Autumn Street by Lois Lowry Read Free Book Online

didn't reply, didn't turn
around, busied herself silently at the sink, and finally I walked to the screen door. "Smarty smarty smarty," I chanted spitefully and went outside, letting the door bang.
    "Ha," I heard her mutter as she scrubbed at the spotless sink.
    ***
    The shades that had been drawn in the library against the early summer heat were raised in the evening, just after dinner, as the sun was setting. Grandfather sat, as always, in the blue wing chair, listening somberly to the seven o'clock news from the big radio in the corner. Grandmother, her feet on a small rush stool, sat upright on one of the summer-slipcovered chairs and stitched at something fragile and elegant. Grandmother's hands seemed never to be still; she stitched, polished, arranged, adjusted, and examined things with precision—and me, sometimes, with distaste.
    "Idle hands are the devil's playthings," Grandmother said often. I thought darkly that the devil probably knew more about fun than Grandmother ever would or had; but I sighed in guilt each time she said it, and hid my own idle hands, with their bitten nails, in my pockets or behind my back.
    Mama was at the Governor Winthrop desk, writing a letter on pale blue rustling paper. Jessica sat on the
rag, her dress tucked neatly around her legs, looking at a
National Geographic;
I wondered idly if she were looking for naked people, the way I did. Upstairs, the wailing baby had finally surrendered to sleep in the small pine crib which had held my half-orphaned mother thirty-four years before.
    I read and reread the smudged, cryptic, and sentimental verses in my autograph book.
    "Fourteen people signed it today," I announced when the radio news had ended.
    "So?" remarked Jess, smoothing her curls. "How many of them were movie stars?" Then she quickly turned her magazine page, avoiding Grandmother's cold glance.
    "Would you like me to read you some, Grandfather?" I asked.
    "Certainly. Read me a few while I get out the Chinese Checkers," he said obligingly. We always played Chinese Checkers after dinner. Grandfather always had the blue marbles, and Grandfather always won. Again and again he pointed out to Jess and me how we could win if we'd only plan ahead. But we floundered and hesitated. The blue marbles overtook us every time.
    "Listen, everyone. This is from Anne. 'I auto cry, I auto laugh, I auto give you my autograph.' It's on a yellow page."
    Mama looked up and smiled.
    "Here," I said, holding up the book. "You have to see this one. See how the writing goes around in a circle? Listen: 'Remember the girl from the city, remember the girl from the town, remember the girl who spoiled your book by writing upside down.' Nancy Norcross wrote that."
    "Did the Norcross girl really spoil your book, Elizabeth?" asked Grandmother, neatly snipping off a thread.
    "No, Grandmother. It was just a joke. Here, listen to this one, it's from Mrs. Hoffman: 'Make new friends, but keep the old, one is silver, the other gold.'"
    "Yes, that's nice, dear," said Mama, looking back at her unfinished letter.
    "May I assume that no one else wants the blue marbles?" asked Grandfather, already arranging them in his point of the star. We all shook our heads.
    "Tatie wouldn't sign it," I said, pouting.
    Mama looked up again. "Don't bother Tatie with it, Liz. She's too busy."
    "What do you want her to sign it for anyway? It's supposed to be your friends," said Jess.
    "Come on, come on, the game is starting. Who's red tonight? Who wants to be black?" Grandfather was already examining his blue marbles, planning ahead, plotting his moves.
    "She
is
my friend. I want her to sign it on this pink page I'm saving for her. Can you tell her to sign it, Grandfather?"
    "What? Tatie? No. No, I can't tell her to do that. She can make her own decisions. Don't pester her with it, though."
    Mama sighed and looked up again. "You have plenty of friends. You don't
need
her to sign it."
    Grandmother had settled her sewing into a wicker basket