Ramona and Her Mother

by Beverly Cleary

  “I wish Daddy would get used to his job,” remarked Beezus as the sisters plodded toward Glenwood School. Clouds hung low, and the wind was cold. For days the sidewalks had been too wet for roller skating.

  “Me, too,” said Ramona, who wanted her parents to be happy so their children could be happy, too. “Why doesn’t he find another job?”

  “Jobs aren’t that easy to get,” Beezus explained. “Remember how long he was out of work before he found a job at the market.”

  Ramona did remember. She remembered how discouraged her father had been after a day of job-hunting and how he had disliked standing in line to collect unemployment insurance.

  “It might be easier if he had finished college,” said Beezus.

  “Why didn’t he?” asked Ramona.

  “Because he and Mother got married,” Beezus explained. “And then they had me.” Beezus sounded smug, as if being the first born made her more important to her parents than Ramona.

  But I’m the baby, thought Ramona. She was glad when school started; maybe her day would improve in school. Ramona liked Mrs. Rudge, her new teacher, who had taken over the second grade when the former teacher left after Christmas to have a baby. She thought Mrs. Rudge liked her, as she liked all the children, but she was not sure exactly where she stood with her. The classroom buzzed softly and busily with the sound of children learning about Indians and cursive writing.

  When the morning was half over, Ramona finished her work sheet and was busy filling all the double oo’s she could find with crossed eyes and frowns:

  Mrs. Rudge paused beside her desk. Ramona did not have time to hide the frowning oo’s.

  Mrs. Rudge glanced over Ramona’s work sheet. “Why don’t you look again?” she suggested. “Is like spelled l-i-c-k?”

  “I can’t spell,” said Ramona. “I’m terrible at spelling.” That’s what her family said whenever Ramona wrote a note. They always laughed and said, “Ramona is no speller. See how she spells much m-u-c-k.” They behaved as if she had done something clever.

  Ramona learned right there that Mrs. Rudge was a teacher who did not accept excuses. “There is no such a word as can’t,” she said, and went on to inspect Becky’s work sheet.

  How can there be no such word as can’t? Ramona wondered. Mrs. Rudge had just said can’t. If there was no such word as can’t, Mrs. Rudge could not have said there was no such word as can’t. Therefore, what Mrs. Rudge had said could not be true. Ramona was left with a vague feeling that Mrs. Rudge did not like her because she did not offer to give Ramona extra help in spelling.

  At lunchtime when Ramona went into the multipurpose room with her lunch box, she found that she had a leftover-pot-roast sandwich in her lunch. She did not like a leftover-pot-roast sandwich because the meat slid out in big pieces when she bit into it. After chewing awhile she thought, I won’t eat it, and she stuffed the rest of her sandwich into the hole in her milk carton and threw it into the trash can. She sat there arguing with herself about how there had to be a word can’t because she had just thought it. This was not a good day.

  After school at the Kemps’ house, Ramona and Howie drank the same old apple juice and ate the same old graham crackers that Mrs. Kemp always set out for them. Sticky Willa Jean, holding Woger by one paw, stood and watched. She was wearing a T-shirt with Grandma Loves Me printed on the front. The shirt had shrunk so much it showed her navel—tummy button, Mrs. Kemp called it.

  Then Howie got out the checkerboard, which he placed on the carpet. Kneeling, he and Ramona began to divide the red and black checkers.

  “I want to play.” Willa Jean plunked herself down on the carpet, sitting on Woger as if he were a cushion, which was no way to treat a bear, especially a bear like Woger.

  “Aw, Willa Jean—” protested Howie, who had his problems with his little sister.

  “Now Howie,” said Mrs. Kemp, busy with her endless knitting, “play nicely with your sister. She’s little, you know.”

  Howie knew all right.

  Willa Jean, pleased to have her grandmother on her side, set a red checker on top of a black checker. “Your turn,” she said to Ramona as if she were being generous.

  Ramona and Howie shared one hopeless look. They were familiar with Willa Jean’s original rules for checkers. Ramona set a black checker on top of Willa Jean’s red checker. Howie added red and so on in turn until the tower of checkers grew high and crooked. At last, when Willa Jean set a checker on top, the tower tumbled.

  “I won!” crowed Willa Jean as Howie tried to prevent scattered checkers from rolling under the couch. “Grandma, I beat Howie and Wamona!”

  “Smart girl!” Mrs. Kemp paused in her knitting to smile down upon her granddaughter.

  The situation was hopeless. “Let’s go down in the basement and see if we can think of something to build,” said Howie, and Ramona agreed. They would be undisturbed in the basement. Willa Jean was afraid of the furnace.

  Safe from interruption, Howie and Ramona decided to build a boat of the scrap lumber Mr. Kemp collected for Howie to work with. They had already built a dog, a cat, and a duck decoy that Mr. Kemp said would never fool a real live duck. Now they sawed and pounded until they had a boat with two decks. They were so good at nailing by now they did not even pound their fingers. Next they found a dowel and sawed off two pieces for smokestacks, which Howie studied. “It’s going to be hard to nail them to our boat,” he said.

  “We could use Scotch tape,” said Ramona, who felt that almost anything could be accomplished with Scotch tape.

  “I don’t think it’s strong enough for wood,” was Howie’s objection. “Glue might be better.”

  “Scotch tape would work if we use lots of it.” Ramona was an experienced user of Scotch tape.

  In the end, glue won out because Howie thought a boat should look neat. Very, very carefully they spread glue on the ends of the dowels and pressed them in place. They put the top back on the tube of glue, and each held a dowel in place, waiting for the glue to dry. They had not spilled a drop. Fortunately, the glue was quick drying.

  “Let’s see if our boat will float,” said Howie. He pressed the plug of the laundry tub in place and turned on the faucet.

  “Howie, what are you two doing down there?” Mrs. Kemp called from the top of the stairs.

  “Just seeing if our boat will float,” he answered.

  “All right,” said Mrs. Kemp. “Just don’t let the tub overflow.”

  “We won’t,” promised Howie.

  The boat floated. Howie and Ramona stirred up a storm at sea to make things interesting and watched their boat ride the waves. As it bobbed up and down, Ramona happened to glance up at a shelf above the laundry tub. There she spotted a blue plastic bottle with the picture of a nice old-fashioned lady’s face on the label. Bluing!

  Ramona knew all about bluing because her mother had used it to make white washing look whiter back in the days before she had gone to work. “If we could get that bottle, we could turn the water blue like a real ocean,” she suggested. “It only takes a little bit.”

  Howie was enthusiastic, but how were they to reach a bottle on such a high shelf? For some reason, Mrs. Rudge’s words, there’s no such word as can’t, ran through Ramona’s mind. Of course they could get that bottle of bluing.

  Ramona managed to balance on her stomach on the edge of the tub. Then she got one knee up and with a boost from Howie was able to climb up onto the edge of the tub. She stood teetering on the narrow edge clinging to the front of the shelf with one hand while she managed to grasp the bottle with the other and hand it down to Howie. As she did so, the top flew off. Bluing splashed over Howie, who tried to catch the top only to have the bottle slip from his fingers into the tub of water, where it poured forth swirls of beautiful deep blue. Ramona was so startled she lost her balance and landed standing up to her knees in blue water.

  “Boy, Ramona, see what you’ve done.” Howie looked down at his shirt and jeans, now streaked with blue.r />
  Ramona felt Howie was being most unfair. She did not spill the bluing on purpose. Besides, why wasn’t the top of the bottle screwed on tight? Because some grown-up had not screwed it on, that’s why. Children weren’t the only people who did things wrong. She fumbled through the blue water, now much bluer than any ocean, and pulled the plug. As the water drained out, she and Howie looked at one another. Now what should they do?

  Mrs. Kemp called down the stairway. “It’s awfully quiet down there. What are you two up to?”

  “We had—sort of an accident,” confessed Howie.

  Mrs. Kemp came running down the stairs. “Oh, my land!” she cried. “Oh, my goodness!”

  Willa Jean began to howl at the top of the stairs.

  “Grandma won’t let the furnace get you, darling,” said Mrs. Kemp. Willa Jean sat down at the top of the stairs and wept.

  Mrs. Kemp lifted dripping Ramona out of the tub. Then, right there in front of Howie, she pulled off Ramona’s socks, slacks, and blouse and dumped them in the washing machine. Then she pulled off Howie’s socks, shirt, and jeans and dumped those in the washing machine, too. Ramona and Howie did not know where to look, they were so embarrassed to be standing there in their underwear. Two years ago they would not have minded, but now that they were in the second grade, they felt that underwear was private.

  Mrs. Kemp filled the tub with a few inches of clear water and lifted Ramona back in. Without a word she began to scrub Ramona’s feet with a bar of yellow soap. When it was plain that Ramona’s feet were going to stay blue, she lifted Ramona out again, pulled a towel out of the dryer, and handed it to her. Then Mrs. Kemp went to work on Howie’s blue hands.

  When Ramona’s blue feet were dry, she asked politely, “What will I wear?” Of course she could not go around in her underwear.

  “We’ll find something.” Mrs. Kemp, rinsing Ramona’s shoes, sounded grim. She held up the shoes, now a strange greenish brown, to let the water drain off them before she leaned them against the furnace to dry.

  Suddenly Mrs. Kemp missed Willa Jean. “Oh, my goodness!” she cried, and dashed up the stairs. Ramona and Howie, careful not to look at one another, followed. What Ramona saw made tears come to her eyes. There sat Willa Jean under the dining-room table holding a pair of scissors, sharp scissors, and Woger, who now had only one leg. Willa Jean had cut off Woger’s leg! That lovable bear. How could Willa Jean do such a terrible thing? Ramona felt like crying, she loved Woger so.

  “Give Grandma the scissors,” coaxed Mrs. Kemp. “We don’t want the scissors to hurt Willa Jean.”

  “Boy, Willa Jean.” Howie was disgusted. “What did you have to go and do a dumb thing like that for?”

  Willa Jean looked as if her brother had said something unkind. “I wanted to see if Woger had bones,” she said.

  “He is so soft you should know he doesn’t have bones,” said Howie. “You didn’t have to wreck him.”

  Willa Jean looked at the stuffing coming out of her bear’s wounds and began to cry.

  “Never mind, darling,” said Mrs. Kemp. “Grandma will sew Woger’s leg back on after she finds some clothes for Howie and Ramona.”

  Ramona was soon bundled into Howie’s old shirt and jeans and a pair of ragged sneakers much too big for her. She sat on one end of the couch while Howie sat on the other.

  Ramona was cross because she did not like wearing Howie’s old clothes. Howie was cross because Ramona had thought of dying the water blue. Both were cross with Willa Jean for spoiling the checker game. Mrs. Kemp, who was sewing Woger’s leg back on, was cross with Ramona and Howie, but of course she was not cross with Willa Jean. Only Willa Jean, lying on her back under the coffee table and sucking her thumb, was happy.

  This afternoon was not the first time Ramona had been in trouble at the Kemps’ house. There was that day she and Howie found Mrs. Kemp’s pinking shears. Ramona had been pinking Howie’s hair when Mrs. Kemp discovered what they were up to. Ramona had thought she was unreasonably displeased, because Howie’s hair was so curly the pinking did not show.

  Now Ramona worried. If she got into any more trouble, maybe Mrs. Kemp would not want to look after her. Then her mother could no longer work in Dr. Hobson’s office and would have to stay home. Ramona quickly squashed a deep-down thought that she would like to have her mother stay home again. She waited anxiously for Beezus to come. She waited and waited. No Beezus.

  Howie looked at a sporting-goods catalog, turning the pages with blue hands. Boots, quilted jackets with many pockets, and those tents that folded into tiny packages interested Howie. He did not offer to share the catalog with Ramona, even though he knew she liked pictures of duck decoys.

  Ramona heaved a gusty sigh. She wished she had brought her Betsy book with her. She enjoyed reading about Betsy because everyone in the book was so nice to her.

  When Woger’s wounds were mended, Mrs. Kemp started supper. The fragrance of pork chops floated from the kitchen. The younger Mrs. Kemp, Howie’s mother, came home with packages and bags of groceries. “Why, hello, Ramona,” she said. “I didn’t know you were still here.”

  Mr. Kemp came home from work. “Hello there,” he said. “Are you still here?”

  Ramona did not know how to answer such a question. She felt embarrassed, in the way, unwanted. Where was Beezus? What had happened to her parents? Her ears strained for familiar footsteps or the sound of the Quimby car.

  “Your mother and father are late today,” remarked Howie’s mother as she set the table.

  Once more Ramona did not know how to answer. Cars were now driving with their lights on. Why didn’t someone come? What if her mother and father had been in an accident? Who would take care of Ramona? It seemed as if she might have to sit here on the couch in Howie’s old clothes forever.

  Ramona began to feel hungry. How good a pork chop would taste! She knew she would not be asked to share the Kemps’ supper. With the price of meat these days there would not be an extra chop. Ramona’s mouth watered so much she had to swallow. She thought of the pot-roast sandwich she had not finished at lunchtime.

  “Ramona, could I fix you some peanut butter and crackers?” asked Howie’s mother.

  “No, thank you.” Ramona pictured a brown chop with mashed potatoes and pool of gravy.

  The Kemps sat down at the table with Willa Jean perched on two cushions beside her grandmother, who began to cut her meat for her. And she won’t even eat a whole chop, thought Ramona, who felt like a stranger, an intruder in the lives of others. The Kemps said little as they ate. Perhaps they did not want to talk in front of an outsider. Ramona listened to the clink of knives and forks against plates as the Kemps ate their pork chops. She was profoundly embarrassed.

  “Willa Jean, darlin’, we don’t chew with our mouth open,” said Willa Jean’s grandmother.

  At last, when Ramona was blinking back tears because she was sure her parents would never come, the old familiar car turned into the driveway.

  “Good-bye!” cried Ramona, pulling on her car coat as she ran out the door.

  Mr. Quimby was driving, Mrs. Quimby sat next to him, and Beezus was in the back seat. She must have been picked up at a friend’s house. “You were late,” Ramona informed her family, her voice stern. “You kept me waiting.”

  “I’m sorry.” Mrs. Quimby sounded tired. “It was one of those days. After work when I went to catch a bus to the garage to pick up the car, the bus was late, and when I finally got to the garage, the mechanics hadn’t finished the job and I had to wait some more. And I had to keep your father waiting, too.”

  “What a day!” said Mr. Quimby. “Price changes to remember, and I worked the express line besides.” Ramona knew her father disliked the express line in which customers were not supposed to have more than nine items in each basket. Many people tried to slip through with ten or eleven items. Everyone in line was in a hurry and counted the items in one another’s baskets. There were arguments. All this unpleasantness took a lot out of Mr. Quimb
y.

  Please, please like your job, prayed Ramona, forgetting her own troubles for a moment.

  Mrs. Quimby turned in the front seat to look at her daughters. Of course she noticed Ramona was wearing Howie’s old clothes.

  “Ramona, why are you wearing . . . ?” Mrs. Quimby seemed too tired to finish the question.

  “Howie and I sort of spilled some stuff and Mrs. Kemp washed our clothes and they aren’t dry yet,” explained Ramona. Her mother could discover her blue feet later. “It was Willa Jean’s fault. She wrecked our checker game so we had to go down in the basement to get away from her.”

  “Sounds like you,” said Beezus. “I can remember when you used to bump the coffee table with your tricycle when I was playing checkers with a friend.”

  “I did not!” Ramona was indignant.

  “You did, too,” said Beezus. “You just can’t remember.”

  “Girls!” said Mrs. Quimby. “It doesn’t really matter who wrecked whose checker game or where or when.”

  Rain slanted through the beams of the car lights, the windshield wipers splip-splopped, the family was silent. Ramona, huddled in the corner of the back seat, wondered if she really had been as awful as Willa Jean. Nobody loved Ramona—well, maybe her father a little bit sometimes. If her mother really loved her, she would say to Beezus that Ramona was never anything like Willa Jean.

  Ramona not only felt unloved, she was so hungry her stomach growled. As Mr. Quimby turned their car into the driveway, she thought of the stew that had been simmering away in the Crock-Pot all day. How good it would smell when they opened the door! The Crock-Pot always gave out a warm and welcoming fragrance as if Ramona’s mother had been home all day preparing supper to greet them. One whiff of stew, Ramona was sure, and everything would be all right again. Her mother would forget her troubles with the car, her father would begin to make jokes again, she and Beezus would set the table, and they would all sit down to a nice warm dinner.