Harriet the Spy

by Louise Fitzhugh

  “Now, children, sixth grade over here, please.” Miss Elson was gesturing frantically.

  Marion Hawthorne looked around pompously at everyone who didn’t move instantly. She always seemed to be laboring under the impression that she was Miss Elson’s understudy. “Come along there, Harriet,” she said imperiously. Harriet had a sudden vision of Marion grown up, and decided she wouldn’t look a bit different, just taller and more pinched.

  “Boy, does she tee me off,” said Sport, digging his hands in his pockets and his sneakers against the floor as though he would never move.

  “Simon.” Miss Elson spoke quite sharply, and Sport jumped a mile. “Simon, Harriet, Jane, come along now.” They moved. “Now we’ll stand here and wait our turn with Miss Berry and I don’t want any talking. The din in this place is unbearable.”

  “Isn’t it awful?” said Marion Hawthorne in a falsetto.

  Harriet thought, Marion Hawthorne is going to grow up and play bridge a lot.

  Pinky Whitehead looked as though he might faint. He ran to Miss Elson frantically and whispered something in her ear. She looked down at him. “Oh, Pinky, can’t you wait?”

  “No,” said Pinky loudly.

  “But it’s so far!”

  Pinky shook his head again, was dismissed by Miss Elson, and ran out. Sport laughed. There weren’t any bathrooms for boys in the gym.

  “Thought he’d never leave,” said Janie. She had gotten this from her mother.

  Harriet looked at Beth Ellen staring into space. Harriet was under the impression that Beth Ellen had a mother in an insane asylum, because Mrs. Welsch had once said, “That poor child. Her mother is always at Biarritz.”

  “All right, children, Miss Berry is ready now.” They marched over with flat feet, like prisoners. Harriet felt like Sergeant York.

  Miss Berry was in her usual state of hysteria. Her hair was pulled into a wispy ponytail, as though it were pulling her eyes back.

  She looked at them wildly. “Sixth grade, yes, sixth grade, let’s see. What have you decided? Well? What have you decided?”

  Marion Hawthorne spoke for them, naturally. “We’ve decided to be a whole Christmas dinner,” she said brightly.

  “Lovely, lovely. Now let’s see, vegetables first, vegetables…” Sport started to sprint for the door. Miss Elson pulled him back by the ear. Pinky Whitehead arrived back. Miss Berry turned to him, enchanted. “You will make a wonderful stalk of celery.”

  “What?” said Pinky stupidly.

  “And you”—she pointed to Harriet—“are an ONION.”

  This was too much. “I refuse. I absolutely REFUSE to be an onion.” She stood her ground. She could hear Sport whispering his support behind her. Her ears began to burn as they all turned and looked at her. It was the first time she had ever really refused to do anything.

  “Oh, dear.” Miss Berry looked as though she might run out the door.

  “Harriet, that’s ridiculous. An onion is a beautiful thing. Have you ever really looked at an onion?” Miss Elson was losing all touch with reality.

  “I will NOT do it.”

  “Harriet, that’s enough. We won’t have any more of this impudence. You ARE an onion.”

  “I am not.”

  “Harriet, that is QUITE enough.”

  “I won’t do it. I quit.”

  Sport was pulling at her sleeve. He whispered frantically, “You can’t quit. This is a SCHOOL.” But it was too late. A roar of laughter went up from the group. Even that mild thing, Beth Ellen, was laughing her head off. Harriet felt her face turning red.

  Miss Berry seemed to come back to life. “Now, children. I think it would be nice to take each thing from its inception to the time it arrives on the table. We must have some more vegetables. You, there”—she pointed to Janie—“you’re squash. And you”—she pointed to Beth Ellen—“are a pea.” Beth Ellen looked as though tears were close. “You two”—she pointed to Marion Hawthorne and Rachel Hennessey—“can be the gravy.…” At this Harriet, Sport, and Janie broke into hysterical peals of laughter and had to be quieted by Miss Elson before Miss Berry could continue. “I don’t see what’s funny. We have to have gravy. You”—she pointed to Sport—“and you”—she pointed to Pinky Whitehead—“are the turkey.” “Well, of all the…” began Sport and was shushed by Miss Elson.

  After she had made The Boy with the Purple Socks into a bowl of cranberries, she turned to the class. “Now all the vegetables, listen to me,” said Miss Berry, planting her feet firmly in the fifth position. Harriet made a mental note to make a note of the fact that Miss Berry always wore, even on the street, those flat, mouse-gray practice shoes. They were always terribly old ones with the cross bar curling away from the arch.

  “… I want you to feel—to the very best of your endeavor—I want you to feel that one morning you woke up as one of these vegetables, one of these dear vegetables, nestling in the earth, warm in the heat and power and magic of growth, or striving tall above the ground, pushing through, bit by bit in the miracle of birth, waiting for that glorious moment when you will be…”

  “Eaten,” Harriet whispered to Sport.

  “… once and for all, your essential and beautiful self, full-grown, radiant.” Miss Berry’s eyes were beginning to glaze. One arm was outstretched toward the skylight; half of her hair had fallen over one ear. She held the pose in silence.

  Miss Elson coughed. It was a things-are-getting-altogether-out-of-hand cough.

  Miss Berry jumped. She looked as though she had just come up out of a subway and didn’t know east from west. She gave an embarrassed titter, then started afresh. “We’ll start with the tenderest moment of these little vegetables, for you know, children, this dance has a story, a story, a lovely story.” She trilled a bit of laughter to let them know she was still there. “It starts, as do all stories, with the moment of conception.” She looked around in a delighted way. Miss Elson turned pale.

  “It starts, naturally, with the farmer—”

  “Hey, I want to be the farmer,” Sport yelled.

  “Do not say ‘hey’ to a teacher.” Miss Elson was losing patience.

  “Oh, but, dear boy, one of the older girls will be the farmer. A farmer must be taller, after all, than vegetables. Vegetables are very short.” She looked annoyed that he didn’t know this. Sport turned away in disgust.

  “Well, the farmer comes in on this lovely morning when the ground is freshly broken, open and yielding, waiting to receive. When he enters, you will all be piled in a corner like seed waiting to be planted. You will just lie there in lumps like this—” and she fell abruptly to the ground. She lay there like a heap of old clothes.

  “Come on, let’s split; she’s gone.” Sport turned to go.

  “Miss Berry, I think they’ve got the position,” said Miss Elson loudly. Miss Berry turned one inquiring eye over her shoulder to face a royal snub from Miss Elson. She scrambled to her feet.

  “All right, children”—she was suddenly crisp—“I want you to start improvising your dances, and I will see what you’ve done next dance class.” The change in her was so remarkable that the children all stared in silence. “Please file over there and be fitted.” She turned her back. It was all so swift that Miss Elson stood gaping a minute before she started to herd them toward the costume corner. They all looked back curiously at Miss Berry, who stood, feet planted flatly, her misunderstood nose high in the air.

  The costume corner looked like Macy’s on sale day. Quantities of tulle flew through the air.

  Sport wilted. “Boy, this is a scene I really can’t make.”

  It was dreary. Harriet remembered it from last year as a long wait with your feet hurting while a terribly flustered Miss Dodge measured you in a sweaty way and, likely as not, stuck you full of pins.

  “One day,” said Janie, “I am going to come in here with a vial and blow this place sky-high.”

  The three of them stood glumly, staring at the tulle.

  “How do
you practice being an onion?” Harriet looked over at Miss Berry, who was falling into another pile of rags on the floor. Evidently all the dances were the same.

  Sport got an evil look. “I think I’ll scream as loud as I can when she measures me.”

  Janie’s turn came. “Here goes nothing,” she said loudly. Miss Dodge blinked her giant eyes behind her glasses, fluttered her tape measure, and dropped several pins from her mouth.

  CHAPTER

  Eight

  When Harriet started her spy route the next day, she decided to visit the Robinsons first because the day before she had seen an immense crate delivered to their house and she couldn’t wait to see what was in it. The Robinsons were always moody right before they bought something, and this time they had been moody for a week, so she figured this must have been a whopper of a purchase.

  She sneaked up to the window. There was the crate. It sat squarely in the middle of the living room. How did they get it in? she thought, and then she saw that it would go through the door with just about an inch to spare all around. Mrs. Robinson was running around it in ecstasy. Mr. Robinson was hopping up and down on one foot. A Railway Express man was starting to unpack the crate.

  “A crowning achievement,” said Mr. Robinson.

  “A joy, such a joy,” said Mrs. Robinson, completing a circle.

  “Wait till…”

  “Just think what they’ll…”

  They were so excited they didn’t bother to make sentences. The Railway Express man ignored them. He worked steadily and noisily until the front section was ready to be pulled away. Harriet held her breath. The front panel came away, exposing nothing but sawdust. Well, thought Harriet, that does it. But then the sawdust was being pulled frantically away by Mr. and Mrs. Robinson who had leaped forward in their eagerness, pushing aside the Railway Express man.

  “There! There!” screamed Mrs. Robinson. And there indeed was the strangest thing Harriet had ever seen. It was an enormous, but enormous—perhaps six feet high—wooden sculpture of a fat, petulant, rather unattractive baby. The baby wore a baby cap, huge white dress, and baby booties. The head was completely round and carved out of butcher’s block so that it resembled a beautifully grained newel post with a face carved in it. The baby sat on its diapered bottom, feet straight out ahead, and fat arms curving into fatter hands which held, surprisingly, a tiny mother. Harriet stared.

  Mrs. Robinson exclaimed with her hand to her heart, “She is a genius.”

  This was too much even for the Railway Express man, who could contain himself no longer and said, “Who?” rather rudely.

  “Why, the sculptor. She is marvelous… she is brilliant… she is a white star in the firmament.”

  “Yeah? A dame made that?” He gaped.

  “If you’ve finished…” Mr. Robinson looked pompous.

  “Oh, yeah, yeah, I just have to carry out the junk. Where do you want her… it?”

  “Darling, I still think the corner behind the entrance, so that it isn’t seen immediately. You know, and then it will dominate the room from the couch.”

  “It’ll do that, all right,” said the Railway Express man picking up excelsior in handfuls and stuffing it into the crate.

  “Just be kind enough to remove this without comment,” said Mr. Robinson huffily.

  The baby was rolled into a corner and the crate removed by the grinning workman.

  Harriet left Mr. and Mrs. Robinson holding hands and gazing at it in speechless joy.

  She went to the street and wrote in her book:

  OLE GOLLY IS RIGHT. THERE’S AS MANY WAYS TO LIVE AS PEOPLE, SHE SAYS. BUT WAIT’LL SHE HEARS ABOUT THIS THOUSAND-POUND BABY. OH, I FORGOT.

  She paused and looked into space.

  WHEN SOMEBODY GOES AWAY THERE’S THINGS YOU WANT TO TELL THEM. WHEN SOMEBODY DIES MAYBE THAT’S THE WORST THING. YOU WANT TO TELL THEM THINGS THAT HAPPEN AFTER. OLE GOLLY ISN’T DEAD.

  She slammed the book shut, feeling something akin to rage. Then she got up and headed over to the Dei Santi family. Nothing much was happening in the front of the store, so she crept around to the back to watch Little Joe Curry.

  He was in full command of an array of food that would have fed the Marines for a week. He munched happily. Harriet was wondering if the kids had been there yet, when suddenly the phone rang inside the store. Little Joe looked guilty and started to hide things, just in case, when there was a blood curdling scream from the front of the store. Little Joe was so startled a piece of bread fell right out of his mouth. Harriet dashed around to the front.

  Mrs. Dei Santi was being held by Bruno in a half faint through which she managed to scream as loud as a dying opera singer, “Ecco, ecco, he is killed—all is lost… Dio… Dio.”

  “No, Mama, just an accident…” Bruno began, looking helplessly to Papa Dei Santi, who was hanging up the phone.

  “Dead, killed, truck smashed to bits, eccolà… Dio… Dio… mio figlio…” And she swooned.

  Bruno looked as though he might drop the considerable weight, so Papa Dei Santi rushed to help him. As he did so he said, “Mama, Mama, the truck is not smashed, Fabio is not smashed, nothing is smashed but his head when he gets here.… A fender, that’s all it was—a fender.”

  Signora Dei Santi revived immediately and started to run up and down the store waving her arms wildly and screaming in Italian. The customers stood around like frozen food. She ran up and down, up and down, finally gathering so much momentum that she crashed on into the storeroom, there discovering Little Joe with a whole cucumber in his mouth.

  “Ecco… not bad enough, stealing us blind…” and gathering up all the food in one arm and Little Joe by the ear, she came catapulting back into the store. The family stared open-mouthed. The customers came alive and started to edge toward the door, feeling that this was perhaps too much.

  “Mama, Mama, ti calma.…” Papa Dei Santi, seeing the evidence of Little Joe’s treachery, began to scream himself a long string of frightening-sounding words.

  “But, Papa”—Bruno screamed to be heard— “where IS Fabio? Is he hurt? Is he in the hospital?”

  “Him? Him? HE is fine. Evidentemente. What would happen to him? It’s the TRUCK! The TRUCK is smashed.” Papa Dei Santi managed to get this out, then went back to screaming at Little Joe. “Fired. You’re fired. We not running a restaurant!”

  Suddenly the front door tinkled, then slammed, and there was utter silence as they all turned to see Fabio standing there. He had a minuscule patch of plaster on his forehead.

  “My SONNNNNN!” screamed Mama Dei Santi and rushed toward him. “You’re HUURRRRRT! He’s hurt, Papa, look, he’s hurt.” And she flung herself at him with such force that Fabio was hurled back against the door.

  “It’s nothing, nothing, Mama,” he said, smiling. She straightened up, looked at him hard for one minute, then slapped him across the head. “Your FATHER work with his bare hands for that truck, work HARD, not like you, work HARD. Understand?”

  The family watched this in awe as did Harriet. Fabio turned red and tears sprang to his eyes.

  “Mama…” he began.

  “Don’t Mamma me. You no son of mine… no son of mine”—she raised one finger aloft to the ceiling—“from this—day—forward—”

  “Mama,” Papa Dei Santi interrupted, “don’t. Don’t yet. Let’s see. Let’s see what the boy has to say.”

  Harriet felt wildly curious.

  Fabio shot a grateful glance at his father. He looked terribly embarrassed. He fidgeted in his pockets until he found an old bent cigarette, which he put in his mouth. It hung there broken.

  Maybe, thought Harriet, he can’t talk without that.

  The whole family was looking at him. He bent his head apologetically, then began in a low voice: “I didn’t want to tell you till later. I—Papa…”—he looked up at his father in a very sad way—“I just can’t—I can’t help it. I just don’t want to be in the grocery business. It’s not your fault. It’s just… to be stuck in a
store all day… I don’t—it’s not for me… so I”—he took a deep breath—“I took another job.”

  “You WHAT?” Papa and Mama Dei Santi said in one breath.

  “I took—I took another job. Only the only thing is… you need a car for this job… I’m a salesman.” He looked frightened, Harriet thought.

  “Well, well, well.” Papa Dei Santi looked totally amazed. Then an enormous broad grin spread over his face.

  “Son? You’re—you’re working?” Mama Dei Santi looked as though she might faint again.

  “Yes, Mama.” And looking at his father, he laughed. “I’m working.”

  “Santa Maria…” Mama Dei Santi fainted. Bruno caught her.

  Papa Dei Santi uttered all sorts of exclamations and slapped Fabio rather hard, Harriet thought, on the back. The others gathered round, with the exception of Little Joe, who took this opportunity to filch a piece of gorgonzola.

  Harriet tiptoed to the street and there sat down to write in her book:

  MY, MY, BETTER THAN A MOVIE. IT’S SUCH A HAPPY ENDING I DON’T BELIEVE IT FOR ONE MINUTE. I BET THAT FABIO IS UP TO NO GOOD AS USUAL. WAIT, HE DIDN’T SAY WHAT HE WAS A SALESMAN FOR. I WONDER WHAT HE’S SELLING. I MUST COME BACK TOMORROW TO SEE WHAT HAPPENS TO LITTLE JOE CURRY.

  Harriet went over to Harrison Withers’. She looked through the skylight. Harrison Withers sat at his work table, but he wasn’t working. He was looking out the window. His face was the saddest face Harriet had ever seen. She stared at him a long time but he didn’t move a muscle.

  She went across to the other skylight. There she saw such a strange sight that she almost keeled over. What she saw was an empty room. Not a cat in sight. She ran back to Harrison Withers to see if she had perhaps missed seeing the cats. No. Nor were they in the kitchen.

  She sat back on her heels. They got him, she thought. They finally got him. She leaned over once more to look at his face. She looked a long time. Then she sat down and wrote in her book:

  I WILL NEVER FORGET THAT FACE AS LONG AS I LIVE. DOES EVERYBODY LOOK THAT WAY WHEN THEY HAVE LOST SOMETHING? I DON’T MEAN LIKE LOSING A FLASHLIGHT. I MEAN DO PEOPLE LOOK LIKE THAT WHEN THEY HAVE LOST?