Until Tomorrow, Mr. Marsworth
Page 15
“In someone’s stubborn dream,” Billy said. He looked at me, then he slid it all back into the envelope: the catalog, the letter, the papers to apply. “Who recommended me to them, Reen?” he asked me in a whisper once Gram had left the room, and I guessed that Carl Grace hadn’t talked to Billy yet. “Why would a private school in Pennsylvania write to me at Gram’s?”
“How would I know,” I lied, but my cheeks were burning pink. I can lie better than Billy, but I hate to lie to him. “But time is of the essence. You want a scholarship to Brandenbrook, you better write them now. It’s September in three weeks.”
“I was right about the name on that red pennant.” Dare returned my shin kick, but his was twice as hard. “And now Billy can skip that stupid letter to the paper! He’ll go to school in Pennsylvania, and he’ll get to see the Bucs!”
Did you recommend him, Mr. Marsworth? Did your assistant, Carl Grace? Or did I recommend him with that letter that I wrote??????
Maybe Dr. Price didn’t throw my letter in the trash!!!!!!
If you need good news to help your rest, I have it here!!!! After our summer full of worry, Brandenbrook asked Billy to apply!!!
A THOUSAND BILLION TRILLION GAZILLION THANK-YOUS, MR. MARSWORTH!
thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you
I’d keep going, but my arm is falling off. And I have to run this letter to your house!
Saturday, August 10, 1968
Dear Miss Kelly,
Please don’t be alarmed by the strange script; I’ve asked Carl Grace to take dictation while I rest.
What truly joyous news to receive at this late hour. It feels as though the light of hope is filling this whole room. Light of possibility; light of peace for Billy. I shall imagine him as you have—a thriving student on that campus, exactly where he should be. Billy playing his guitar out on the lawn. Someday you shall see that sight in person; I am confident you will.
No need to thank me, dear Miss Kelly. It is you who made this possible in more ways than you know.
And now, dear child, Billy must apply.
Sincerely,
Sunday, August 11, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
Billy’s in the Sunday paper!!!! He’s right there on 12A!!!!! The second letter under “Readers Write About the War.”
It’s 5:00 a.m., Gram and Dare and Billy are asleep. I’m writing you by flashlight huddled on Gram’s steps. I had to swipe the Bensons’ paper, so I could put a copy with this letter because I know you’d want to see it from me first. (Don’t worry, Mr. Marsworth, I’ll run down to the stand and replace the stolen paper as soon as I’m done writing you this news!)
Billy Kelly published!!!
I just had to brag to you before our family falls apart, and Gram’s good name is ruined, and whatever other bad things will happen to us now. (Should I expect a bloody chicken at Gram’s door?)
I’m so proud to be his sister!
I’ve never been so proud. I wish Mom were here to see it!!!!
Billy Kelly famous!!!! Billy Kelly in a paper as big as the Tribune!!!!
P.S. I’m going to knock on Snow Cone’s window so she can see it, too!
If we fight and die in the pursuit for South Vietnam’s freedom, but deny the young men of America the freedom of good conscience, what kind of country are we? Are we a country of liberty and justice? Freedom for all men? What is it we believe, if we think our young should follow blindly, should be forced to serve their country in a war they think is wrong? Is that what we call democracy? If we imprison our own young for saying they won’t kill, are we better than the Communists we’re killing to defeat? I can’t answer for another, but I’ll answer for myself. The fight for freedom starts at home with the right to burn our draft cards, to protest war, to refuse to take a life if our conscience says we can’t. It starts with conscience before country, without imprisonment or shame. If my own country won’t allow me the freedom to choose peace, what is it that we hope to win in Vietnam?
—WILLIAM KELLY, Lake Liberty
Sunday, August 11, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
So far nothing SUPER horrible has happened from that letter, unless you count Gram saying she wouldn’t read it, then going back to bed too sick for Sunday Mass, and telling all of us to skip church, which she never, ever does. (The skipping-church part doesn’t count as horrible.) Or unless you count Dare asking Billy, “Why’d you send that crap into the paper if you’re going off to school?”
He’s out sulking in his tent now, I guess the stink of dog poop must be gone.
Snow Cone stopped by this morning with a neon peace medallion she’d made from yarn and wood. No boy would ever want to wear it, but Billy pretended like he might. At least he put it on while she was here. She asked Billy for his autograph, but Billy only blushed.
We’re still driving to the cottage in Gram’s old Plymouth like we planned. At least Billy, me, and Snow Cone. (She just ran home to change into her suit.) Dare says he’s staying home to guard Gram’s house from vandals, but Dare’s just being stupid. Nothing bad will happen on a Sunday afternoon.
I feel so proud of Billy’s “public record” in the paper I could burst!
I know pride’s a deadly sin, but I don’t think the sin is deadly if you’re proud for someone else.
Please, please write me, Mr. Marsworth. I can tell this all to Snow Cone, but you’re the one who matters to me most. Is your resting nearly done?
Still Lonely,
Reenie Kelly
Sunday, August 11, 1968
Dear Miss Kelly,
I shall cherish Billy’s letter, just as I treasure yours.
What a thoughtful, brilliant boy, although I suppose “young man” would be more apt. At my late age, I can’t help but think of Billy as a boy.
It truly meant the world to hear him on the page, to hear the voice of Billy Kelly, that brother you so love.
I hope the Bensons’ Tribune was replaced as you had promised; I would hate to think I have a stolen piece of someone’s paper.
Sincerely,
P.S. As told to Carl Grace.
Monday, August 12, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
I wish you’d been home this morning to see me open up your milk box and howl under the moon. A happy happy howl. I might have woken your whole block, but I don’t care. It’s worth a wild happy howl when I hear from my good friend.
Are you STILL resting, Mr. Marsworth? Gram’s been “resting” here with me. She’s been resting in her bedroom since she saw Billy’s words in print. For the first time in twenty-two years (that’s how long that Gram’s been widowed), Gram called in sick today to Brindle Drug. She also called Dad in North Dakota, but he hasn’t called back yet. (I don’t know how Dad CAN call, Gram’s had the phone unplugged.)
Maybe NO ONE read that letter in the paper after all, maybe Billy isn’t famous, because nothing bad has happened to us yet. Gram’s good name isn’t ruined, she ought to go to work. Instead I have to bring her toast and tea.
If you come home, I’ll
bring you toast and tea. I won’t talk your ear off, I promise that I won’t.
Florence Nightingale in Training,
Reenie Kelly, Nurse
P.S. While I’m taking care of Gram, I’m going to read through that pack of papers Brandenbrook sent Billy. Don’t worry, I won’t fill out his application, but he better get it done while there’s still time. Are you ABSOLUTELY SURE about the scholarship? Billy still says we can’t afford it, and Gram says, “There’s no such thing as free lunch.” I understand that adage, Mr. Marsworth, but is Brandenbrook free lunch?
P.P.S. Speaking of lunch, it’s already past eleven and Gram’s still sleeping in the darkness with her bedroom curtain closed. (She’s closed every curtain in the house.) I went out to Dare’s tent to tell him nothing bad had happened, not one teeny-weeny thing, and he and Float ought to come inside for tuna sandwiches and cards. I won’t tell you what Dare said, you’re just too good.
P.P.P.S. Tick tock tick tock tick. It’s nearly 2:15 now. Gram’s gone to the bathroom twice, drank a glass of water, and put an ice bag on her head. I read through Billy’s papers, and he needs to write an essay to apply, plus get two letters from his teachers. At least I could write his teachers; I’ve got time for that.
P.P.P.P.S. I just finished writing Mrs. Lamb and Skip, and I sent them each a copy of the letter Billy wrote. (I found four copies on Gram’s street just by checking neighbors’ burn bins.) I did ask Mrs. Lamb to write a letter to Brandenbrook for Billy, because Billy was a favorite, and she always told me that. I know she’d want to see his name in print!!!! I hope Denton Elementary doesn’t just stick my letter in her box and let it sit until summer ends. I hope someone in the office calls to tell her she’s got mail. (I wish I would get mail!!)
P.P.P.P.P.S. I sent Skip Dennis the Menace, and I told him I was heartbroken to hear he’d lost his best friend Jackie Moon. I know I should have written sooner, but Jackie Moon, and Skip’s last letter, still make my stomach hurt. And I feel a little guilty helping Billy, but not Skip. Do you think President Johnson got my letter? Do you think a brand-new president will end the war in Vietnam before I’m finished with sixth grade? Will the Minnesota senator for peace win the next election? Billy says Senator McCarthy will bring the soldiers home, but Gram won’t let us put a sign in her front yard.
P.P.P.P.P.P.S. I’m going to sneak this over to get out of Gram’s dark house. Just writing about Skip leaves a funny feeling in my throat.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. I think I’ll sneak a stop at Snow Cone’s house. No company for us, Gram says, not even Snow Cone.
Monday, August 12, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth!!!!!!!
You’re home!!! You’re home!!!! Did you look out your window and see me jumping for PURE JOY!!! You hung my paper chain across your gate just like I asked. It looked like Christmas morning lit up in the sun!!! It felt like Christmas morning!!!
Could you please come to the window and give me one quick wave? Or open up your window and yell one quick hello?
Is your resting nearly finished?
Are you fit as a fiddle???
Can you type again??? Will Carl Grace still take dictation? Is he in your house with you right now?
I’m going to toll your bell tomorrow, in case you’ll come outside!!!! A little sunshine might be good for you, it’d sure be good for Gram. In case you come outside to meet me, please bring Clyde!!!
When Gram goes back to work tomorrow (she better go to work!), I’m going to bake a “WELCOME HOME” cake and bring it to your house!!!!
Chocolate or vanilla? I have recipes for both!!!!
Your Ecstatic Betty Crocker,
Reenie Kelly
Tuesday, August 13, 1968
Dear Miss Kelly,
Please forgo the cake; I’d much prefer you play with Dare and Snow Cone. The final days of summer are swift to disappear.
Sincerely,
H. W. Marsworth
P.S. A full scholarship is possible with all expenses paid. If Billy is accepted, Dr. Roland Price will keep his word.
Tuesday, August 13, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
I wished I had a letter when I dropped off your morning paper, and then I double-wished it when I found yours in the box.
You’re typing, Mr. Marsworth, which means you must be well!!! I HOPE it means you’re well.
Could you please tell me that you’re well? I’ll leave a YES or NO for you to circle, and put back in your box.
Are you well enough to hear the Kelly news? (Most of it’s not happy, so if you’re too busy resting, just toss this whole sad story in the trash.) I’ve got a lot of time to write because I’m still trapped indoors with Gram. Don’t even bother asking about Dare.
I’ll start with the mostly bad-but-good news because you need to know that first.
I guess folks DID read Billy’s letter (that’s the little-bit-of-both news, but now it just seems bad) and I can’t say how many, but enough that some folks phoned Mr. Casey, and said they’d take their business to the Texaco, and others pulled up to the pumps but they wouldn’t let Billy help. Not every customer, but still Billy had to watch while Mr. Casey worked.
When Billy came home from the Conoco, he looked sadder than I’d seen him this whole summer. Gram didn’t get out of bed, and Dare refused to come inside, and as soon as Billy plugged the phone back in the wall it started ringing off the hook with angry calls. Calls from strangers and Gram’s friends, and Billy listened to their lectures and their insults while I heated up a can of mushroom soup to split for supper.
“I want that phone unplugged,” Gram ordered from her bedroom, and Billy yanked the phone cord from the wall.
“They won’t call forever,” Billy said, but I could tell he wasn’t sure. “Did Gram get out of bed at all?” He pulled the last dry heel of Wonder Bread out of the bag, then set it lonely on a plate beside our soup. “Is that all we’ve got to eat?” he asked. “What did you find for lunch?”
“Tuna fish. The last of Gram’s canned dills.”
“I guess we’ll need to go for groceries.”
“Us? Go outside in public? After all those calls that just came in?” I wasn’t in a hurry to hear what Piggly Wiggly shoppers had to say to us tonight.
He pulled a dusty can of fruit cocktail from the cupboard. “What else can we do? We can’t hide out here and starve. Her canned food won’t last forever. And we better buy some groceries while I still have a job.”
“You really think you could get fired?” I remembered Mr. Casey standing on the sidewalk one Sunday after Mass, and telling Gram he hadn’t had a better summer boy in years.
“I guess I’m scared I might. Mr. Casey can’t afford to lose the business, and he can’t afford to let me sit while he pumps gas. He’s got cars to fix.” Billy set the soup and bread down on a plate to take to Gram. “What about your route? Any problems with your customers this morning?”
“Not a one,” I said, but I wished Billy hadn’t asked that, because to tell the truth, I hadn’t thought about our route, or how Dare and I could lose it, or how customers might quit, but then I thought about the Canes with their son gone to the Army, and crabby Mrs. Strait who blabbed to Gram about the book, and the Lonergans and Heanys, who’d booed those peace teens last month at the parade, and the Olsons and the Petersons, who let their little kids throw candy at them, too. All families with a flag in their front yard. “You think they’d quit the paper over this?”
“I think a lot of stuff might happen.” Billy frowned, then pointed toward the bedroom where Gram was still inside in darkness. “Like that,” he said. “And all of it my fault.”
“Not yours,” I said. “You didn’t make this—”
Oops, hold on, Mr. Marsworth, I have to stop this story because there’s someone at Gram’s door.
BACK, and now I have a BETTER story, but I don’t have time to write it to you yet. Stay
tuned this afternoon. For now, I’ll drop this letter with a clang, so at least you’ll know how glad I was to see that short typed note inside your box.
To Be Continued,
Reenie Kelly
P.S. Are you well? Please circle YES or NO.
Tuesday, August 13, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
Okay, before Gram calls us down for supper, I’m going to tell you all that happened when the knock came at the door. (That’s right, Mr. Marsworth, Gram is OUT OF BED, even if she’s only cooking creamed corn and canned hash.) There’s so much I have to tell you, and so much I have to ask, please please please just say that we can meet one afternoon.
You said yourself, August will be quick to disappear.
All I want from August is one meeting with my friend!
Here’s the long story that I promised earlier today. I have lots of bad news, too, and a mystery to solve, but first I’ll start with story #1.
STORY #1. This Unexpected Tale Opens with a Knock on Gram’s Front Door . . .
Knock knock knock.
Enter fancy Mrs. Brindle.
Do you know Mrs. Brindle? Mr. Brindle’s pretty wife, but she’s rarely in the store. Mrs. Brindle with her gleaming golden Cadillac, her patent-leather purse, and her pink high-heeled shoes. Pink cotton gloves in August. Frosty beehive hairdo stacked up on her head.
Anyway, when I answered Gram’s front door, Mrs. Brindle waltzed right in, stinking up the room with sweet perfume. When I said Gram was fast asleep, that she’d been sick in bed since Sunday, Mrs. Brindle said she’d be glad to wait until Gram woke. Then she sat on Gram’s old couch, crossed her ankles, and inched her gloves off slowly like she planned to wait all day.