Karen's Ducklings, Page 3

  At recess I did not play outside. I stayed in our classroom with Ms. Colman. I drew a picture of Feather, Jack, Kack, Lack, Mack, Nack, Oack, and Pack. I colored it carefully. It was for our book.

  “Perfect,” replied Ms. Colman. “I will try to take some photos today. We can put them in the book, too.”

  “Oh, yes!” I exclaimed. “And then everybody will know what the babies looked like when they were not even two days old.”

  That afternoon, Ms. Colman did take some pictures, even though Feather mostly hid her babies.

  “She is protecting them,” Ms. Colman told us. “She is being a good mother.”

  So Hannie added that to Feather’s Story.

  The Next Letter

  When I came home from school that afternoon, Andrew was waiting for me. “Karen!” he whispered loudly. “The mail has not come yet. Let’s try to get it before Mommy does.” Andrew glanced over his shoulder.

  I looked, too. I could not see Mommy. Even so, I whispered back to him, “Be careful. I am still worried about the police.”

  “Probably we will not get a letter,” Andrew replied.

  That was true. We had waited for the mail the day before. The mail had been very boring. “Just bills,” Mommy had said when we handed it to her. She had made a face.

  “Yeah. Maybe we will just get more bills,” I said to Andrew. “But not any from the Custom Car Company.”

  Andrew and I sat on the front steps. I kept looking at my watch.

  “The mail is really late today,” I said.

  “Maybe it will not come at all,” Andrew said.

  Squeak, squeak. Just then we heard the squeaky brakes of the mail truck.

  “Uh-oh.” I took Andrew by the hand. We walked slowly to our mailbox. The letter carrier handed us a stack of envelopes.

  “Thank you,” whispered Andrew.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  “You’re welcome,” whispered the letter carrier. Then she drove off.

  Andrew looked at me. “Read the envelopes, Karen,” he said.

  “Okay. A letter from Granny. A bill from the phone company. A bill from the electric company. An ad. A letter from the Custom Car Company….” I glanced at my brother. “The Custom Car Company,” I repeated.

  “Read it.”

  “It is addressed to Mommy.” Andrew did not say anything. “But I guess it is really for us,” I went on. I opened the envelope. Inside was a letter. It said: “Dear Mrs. Engle, Our records show that you owe $23.95 for one red Custom Car. Please pay this sum promptly. This is the last letter you will receive.”

  The letter went on, but I did not bother to read it. (I saw Mr. Simpson’s name at the bottom, though.)

  “Andrew!” I exclaimed. “This is the last letter Mr. Simpson is going to send! All we have to do is throw it away. We will never hear from the Custom Car Company again.”

  “Yes!” cried Andrew.

  My brother and I ran inside. We gave the mail to Mommy. Except for the Awful Letter. We took that upstairs. I almost threw it away. But at the last moment I hid it. I put it with the broken Custom Car.

  “Andrew,” I said, “I feel funny about this. The Custom Car Company sent us a car. But we did not send them back anything. Not even one cent.”

  “Maybe we could get the money.” Andrew looked thoughtful.

  “Maybe,” I agreed. “How much do you have?”

  Andrew checked his piggy bank. “Two quarters,” he replied.

  I checked my piggy bank. “I have two dollars and eighty cents. Let me see. Together we have three dollars and thirty cents.”

  “Is that good?”

  “Not really. We still need over twenty dollars.”

  “Let’s look in the couch!” said Andrew.

  I guess he was looking for a twenty-dollar bill. He found a dime.

  “Okay, let’s check in coat pockets,” he suggested.

  We felt around in every pocket of every coat in the house. We found more than one dollar, which was a surprise.

  “Is that good?” asked my brother.

  “Not good enough,” I answered.

  Andrew said he was getting a headache. I told him I already had a stomachache.

  One Little Duckling

  Hop, hop, hop, rest, hop, hop, hop.

  “Pack is very talented,” I said.

  “How do you know that’s Pack?” asked Nancy.

  “I don’t,” I replied. “But maybe it is.”

  Nancy and I were standing at the windows of our classroom. We were watching Feather’s ducklings. They were still downy, but they were growing bigger. And more adventurous. Now they explored the courtyard without their mother. My friends and I saw them everywhere.

  The teachers had made a playground for the ducklings. They had built a little staircase with three steps up, a landing, and three steps down. They had filled a plastic baby pool with water from a lake.

  Pack was hopping up and down the staircase. Or maybe the hopper was Jack. Or Kack. Or Lack or Mack or Nack or Oack. The ducklings still looked alike. Except for one. One duckling was smaller than the others. And slower. Sometimes he swam in the pool. But he could not hop up and down the staircase. Mostly, he hung around in the bushes with Feather. I always looked for the one little duckling. I just liked to keep my eye on him.

  Hannie joined Nancy and me by the windows. “The ducklings are much more fun now,” she said. “I mean, now that they are growing up. Feather does not protect them so much anymore.”

  “Except when someone comes into the courtyard,” I said. Every time a teacher went into the courtyard with a new toy or to add water to the pool, Feather would hurry her babies into the bushes. But when the teacher left, the ducklings would run out again. They liked to play.

  “Where is the little duckling?” asked Nancy.

  “With Feather, I think,” I said. “When I got to school this morning, four ducklings were in the pool, and two were climbing the steps. I thought I saw another in the bushes. It must have been the little one.”

  It was my turn to add to Feather’s Story, so that day I wrote: “The ducklings are getting bigger. They run everywhere well six of them do. The little duckling does not run around to much. I think he is the runt of the litter. Like Wilbur in Charlottes Web. Maybe one day he will be as famouse as Wilbur got to be. Maybe he will go on TV.”

  I drew another picture to illustrate the book. I drew a picture of a TV. On the TV screen was a duck. Underneath the duck I wrote, THE WORLD FAMOUSE DUCKLING.

  Saying Good-Bye

  I liked my entry in Feather’s Story. It was a happy entry.

  The next day’s entry was very, very sad.

  Audrey wrote it. She wrote: “Today we found out that one duckling died. We gave him a funeral. We feel bad. That is all I have to say.”

  Ms. Colman came to our classroom early that morning. Usually a lot of kids get there before she does. But not that day. When Nancy and I skipped into the room, Ms. Colman was sitting at her desk. She looked so sad that Nancy and I sat at our desks, too. We did not talk to each other. When the other kids came in, they also sat down and did not talk.

  We knew something was wrong.

  Finally Ms. Colman stood up, “Boys and girls,” she said, “I have some sad news. Last night the little duckling died. Mr. Berger found him this morning.” (Mr. Berger is a teacher. His classroom is next door to my classroom.) “We think the duckling had been sick. That is probably why he was so little.”

  I began to cry. But I raised my hand anyway. “What about the other ducklings?” I asked. “What about Feather?”

  “The other ducklings seem fine. Feather, too.” Ms. Colman smiled. “Look outside and see for yourselves.”

  My friends and I turned toward the windows. There was Feather. She was waddling through the courtyard. In a line behind her waddled six ducklings.

  “Feather does not look very sad,” I said. “Doesn’t she care about Jack?”

  “Jack?” repeated Ms. Colma
n.

  “The little duckling,” I said. “I think that one was Jack.”

  “Oh,” replied Ms. Colman. “Well, I am sure Feather is sad, but she also knows she has plenty of work to do. She has to take care of her other babies. Do you feel sad, Karen?”

  I nodded. “The ducklings are sort of our pets.”

  “Yeah,” said Hannie, sniffling.

  All around me, kids had started to cry. I think even Ms. Colman cried a little. She had to keep taking off her glasses and dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “You know,” said my teacher, “it is okay to feel sad when someone or something dies.”

  I raised my hand. “Ms. Colman? When Louie, our collie dog, died, we gave him a memorial service. And when my first goldfish died, we buried her in the backyard. We gave her a funeral.”

  “We all went to the funeral,” added Natalie. “It was a nice thing to do for Crystal Light. And when it was over, we felt a little better.”

  “Would you like to have a memorial service for the duckling?” asked Ms. Colman.

  “Yes,” said my friends and I.

  That day, instead of writing in our workbooks, or reading, or subtracting nines, we planned a memorial service for Jack the duckling. First, we each drew a picture of Jack. Then we wrote something about him. I wrote: “I will always remember how Jack hid in the bushes with Feather. He was very sweet. I will miss Jack. So will Feather.”

  After lunch, we displayed our pictures. We read aloud the things we had written about Jack. Then Ms. Colman read Make Way for Ducklings to us. (I cried every time she said the name Jack.) When my teacher had finished the story, we stood by the windows. We looked into the courtyard. “I think we should say good-bye now,” said Ms. Colman.

  “Good-bye. Good-bye, Jack,” we whispered.

  The bell rang. School was over.

  I cried all the way home.

  Karen’s Sad Day

  When I reached the little house, I ran through the front door. I was planning to run straight to my room. But Andrew stopped me.

  “The mail already came,” he said quietly.

  “Uh-oh. Where is it?” I asked.

  “On the table in the living room.”

  “Okay.” I took a look at the mail. I did not see any letters from the Custom Car Company. “Good,” I said to Andrew. “Mr. Simpson must have meant it when he said that was the last letter they would send.”

  “Good,” said Andrew.

  “I am going to my room now,” I said. “I am very sad.”

  I trudged upstairs. I walked slowly to my room. I closed the door behind me. Then I flopped onto my bed. “Oh, Goosie, Goosie, Goosie.” I cradled Goosie in my arms. I kissed his ears and his nose. “I do not like feeling sad,” I told him. “I felt sad when Louie died. I felt sad when Crystal Light died. Now Jack has died. I wish animals and people did not have to die. But I guess they do. If nothing ever died, the Earth would be gigundoly crowded. Isn’t that right, Goosie?” (I made Goosie nod his head.)

  I sighed. Then I lay across my bed. I propped my feet up on the wall. I let my head hang over the edge. “Somewhere over the rainbow,” I sang, “birds do fly. Birds fly over the rainbow. Why then, oh why, can’t I?” I felt just like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, when she was extra sad.

  I sang as much of the song as I knew. When I could not remember any more words, I sat up. I moved to my desk. I found a pencil and a pad of paper. Then I thought for awhile.

  Finally I wrote A Haiku for Jack.

  This was my haiku:

  I liked my poem. But I decided to keep it private. At least for awhile. I put it away. I put it in my best hiding place. And when I did that, I saw the letters and the broken car from the Custom Car Company.

  “Oh,” I groaned. I still felt bad about that car. Even if it had broken, Andrew and I should have paid for it. Not paying for it was like stealing.

  I was a seven-year-old criminal.

  Spring Day

  One morning, I woke up in my little-house bed. Before I did anything else, I looked out my window. I saw sunshine. I saw a clear blue sky. I opened my window and felt warm air on my face.

  “Yes!” I cried.

  It was a perfect spring day. And it was perfect for celebrating Spring Day.

  When Ms. Colman had first started talking about Spring Day, I had thought it seemed so, so far away. Now it had arrived!

  Nancy and I walked into our classroom that morning feeling very important. Ms. Colman had put our special spring projects on display. They were set up on tables and desks and the windowsills.

  There were our zinnias in the milk cartons. They had sprouted and grown. And most of them had bloomed. (My zinnia flowers were red. Nancy’s were pink. So were Hannie’s.)

  And there was our terrarium. It was sitting on Ms. Colman’s desk and it looked very beautiful. The plants were bright green. The violets had bloomed. They were guess what color. (Violet.) And the moss looked damp and springy. Also, the terrarium was taking care of itself just like it was supposed to. The glass sides and the top of the aquarium were covered with droplets of water that would rain down on the plants and then collect on the glass again to make more rain.

  And our bulletin board was finished. Our paper flowers looked very cheerful. Ms. Colman had even let me make clouds out of cotton balls. Plus, we felt quite proud of our poems, since we had worked hard on them.

  Best of all, Feather’s Story was on display, too. It was not finished, of course. (It would not be finished until Feather and her ducklings had left the courtyard.) But it was almost finished. We had made a cover for our big book. And we had put our drawings and photos inside the book to illustrate the first parts of the story.

  In the morning, my classmates and I made a sign. It said, SPRING DAY IS HERE! We hung it on the blackboard. In the afternoon, Mr. Berger and his class came to our room.

  “Happy Spring Day!” we shouted.

  Then each of us found a partner from Mr. Berger’s class. We showed our partners our spring projects. We told them what we had learned.

  “These are my zinnias,” I said to Liddie Yuan. “First they were just seeds. I planted the seeds in dirt, and I watered them a little bit every day. The seeds sprouted, and then flower buds grew, and then the flowers bloomed.

  “Now, over here is our terrarium….”

  After awhile, Mr. Berger’s class sat on the floor in the back of our room. My friends and I read some of our poems and stories aloud. We showed off our bulletin board. Then Ms. Colman brought out Feather’s Story.

  “Ooh, look at that,” said Liddie.

  “A story about the duck,” said someone else.

  Ms. Colman opened our book. On the very first page was a photo of Feather in the bushes, sitting on her nest of eggs. Ms. Colman turned the page. She began to read the words we had written. First were Natalie’s words. “Today is Tuesday. Yisterday Karen Brear found a mommy duck in the garden.” Ms. Colman kept reading until she had read our last entry in Feather’s diary, which was the entry from the day before.

  “Feather’s Story is not yet finished,” Ms. Colman told Mr. Berger’s students. “When it is finished, we will put it in the library. Then you can read the end of the book.” She smiled. “Now Karen Brewer has something to say.”

  I stood up. “Thank you for coming to Spring Day,” I said. “We hope you liked it.” I paused. Then I added, “You have been wonderful guests.”

  Spring Day was over.

  Trouble

  Mommy was looking through the mail. She was frowning.

  “Is anything wrong?” I asked her.

  She held up a letter. “This is something else about the Custom Car Company. It’s so strange. I do not understand …” Mommy stopped talking. She read the letter. Then she read it again. She shook her head.

  I edged around the kitchen table to my brother. I held Andrew’s hand.

  “I tried to get the mail,” he whispered to me.

  “Shh. It’s okay,” I replied.

 
I had come home from Spring Day feeling happy. I had almost forgotten about the fool car and policemen and jail. But here was a letter about the car. I was confused. I thought Mr. Simpson said his last letter was going to be his last letter. Maybe I should have finished reading it.

  “What does the letter say, Mommy?” I asked.

  “Well, it is from a company whose business is to collect money from people who are not paying their bills. The Custom Car Company says I still owe them twenty-three ninety-five. Since I have not paid the money, they asked the bill company to get it from me.”

  Andrew’s eyes filled with tears. “Are they going to rob our house?” he asked.

  “Oh, no!” replied Mommy. “They just want me to send a check — badly.”

  “How badly?” I asked. “Could you get in trouble if you do not pay the bill?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mommy. “After all, I do not have the car. I did not order anything from the Custom Car Company. But Mr. Simpson thinks I did. I will talk about this with Seth when he comes home.”

  Andrew and I went to my room. We closed the door.

  “We got Mommy in trouble,” I said.

  Andrew nodded. “I know.”

  “I think there is only one thing we can do. We will have to tell Mommy the truth. Seth, too. We cannot let Mommy go to jail.”

  “Will we have to go to jail?” asked my brother. “We did something wrong.”

  I thought for a moment. Then I said, “We will have to take that risk.”

  * * *

  Andrew and I waited until Seth came home from work. Then we went downstairs. “Mommy?” I said. “Seth? Andrew and I have to talk to you. About the Custom Car Company.” Mommy raised her eyebrows. “We know why you are getting those letters,” I went on.

  “And we do not want you to go to jail,” added Andrew. “We love you.”

  I told Mommy and Seth the story about the cool red car. I told them everything. Then I took the broken car from its hiding place. “This is it,” I said. “The car broke right away. Plus, it cost twenty dollars, not two. Andrew and I did not know what to do.”