See You Around, Sam! Page 6

  It was a good plan. But it didn't work. Sam couldn't get the jar of Mr. Peanut open.

  He twisted and twisted, but it didn't budge.

  Kneeling there, staring in frustration at the unopened jar that was (he could see, looking through its glass side) hlled to the top with gooey, delicious peanut butter waiting to be eaten, Sam tried to remember what his mother did when she couldn't open ajar.

  Sometimes she called his father for help. Sam couldn't do that.

  Sometimes she wrapped dish towel around the lid and tried again. Sam adjusted his mink hat, pushing it up away from his eyes so that he could see better. Then he wrapped a flamingo-pink towel around the jar; but the towel was too bulky, and completely unsuccessful. The jar was still closed.

  Sometimes, Sam remembered, his mother tapped the lid with a knife. But Sam was not allowed to use knives. And there was no knife in Gertrude Stein's bathroom, anyway.

  He did have the little flashlight in his pocket, though. Maybe that would work.

  Sam tapped the lid of the Mr. Peanut jar with the small flashlight. But the lid was still tightly stuck. He tapped one more time, as hard as he could, but still the lid would not move.

  Sam examined the flashlight and tested its switch, trying to illuminate one flamingo on the wallpaper. But the little flashlight hadn't survived being banged on the jar. It didn't work anymore.

  Sam sighed. He put the broken flashlight on the floor.

  Sometimes, Sam remembered, his mom ran hot water over a stuck lid. That was a possibility. Carefully he turned on the faucet that said H—H was for Hot, Sam knew—and held the jar of peanut butter under the running water.

  Then, carefully, he turned the water off, dried the jar with a flamingo-pink towel, and tried again to twist off the lid. It didn't budge.

  There was only one last thing to try. Sam remembered that sometimes, when a lid was stuck, his mother rapped it hard against the countertop in the kitchen. He had watched her do it many times.

  Mrs. Stein's bathroom had no counters. But the floor was tile in little white diamond shapes. It was good and hard. Carefully Sam knelt on the rug, held the Mr. Peanut jar, and bashed it against the tile floor.

  Bummer.

  9

  "Sam? Are you okay? What's going on in there? Why are you crying?" Anastasia was knocking on the door and calling to him.

  The door opened and he looked up at his sister from the rug where he was sitting.

  "I'm having a bad time," Sam wailed.

  Anastasia stared at him for a minute. Squinting through the mink fur, Sam could see Gertrude Stein, too, standing beside Anastasia and peering into the bathroom.

  "I can see that, Sam," Anastasia said at last. She came into the bathroom and knelt beside him on the rug.

  Her voice was sympathetic. "You've got a whole mess of problems here, Sam," she said. "First of all, the hat. The hat has to go so you can see. Do you mind if I remove your hat?"

  Sam shook his head.

  Anastasia lifted off the mink hat and handed it to Gertrude Stein.

  "There," Anastasia said. "That hat is toast."

  Sam giggled a little. His head felt much better without the hat, and he liked it when Anastasia said something was toast.

  "Gonzo," Sam said. "Kaput."

  Anastasia smoothed his hair, which had been folded and flattened and was a little sweaty, too.

  "Next," she said, "you have a pretty bad case of Hat Hair. We can fix that, though." She reached over for a hairbrush that was on a shelf. "Mind if I use this, Mrs. Stein?" she asked.

  Gertrude Stein said, "Please. Be my guest."

  So Anastasia brushed Sam's hair gently. She held her hand cupped around his chin while she did it, just the way his mother always did. It felt nice.

  "Next," Anastasia said, "about your eyebrows and the mustache."

  Sam had forgotten about his eyebrows and mustache. "What about them?" he asked. "Are they toast?"

  "They're about to be," Anastasia said. She ran some warm water over a washcloth and washed his face gently, still cupping his chin in one hand. That felt nice, too.

  The Band-Aid on his forehead slid off and she put it into the wastebasket.

  "Next," Anastasia said, "your finger is bleeding a little. Did you know that?"

  Sam didn't. He looked down. The pointer finger on his right hand was bleeding just a little.

  "Stand up, Sam." His sister helped him to his feet. She removed the wrinkled Band-Aid from the back of his hand and deposited it into the wastebasket with the first one. Then she held his hand under the faucet and ran some cold water over his injured finger. Then she dried it gently with a flamingo-pink towel. The bleeding had stopped.

  "Band-Aids in the medicine cabinet," Gertrude Stein directed. "No stars or hearts, though."

  Anastasia found a small pinkish-beige Band-Aid, unwrapped it, and bandaged Sam's wounded finger carefully.

  "Next?" she asked.

  Sam sighed. "The flashlight broke," he told her, and pointed to the little flashlight, which had rolled into a corner of the bathroom floor.

  Anastasia retrieved Mr. Fosburgh's flashlight. She tried the switch, shook the flashlight, and tried again. Then she dropped it into the wastebasket.

  "Toast?" Sam asked.

  Anastasia nodded. "Toast. We'll get him a new one."

  "Next?" she said.

  Sam thought. There seemed to be a lot of nexts. "The cookies," he admitted. "Mrs. Stein's cookies. They're toast." He pointed to the bag, and Anastasia looked inside.

  "They're not toast," Anastasia said. "They're crumbs. We'll dump them out."

  "I have lots of cookies, Sam," Mrs. Stein added. "I was going to take a batch over to your mother's this evening. No problem."

  "The orange looks okay," Anastasia said, removing it from the bag. She turned it around in her hands.

  "And your bear's cool," she said, removing Sam's bear and holding it up. "Just a little crumby." She brushed some cookie crumbs from the bear and handed him to Sam.

  Sam hugged his bear and smelled the familiar smell of fake fur that made him think of toothpaste, bedtime, stories, and goodnight kisses.

  "Mittens are okay. Blanket's okay. Towel's okay, I think, but it smells horrible." Anastasia sniffed the rolled-up towel and made a face. "Yuck. That's Dad's gym towel, Sam. It was waiting to be washed." She set it aside.

  "Atlas? Let me look." She lifted the heavy book and examined it carefully. "Good. It's fine, Sam. No damage. Just a few crumbs.

  "You feeling better?" she asked Sam.

  Sam nodded. He was feeling much, much better.

  "Okay, then. Any more problems I can help you deal with?"

  Sam sighed. There were two more problems, both of them serious, and he would not be able to hide either of them forever. He stepped aside and pointed to the floor behind him. He had draped a flamingo-pink towel over the disaster. He watched as Anastasia lifted the towel.

  "I thought I heard something smash," Anastasia said. "Is this how you cut your finger?"

  Sam nodded. He was embarrassed.

  "Mrs. Stein," Anastasia said, "we need a dustpan, I think. And, let's see, maybe a scrub brush and some hot water."

  "Coming up," Gertrude Stein said, and she opened the broom closet door between the bathroom and the kitchen.

  Ten minutes later, the bathroom floor was clean and gleaming. Anastasia picked up the crumpled towels, the bucket of hot water, and the wastebasket containing the remains of the flashlight and the peanut butter jar.

  "You're amazing, Sam," she said, looking around. "Not many people could create that much chaos in that short a time."

  Sam thought about that. It did seem amazing. Of course his mother had always called him her super-spectacular son. Maybe she was right.

  Maybe he liked his mother again, Sam realized.

  "Is that it?" his sister asked. "Everything fixed now?"

  Sam didn't say anything. His sister had not noticed the other serious problem, and he decide
d not to tell her just yet.

  Anastasia left the bathroom. Sam began to follow her, then turned back.

  Alone in the newly cleaned, sweet-smelling bathroom, Sam looked at the wallpaper with its amazing pink flamingos. There they stood, each on one skinny leg, their long necks stretched high or curled into upside-down question marks, their heads in impossible places, their eyes calm. They looked as if their lives were turning out just right.

  Sam sighed. Then, very carefully, holding his breath, Sam stood on one leg. He raised his other leg slowly, folding it at the knee like a flamingo. He steadied himself, folded his arms like wings, stretched his neck, then began to count.

  This time he got to seven, but it was very uncomfortable standing like a flamingo.

  "There goes Dad, over to get Mr. Fosburgh." Anastasia watched from Mrs. Stein's front window as Mr. Krupnik headed across the street. Sam watched with her. In a minute, Sam knew, his daddy would push Mr. Fosburgh's wheelchair down the ramp beside his porch steps. He would wheel Mr. Fosburgh across the street to their own back steps, turn the wheelchair around, and bumpety-bump it up very carefully. "Hold on to your hat," Sam's dad would say to Mr. Fosburgh. He always said that, even though Mr. Fosburgh never ever wore a hat.

  Mrs. Stein was putting on her coat. She had a bag of chocolate chip cookies on the hall table, ready to take to the Krupniks' house.

  "Sam?" Anastasia said. "Here's the deal. You can start off now to Alaska, but it's getting dark out, and your flashlight is broken, and it's kind of cold now, and you don't have a hat..."

  Sam had his hand in his pocket. He felt his fangs. He looked at the floor. He was thinking about his other serious problem, which was a secret.

  "And probably," Anastasia went on, "Mrs. Stein would give you a few more cookies—"

  "Yes," Gertrude Stein said. "I certainly would."

  "But frankly, Sam," Anastasia continued, "cookies are not a great diet for a cold climate. Mom would be thrilled if you'd come back to the house and have some lasagna."

  "Would she let me—" Sam began.

  "No," Anastasia said. "Mom will not let you wear fangs."

  Sam sighed. "So I have to go live with walruses," he said, and he knew, even as he was saying it, that he was using a whiny voice.

  "Walruses?" Anastasia repeated. "Why walruses?"

  "Because of fangs," Sam explained.

  Anastasia looked at him. "Sam," she said, "walruses don't have fangs."

  He looked up, still feeling the grit-covered plastic in his pocket. "Yes, they do. Walruses lie around in a pile and they have fangs sticking right out by their whiskers. I saw them in a video at nursery school."

  "Sam," his sister said, "those aren't fangs. Those are tusks!"

  Tusks. The minute he heard Anastasia say it, he knew she was right. He had simply forgotten.

  "Creatures with tusks don't even like creatures with fangs," Mrs. Stein said. "I'm fairly certain of that. I think you might even be in danger, Sam, if you go to Alaska."

  Anastasia looked back through the window. "There's Mrs. Harvey, carrying a pie, heading for our house. I wonder what kind of pie she made."

  I hope cherry, Sam found himself thinking. Inside his pocket, he held his fangs very tightly.

  "And look!" Anastasia added. "There's Lowell Watson, without his mailbag! I don't think I've ever seen him without his mailbag. What's he carrying?"

  Sam moved toward the window and peered out. He looked very carefully as Mr. Watson passed under the street light, which had just come on. The mailman was carrying something very carefully in front of him with both hands, and he was headed to the Krupniks' house.

  "He made me a rigatoni igloo!" Sam said in awe.

  "A what?" Anastasia and Mrs. Stein said at the same time. Sam didn't bother to explain. He just watched happily as his friend, Lowell Watson, carried the rounded pasta igloo—Sam could see that it even had a little chimney—up the steps to the Krupniks' front door.

  Watching, Sam wiggled in excitement, and was suddenly reminded of his secret, serious, and somewhat uncomfortable problem.

  "I wet my pants," he announced. "And I'm going home."

  "Sam?" Anastasia said. "What about—"

  "My fangs?" With his hand deep in his pocket, Sam squeezed his fangs very hard with his hand and could feel them crack. He squeezed harder and felt them break in half.

  "I changed my mind," Sam said. "It's a very grown-up thing to do. And anyway," he added, "these fangs are toast."

  10

  Fresh from the bathtub, Sam stood in his bedroom wrapped in a towel while his sister found clean clothes for him. He could smell the wonderful smell of lasagna coming from the kitchen below. He could hear the voices of all the neighbors, even the excited squeals of Kelly Sheehan, who was playing with some of Sam's blocks on the living room rug. The Sheehans had just arrived, and Sam wondered if maybe, because it was sort of a party, they had dressed Kelly in party clothes: maybe a little sailor suit, or perhaps a frilly dress, depending on whether Kelly was a boy or a girl.

  He lifted one leg and then the other, a little like a flamingo, as Anastasia guided his feet into his underpants. Then she helped him with his socks. She pulled a red turtleneck shirt down over his head, and smoothed his hair after his head popped through the hole.

  "Where's a clean pair of jeans, Sam?" his sister asked, and he pointed to his closet.

  When she opened the closet door, he glimpsed something familiar on the shelf inside. "My Etch A Sketch!" Sam cried.

  Anastasia lifted it down from the shelf. "You want it? You never play with it," she said. "Remember how we used to fool around with it after last Christmas but it was too hard to make curvy lines, and too boring just to make straight ones?"

  Sam took it from her and set it on the table beside his bed. He lifted his feet one by one and Anastasia pulled his jeans up and adjusted the waist. "I'm taking it to school tomorrow," he told her. "I'm giving it to my friend Adam."

  "You're so generous, Sam," his sister said, smoothing his hair again. "Most guys your age wouldn't give away their toys."

  Sam sat on the floor and pulled his sneakers on. He didn't tell Anastasia, but he was thinking that he wasn't generous at all. He was just dumb. He was a dumb guy who used to have an Etch A Sketch. He sighed, and followed his sister down the stairs.

  "Hey, Sam! Welcome home!" Mr. Fosburgh said as Sam trotted into the living room. "I'm so glad you changed your mind!" The wheelchair was in the corner by the end of the couch, and when Mr. Fosburgh held out his arms, Sam went and climbed onto his lap. Sam couldn't drive the wheelchair in his own house because of the rugs. Mr. Fosburgh's house had no rugs. When he was at the Krupniks' house, Sam's daddy had to push the chair carefully from one room to the next. But Sam still loved to sit on Mr. Fosburgh's lap.

  "Me too, Sam," Gertrude Stein said, smiling. She was wearing a pretty flowered dress and sitting on the couch next to Mrs. Sheehan.

  "Me too, Sam," said Mrs. Sheehan.

  From his perch on Mr. Fosburgh's lap, Sam looked over to the side of the living room where Kelly Sheehan sat arranging the bright wooden blocks and laughing. Kelly was wearing something that looked like a yellow blanket with feet. Rats. Kelly was wearing pajamas, Sam realized. So he would have to wait till another time to find out what Kelly was.

  "Since I'm back," Sam announced, "I can go to Kelly's birthday party!"

  "That's right," Mrs. Sheehan said. "You can help frost the cake, too, Sam."

  "And you'll be here for Thanksgiving, too, Sam! And Halloween before that," his mother pointed out. "I'm so glad you decided to return."

  Mr. Watson, the mailman, came in from the kitchen, where he'd been talking to Sam's daddy and helping to put the finishing touches on the dinner. "Did I hear the word Halloween?"

  Sam nodded eagerly. He had forgotten about Halloween. He had come very close to missing Halloween by going to Alaska to lie around in a pile with walruses.

  "It's coming up pretty soon, Sam," Mr. Watson sa
id. "Know how I know? Because I've started seeing orange envelopes in the mail. People are starting to send Halloween cards.

  "Happy Halloween in advance, Sam," Mr. Watson said. "I'm glad you changed your mind about Alaska."

  Then Mr. Watson closed his eyes, frowned, and said quietly, "Eek."

  Sam looked nervously around to see whether a mouse had run across the room. But there was nothing there, and no one else had noticed.

  "Mrs. Bennett sent a notice, Sam," his mother told him. "Halloween party next Friday at school. We'll have to start making a costume. I was thinking about maybe a bunny. I figured I could cover some cardboard with fake fur for ears."

  Sam stared at his mother. A bunny? He didn't want to hurt his mom's feelings, because he liked her again and she had made lasagna for dinner, but a bunny?

  "Katherine," Gertrude Stein suggested, "maybe you could do a bunny costume for Kelly. Kelly would be a cute bunny. And then maybe Sam could be, oh, something ferocious, like a wolf."

  Sam grinned at Mrs. Stein. That was a great idea: something ferocious. He formed his fingers into claws and tried a toothy wolfish snarl.

  "Oh," his mother said. "Something ferocious. I see what you mean. Sure, Sam. I could do a wolf costume, I think."

  "Announcement!" Sam's father entered the living room, holding a glass. He tapped on the glass with a spoon to get everyone's attention.

  Everyone looked up except Kelly, who continued banging blocks together.

  "Dinner's on the table," Mr. Krupnik said. "I brought Sam's old high chair down from the attic for Kelly. And I put two leaves in the table so there's room for all of us, even though the chairs don't match.

  "And the centerpiece is compliments of our talented mailman, Lowell Watson."

  Mr. Watson bowed proudly. "It's my first work in rigatoni," he confessed.