prefer chocolate chip cookies or molasses?"
"Both," said Sam.
Gertrude Stein began to laugh. "Come in then, and I'll give you one of each."
She looked sternly at Anastasia. "What was it you said you wanted to borrow?"
"A pitcher."
"You come in, too. I'll give you one." Then, as if she needed to explain something, she said, "I like little children. I do not much care for middle-sized ones."
Anastasia and Sam followed her into the dark house.
"This house smells funny," whispered Sam.
It surprised Anastasia that he whispered it. Why was it that Sam, who was only two and a half, already understood something about manners? Some people Sam's age, or even older, would have said that very loudly, which would have been rude. But Sam whispered it, what he said about Gertrustein's house. Anastasia squeezed his hand.
And yet Gertrustein herself, who was probably eighty years older than Sam, had been rude when she opened the door. Or at least she had
seemed
rude.
Anastasia remembered that her grandmother—who had been ninety-two when she died—had sometimes seemed rude.
Maybe it was just that people who were very old, or very young, were the only ones who said exactly what they thought. If they were young, they hadn't learned yet to worry about what other people might think. And if they were old, they didn't care any more.
And the house did smell funny. Sam was right. It wasn't a bad smell; it was just the smell of being closed up: a no-fresh-air-for-a-long-time sort of smell.
"I walk very slowly," said Gertrustein. Anastasia had already noticed that.
"I do, too," said Sam. "It's because I have small legs."
Gertrustein looked back at him and smiled.
Anastasia was surprised again at Sam. He had said something which made her feel good. What a nice guy Sam was beginning to be.
"I don't have small legs," said Gertrustein. "I have big legs, as a matter of fact. But they don't work very well. The doctor says I should go for long walks."
"Do you?" asked Anastasia. "Do you go for long walks?"
"No," sniffed Gertrustein.
The kitchen was not as dim as the rest of the house, because there was sunlight coming in through the windows. But it was very old-fashioned. Gertrustein shuffled over to a thick crockery pot with a lid, opened it, and took out some cookies. She put them on a plate and put the plate on the table.
"There," she said. "Sit down, Sam. You too, girl."
Sam climbed onto a chair and sat with his legs sticking out straight in front of him. Anastasia sat down next to him, and Gertrustein eased herself slowly into a chair and passed the plate of cookies.
"Why don't you go for long walks?" asked Sam, with cookie in his mouth.
"Because," said Gertrustein, with cookie in
her
mouth, "I don't have anyone to walk with, and it is boring to walk all alone."
"Couldn't you go for walks with your friends?" asked Anastasia.
Gertrustein glared at her. "All my friends are dead," she said.
Good grief. There wasn't any cheery answer to
that,
not that Anastasia could think of. Except "I'm sorry," which she said softly.
But Sam looked up, grinning, and said, "I could be your friend."
Gertrustein grinned back at him. Her face didn't look quite as much like a witch when she smiled.
"I like to go for walks," said Sam, reaching for a second cookie. "And also I like to ride in my stroller. I have a stroller that folds up and looks like an umbrella. You could push me in it. It has a pocket where my blanky rides. Cookies could ride there, too."
"Well," said Gertrustein, "that sounds like a good idea."
***
When they went home, Anastasia had a chipped pitcher for her mother. Sam had two cookies in his pocket and a date to go for a walk the next day.
Anastasia felt funny. She felt the same way she had when Sam was born, when her mother brought him home from the hospital, and friends came to visit to see the new baby. They brought gifts: little sweaters and stretch-suits and stuffed animals. They stood beside his crib, looking down, and
"Both," said Sam.
Gertrude Stein began to laugh. "Come in then, and I'll give you one of each."
She looked sternly at Anastasia. "What was it you said you wanted to borrow?"
"A pitcher."
"You come in, too. I'll give you one." Then, as if she needed to explain something, she said, "I like little children. I do not much care for middle-sized ones."
Anastasia and Sam followed her into the dark house.
"This house smells funny," whispered Sam.
It surprised Anastasia that he whispered it. Why was it that Sam, who was only two and a half, already understood something about manners? Some people Sam's age, or even older, would have said that very loudly, which would have been rude. But Sam whispered it, what he said about Gertrustein's house. Anastasia squeezed his hand.
And yet Gertrustein herself, who was probably eighty years older than Sam, had been rude when she opened the door. Or at least she had
seemed
rude.
Anastasia remembered that her grandmother—who had been ninety-two when she died—had sometimes seemed rude.
Maybe it was just that people who were very old, or very young, were the only ones who said exactly what they thought. If they were young, they hadn't learned yet to worry about what other people might think. And if they were old, they didn't care any more.
And the house did smell funny. Sam was right. It wasn't a bad smell; it was just the smell of being closed up: a no-fresh-air-for-a-long-time sort of smell.
"I walk very slowly," said Gertrustein. Anastasia had already noticed that.
"I do, too," said Sam. "It's because I have small legs."
Gertrustein looked back at him and smiled.
Anastasia was surprised again at Sam. He had said something which made her feel good. What a nice guy Sam was beginning to be.
"I don't have small legs," said Gertrustein. "I have big legs, as a matter of fact. But they don't work very well. The doctor says I should go for long walks."
"Do you?" asked Anastasia. "Do you go for long walks?"
"No," sniffed Gertrustein.
The kitchen was not as dim as the rest of the house, because there was sunlight coming in through the windows. But it was very old-fashioned. Gertrustein shuffled over to a thick crockery pot with a lid, opened it, and took out some cookies. She put them on a plate and put the plate on the table.
"There," she said. "Sit down, Sam. You too, girl."
Sam climbed onto a chair and sat with his legs sticking out straight in front of him. Anastasia sat down next to him, and Gertrustein eased herself slowly into a chair and passed the plate of cookies.
"Why don't you go for long walks?" asked Sam, with cookie in his mouth.
"Because," said Gertrustein, with cookie in
her
mouth, "I don't have anyone to walk with, and it is boring to walk all alone."
"Couldn't you go for walks with your friends?" asked Anastasia.
Gertrustein glared at her. "All my friends are dead," she said.
Good grief. There wasn't any cheery answer to
that,
not that Anastasia could think of. Except "I'm sorry," which she said softly.
But Sam looked up, grinning, and said, "I could be your friend."
Gertrustein grinned back at him. Her face didn't look quite as much like a witch when she smiled.
"I like to go for walks," said Sam, reaching for a second cookie. "And also I like to ride in my stroller. I have a stroller that folds up and looks like an umbrella. You could push me in it. It has a pocket where my blanky rides. Cookies could ride there, too."
"Well," said Gertrustein, "that sounds like a good idea."
***
When they went home, Anastasia had a chipped pitcher for her mother. Sam had two cookies in his pocket and a date to go for a walk the next day.
Anastasia felt funny. She felt the same way she had when Sam was born, when her mother brought him home from the hospital, and friends came to visit to see the new baby. They brought gifts: little sweaters and stretch-suits and stuffed animals. They stood beside his crib, looking down, and
Similar Books
To Begin Anew (Blue Jay Romance)
Eliza Gerard
The Mystery of the Black Rhino
Franklin W. Dixon
Forever
Linda Cassidy Lewis
#2Sides: My Autobiography
Rio Ferdinand
The Water Devil
Judith Merkle Riley
Petrified
Graham Masterton
The Darkland
Kathryn Le Veque
Twisted
Jake Mactire
Wet: Part 1
S. Jackson Rivera