ELEVEN
Miss Liza of the Library
When Angel and Bernie came downstairs the next morning, there was a brown grocery bag on the kitchen table.
“Where did that come from?” asked Angel. For one wild minute she imagined that Verna had come back in the night.
“It was at the door when I opened it to see what the weather was,” Grandma said. “I guess Santy Claus must have brung it.”
“Santa Claus don’t come in the summertime, Grandma,” said Bernie.
“Well, maybe it was the tooth fairy. How should I know?”
“Grandmas aren’t supposed to lie to children,” Bernie said.
“Oh, be quiet, Bernie. Grandma’s just teasing you.” Angel didn’t care who had brought the bag. She wanted to unload it. Milk, a whole gallon—good. A plastic bag with grapes and some bananas—good. Another box of the cereal Bernie hated, so it couldn’t have been Verna who left the groceries. She would know better. A canned ham, not as good-tasting as hamburger but at least another food group, and a loaf of sliced white sandwich bread. Looked like the tooth fairy or Santa Claus or whoever had been boning up on nutrition. There was still “room for improvement,” as Ms. Hallingford used to write on report cards, what with the white bread and no vegetables, but they were definitely “showing progress.”
“Me, oh my,” said Grandma. “I think I’ll have me some of that ham for my breakfast. Why don’t you open it and fry some up, Angel?”
“I don’t like ham,” Bernie said.
“Well, who was asking you, junior?”
“I’ll just fry up some for Grandma and me. You can have cereal.”
“I don’t like that kind of cereal. It’s yucky.”
“Well, it’s all we got now. You ate up all the Sugar Pops.”
“We can buy some more.”
“Not till Grandma gets her check. So what’ll it be? Ham or cereal?” Angel went to the sink. The ham had to be opened with the little key that was stuck on the top. She’d watched Verna do it once when there’d been a canned ham in the Salvation Army Christmas basket. She’d never heard Verna cuss as much as she did trying to open that can. Angel pulled the key off and pried up the metal flap. The trick had to be to wind it absolutely straight. “Grandma? Have you ever opened one of these before?”
“Eh-yup.”
“Would you mind doing this one?”
“Not on your stuffed cabbage. I tore my hand open last time.”
All the time she was talking to Grandma, Bernie was jumping up and down, jabbering, “You not listening to me, Angel!” he said.
“I’m trying to open this can, Bernie. Be quiet.”
“I’m starving to death, and you won’t give me nothing to eat. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.”
“Shut up, Bernie. There’s lots to eat. You’re just too picky. That’s your problem. If you’re starving to death, you eat rats and weeds. That’s what really hungry people do.”
He began to wail. “I don’t want to eat no rats!”
“Well, shut up whining and eat your cereal, then.”
He plunked himself on a chair. She left off trying to roll up the metal strip with the phony little key and got him a bowl, filled it with the hated cereal, sprinkled sugar on top, and slopped in milk. “You want a banana with that? We got bananas today.”
She knew he wanted a banana, but he kept his mouth in a line and shook his head.
“Okay. You had your chance.” She handed him a spoon and went back to winding the key around the can.
“Where’s my banana? You said I could have a banana.”
The key broke off in her hand, leaving the wretched metal strip less than half pulled off. “Dammit, Bernie, look what you made me do!” Her hands were gucky with the juice seeping out of the partially opened can. “Get your own stupid banana.”
“You said a bad word,” he muttered, but he got up from his chair and fetched himself a banana.
Now what was she supposed to do? If she tried to take the broken metal strip off the key, she was sure to cut herself to ribbons. There probably wasn’t a doctor for miles.
“You could get the pliers out of that bottom drawer and pull it off,” Grandma said. “It’s a pain, but it’ll work if you’re careful.”
She washed her hands under the faucet. Bernie getting his own banana, Grandma making a smart suggestion—speak of minor miracles. “Thanks,” she said to them both, though neither of them acknowledged it.
It was a pain, but she finally unwound the strip from the key, pulled it out of the slot, and started winding up the strip still left on the can as slowly and carefully as possible. No one spoke. They all seemed to be holding their breath. “There!” she cried. “I got it.”
Grandma clapped her hands. Bernie looked up from his banana, which he was eating monkeylike between bites of cereal. “What’s the big deal?” he asked, but he was having to try hard to keep from grinning.
Angel lifted the slimy pink meat out of the can. She had to wash her hands again before she could slice it.
Grandma was well into her second large slice of ham before she said, “Nothing like fried ham for breakfast.” She was talking with her mouth full, but Angel wasn’t about to correct her manners. The ham was the best thing she’d had to eat since the hamburger on the way here.
“Ever make gravy?” Grandma asked.
“No.” In fact, the only time she could remember having gravy was in a Kentucky Fried place once.
“I think you should learn to make gravy. Me and Bernie would like that.”
“You got a cookbook?”
“Aw, you don’t learn to cook from a book, girl. You just do it.”
Angel sighed. Then you do it, she wanted to say. She waited until she’d carefully swallowed her next bite. “I’m just eleven years old, Grandma. Nobody’s taught me much about cooking from scratch. I usually just make stuff from boxes. Maybe you could make us some gravy.”
“Aw, I ain’t really cooked in so long I can’t hardly remember how to do it.”
“Maybe,” Angel said slowly, “maybe the library has cookbooks. There is a library around here somewhere, isn’t there?”
“Used to be. That little house next to the store. That used to be a liberry. Maybe still is, if that goody-goody Liza Irwin ain’t dead as some might hope.” She took a large bite of ham and chomped down on it as if it were the despised Liza. “I ain’t been in there myself since I was in grade school. Ain’t what you’d call a book lover.”
“Me, neither,” said Bernie, his mouth so stuffed with banana that Angel could hardly understand what he was saying.
“Why don’t me and Bernie go down and see? I know you don’t approve of cooking from a book, but I don’t know any other way to learn, and if I’m supposed to give you and Bernie a well-balanced diet, I got to get some help somewhere.”
***
Bernie whined all the way, but she half cajoled, half dragged him the two miles to the village center. This time she remembered the taxi money, but she didn’t tell him. Better to surprise him with a treat than make a promise that in the end she couldn’t keep.
On the green between the store and the church, there was a tiny house. It was set well back from the other buildings, in line with the graveyard, and she hadn’t even noticed it the last time they had walked down for groceries. “Come on, Bernie. We got to see if it’s open.”
“I want to go to the store.”
“Maybe, if you’re good, we can go after.”
“Now.”
She ignored him and walked up the path to the little house. Over the door painted in large black letters were the words ELIZABETH FLETCHER IRWIN MEMORIAL LIBRARY. The sign was almost bigger than the building. There was a hand-lettered pasteboard card in the window giving the hours: MON. WED. FRI. 12 NOON TO 3 P.M. Today was Monday—she felt sure about that, but she didn’t have a watch so she had no idea if it was noon yet or not. She tried the knob. It turned, and the door opened. They were in luck.
A bell tinkled as they walked in. From the back came a strange little voice. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right out.” The witch in Hansel and Gretel! Angel’s heart skipped a beat.
She forced a smile at a still belligerent Bernie. “See how friendly they are?” He shrugged. For a minute Angel just stood there barely inside the door, looking around at the shelves of books. It was much tinier than the school library in Burlington, but no use comparing. It was a library. It had books. “You want a book about trucks, Bernie? They probably got a book about trucks.” She headed for a sign hanging from the ceiling that said CHILDREN’S.
“No. I hate books about trucks.”
“You don’t and you know it.”
“I do, too. You don’t know what I like and what I don’t like.”
The argument ended abruptly at the sight of a strange, bent-over figure emerging from the curtained doorway in the back wall. “Hello,” she said, the curve of her back forcing her to twist her face sideways to look at them as she spoke. Bernie shrank against Angel. She put her arm around his shoulder, willing him to keep his mouth shut.
“I haven’t met you before,” the woman said. “Are you on vacation here?”
Angel shook her head. “We’re visiting our grandma, Miz Morgan, up the road.”
“Well, my goodness. I haven’t seen Erma Morgan in a hundred years. How is she?”
Surely the woman was teasing about the hundred years. “Fine,” said Angel.
“She’s more than a hundred years old,” Bernie whispered, his eyes wide with shock.
“No, no.” The woman laughed a cackly laugh. “I just mean I haven’t seen her in a long time. I used to know her back when we were both schoolgirls.” She laughed again. “Wa-a-a-y back in the olden days when it was my grandmother, the one I was named after, who ran the library.” She rubbed her hands on the apron she was wearing. How did she dress herself in the morning? Angel wondered and tried to picture the little woman pulling clothes over her head and bent back and fastening things. “Now, what can I help you with today?” She may have asked the question more than once while Angel was staring.
Angel’s face felt like it was on fire. “I’m a—Grandma thought we might do some cooking while I’m here. And I can’t seem to do anything without a book.” She laughed apologetically. “So I wonder if you have any cookbooks a kid like me could understand.”
“Hmm,” said the woman, and she started shuffling toward a shelf to her right. She walked at such an angle that her head got to the place before her feet did.
“What’s the matter with her?” Bernie was whispering so loudly that the woman must have heard. If so, she pretended she hadn’t.
“Keep your stupid mouth shut for once, Bernie,” Angel said in his ear.
The woman turned her whole body around to face them. “Could you give me a hand here, uh—I’m sorry, I didn’t get your names—”
“Angel. Angel Morgan. And he’s Bernie.”
“I’m glad to meet you, Angel, Bernie.” She gave a funny little shake of her head in their direction. “Everyone calls me Miss Liza. Now, Angel, if you’d be so kind...” Angel left Bernie still standing a few steps from the door and hurried over. Close to the deformed body of the librarian, Angel felt like a giant. Like a giant on the outside, anyway. On the inside she was feeling, well, as though she wanted to reach out her hand and touch the strange little woman’s wrinkled cheek. She knows how it feels to have everyone staring at her and whispering behind her back, but it hasn’t made her mean. It hasn’t even made her pull into a shell.
“I have some tongs here somewhere, but why don’t you just reach up”—the librarian waved her crooked arm toward the top shelf—“and see if you can find what you’re looking for.” She swiveled her head from one side to the other. “There’s a stool around here, I know.”
Angel located the stool and climbed up to survey the shelf. There were at least a half-dozen cookbooks. She looked at the titles carefully. Cooking Made Easy. That should do it. She pulled it out. It must have been bought by the librarian’s grandmother. The pages were almost yellow. There were no pictures, and the print was teeny. She put it back. One by one she examined all the books. She could feel Bernie’s fear from across the room. “I’m sorry to be so slow....It’s just—”
“No, no,” Miss Liza said. “Take all the time you need. Meanwhile—Bernie, is it? Would you like to see some books?”
Angel waited for Bernie’s “No,” but it didn’t come. He was probably still frozen witless. “Go on, Bernie.” She turned from the cookbooks. “Get yourself something to look at. I’m going to be a while.”
“How about if I read you a story?” the little old lady asked. “What kind of story would you like?”
Still no answer from Bernie. “He likes trucks,” Angel called.
“I do not!” said Bernie. “Trucks are stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”
“I know just the story for you, Bernie Morgan,” the librarian said.
Soon Angel could hear Miss Liza’s voice reading: “‘One day Stanley Q. Stupid had an idea. This was unusual. “Calling all Stupids!” Stanley shouted.’”
“Why are they all stupid?” Bernie asked.
“That’s their name,” said Miss Liza. “Mr. Stanley Q. Stupid, his wife, Mrs. Stupid, Buster Stupid, Petunia Stupid, and their wonderful dog called—Can you guess what they call their dog, Bernie?”
“Stupid!”
“No, they call their dog Kitty.”
“Kitty Stupid!” said Bernie, and he laughed right out loud.
Angel snatched the newest-looking of the cookbooks off the shelf and hurried over to hear the story of the Stupids, who tried to slide up the banisters and take baths with no water, for fear they’d wet their clothes. Mrs. Stupid perched a cat on her head instead of a hat, and Mr. Stupid wore his new socks on his ears. When Bernie saw that picture, he shrieked with laughter. And by the time the Stupids ate their mashed-potato sundaes with butterscotch syrup he was almost rolling on the floor.
“It’s my guess,” said Miss Liza, “that you like the Stupids. You might want to know that we have more books by Harry Allard and James Marshall.” She got up from the child-sized chair she had been sitting on and found Bernie another book. She twisted her face up toward Angel. “And what kind of book would you like, Angel? In addition to your cookbook?”
“Do you—um—do you have one about stars?” Angel asked.
Miss Liza smiled, looking nothing at all like a witch. “Ah,” she said, almost to herself. “I think we must have a mutual friend.”
That meant the librarian knew the star man. It only seemed right that she should, both of them being so different from ordinary people. Angel longed to ask the librarian about him, but something kept her quiet. What sort of questions were you supposed to ask about a man you only saw on starry nights and who told you so little about himself?
Miss Liza took a small paperback book from a nearby shelf. Angel caught a glimpse of the title: Know the Stars. Good. That was what she wanted—to know the stars. The librarian sat down at the desk and printed their names and “Morgan Farm Road” on cards. “You may keep your books for two weeks,” she said.
“We can’t come back for two whole weeks?” Bernie cried.
“No, no, you can come anytime you want,” she said, handing him his books, which he clutched to his chest as though afraid she would change her mind about lending them out. “Don’t pay any attention to the sign. I’m nearly always here. Just knock hard if the door is locked. It hardly ever is.”
Bernie was so tickled when they left the library that Angel had forgotten about the treat. Bernie hadn’t. “I need a Popsicle,” he said when they were in front of the store.
“Me, too,” said Angel.
Walking home, carrying their library books under one arm, licking a Fudgsicle, she didn’t even mention to Bernie that his Popsicle was dripping down his shirt front.
“Mashed-potato sundaes!” Bernie exclaimed suddenly
.
“With butterscotch syrup!” Angel answered. They both nearly collapsed on the road, they were giggling so hard.
“Grandma! Grandma!” Bernie yelled, racing into the house ahead of Angel. “I got a book all about Stupids. Everybody in the book is stupid.”
“Yeah?” Grandma was in her rocker. “That’s all we need around here—more stupidity. Well,” she said to Angel, “I take it she ain’t dead yet.”
“Who?”
“Liza Irwin. Who do you think?”
“She’s a hundred years old!” Bernie said. “And she’s all crooked like her back broke over.”
“Hmmph,” said Grandma, a little smile playing around her lips. “Even uglier than me, huh?”
“But I wasn’t scared of her one bit,” Bernie went on. “She’s nice.”
The smile deserted Grandma’s face. “So I guess now you like her better than you do me, huh? Well, why don’t you just go live at her house, then. Go on. See if I care.” Bernie looked stricken. “I didn’t mean I wanted to live with her. I just mean I like the Stupids.”
“Then you better stay with me. Being stupid was the only thing I could ever beat that smart little Liza Irwin at.”
Angel wanted to say something, but what? Don’t be so down on yourself, Grandma. You’re really smart! Or C’mon, Grandma, Bernie and me think you’re just fine. While she stood there, not knowing what to say or do, Bernie went over to the rocker and put his arm around the thin shoulders. “Don’t worry, Grandma. Angel and me likes you the best, and we always will. Always. Always. Always.” He had his anxious little face right up in her old wrinkled one. “Okay?”
“Hmmph,” she said.
A shrill sound pierced the quiet, making Angel jump. Another shriek. Another. The phone. The phone was ringing. She ran to snatch it off the hook. “Hello?”
“Would you accept a collect call from Wayne Morgan?”
“Yeah. Yes. Sure,” Angel said. She’d give Grandma the rest of her taxi money. She needed to talk to Daddy. She really did.
TWELVE