4
THE QUARREL
As soon as Ramona stepped through the back door, she knew something was wrong. There was a chill about the house, and it had the faint mustiness of a place that had been closed and unoccupied all day. There was no welcoming fragrance of simmering meat and vegetables. The tiny light on the Crock-Pot was dark, the pot cold.
“Oh, no!” cried Mrs. Quimby, noticing.
“What’s wrong?” asked Mr. Quimby, coming in from the hall where he had gone to turn up the thermostat of the furnace.
“Wrong!” Mrs. Quimby lifted the lid of the electric casserole on the kitchen counter. “Someone forgot to plug in the Crock-Pot this morning, that’s what’s wrong.”
The family gathered to peer in at the cold vegetables and raw meat.
“I’m starving!” wailed Beezus.
“Me, too,” said Ramona.
“I thought you turned it on,” said Mrs. Quimby to her husband as she shoved the plug into the socket. The stew could cook overnight and be warmed up for the next evening.
“Don’t look at me,” said Mr. Quimby to his wife. “I thought you turned it on.” There was an edge to his voice.
For some reason his remark annoyed Mrs. Quimby. “I suppose you think turning on a Crock-Pot is woman’s work.” The edge in her voice matched the edge in his.
“Not exactly,” said Mr. Quimby, “but now that you mention it—”
“Don’t forget the time you forgot to fork the potatoes you put in to bake and they exploded,” his wife reminded him.
Ramona stifled a laugh at that memory. Her father had looked so surprised the evening the potatoes exploded—poof!—when he had opened the oven door.
Mr. Quimby was not going to be drawn into a discussion of past baked potatoes. “Why not just throw the stuff into the frying pan and cook it?” he asked. His idea of cooking was to toss everything into a pan and stir until done. Sometimes he invented interesting dishes with ground meat and eggs, zucchini and cheese. Other times the family tried to be good sports at dinner.
“Because you can’t fry stew meat.” Mrs. Quimby sounded annoyed as she looked into the cupboard and the refrigerator. “It’s too tough. You know that. Did you bring groceries?”
“No. I thought we were having stew for dinner,” answered Mr. Quimby. Crossly, Ramona thought. “I didn’t see anything on the grocery list.”
Picky-picky, the cat, rubbed against Mrs. Quimby’s legs, telling her how hungry he was. “Scat,” said Mrs. Quimby.
Picky-picky went to Beezus, not Ramona. He did not like Ramona, had never liked her because she was too noisy.
“I’m practically dying of hunger,” said Beezus as she picked up the old cat and rubbed her cheek against him.
“Me, too,” said Ramona.
“You girls are no help,” Mrs. Quimby told her daughters. “We have a couple of eggs, not enough for an omelet, two strips of bacon, three carrots, and some tired old lettuce. That’s it.” She looked at her husband. “We don’t have to let the cupboard get completely bare before we buy groceries.”
This remark gave Ramona a cue. “Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard—” she began, but she did not finish the rhyme because she could see no one was listening.
“Anytime we are low on groceries, just make a list,” said Mr. Quimby. “That’s all you have to do.”
“I could make carrot salad,” suggested Beezus, as if carrot salad might smooth things over.
“We could have pancakes,” said Mr. Quimby, “with half a strip of bacon apiece.”
“Not a very nutritious meal,” said Mrs. Quimby, “but better than starvation.” She reached for a mixing bowl while Beezus, who had dropped Picky-picky and washed her hands, began to grate carrots onto a sheet of waxed paper. Ramona leaned against the counter to watch. She wanted to make sure her sister did not grate her fingers into the salad.
“Ramona, don’t just stand there,” said Mr. Quimby as he laid the bacon in a frying pan. “Get busy and set the table. As my grandmother used to say, ‘Every kettle must rest on its own bottom,’ so do your part.”
Ramona made a face as she reached for the place mats. “Daddy, I bet your grandmother didn’t really say all the things you say she said.”
“If she did, she must have been a dreadful bore,” said Mrs. Quimby, who was beating batter as if she were angry with it.
Mr. Quimby looked hurt. “You didn’t know my grandmother.”
“If she went around spouting wisdom all the time, I can’t say I’m sorry.” Mrs. Quimby was on her knees, dragging the griddle from behind the pots and pans in the bottom of the cupboard.
Ramona paused in laying the silverware to make sure there was no blood on the carrots. She felt the muscles of her stomach tighten as they always tightened when her mother was cross with her father.
“My grandmother was a wonderful woman,” said Mr. Quimby. “She had a hard life out there in the country, but she was good to us kids and we learned a lot from her.”
“Well, my grandmother wasn’t so bad herself.” With an angry sounding crash the griddle knocked over two pans and a double boiler as Mrs. Quimby yanked it from the cupboard. “And I learned a lot from her.”
Ramona and Beezus exchanged an anxious look.
“Just what did you learn from your grandmother?” asked Mr. Quimby. “As far as I could see, all she ever did was gad around and play bridge.”
Ramona and Beezus exchanged another look. Were their parents quarreling? Really quarreling? Yes, the sisters’ eyes agreed. Both girls were worried.
Mrs. Quimby set the griddle on the stove with more noise than necessary. She was plainly trying to think what she had learned from her grandmother. Finally she said, “My grandmother taught me to pick flowers with long stems and to pick a few leaves to put in with them.”
“Very useful,” said Mr. Quimby.
The hint of sarcasm in his voice must have annoyed Mrs. Quimby because she said, “My grandmother didn’t have much money, but she had a sense of beauty.” The drop of water she flicked on the griddle refused to dance.
“No matter how much my grandmother had to scrimp and pinch to make ends meet,” said Mr. Quimby, “she always managed to find money to buy paper for me to draw on.”
Scrimp and pinch to make ends meet, thought Ramona, liking the sound of the words. She would remember them. The smell of bacon sizzling made her feel better. It also made her hungrier.
“My grandmother taught me useful things, too.” Mrs. Quimby had had time to think. “She taught me that a dab of spit would stop a run in a stocking.” She flicked another drop of water on the griddle. This one danced. The griddle was hot.
“Some grandmother,” said Mr. Quimby, “spitting on her stockings.”
“You’re both being silly,” Beezus burst out. “Just plain silly!”
“Young lady, you keep out of this,” ordered Mr. Quimby.
Beezus glared at her father. “Well, you are,” she muttered.
Mrs. Quimby silently poured four puddles of batter on the griddle. Ramona prayed that the quarrel, whatever it was about, was over.
Beezus stirred mayonnaise into the blood-free carrots, which she then divided on four limp lettuce leaves on four salad plates. Mr. Quimby turned the bacon. Mrs. Quimby flipped the pancakes. Ramona’s stomach relaxed. In a moment her mother would slide the pancakes onto a platter and start another four cooking. Ramona could hardly wait, she was so hungry.
“Are you sure those pancakes are done?” asked Mr. Quimby as his wife slid the pancake turner under them. “They don’t look done to me.”
“They bubbled in the middle before I turned them,” said Mrs. Quimby, “and they look done to me.”
Mr. Quimby took the pancake turner from his wife. Using it as a weapon, he slashed each pancake in the center. Ramona and Beezus exchanged a shocked look. Their father had slashed their mother’s pancakes! He had gone too far. Frightened, they watched raw batter ooze from four gashes in the pancakes. Their fa
ther was right. The cakes were not done. Now what would their mother do?
Mrs. Quimby was furious. She snatched back the pancake turner, scooped up the oozing cakes, and tossed them into the garbage.
“You didn’t need to do that.” Mr. Quimby looked amused. He had won. “You could have turned them again and let them finish cooking.”
“And I suppose your grandmother made absolutely perfect pancakes,” said Mrs. Quimby in a voice stiff with anger.
Mr. Quimby looked calm and even more amused. “As a matter of fact, she did,” he said. “Brown and lacy, cooked all the way through, and with crisp edges.”
“The best pancakes you ever ate,” stated Mrs. Quimby in a voice that made Ramona silently pray. Mother, be nice again. Please, please be nice again.
“Right,” said Mr. Quimby. “Light enough to melt in your mouth.”
Be quiet, Daddy, prayed Ramona. You’ll make things worse.
“Oh—you!” Mrs. Quimby gave Mr. Quimby a swat on the seat of his pants with the pancake turner before she threw it on the counter. “Bake them yourself since you learned so much from that noble grandmother of yours!”
Ramona and Beezus stood frozen with shock. Their mother had hit their father with a pancake turner. Ramona wanted to fly at her mother, to strike her and cry out, You hit my daddy! She dared not.
Mr. Quimby tucked a dish towel in his belt for an apron and calmly ladled batter onto the griddle while his wife stalked into the living room and sat down with the newspaper. If only he wouldn’t whistle so cheerfully as he deftly turned the cakes and drained the bacon.
“Dinner is served,” Mr. Quimby announced as he set a platter of hot cakes and bacon on the table and pulled the dish towel from his belt. Silently Mrs. Quimby joined the family.
Even though her mother was usually a much better cook than her father, Ramona had to admit her father made excellent pancakes. Unfortunately, she was no longer very hungry. She felt all churned up inside, as if she didn’t know whether to cry or to burst out of the house shouting, My mother and father had a fight!
“Please pass the butter.” Mrs. Quimby might have been speaking to a stranger.
“May I please have the syrup?” Mr. Quimby asked politely.
“The funniest thing happened at school,” said Beezus, and Ramona understood that her sister was anxious to start a conversation that would smooth things over and make their parents forget their quarrel, perhaps make them laugh.
After a moment of silence Mrs. Quimby said, “Tell me.”
“You’ll never guess how a boy spelled relief in a spelling test,” said Beezus.
“How?” asked Ramona to help the conversation along. Mr. Quimby silently served himself two more hot cakes.
“He spelled it r-o-l-a-i-d-s,” said Beezus, looking anxiously at her parents, who actually smiled.
Ramona did not smile. “But the man on television spells relief that way. He said r-o-l-a-i-d-s spells relief. I’ve heard him.”
“Silly,” said Beezus, but this time she spoke with affection. “That’s just a slogan. Relief is r-e-l-i-e-f.”
“Oh.” Ramona was glad to know. Tabletalk sank back into silence while Ramona thought about spelling. Spelling was full of traps—blends and silent letters and letters that sounded one way in one word and a different way in another—and having a man stand there on television fooling children was no help. She was glad she had a big sister who understood those things.
The evening was quiet. Mr. Quimby dozed in front of the television set. Mrs. Quimby took a shower and went to bed to read. Beezus did her homework in her room. Ramona tried to draw a monster eating a mouthful of people, but she could not make the picture on paper match the one in her imagination. Her monster looked as if he were eating paper dolls instead of real people. The house was unnaturally quiet. The television droned on. Both girls went to bed without being told.
Unhappy thoughts kept Ramona awake. What if her mother and father did not love one another anymore? What if they decided to get a divorce like her friend Davy’s parents? What would happen to her? Who would take care of her? Beezus was closer to being a grown-up, but what about Ramona? She wanted to cry but could not. She felt too tight inside to cry. Tears teetered on her eyelashes but would not give her the relief of falling.
Finally Ramona could stand her fear and loneliness no longer. She slipped out of bed and tiptoed into her sister’s room.
“Ramona?” Beezus too was awake.
“I can’t go to sleep,” whispered Ramona.
“Neither can I,” said Beezus. “Come on, get in bed with me.”
This invitation was what Ramona had been hoping for. Gratefully she slipped beneath the covers and snuggled against her sister. “Do you think they’ll get a divorce?” she whispered. “They won’t talk to each other.”
“Of course not,” said Beezus. “At least I don’t think so.”
“Who would take care of me if they did?” Ramona felt she had to have the answer from someone. “I’m still little.” Beezus, of course, was her mother’s girl, but what about Ramona?
Beezus seemed to be considering the question. “I’ll try,” she said at last.
“You aren’t grown up enough,” said Ramona, nevertheless comforted. Beezus cared.
“I know,” admitted Beezus. “I read a book about a girl who took care of her brothers and sisters when their father died, but that was off in the mountains someplace where they all picked herbs and things. It wouldn’t work in the city.”
“Mother and Daddy won’t be dead.” Ramona was consoled by this knowledge.
Beezus was silent awhile. “They could have been joking,” she said. “Sort of.”
“But Mother hit Daddy,” Ramona pointed out. “On the seat of his pants with a pancake turner.”
“I don’t think that’s the same as if she had hit him with something hard,” said Beezus. “After all, she didn’t really hurt him.”
Ramona tried to find a bright side. “And he didn’t hit her back,” she said. “But if they loved us, they wouldn’t fight.” She silently said her prayers, ending with, “Please, please don’t let Mother and Daddy fight.”
From the kitchen came a whiff of the stew that would simmer through the night for their supper the next evening. Soothed by the homey fragrance, the sisters fell asleep.
In the morning, a few seconds after she awoke and found herself in her sister’s bed, a dull, unhappy feeling settled over Ramona. Her parents had quarreled. She dreaded facing them at breakfast. She did not know what to say to them. Beezus looked unhappy, too. Getting dressed took longer than usual, and when they finally went into the kitchen, they were surprised to see their parents sharing the morning paper as they ate breakfast together.
“Good morning, girls,” said Mr. Quimby with his usual cheerfulness.
“There is oatmeal on the stove.” Mrs. Quimby smiled fondly at her daughters. “Did you sleep well?”
Beezus was suddenly angry. “No, we didn’t!”
“No, we didn’t,” echoed Ramona, encouraged by her sister’s anger. How could her mother expect them to sleep well when they were so worried?
Startled, both parents laid down the newspaper.
“And it’s all your fault,” Beezus informed them.
“What on earth are you talking about?” asked Mrs. Quimby.
Beezus was near tears. “Your big fight, that’s what.”
Ramona blinked back tears, too. “You wouldn’t even talk to each other. And you hit Daddy!”
“Of course we were speaking,” said Mrs. Quimby. “Where did you get the idea we weren’t? We were just tired is all. We had one of those days when everything seemed to go wrong.”
So did I, thought Ramona.
“I went to bed and read,” continued Mrs. Quimby, “and your father watched television. That was all there was to it.”
Ramona felt almost limp with relief. At the same time she was angry with her parents for causing so much worry. “Grown-ups aren’t
supposed to fight,” she informed them.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Mrs. Quimby. “Why not?”
Ramona was stern. “Grown-ups are supposed to be perfect.”
Both her parents laughed. “Well, they are,” Ramona insisted, annoyed by their laughter.
“Name one perfect grown-up,” challenged Mr. Quimby. “You can’t do it.”
“Haven’t you noticed grown-ups aren’t perfect?” asked Mrs. Quimby. “Especially when they’re tired.”
“Then how come you expect us kids to be so perfect all the time?” demanded Ramona.
“Good question,” said Mr. Quimby. “I’ll have to think of an answer.”
“We want you to be perfect so you won’t grow up to bicker about your grandmothers and their pancakes,” said Mrs. Quimby. Both parents thought her reply was funny.
Ramona felt the way Picky-picky looked when someone rumpled his fur. Maybe grown-ups weren’t perfect, but they should be, her parents most of all. They should be cheerful, patient, loving, never sick and never tired. And fun, too.
“You kids fight,” said Mr. Quimby. “Why shouldn’t we?”
“It isn’t dignified,” said Beezus, giving Ramona another word to add to her list. “Especially when you hit someone with a pancake turner.”
“Oh, you silly little girls,” said Mrs. Quimby with amusement and affection.
“Why should we let you kids have all the fun?” asked Mr. Quimby.
“We don’t quarrel for fun,” Ramona informed her father.
“You could fool me,” said Mr. Quimby.
Ramona refused to smile. “Don’t you ever do it again,” she ordered her parents in her sternest voice.
“Yes, ma’am,” answered Mrs. Quimby with mock meekness, as if she were poking a little fun at Ramona.
“Yes, ma’am!” said her father, and saluted as if she were somebody important.
This time Ramona had to laugh.
5
THE GREAT HAIR ARGUMENT
“Ramona, stand on both feet and hold still,” said Mrs. Quimby one Saturday morning. “I can’t cut your bangs straight when you wiggle.”
Ramona and Her Mother Page 4
