the kitchen was so hot. She asked them if they wanted some lemonade
and they asked what was wrong with Maybeth’s arm. Dicey brought out a pitcher of lemonade
made from a can and seven glasses. The children sat silent while the adults talked
about who Will and Claire were. Will called their grandmother, “Mrs. Tillerman, ma’am,”
until she finally snapped at him to call her Ab.
“We had the devil of a time finding you,” he said. “You don’t have a phone.”
“I know that,” she said. “I took it out years ago.”
“Why would you do that?” Claire asked.
“You have any children?” their grandmother asked Claire. Claire shook her head. “You
wouldn’t understand then. I used to. My boy, Bullet, he was in the army. . . . ” Her
dark hazel eyes clouded while she talked, and her face stiffened. “They called me
up on the telephone to tell me he got killed. I had to do something. What I did was,
I went downtown and took the thing and threw it through the phone company’s window.
They were surprised, I can tell you that. It didn’t help, of course—but it was better
than doing nothing.”
Will threw back his head and laughed. Their grandmother smiled her sudden, surprised,
smile.
“Did you hit anyone?” Sammy asked.
“All their desks were at the back,” their grandmother said, “and there was a display
shelf right by the window. I didn’t aim to hurt anyone.”
“What kind of a name is Bullet?” Sammy asked. “A nickname? What was his real name?”
“Sam. Samuel.”
“Like me? Dicey, he had my name.”
Dicey wondered if Momma had named Sammy after her brother because he was dead. How
would Momma have known that? Maybe she had liked her brother Bullet.
“Claire,” Will said. “The rain’s let up a little. Why don’t you take the kids out
and show them what we have in the car?”
In the back of the station wagon were three bicycles, piled one on top of the other.
A fourth was folded in behind the front seat.
James and Dicey had full-sized bikes, with three gears. Sammy
and Maybeth had smaller models, but theirs too had gears and thin wheels.
“Oh,” the children said.
And, “Oh,” again.
Claire grinned at them. “They’re not new. We’re near Ocean City, right? And it’s the
end of the season there so the places that rent bicycles to tourists are selling off
their old ones. Well, we all thought of you when we saw that. So everybody chipped
in.”
Sammy hopped onto his and wobbled for a few feet before he toppled off. “Did you see
me ride?” he yelled.
Dicey and James had ridden on other kids’ bikes in Provincetown, so they knew how.
Claire took Maybeth aside to begin teaching her. Sammy needed no help, or so he thought.
Dicey watched him for a minute and decided that he would manage on his own and that
would be better than trying to get him to sit still and learn properly. She and James
raced down the muddy driveway and back again. As they rode back, the rain intensified.
“We’d better get these in the barn,” Dicey called over to him.
“If we’d had bikes I bet we could have gone twenty miles a day,” James answered.
They took the bikes into the barn and dried them off with the tack cloth there. “If
the rain lets up later, can I ride again?” Sammy asked. “I’m beginning to know how.”
“Maybe,” Dicey said. Claire had gone back to the porch. “We didn’t say thank you,”
Dicey realized.
They quieted down when they came to the back porch. Maybeth went up to Will. “Thank
you,” she said. “It’s more wonderful than anything. Will you tell everyone thank you?”
“I certainly will,” Will answered.
“For me too,” James said, and Dicey and Sammy added their thanks.
Will and Claire stood up then, while the rain poured down
beyond the wire screens, over the trees and garden and marsh.
“Do you have to go?” Dicey asked. She felt that when they did go she and her family
would be further away from the circus than before, than just that morning. “Can’t
you stay for lunch? Can they?” she asked her grandmother.
Her grandmother looked hesitant.
“Perhaps you would allow us to take all of you to a restaurant for lunch,” Will said.
He spoke to their grandmother.
That seemed to decide her. “And pay good money for what we can make better ourselves?
Nonsense. If James and Sammy will empty the crab pots and Dicey will get us some tomatoes,
I think I can feed us pretty well here. If you don’t mind eating out on the porch.
If it’s not too cold for you.”
So they had lunch together on the back porch, while the rain faded away outside. They
ate and talked. Will told their grandmother about how he first met the children, and
how they turned up again with Mr. Rudyard on their heels. Then James had to tell about
Mr. Rudyard again, because he told it best. Their grandmother picked crab meat and
chewed and listened. She studied James’s face as he spoke. She looked from one to
the other of them, especially at Maybeth. At the end she raised her eyebrows a little
and said to Dicey, “You ran a risk to hire yourselves out.”
“I had to,” Dicey said.
“I can see that.”
Then lunch was over and it really was time for Will and Claire to leave. The rain
had stopped by then and the thick masses of gray clouds were beginning to break apart.
A golden bar of sunlight would occasionally slip past the guard the clouds had put
up. But the mood as the children stood around Claire’s car, saying good-bye, was still
rainy.
“Well,” Dicey said.
“Well,” Will said. Then, like a bolt of sunlight he changed the
subject from good-bye. “It’s turning into biking weather, wouldn’t you say, Claire?”
Dicey grinned at him then. “Don’t lose touch with us,” she said. He reached into his
shirt pocket and pulled out a calling card, printed with the name of the circus and
an address in New York City.
“My booking agent,” Will said. “He always knows where we are.”
Dicey reached up and kissed him on the cheek. His short beard scratched at her cheek
as his arms hugged her, round and strong, for the briefest of times.
“You’ll be okay,” he assured her. “I don’t know what that old lady will do—I don’t
think even she knows—but you kids, remember you can always call on us.”
Dicey nodded, and tried to smile. What was the matter with her today? Wasn’t she used
to saying good-bye?
The white car drove off, splashing through puddles, its wheels throwing muddy water
aside.
Sammy asked if he could ride his bike and Dicey gave him permission. Maybeth went
into the house to help their grandmother clear up. James and Dicey worked out plans
for mending the biggest holes in the side of the barn.
“Whadda you think, Dicey?” James finally asked. “Are we going to stay?”
“I think so,” Dicey answered. “I think we’ve shown her we can be useful. And not too
much trouble. I think she likes Sammy—maybe because he’s named after her son—”
“Our uncle. Did you think of that?”
“And I’m pretty sure we’ll be okay here. All of us.”
“What about schools?”
“We can ride our bikes downtown and find out. Tomorrow. You want to?”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday.”
“Then the next day.”
“That’s Labor Day.”
“Then Tuesday or next week. Why are you quarreling, James? Don’t you want to stay?”
“I guess so. I like it, and all those books. Do you think our grandfather was smart?
Do you think he went to college or just read? What do you think he was like?”
“I don’t know anything about him except what she said. Would it be okay with you if
we stayed?”
“Sure. It’s a good place. But Dicey, why did all of her children leave her? She’s
not so bad.”
“Do you think there’s something we don’t know? Do you think it’s dangerous for us?”
Dicey asked him.
“Do you like her?” James asked.
Dicey considered this. “You know? I could. I mean, she’s so odd and prickly. She fights
us, or anyway I feel like I’m fighting her and she’s fighting back, as if we both
know what’s going on but neither of us is saying anything. It’s fun.”
“You’re crazy,” James said.
“Maybe. But she’s a good enemy—you know? In that way. Cousin Eunice wasn’t.” Dicey
thought some more. “So she might make a good friend,” Dicey said finally.
“You are crazy,” James said. He looked at her. “But you might be right. You’re smart
too, Dicey, do you ever think about that?” Dicey hadn’t. It didn’t seem very important
to her, not the way it was to James.
Sammy had ridden out of sight, beyond the long driveway. He wasn’t back in an hour
and he wasn’t back in two hours. The rain clouds blew away, leaving room for a bright
red sunset, where fiery lights burned behind the clouds that gathered around the lowering
sun.
They had cold ham for supper, and Sammy hadn’t returned when they sat down. Dicey
was worried. She didn’t dare say anything though. They sat down in a troubled silence.
When she heard Sammy’s feet on the steps of the porch, Dicey’s appetite revived. He
burst in the door to the kitchen, his cheeks red, his eyes sparkling.
“Wash your hands,” Dicey said. She could see him and he was fine, he was safe and
back again. Relief dissolved into anger then. She looked at her grandmother.
“When you’ve done that, go to your room,” their grandmother said.
Sammy turned. “But I’m hungry.”
“That’ll help you remember. Did you tell your sister where you were going?” Sammy’s
jaw went out. He wasn’t going to answer, not to tell a lie.
“Did he tell you?” Dicey shook her head. “Did he have your permission?”
“Sort of,” Dicey said.
“Sort of?” their grandmother said in a sharp, sarcastic voice. “Sort of? How do you
sort of give permission to disappear for hours at a time? What do you say? ‘Okay,
Sammy, go sort of run wild and sort of let people worry’? Are you stupid, girl?”
Dicey chewed her lip. Why did every adult send kids away from the table? Maybe because
nobody sent
them
to bed hungry. Maybe they’d forgotten what hungry was. But it wasn’t right. Dicey
knew what hungry was, and so did Sammy.
“It’s not Dicey’s fault,” Sammy said. “It’s my fault. Don’t yell at Dicey.”
“I will yell at whom I please,” his grandmother answered him. “I have told you to
go to your room.”
“No,” Dicey said quietly.
“Dicey!” James whispered.
“It’s not right, James,” Dicey said. “It’s not right to send him to bed hungry. I
can’t let that happen, and I was wrong when I let Cousin Eunice do it. Sit down and
eat, Sammy,” Dicey said.
Then she turned to try to explain to her grandmother. Her grandmother’s eyes flashed.
Her face was stiff and pale. Her lips were hard together.
“You,” Dicey said. She wanted to call her by name, but she had no name to call her.
“You don’t understand, not what it is to be hungry. It doesn’t serve any purpose to
punish Sammy that way.”
Her grandmother’s fury burned behind her immobile face. Her hand clenched the handle
of the fork.
Dicey was frightened, with a fear that swelled up deep within her. This fear had two
heads, and Dicey was caught between them: she was afraid to speak and lose what they
had gained of a place for themselves in this house; she was afraid to keep silent
and lose what she felt was right for Sammy, for her family. This was more difficult
danger than any she had faced before. It wasn’t the kind of danger you could run away
from, or fight back at. Dicey wasn’t even sure she wanted to fight. She just knew
she had to stand by her brother and her family.
“Whose house is this?” their grandmother said. “Whose food? Whose table?”
“You’re right,” Dicey said. “It’s not our house, that’s what you said from the beginning.
But we’re not your family, you meant that too, didn’t you?”
Her grandmother stared at her.
“Sit down and eat,” Dicey said to Sammy. James and Maybeth were staring at her. Everybody
was staring at her. “But you’re not to ride the bike again for two days.”
“Aw, Dicey,” Sammy said. He slipped into his chair and cut his meat.
“I mean it. No matter what. Will you obey?”
Sammy nodded.
“You have to say when you’re going off,” Dicey said. She ignored her grandmother,
who was sitting at the head of the table in a silence of furious anger.
Sammy nodded again. “I know. I will. I’m sorry, Dicey,” he said, with a weak smile.
Then he turned to his grandmother. “I’m sorry to you, too. I didn’t mean to make trouble.
But it’s my fault, not Dicey’s.”
“You’re a child,” his grandmother answered.
“So is Dicey,” Sammy said.
“I will not have this talking back!” their grandmother snapped.
“But it’s not talking back,” James said. His voice was high and frightened. “It’s
explaining. We’re trying to get at the truth.” His grandmother stared at him before
she answered, as if he had said something she didn’t understand.
“You are in my home,” their grandmother said. She looked around the table at the four
pairs of hazel eyes, none as dark as hers. And none, except Dicey’s, as angry as hers.
“My home, not yours,” their grandmother said.
We might as well have it out now as any other time, Dicey said to herself. She felt
as if she had been running away from this for days, and she had only the last of her
strength left. She had to turn and fight now. She took a deep, shivering breath.
“Are you expecting us to stay then?” she demanded. Her voice sounded thin and hard.
Her grandmother’s mouth worked, and she looked surprised, as if she hadn’t understood
what it was they were fighting about this time. Her mouth formed words, but no sound
came out. Finally she spoke: