by Kris Langman
“Yes, ma’am.” He sighed and carried the worm down to the lawn. Sally ran up to Mrs. Worthington and gave her a hug. “Hi, grandma! Look who I brought! This is my best friend, Katie Greenwald. Just so you know, Katie’s not a salesperson or a missionary. She’s a fifth-grader. We’re in the same class at school.”
Sally waved at Katie to come nearer, but Katie shook her head vigorously, looking terrified.
Mrs. Worthington smiled at her. She picked up a plate of cookies from a small table next to her deckchair. “Katie, I can tell by your tasteful outfit that you are a young lady of distinction. Now, I have here some wonderfully refined Petit Fours which I’m sure will appeal to your palate. Come try one.”
Katie shyly approached and took a cookie. “It’s very nice, ma’am.”
“Such lovely manners,” said Mrs. Worthington. “You could learn a thing or two from your friend, Miss Sally.”
Sally tried to swallow the cookie she’d grabbed and stuffed into her mouth. “I have super good manners,” she said, her voice muffled by cookie. “You told me so last time I was here, grandma. You said my compartments were spotless.”
“Your comportment, dear. Your comportment was spotless. It means you were behaving like a little lady during that visit. Quite out of character, it was. You must have been ill. Perhaps a touch of flu. Usually you dash about like a little wombat that’s gotten into my diet pills.”
“What’s a wombat?” asked Sally, taking another cookie.
“A small creature, dear. Very hyperactive. Speaking of small creatures, where is that animal you’re always carting around? I hope he isn’t loose in the house. Last time you were here Cook found him in the pantry. He popped out at her from behind a jar of pickled beets. She came running to me, screaming something about mice and threatening to quit. It took a bottle of my best brandy to calm her down.”
“Melvin’s right here, grandma. See?” Sally pointed at her shoulder, but Melvin wasn’t there. Sally lifted her hair and felt around the back of her neck. No Melvin.
Her grandmother gave her a suspicious look. “Sally Jane Hesslop. Is that miniature marauder loose in my house again?”
“No, no,” said Sally hurriedly. “Everything’s fine, grandma. I put Melvin in a safe place, where he wouldn’t bother anybody. I’ll just go check on him.” She made shooing motions at Katie, who backed nervously towards the house. Sally walked nonchalantly to the door, then yanked it open and pushed Katie through.
“Dang that Melvin,” Sally grouched as she dashed down the hall. “He must have jumped ship and gone exploring. C’mon, Katie. We have to find him before Mrs. Beatty does. That’s grandma’s cook. She makes the best fudge brownies in the world, and grandma’s always saying she loves Mrs. Beatty’s cooking better than she loves her own family. Grandma’ll be really mad if Mrs. Beatty leaves on account of Melvin.”
Katie puffed along behind Sally. “Why does Mrs. Beatty hate Melvin?” she asked breathlessly. “He’s a nice hamster. Even my Mom likes him. Remember that time you brought him over to our apartment? My Mom said he was a prince among gerbils.”
“Well, of course he’s a prince among gerbils,” said Sally. “Hamsters are way, way better than stinky old gerbils. Mrs. Beatty’s problem is she can’t tell that Melvin’s a hamster. She thinks he’s a mouse. Every time she sees him she tries to hit him with her rolling pin.”
Katie gasped in horror.
Sally sang a tune as she ran:
“Mel, I know you’re in the house.
Mrs. Beatty thinks you’re a mouse.
Come out before you get bashed.
Hamsters look better un-smashed.”
Suddenly a loud scream echoed through the house. “Shoot!” said Sally. “That’s Mrs. Beatty. C’mon!”
They rushed into the kitchen, where Mrs. Beatty was standing near the oven wearing her usual uniform of flower-print dress, hairnet, and apron. Interrupted in the middle of her daily baking, she was eyeing a mixing bowl and waving a rolling pin at it. She took a step towards the bowl as it rattled. Whiskers poked over the edge, then slid back down. When they appeared again, the flour-covered head of Melvin could be seen peering over the edge of the bowl.
Melvin squirmed and wriggled and managed to pull himself up onto the rim of the bowl. It tottered and tipped over, spilling Melvin and a cascade of flour onto the kitchen counter.
Mrs. Beatty let out a war whoop and brought the rolling pin crashing down onto the counter. She missed Melvin by a whisker. He scrambled along the flour-dusted countertop, dashed around a carton of eggs, and dove head first into the open maw of a food processor. Mrs. Beatty yelled in triumph and leapt forward. She hit the ‘On’ switch of the food processor.
The processor began to spin, taking Melvin with it. He went around, faster and faster. Just as he was in danger of becoming hamster McNuggets he was flung out of the food processor. He flew through the air and landed face first in a bowl full of walnuts, scattering nuts everywhere.
The walnuts shifted under his feet as Melvin frantically sped up, trying to scramble out of the bowl. Nuts started flying through the air like tiny cannonballs, pelting Mrs. Beatty in the face. She raised her rolling pin and warded them off like a Jedi master blocking bullets with his light saber.
Mrs. Beatty hit a walnut through the open kitchen window, clobbering a pigeon which was flying across the lawn. It squawked and crash-landed on the grass. Ducking walnuts, Sally grabbed Melvin and jumped back out of range of Mrs. Beatty’s rolling pin. Melvin shook himself, showering Sally in flour. “Jeez, Mel,” said Sally. “What a mess. You need a bath. You look like a dumpling with feet.”
“A bath!” yelled Mrs. Beatty, shaking her rolling pin. “Do not talk to me of baths! What is needed is a mousetrap with a nice strong spring. Snap!” She whacked her rolling pin down on the counter with a bang.
Sally and Katie jumped. “C’mon, Mrs. Beatty,” said Sally. “You don’t really mean that. Melvin’s very sorry he disturbed your cooking. Aren’t you, Mel?” Sally held Melvin up to her eyes and glared at him.
Melvin stared back at her and yawned. He was clearly not in an apologetic mood, rolling pin or no rolling pin.
Mrs. Beatty snorted and shook the rolling pin at them. “Out of my kitchen! All of you! I am making croque en bouche. It is a very delicate process, not to be interrupted by small children and mice! Out!”
Sally, Katie, and Melvin beat a hasty retreat.
* * * *
“I bet they’ve gone down to the stables,” said Sally, surveying the empty patio. Her father, grandmother, and Robbie were nowhere to be seen. A lone sparrow pecked at the crumbs of the Petit Fours. “C’mon, maybe grandma’ll let us ride Max!” She dashed down the steps of the patio two at a time and headed across the lawn.
“Who’s Max?” Katie asked, breath coming in gasps as she tried to keep up.
“He’s a Shetland pony,” said Sally, slowing down so Katie could catch up. “He’s super gentle. You can ride on his back without a saddle. Plus he’s got long blond hair called a mane. Grandma lets me brush it. When it’s brushed Max looks just like a princess. Well, he would if he weren’t a horse. Or a boy.”
“I don’t know if I want to meet Max,” Katie said dubiously. “I think I might be afraid of horses.”
“What do you mean, ‘might’ be? Don’t you know?”
“I’m not sure,” said Katie. “I’ve never seen a horse, not in person I mean.”
Sally changed course and headed for a birdbath in the center of the lawn. “You have so seen a horse. Remember that policeman who yelled at us just cause we were climbing that lamppost? He was riding a horse.”
“He was yelling at you, not me,” said Katie. “I wasn’t climbing the lamppost. I was holding your backpack and Melvin. Melvin didn’t want to climb the lamppost either. And the horse was way over across the street. If the horse had been on our side of the street I’m pretty sure I would have been afraid of it.”
“Well, you won’t be afraid
of Max. And anyway, he’s a pony, not a horse. Ponies are kinda like horses that have shrunk. You know, like that time my Dad wasn’t home and I did the laundry all by myself and all of my Dad’s sweaters shrank. It was weird. They came out of the dryer looking like little kids clothes. Robbie wears them now. Your Mom’s got some nice sweaters. I specially like that pink fuzzy one. If you ever want some new clothes, just do the laundry.” Sally stopped at the birdbath. It had moss growing along its sides and was full of rainwater. A sparrow was perched on the rim, watching them warily. “Okay, Mel. It’s bath time.”
She lowered Melvin into the water. When she let go he promptly sank down to the moldy bottom of the birdbath. Sally grabbed him off the bottom and swished him around in the water, leaving a trail of flour floating like dust on the water’s surface.
“There you go, Mel. Much better. Though I can see you’re overdue for your Secret Agent swimming lessons. You might want to sign up next time you’re in Washington BC. And make sure you use Water Wings the first time. Katie uses them.”
“Oh, yes”, said Katie, nodding enthusiastically. “Definitely use Water Wings, Melvin. One time, Charlie Sanderson pushed me into the pool at Rimrock Park when I wasn’t wearing my Water Wings. The lifeguard had to pull me out and hit my back to get all the water out. I had pool water in my tummy for days afterward. You could hear it splashing around when I walked.”
Melvin regarded her with appropriate solemnity upon hearing this information.
Sally pulled off Melvin’s wet sweater and set him on her shoulder. “I hope he doesn’t catch cold. Melvin’s very delicate. And sensitive. My Dad says he’s an old soul. That means he’s a good listener. He knows all kinds of super-secret stuff, but he never tells anyone. That would be against the Super Secret Hamster Code of Rules and Regulations. Nope, if you’ve got a secret, tell a hamster.”
“Gerbils are verbal
And sip tea that is herbal.
They gossip and chat
About this and that.
So if you’ve got secrets to tell,
A hamster is swell.
Do what you will,
They’ll never spill.”
Sally and Katie (and Melvin, shivering on Sally’s shoulder and dripping water down the back of her t-shirt) followed a stone-covered path which led from the lawn into a grove of birch trees. A patch of bluebells clustered under the waving trees. Sally picked one of the tiny flowers and held it up for Melvin to sniff. He nosed it warily and then suddenly swallowed it, causing hamster convulsions as he choked on the petals. To prevent himself from falling off Sally’s shoulder Melvin dug his claws into her T-shirt.
“Ouch! Dang it Melvin, that hurt.” Sally detached him from her T-shirt and held him up at eye level. “What do you say? Hmm?”
Melvin was not known for his expressiveness, but it did appear that his whiskers had a hint of apology about them.
“That’s right,” said Sally. “You say you’re sorry. Grandma’s always saying how I need some etiquette lessons. Maybe you should have some too. You can’t be a Secret Agent if you don’t have good etiquette.”
“What’s etiquette?” asked Katie.
“It’s these rules on how to behave in all situations. Like, if you burp really loudly at a fancy dinner party you should point to the person next to you. Hamsters know all these rules automatically, but I think maybe Melvin needs a refresher course.”
Up ahead the trees thinned out and the path they were on ended at a white-fenced corral. Mrs. Worthington was mounted on a chestnut mare, putting the glossy-coated horse through its paces. Together horse and rider turned and spun expertly around the corral. Mrs. Worthington sat with her back straight as a ruler. They picked up speed and sailed over a jump made of red and white striped poles, the horse’s hooves clearing the top pole with ease. Bill Hesslop and Robbie clapped from their seats on a pile of hay bales.
“Wow! Look at your grandmother!” said Katie as they climbed onto the fence of the corral to watch. “How come she doesn’t fall off?”
“Oh, she practices all the time.” said Sally. “Grandma says she started riding when she was two. Her Dad put her on a pony and then gave it a spanking. It took off and ran right through some rose bushes and then up those steps in the backyard and into the house. My Dad says grandma is exaggerating about the ‘into the house’ part. He says I get my linguistic flexibility from her. That means I can roll my tongue into funny shapes.” Sally stuck her tongue out at Katie and rolled it into a “U” shape.
Katie looked impressed and tried to roll her tongue too, but couldn’t quite manage it. She pushed at it with her fingers, but finally gave up. “Your grandmother must be very rich, to live in this big house and have horses and everything. How come you and your Dad and Robbie live in such a small apartment?”
“It’s because of the prostate,” said Sally, laying Melvin’s wet sweater on the top rail of the fence to dry. “My Mom died without a will, so the estate went into Prostate. When it came out all the money stayed with my grandma, cause she’s my Mom’s mom. Also my Mom and Dad weren’t married. They were free spirits. That means they saved lots of money by not getting married. My Dad says that weddings are just huge holes people throw cash into. Which is just stupid. If I had lots of money I wouldn’t throw it down a hole. I’d vest it in the sock market. That’s what grandma does. My Dad says she’s rolling in money. That means she spreads money on the floor and does somersaults on it.”
Katie nodded, looking impressed.
Sally waved at her grandmother, who wheeled her horse and trotted over to them.
“Hello, Miss Sally. Would you like to ride Violet here? I’ve given her a thorough workout, so she’s nice and calm.”
Bill Hesslop jumped off his hay bale and hurried up to the fence, looking rather alarmed. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Sally, why don’t you ride that little pony you were on last time? He’s more your speed. He’s right over there.”
Bill Hesslop pointed to Max, a chubby little Shetland pony who was munching grass in a pasture next to the corral.
“Nonsense, Bill dear,” said Mrs. Worthington. “Why, I started riding full-grown horses when I was five. She’ll be fine. We’ll start slow. Sally dear, come sit up here in front of me.”
Mrs. Worthington guided her horse up next to the fence. Sally handed Melvin to Katie and climbed onto the top bar of the fence. Her grandmother wrapped one arm around Sally’s waist and hoisted her into the saddle in front of her. They trotted slowly around the corral, Sally whooping with delight and Bill Hesslop watching nervously. Katie climbed down from the fence and made herself comfortable on a hay bale. She put Melvin on her lap and gave him a good scratch behind the ears. Both of them looked extremely glad they were sitting on a hay bale and not on a horse.
Robbie sat next to them for a while, swinging his chubby legs and chewing on a handful of grass he had yanked up from the pony’s pasture, but soon he started to fidget. He climbed down from his hay bale and toddled off toward Max with a determined gleam in his eye. Katie eyed him worriedly, but decided that if she had to choose between watching Melvin and watching Robbie, Melvin was definitely the easier choice.
Max had tired of grass and was ambling over to a pile of sacks bulging with grain which someone had unwisely left in his pasture. With his strong front teeth he tore a hole in one corner of the top sack and a tiny waterfall of grain poured out. As Max indulged himself in this unexpected snack Robbie quietly pulled himself up onto the wobbling pile of grain sacks. He balanced precariously, like a diver on a diving board, then reached out with both hands and awkwardly slid himself stomach first onto the pony’s back, where he lay like a very lumpy saddle. Max pulled his nose out of the grain pile in surprise and twisted his head around. He eyed Robbie’s rear end curiously, giving a little shake to see if the strange object would fall off. Robbie giggled. Max pricked up his ears at this, deciding this might be a fun game. He started at a slow trot across the pasture. Robbie bounced up a
nd down, laughing hysterically.
Max circled his pasture a few times then headed for the gate, which was closed but not locked. He gave the bars a push with his nose and they were off toward the estate’s long gravel drive and freedom.
Behind them footsteps pounded on the gravel. Max sped up, his round belly swaying from side to side. Robbie’s giggles got even louder. It looked like the two adventurers were going to pull off their escape into the wide world. But, alas, reality (and a puffing parent) prevailed.
Bill Hesslop ran forward and grabbed Robbie off the pony’s back. “That’s enough, you two,” he said, gasping for air. He set Robbie on his feet and shook his finger at Max. “Max, you should know better. And you, Robbie. With all the dirt and cookies you’ve managed to tuck away today, all that bouncing is going to make you spew like Old Faithful.”
Mrs. Worthington and Sally rode up on Violet. The chestnut mare nickered in a disapproving manner at the pony. Max shook his blond mane at her and began to calmly munch a cluster of dandelions at his feet.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about our Mr. Robert’s digestion,” said Mrs. Worthington. “He has a stomach like cast iron. He gets it from his grandpa. That man could eat a five-course Sunday dinner, top if off with three desserts, and then go on the WhirlyGig ride at the State Fair carnival without so much as a twinge of heartburn. Though, I admit he didn’t share little Mr. Robert’s fondness for soil sampling. You really ought to cure the child of that, Bill dear. I caught him snacking on the compost under my roses the last time he was here. It’s a good thing I tell my gardener not to use pesticides.”
Bill Hesslop sighed. “Yes, ma’am. I’ve tried to get Robbie to stop eating dirt. Our doctor says it’s just a phase he’s going through. He’s like a puppy. He’ll eat anything. Next he’ll probably start chewing on shoes. Well, it’s been a pleasure, as always, but we need to get going. I need to get Sally to her school. Her play is tonight and they have one last rehearsal.”
“You’re coming, right grandma?” said Sally as she slid off of Violet’s back. “It’s gonna be super terrific. It’s about the Pilgrims and the first Thanksgiving. I’m a Squall.”
