Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret Read online

  “Shut up, animal!” Nancy yelled. Then she turned to me. “I’m sorry they had to act like that on your first day here. Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

  Nancy had my clothes wrapped up in a little bundle. She was still in her wet suit. She pointed out who lived in each house between mine and hers.

  “We’re going to the beach for Labor Day weekend,” she said. “So call for me on the first day of school and we’ll walk together. I’m absolutely dying to know who our teacher’s going to be. Miss Phipps, who we were supposed to have, ran off with some guy to California last June. So we’re getting somebody new.”

  When we got to my house I told Nancy if she’d wait a minute I’d give her back her bathing suit.

  “I don’t need it in a hurry. Tell your mother to wash it and you can give it back next week. It’s an old one.”

  I was sorry she told me that. Even if I’d already guessed it. I mean, probably I wouldn’t lend a stranger my best bathing suit either. But I wouldn’t come right out and say it.

  “Oh, listen, Margaret,” Nancy said. “On the first day of school wear loafers, but no socks.”

  “How come?”

  “Otherwise you’ll look like a baby.”

  “Oh.”

  “Besides, I want you to join my secret club and if you’re wearing socks the other kids might not want you.”

  “What kind of secret club?” I asked.

  “I’ll tell you about it when school starts.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “And remember—no socks!”

  “I’ll remember.”

  We went to a hamburger place for supper. I told my father about Moose Freed. “Only five bucks a cutting and he trims too.”

  “No, thanks,” my father said. “I’m looking forward to cutting it myself. That’s one of the reasons we moved out here. Gardening is good for the soul.” My mother beamed. They were really driving me crazy with all that good-for-the-soul business. I wondered when they became such nature lovers!

  Later, when I was getting ready for bed, I walked into a closet, thinking it was the bathroom. Would I ever get used to living in this house? When I finally made it into bed and turned out the light, I saw shadows on my wall. I tried to shut my eyes and not think about them but I kept checking to see if they were still there. I couldn’t fall asleep.

  Are you there God? It’s me, Margaret. I’m in my new bedroom but I still have the same bed. It’s so quiet here at night—nothing like the city. I see shadows on my wall and hear these funny creaking sounds. It’s scary God! Even though my father says all houses make noises and the shadows are only trees. I hope he knows what he’s talking about! I met a girl today. Her name’s Nancy. She expected me to be very grown up. I think she was disappointed. Don’t you think it’s time for me to start growing God? If you could arrange it I’d be very glad. Thank you.

  My parents don’t know I actually talk to God. I mean, if I told them they’d think I was some kind of religious fanatic or something. So I keep it very private. I can talk to him without moving my lips if I have to. My mother says God is a nice idea. He belongs to everybody.

  3

  The next day we went to the hardware store where my father bought a deluxe power lawn mower. That evening, after our first at-home-in-New-Jersey supper (turkey sandwiches from the local delicatessen), my father went out to cut the grass with his new mower. He did fine on the front, but when he got around to the back yard he had to check to see how much grass there was in the bag on the mower. It’s a very simple thing to do. The man at the hardware store demonstrated just how to do it. Only you have to turn the mower off before you reach inside and my father forgot that.

  I heard him yell, “Barbara—I’ve had an accident!” He ran to the house. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his hand before I had a chance to see anything. Then he sat down on the floor and turned very pale.

  “Oh my God!” my mother said when the blood seeped through the towel. “Did you cut it off?”

  When I heard that I raced outside to look for the limb. I didn’t know if they were talking about the whole hand or what, but I had read about how you’re supposed to save limbs if they get cut off because sometimes the doctor can sew them back on. I thought it was a good thing they had me around to think of those things. But I couldn’t find a hand or any fingers and by the time I came back into the house the police were there. My mother was on the floor too, with my father’s head in her lap.

  I rode in the police car with them since there was no one at home to stay with me. I had a silent talk with God on the way to the hospital. I said this inside my head so no one would notice.

  Are you there God? It’s me, Margaret. My father’s had an awful accident. Please help him God. He’s really very kind and nice. Even though he doesn’t know you the way I do, he’s a good father. And he needs his hand God. So please, please let him be all right. I’ll do anything you say if you help him. Thank you God.

  It turned out that my father hadn’t cut off anything, but it took eight stitches to sew up his finger. The doctor who sewed him was Dr. Potter. After he was through with my father, he came out to chat. When he saw me he said, “I have a daughter about your age.”

  I love the way people always think they know somebody your age until you tell them how old you really are!

  “I’m going on twelve,” I said.

  “Gretchen is almost twelve too,” the doctor said.

  Well! He was right about my age.

  “She’ll be in sixth grade at Delano School.”

  “So will you, Margaret,” my mother reminded me. As if I needed reminding.

  “I’ll tell Gretchen to look for you,” Dr. Potter said.

  “Fine,” I told him.

  As soon as we got home from the hospital my father told my mother to look up Moose Freed in the phone book and arrange for him to cut our lawn once a week.

  On Labor Day I got up early. I wanted to fix up my desk in my room before school started. I’d bought a pile of paper, pencils, erasers, reinforcements and paper clips. I’m always real neat until about October. While I was in the middle of this project I heard a noise. It sounded like somebody knocking. I waited to see if my parents would wake up. I tiptoed to their room but the door was still closed and it was quiet so I knew they were asleep.

  When I heard the knocking again I went downstairs to investigate. I wasn’t scared because I knew I could always scream and my father would rescue me if it turned out to be a burglar or a kidnapper.

  The knocking came from the front door. Nancy was away for the weekend so it couldn’t be her. And we really didn’t know anybody else.

  “Who is it?” I asked, pressing my ear to the door.

  “It’s Grandma, Margaret. Open up.”

  I unlatched the chain and both locks and flung open the door. “Grandma! I can’t believe it. You’re really here!”

  “Surprise!” Grandma called.

  I put a finger over my lips to let her know my parents were still asleep.

  Grandma was loaded down with Bloomingdale’s shopping bags. But when she stepped into the house she lined them up on the floor and gave me a big hug and kiss.

  “My Margaret!” she said, flashing her special smile. When she smiles like that she shows all her top teeth. They aren’t her real teeth. It’s what Grandma calls a bridge. She can take out a whole section of four top teeth when she wants to. She used to entertain me by doing that when I was little. Naturally I never told my parents. When she smiles without her teeth in place she looks like a witch. But with them in her mouth she’s very pretty.

  “Come on, Margaret. Let’s get these bags into the kitchen.”

  I picked up one shopping bag. “Grandma, this is so heavy! What’s in it?”

  “Hotdogs, potato salad, cole slaw, corned beef, rye bread.…”

  I laughed. “You mean it’s food?”

  “Of course it’s food.”

  “But they have food in New Jersey, Grandma.�
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  “Not this kind.”

  “Oh yes,” I said. “Even delicatessen.”

  “No place has delicatessen like New York!”

  I didn’t argue about that. Grandma has certain ideas of her own.

  When we got all the bags into the kitchen Grandma scrubbed her hands at the sink and put everything into the refrigerator.

  When she was done I asked, “How did you get here?”

  Grandma smiled again but didn’t say anything. She was measuring coffee into the pot. You can’t make her talk about something until she’s ready.

  Finally she sat down at the kitchen table, fluffed out her hair and said, “I came in a taxi.”

  “All the way from New York?”

  “No,” Grandma said. “From the center of Farbrook.”

  “But how did you get to the center of Farbrook?”

  “On a train.”

  “Oh, Grandma—you didn’t!”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “But you always said trains are so dirty!”

  “So what’s a little dirt? I’m washable!”

  We both laughed while Grandma changed her shoes. She brought a spare pair along with her knitting in one of the shopping bags.

  “Now,” she said, “take me on a tour of the house.”

  I led her everywhere except upstairs. I pointed out closets, the downstairs bathroom, my mother’s new washer and dryer, and where we sat to watch TV.

  When I was finished Grandma shook her head and said, “I just don’t understand why they had to move to the country.”

  “It’s not really country, Grandma,” I explained. “There aren’t any cows around.”

  “To me it’s country!” Grandma said.

  I heard the water running upstairs. “I think they’re up. Should I go see?”

  “You mean should you go tell!”

  “Well, should I?”

  “Of course,” Grandma said.

  I ran up the stairs and into my parents’ bedroom. My father was putting on his socks. My mother was brushing her teeth in their bathroom.

  “Guess who’s here?” I said to my father.

  He didn’t say anything. He yawned.

  “Well, aren’t you going to guess?”

  “Guess what?” he asked.

  “Guess who’s here in this very house at this very minute?”

  “Nobody but us, I hope,” my father said.

  “Wrong!” I danced around the bedroom.

  “Margaret,” my father said in his disgusted-with-me voice. “What is it you’re trying to say?”

  “Grandma’s here!”

  “That’s impossible,” my father told me.

  “I mean it, Daddy. She’s right downstairs in the kitchen making your coffee.”

  “Barbara …” My father went into the bathroom and turned off the water. I followed him. My mother had a mouthful of toothpaste.

  “I’m not done, Herb,” she said, turning on the water again.

  My father shut it off. “Guess who’s here?” he asked her.

  “What do you mean who’s here?” my mother said.

  “Sylvia! That’s who’s here!” My father turned the water back on so my mother could finish brushing her teeth.

  But my mother turned it off and followed my father into the bedroom. I followed too. This was fun! I guess by then my mother must have swallowed her toothpaste.

  “What do you mean, Sylvia?” my mother asked my father.

  “I mean my mother!” my father said.

  My mother laughed. “That’s impossible, Herb. How would she even get here?”

  My father pointed at me. “Ask Margaret. She seems to know everything.”

  “In a taxi,” I said.

  They didn’t say anything.

  “And a train,” I said.

  Still nothing.

  “It wasn’t so dirty after all.”

  Ten minutes later my mother and father joined Grandma in the kitchen where the table was set and the breakfast all ready. It’s hard to get mad at Grandma, especially when she flashes her super smile. So my mother and father didn’t say anything except what a wonderful surprise! And how clever of Grandma to take a train and a taxi to our new house when she’d never been to Farbrook before.

  After breakfast I went upstairs to get dressed. Grandma came up with me to see my room.

  “It’s a lot bigger than my old one,” I said.

  “Yes, it’s bigger,” Grandma agreed. “You could use new bedspreads and curtains. I saw some the other day—pink and red plaid. Then we could get red carpeting to match and a———” Grandma sighed. “But I guess your mother wants to fix it up herself.”

  “I guess so,” I said.

  Grandma sat down on my bed. “Margaret darling,” she said, “I want to make sure you understand that we’ll still be as close as always.”

  “Of course we will,” I said.

  “A few miles doesn’t mean a thing,” Grandma said. “Just because I can’t drop in after school doesn’t mean I won’t think of you every day.”

  “I know that, Grandma.”

  “I tell you what—I’ll call you every night at seven-thirty. How does that sound?”

  “You don’t have to call every night,” I said.

  “I want to! It’s my dime,” Grandma laughed. “That way you can tell me what’s going on and I’ll keep you posted about New York. Okay?”

  “Sure Grandma.”

  “But Margaret …”

  “What?”

  “You answer the phone. Your mother and father might not like me calling so much. This is just between you and me. All right?”

  “Sure, Grandma. I love to get phone calls.”

  We all spent the rest of the day sitting around in our yard. Grandma was knitting me a new sweater, my mother planted some fall flowers, and my father read a book. I sunbathed, thinking it would be nice to start school with a tan.

  We ate Grandma’s food for supper and every time she bit into a pickle she said, “Mmm … nothing like the real thing!”

  We drove her back to the Farbrook station while it was still light. Grandma has this thing about walking in New York at night. She’s positive she’s going to get mugged. Before she got out of the car she kissed me good-by and told my parents, “Now don’t worry. I promise I’ll only come once a month. Well … maybe twice. And it’s not to see you, Herb. Or you either, Barbara. I’ve got to keep an eye on my Margaret—that’s all.” Grandma winked at me.

  With that she grabbed the shopping bag with her shoes and knitting and left, waving good-by until we couldn’t see her anymore.

  4

  On Wednesday night my mother helped me wash my hair. She set it in big rollers for me. I planned to sleep like that all night but after an hour they hurt my head so I took them out. On Thursday morning I got up early but I had trouble eating. My mother said it was natural for me to feel uneasy on the first day of school. She said when she was a girl she felt the same way. My mother’s always telling me about when she was a girl. It’s supposed to make me feel that she understands everything.

  I put on my new blue plaid cotton back-to-school dress. My mother likes me in blue. She says it brings out the color in my eyes. I wore my brown loafers without socks. My mother thought that was dumb.

  “Margaret, you have to walk three quarters of a mile.”

  “So?”

  “So, you know you get blisters every time you go without socks.”

  “Well then, I’ll just have to suffer.”

  “But why suffer? Wear socks!”

  Now that’s my point about my mother. I mean, if she understands so much about me then why couldn’t she understand that I had to wear loafers without socks? I told her, “Nancy says nobody in the sixth grade wears socks on the first day of school!”

  “Margaret! I don’t know what I’m going to do with you when you’re a teenager if you’re acting like this now!”

  That’s another thing. My mother’s always talki
ng about when I’m a teenager. Stand up straight, Margaret! Good posture now makes for a good figure later. Wash your face with soap, Margaret! Then you won’t get pimples when you’re a teenager. If you ask me, being a teenager is pretty rotten—between pimples and worrying about how you smell!

  Finally my mother told me to have a good day. She kissed my cheek and gave me a pat on the back. I walked down to Nancy’s house.

  By the time I got to Room Eighteen of the Delano Elementary School my feet hurt so much I thought I wouldn’t make it through the day. Why are mothers always right about those things? As it turned out, half the girls had on knee socks anyway.

  The teacher wasn’t in the room when we got there. That is, the real teacher. There was this girl, who I thought was the teacher, but she turned out to be a kid in our class. She was very tall (that’s why I thought she was the teacher) with eyes shaped like a cat’s. You could see the outline of her bra through her blouse and you could also tell from the front that it wasn’t the smallest size. She sat down alone and didn’t talk to anyone. I wondered if maybe she was new too, because everybody else was busy talking and laughing about summer vacations and new hair styles and all that.

  The class quieted down in a big hurry when a man walked into the room, nodded at us and wrote a name on the blackboard.

  MILES J. BENEDICT JR.

  When he turned away from the blackboard he cleared his throat. “That’s me,” he said, pointing to the name on the board. Then he cleared his throat two more times. “I’m your new teacher.”

  Nancy poked me in the ribs and whispered, “Can you believe it?” The whole class was whispering and grinning.

  Mr. Benedict went back to the board. He wrote six phrases. Then he turned to us. He put his hands behind his back and kind of rocked back and forth on his feet. He cleared his throat so I knew he was going to say something.

  “Now then … uh … you know my name. I’ll tell you something about myself. Uh … I’m twenty-four years old. I’m uh … a graduate of Columbia Teachers College and uh … this is my first teaching position. Now that you know about me, I want to uh … find out about you. So, if you will copy these six phrases off the board and then complete them I’d uh … appreciate it. Thank you.” He coughed. I thought he was going to wind up with a very sore throat.