The Sunflower Forest. Torey Hayden

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СКАЧАТЬ is taking all those old pictures and burning them in the fire.’

      ‘What an awful thing to say, Megan. All Mama’s family got killed in the war. And she misses them. If something happened to all of us, would you want some kid of yours to burn up our pictures?’

      She took out another cracker. ‘Well, I dunno. If it kept me from remembering I had real live kids here in front of me, then I might.’

      ‘She remembers us, Megs. Don’t be so selfish.’

      Megan didn’t reply.

      ‘Hey, you want to hear some super news,’ I said, hoping to distract her. ‘You know Claire’s party on Friday?’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘Well, guess what? I got a date for it.’

      Her eyes widened. ‘Really. Who with?’

      ‘This guy at school. You don’t know him. His name’s Paul Krueger and he’s in my history class.’

      ‘Can I meet him? When he comes to get you, will you introduce me?’

      I rolled up the wrapper on the crackers and rose to put them away. ‘Well, he isn’t exactly coming over.’

      Megan’s brow wrinkled.

      ‘I told him to pick me up at the nursing home.’

      ‘The nursing home? But you finish there at 5.30. Claire’s party doesn’t start at 5.30, does it?’

      ‘No,’ I replied. ‘But I thought I could study until it was time. Mrs Morton lets me use the staff room to study when I want to.’

      Bafflement still clouded Megan’s features.

      ‘Besides, it’s a lot closer for him. He lives on Cedar Street. That way he doesn’t have to come all the way over here to pick me up.’

      Megan had the knife in one hand, and with a finger she scraped off bits of butter from it and put them into her mouth. ‘Cedar Street isn’t really that far, Les. Why don’t you have him come over here and pick you up? Then we could meet him.’ But before I had to explain, I saw a look of understanding cross her face. She gazed at the knife and finally put it into her mouth to suck the last of the butter off. ‘Yes,’ she said softly, ‘I guess it probably is a better idea to meet him somewhere else.’

      That was the good thing about Megan. She was young but she wasn’t stupid.

      When my father came home and saw that Mama was still wearing her bathrobe, he went up into the bedroom and stayed there quite a while with her. Later, when she came out, she was dressed and had her hair pulled back in a rubber band, the way it always was when Dad brushed it for her. She made us pork chops and French fries and green beans for supper, and while we were eating, she started joking with Dad about Mrs Beckerman, who lived across the street. Mrs Beckerman’s main activity seemed to be standing behind the net curtains in her living room and watching what everyone else on the block was doing. Mid-meal, Mama, carried away with the pleasure of her story, was on her feet, waddling across the floor precisely the way Mrs Beckerman waddled, imitating that suspicious, beady-eyed expression Mrs Beckerman had so exactly that we all were in hysterics. Megan laughed so much she choked over her milk.

      While we sat around the table after the meal and ate ice cream, I told my family about Paul. Or rather Megan did. But once the beans were spilled I elaborated willingly.

      Mama was pensive. ‘This boy, you know him from school?’

      ‘He’s in my history class.’

      ‘Is he a good student?’ she asked. She was stirring her ice cream around in the bowl. The coldness bothered her teeth, so she always stirred ice cream into milk-shake thickness before eating it.

      ‘Yes, he’s a good student. He’s practically a genius in physics. He takes honours physics, would you believe. And he won this prize at the science fair last fall. It was for this contraption that even Mr Wallace, our physics teacher, didn’t understand.’

      ‘So, will he go to university?’

      ‘Yes, Mama. He’s going to Ohio State. To study statistics. His dad says that’s a really good field for jobs now.’

      Mama lifted her spoon and sucked the ice cream off. ‘What is his other name, this Paul?’

      ‘Krueger.’

      A frown. ‘Is he German?’

      ‘No, Mama, he’s American.’

      She nodded. Briefly glancing in my father’s direction, she turned back to me. ‘Very well. You may go out with him.’

      ‘Thank you, Mama,’ I said and looked down at my bowl. I hadn’t realized I was asking.

      

      On Thursday, my mother was not home when I returned from school. This came as a surprise because during the previous weeks Mama had become increasingly anxious about leaving the house. When Dad came home from work at 5.30, he was just as surprised as I was. Did I know where she’d gone? he asked, and I could tell he was concerned. No, I said. No, said Megan. So we waited.

      Mama returned just as I was beginning to worry that she’d forgotten about supper. I was standing on a chair and rummaging around in the top cupboard for one of those macaroni and cheese dinners in a box, when the back door burst open and there was Mama.

      ‘Ho!’ she said cheerfully to me. The winter air had reddened her cheeks and nose. Snowflakes fell out of her hair as she shook it. Setting down a bag of groceries, she came over to me. ‘Here, come down from your chair. I’ve bought you something.’ Excitement edged her voice. Her lips pulled back into a grin that showed all her teeth. ‘Come on. Come with me upstairs, I’ll show it to you.’

      Still wearing her jacket, she went on through the kitchen and into the hallway. Jumping off the chair, I galloped after her.

      ‘What is it?’ I asked. She climbed the stairs ahead of me and would not say.

      I sat down on my bed, and Mama, brown-paper-wrapped parcel in her hands, sat down beside me. She put the package in my lap, but before I could undo it, she reached over and broke the tape and pulled back the paper. Inside was a shawl. It was a deep, rich turquoise.

      ‘Oh Mama, it’s gorgeous!’

      Gently, she lifted it up and laid it on my shoulders. ‘It’s for your date. When you go out with this boy, Peter.’

      ‘Paul, Mama.’

      ‘Well, Paul then.’ She smiled. ‘See how soft it is? One hundred per cent wool. It’s made in Guatemala. Feel it. Isn’t it soft?’

      I touched the shawl. Rising, I wrapped it around myself and stood in front of the mirror. It was magnificent. Not exactly the thing to wear with jeans to a party, but still, it was beautiful.

      ‘Remember, I told you about Hans Klaus Fischer, the baker’s son?’ Mama asked.

      I nodded.

      ‘The СКАЧАТЬ