by Judy Blume
“How about some for Turtle?” I asked.
“Why not?” Grandma said. “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.” I held Turtle’s mouth open and Grandma poured in a spoonful.
“Blue gas,” Jimmy whispered. “He’s going to make blue, steamy, gurgling gas.”
“I don’t want blue gas!” Fudge cried.
“What are you talking about?” Mom said. “There’s no such thing as blue gas.”
“There is if you eat enough blueberries,” I told her.
“Really, Peter . . .” Mom said. “Let’s not make this any worse than it already is.”
* * *
Dad missed the blueberry adventure. He’d gone to the town dock right after breakfast to see about renting a sailboat. By the time he got back Mom had carried Fudge to the porch, where he lay on the old wicker couch. Everyone gathered around the blueberry boy. Everyone had a suggestion for him.
“Lie on your tummy, Fudge,” Mrs. Tubman said. “That’s what I do when mine hurts.”
“A hot-water bottle,” Mr. Tubman said. “That’ll fix it.”
“Make beautiful pictures in your mind,” Buzzy Senior suggested.
“Just throw it all up!” Mr. Fargo said.
Sheila was about to say Eeeuuuw . . . disgusting, when Dad ran up the porch steps. “I’ve rented a nice little nineteen-footer!” he announced. You could tell he was really excited. “We can take a picnic lunch.” He stopped when he saw Fudge. “What’s wrong with Fudgie?” he asked Mom. “Why is he all blue?”
“It’s a long story,” Mom said. “I’ll tell you about it later.”
Dad paused for a minute and shook his head. Then he said, “Well . . . I’ve got the boat from noon to four and I can take up to six passengers. I know Peter wants to come . . . how about the rest of you?”
“I’ve never been sailing,” Jimmy said.
“No problem,” Sheila told him. “I’m an expert. I’ll explain everything to you.”
Somebody should tell the Guinness Book of World Records about her, I thought. Since she’s the world’s leading expert on everything.
“Count me in,” Grandma said.
“Count me out,” Buzzy Senior said.
“Buzzy . . .” Grandma said. “You don’t like sailing?”
“About as much as a fish likes being out of water.”
Mr. Fargo said, “Thanks, but no thanks.”
Mrs. Tubman said she really wasn’t into water sports, but she’d go if Mr. Tubman would. Mr. Tubman said he had no sailing experience but he’d always wanted to give it a try.
“What about Fudge?” Sheila asked Mom.
“Fudge isn’t going anywhere!” Mom said.
“Except to the bathroom,” Jimmy whispered to me. And we both cracked up.
* * *
All seven of us piled into the back of Mr. Fargo’s truck. “Have a good sail!” he called when he dropped us off with our gear.
The boat Dad rented was tied to the dock. It looked kind of small, especially next to the really big boats that were moored in the harbor. As soon as we were on board Dad handed out life jackets. There was one for each of us and Dad’s rule was we had to wear it the whole time.
Then he started to explain the man-overboard rule.
“Excuse me, Mr. Hatcher . . .” Sheila said, “but couldn’t we call it the person-overboard rule? I mean, man overboard sounds so sexist.”
“Okay,” Dad said. “The person-overboard rule.”
He appointed Mrs. Tubman and me official spotters. If anyone fell into the water our job was to point. No matter how the boat turned, no matter how it rocked, the spotter had to keep pointing so the person overboard didn’t get lost.
“Maybe I should just wait here,” Jimmy said.
“Nah . . . once we get going you’re going to like it,” I told him.
“I don’t know,” Jimmy said. “I’m not the world’s greatest swimmer.”
“Nobody’s going swimming,” I said. “This water’s so cold you’d have hypothermia in a couple of minutes.”
“Hypo-who?” Jimmy said.
“Hypothermia,” I said. “That’s when your body temperature falls really low. Most people who die when they fall in the water die from that, not from drowning.” I think Jimmy would have jumped back onto the dock if we hadn’t sailed away right then.
“Oooh . . . my hat,” Mrs. Tubman cried, as we got going. “The wind took my hat.” We watched as it slowly drifted down into the water.
“Sorry, Jean,” Dad said. “You should have pinned it to your hair.”
“I didn’t know,” Mrs. Tubman said.
“Now you do,” Dad told her.
“I really liked that hat,” Mrs. Tubman mumbled. I don’t think Dad heard her. He was at the tiller, which is the stick that steers the boat.
Soon we were moving along really fast, for a sailboat. I liked the whoosh whoosh sound as the boat cut through the water. Dad relaxed a little. So did the rest of us. We held our faces up to catch a few rays.
“Don’t forget to use plenty of suntan lotion,” Grandma said.
Sheila slathered it all over herself. By the time she was done she smelled like a coconut factory.
“I never burn,” Jimmy told Grandma.
“Me neither,” I said.
“Aren’t you lucky!” Grandma said.
We sailed along that way for an hour before Dad called, “Anybody ready for lunch?”
“Yes!” we all answered at once.
We dropped anchor near a small island. I handed out our lunch bags. Jimmy had brought his favorite—sardines and onions on rye. The rest of us had cold chicken, left over from last night’s dinner.
“Am I hungry!” Jimmy said, gobbling up one sardine-and-onion sandwich and starting on the next.
“Me too!” Sheila said. “I’ve never been so hungry in my entire life.”
“It’s the salt air,” Grandma said. “It does wonders for your appetite.”
The three of us polished off a bag of chips, a box of cookies and all the juice. Then we hit the fruit.
“Don’t stuff yourselves,” Grandma told us. “It’s better to eat lightly when you’re sailing.”
“But we’re anchored now,” Jimmy said, helping himself to a second peach.
Grandma raised her eyebrows.
After lunch we relaxed for a while. Dad took a snooze. Grandma and Mrs. Tubman had a heavy discussion about the problems of the city. Mr. Tubman read a mystery. And the three of us played Hearts with the deck of cards Sheila had brought in her pack. “I’m always prepared,” she told us.
After a couple of hands she said, “Speaking of prepared . . . is there a bathroom on this boat?”
“Look around,” I told her. “Do you see a bathroom?” Since we were in an open boat it didn’t take much to figure out the answer to that question.
“Well, what’s a person supposed to do?” she asked.
“A person is supposed to go before.”
“I did.”
“Then a person is supposed to wait until we’re back.”
She checked her watch. “That’s almost two more hours.”
“If it’s an emergency Dad has a bucket,” I told her.
“A bucket?” Sheila said. “That’s . . .”
“Disgusting!” Jimmy and I sang at the same time.
“Just when I think it’s possible that the two of you are human beings, you prove that I’m wrong!”
Sheila’s outburst woke Dad. He checked his watch. “We better get started. We’ll be heading into the wind on the way back so it’s going to take longer.”
Once we were under way it felt a lot colder than before. We pulled on sweatshirts. Sheila shivered and
moved closer to me. I moved away from her and closer to Jimmy. It got more and more windy as the sky filled with big gray clouds. The boat tipped and water splashed over the rail, spraying us.
That’s when Jimmy grabbed my arm and said, “I feel funny.”
“Dad,” I called. “Jimmy feels funny.”
“Keep your eye on the horizon,” Dad told him.
“What horizon?” Jimmy asked. His eyes were rolling around in their sockets and he was turning green.
Grandma said, “Breathe through your nose, Jimmy. Inhale, exhale . . . inhale, exhale . . .”
There were waves now, with white caps. The boat tipped way over and Sheila screamed, “Do something . . . before we all drown!”
“It’s all right,” Grandma said. “This is a keel boat. It can’t go over.”
It can’t go over, I told myself. It can’t go over.
Jimmy was trying to breathe through his nose, like Grandma said. I think he was more scared than sick.
“A puff is coming, Warren!” Grandma called.
“A puff of what?” Sheila cried, grabbing me.
“A puff of wind,” Grandma said. “Look at the water . . . you see how it’s rippling in front of us?” Then she shouted to Dad, “Warren . . . head up in the puff!”
All of a sudden the boat, which was already tipped halfway over, tipped so far the sails touched the water.
The Tubmans screamed and clung to each other. Sheila dug her fingernails into my hand. Jimmy groaned and hung on to me. He breathed his sardines and onions right into my face.
“Let Muriel take the tiller!” Mrs. Tubman yelled.
“You want Muriel to be captain?” Dad said. “Fine!”
“Really Warren . . .” Grandma said. “You’re overreacting!” But she switched places with him and took the tiller, shouting out orders. “Ease the sheets, Warren . . . we’re going to sail off the wind . . . it may take a while longer but we’ll all be more comfortable.”
The boat straightened up and sailed more smoothly. Jimmy released his grip on me. So did Sheila. Her nails left marks on my hand. The Tubmans breathed more easily. And Dad sulked.
Grandma sailed the boat in like a pro. She explained everything as she did it, to make us feel more secure. “Now . . . as we pull up, Warren will jump onto the dock, “ she said. “And while he ties us up I’ll drop the sail.” She looked over at Dad. “Wait for me to give you the signal, Warren . . .”
But Dad didn’t wait. He jumped too soon . . . and landed in the water!
“Person overboard!” Sheila shouted.
Mrs. Tubman and I remembered our responsibilities. We pointed at Dad. We pointed as some guy from the dock reached into the water and pulled him out. We pointed as someone else wrapped him in a blanket. We pointed until Dad looked at us and called, “Okay . . . th-th-that’s enough! You c-c-can stop pointing now.” He was shivering so hard his teeth clicked.
Mr. Fargo picked us up in his truck. As soon as we pulled into our driveway Sheila jumped out and ran for the house. “I have to go soooo bad!”
“Did you all have a nice sail?” Mom asked the rest of us. Then she noticed Dad. “Warren . . . how come you went swimming in your clothes?”
Dad didn’t answer. “I’ll be in the t-t-tub,” he managed to say, heading for the house.
Mom looked at Grandma. “What happened?” she asked.
“Oh, the usual,” Grandma said. “But all’s well that ends well.”
Fudge jumped off the porch steps. “All’s well that ends well!” he sang.
“I see he’s recovered,” I said to Mom.
“More or less.”
Then Tootsie toddled over and held her arms out to me. “Up, Pee . . . up.”
I picked her up. She was barefooted and the bottoms of her feet were covered with blue. “Did you get more blueberries?” I asked Mom.
“No . . . why?”
“Look at Tootsie’s feet.”
“Oh oh,” Mom said.
We ran to the side yard, where Mr. Fargo had left his work. Mom sucked in her breath when she saw the path of little footprints across his painting.
“What are we going to do?” I asked.
“What can we do?” Mom said.
Mr. Fargo and Jimmy came around the house then. Jimmy was telling him about his sailing adventure. “I was never scared,” he said. “I knew it was a keel boat . . . I knew it couldn’t go over.” He stopped when he saw us and gave me a weak smile. “Peter wasn’t scared either,” he added.
But Mr. Fargo wasn’t listening anymore. He’d seen the footprints across his painting. His face turned purple. I held Tootsie tight and waited for the explosion.
“Frank . . .” Mom began but Mr. Fargo held up his hand to stop her from speaking. He got down on all fours and crawled around his canvas. He stood up and walked away from it. Then he came closer. Then he walked away. Then he came closer again. He squinted. He scratched his beard.
We held our breaths.
Finally he muttered, “Baby feet.”
I looked at Jimmy. He shrugged, as if to say Don’t ask me.
“Baby feet,” Mr. Fargo said again, coming toward me. I backed away. He wasn’t getting his hands on my little sister.
“Itsy-bitsy baby feet,” Mr. Fargo cooed. “Itsy-bitsy teensy-weensy baby feet.” He tickled the bottoms of Tootsie’s feet. She squealed.
Then he laughed. Mr. Fargo actually laughed! “How’d you like to be my partner, Tootsie Pie?” She held her arms out to him. He swung her up in the air. “I think we’ve got something here,” he told her. “I think those little baby feet of yours are going to be a big hit!”
None of us knew what he was talking about but we were all relieved.
* * *
That night after supper, Jimmy and I used up a whole jar of Noxzema. We had sunburned faces, necks and ears. Our ears hurt more than anything. “Why didn’t you use suntan lotion?” Mom asked.
“I never burn,” Jimmy said.
“Famous last words,” Grandma said.
Then Dad, who’d had supper in his room, came down in his robe. He clinked a spoon against a glass and said, “I’d like your attention for a minute.”
Everyone looked at him.
“I behaved very badly this afternoon,” he said. “And I want to apologize to everyone on the boat . . . but especially to Muriel . . . who saved the day.”
“Apology accepted,” Grandma said.
I was proud of Dad for admitting that he’d acted like a sore loser. So when he looked over at me I gave him the high sign and he smiled.
Then Mr. Fargo clinked a spoon against his glass. He stood up and said, “I want to thank Tootsie for walking across my canvas and giving me the idea for a series of paintings called Baby Feet.”
“Here, here . . .” Buzzy Senior said, raising his coffee cup. “Let’s have a toast to Baby Feet and to Muriel, who always saves the day!” He gave Grandma a big kiss.
Grandma blushed. “Buzzy . . .” she said. “Not in front of the children.”
Somehow I don’t think Grandma was talking about us when she said children. I think she meant Mom and Dad and Mr. and Mrs. Tubman. Because they were the only ones who looked surprised by that kiss.
Captain Fudge
“Look at my mitt-sy,” Fudge said early Sunday morning. The two of us were on the porch, waiting for Grandma to call us in to breakfast. She was making pancakes as a special treat.
“Doesn’t it look good?” He handed his baseball glove to me. “Feel how soft it is.”
“What’d you do?” I asked. There were dark splotches all over it.
“Oiled it, like the man in the store said.”
“What’d you use?”
“Guess.”
&n
bsp; I sniffed his glove. There was a familiar smell to it.
“I’ll give you a hint,” he sang. “It’s pink.”
“Pink oil?”
“Yes!” he said. “You give up?”
“Yeah . . . I definitely give up.”
“Oil of Olay.” He gave me one of his satisfied smiles.
“You used Oil of Olay on your mitt?”
He nodded proudly.
“Oil of Olay is for skin, Turkey Brain! Mom uses it on her face.”
“I’m not a turkey brain! You’re the turkey brain and you’re just jealous because your mitt’s not as soft as mine.”
“Yeah . . . right . . . and I’m jealous that my mitt doesn’t smell like that pink stuff, too!”
“I like that smell.”
“I’m glad . . . because you’re going to be smelling it for a long time. What’d you do . . . use up the whole bottle?”
“The man in the store said to oil it every night . . . remember?”
“He said a few drops . . . and he was talking about neat’s-foot oil.”
“What’s neat’s-foot oil?”
“It’s what you’re supposed to use on a baseball glove.”
I watched the expression on his face change as he got the message. “Never Oil of Olay?” he asked, in a small voice.
I shook my head.
Now he was about two seconds away from tears. Why didn’t I just tell him his glove looks great? Why’d I have to make such a big thing out of it? So I said, “Look . . . it’s not like you did anything wrong. You were just being . . . uh . . .” I paused, trying to find the right word.
“Creative?” he asked.
“Yeah . . . creative.” I handed him his glove and went to see what Jimmy was doing.
He was still in bed, sound asleep. “Hey Jimmy . . . wake up . . .”
He rolled over and buried his head under the pillow. “I’m not getting up today,” he mumbled, curling himself into a ball.
I pulled the covers off him. “The ball game starts at 10 A.M.”
“What ball game?”
“You know what ball game.”
“Oh, that ball game. I’ll probably strike out every time I’m up.”
