The Sheep Suit

6

The Sheep Suit

Ramona did not expect trouble to start in Sunday school of all places, but that was where it was touched off one Sunday early in December. Sunday school began as usual. Ramona sat on a little chair between Davy and Howie with the rest of their class in the basement of the gray stone church.

Mrs. Russo, the superintendent, clapped her hands for attention.

“Let’s have quiet, boys and girls,” she said.

“It’s time to make plans for our Christmas-carol program and Nativity scene.” Bored, Ramona hooked her heels on the rung of her little chair. She knew what her part would be—to put on a white choir robe and walk in singing carols with the rest of the second-grade class, which would follow the kindergarten and first grade. The con-gregation always murmured and smiled at the kindergarteners in their wobbly line, but nobody paid much attention to second graders. Ramona knew she would have to wait years to be old enough for a chance at a part in the Nativity scene.

Ramona only half listened until Mrs. Russo asked Beezus’s friend Henry Huggins if he would like to be Joseph. Ramona expected him to say no, because he was so busy training for the Olympics in about eight or twelve years. He surprised her by saying, “I guess so.” “And Beatrice Quimby,” said Mrs. Russo, “would you like to be Mary?”

This question made Ramona unhook her heels and sit up. Her sister, grouchy old Beezus—Mary? Ramona searched out Beezus, who was looking pink, embarrassed, and pleased at the same time.

“Yes,” answered Beezus.

Ramona couldn’t get over it. Her sister playing the part of Mary, mother of the baby Jesus, and getting to sit up there on the chancel with that manger they got out every year.

Mrs. Russo had to call on a number of older boys before she found three who were willing to be wise men. Shepherds were easier. Three sixth-grade boys were willing to be shepherds.

While the planning was going on, a little voice inside Ramona was saying, “Me! Me!

What about me?” until it could be hushed no longer. Ramona spoke up.“Mrs. Russo, I could be a sheep. If you have shepherds, you need a sheep.” “Ramona, that’s a splendid idea,” said Mrs.

Russo, getting Ramona’s hopes up,“but I’m afraid the church does not have any sheep costumes.”

Ramona was not a girl to abandon her hopes if she could help it.“My mother could make me a sheep costume,” she said. “She’s made me lots of costumes.” Maybe “lots” was stretching the truth a bit. Mrs. Quimby had made Ramona a witch costume that had lasted three Halloweens, and when Ramona was in nursery school she had made her a little red devil suit.

Now Mrs. Russo was in a difficult position because she had told Ramona her idea was splendid.

“Well . . . yes, Ramona, you may be a sheep if your mother will make you a costume.”

Howie had been thinking things over.

“Mrs. Russo,” he said in that serious way of his, “wouldn’t it look silly for three shepherds to herd just one sheep? My grandmother could make me a sheep costume, too.” “And my mother could make me one,” said Davy.

Sunday school was suddenly full of volunteer sheep, enough for a large flock. Mrs. Russo clapped her hands for silence.“Quiet, boys and girls! There isn’t room on the chancel for so many sheep, but I think we can squeeze in one sheep per shepherd.

Ramona, Howie, and Davy, since you asked first, you may be sheep if someone will make you costumes.”

Ramona smiled across the room at Beezus. They would be in the Nativity scene together.

When Sunday school was over, Beezus found Ramona and asked,“Where’s Mother going to find time to make a sheep costume?” “After work, I guess.” This problem was something Ramona had not considered.

Beezus looked doubtful. “I’m glad the church already has my costume,” she said.

Ramona began to worry.

Mrs. Quimby always washed her hair after church on Sunday morning. Ramona waited until her mother had taken her head out from under the kitchen faucet and was rubbing her hair on a bath towel.“Guess what!” said Ramona. “I get to be a sheep in the Nativity scene this year.” “That’s nice,” said Mrs. Quimby.“I’m glad they are going to do something a little different this year.”

“And I get to be Mary,” said Beezus.

“Good!” said Mrs. Quimby, still rubbing.

“I’ll need a sheep costume,” said Ramona.

“The church has my costume,” said Beezus.

Ramona gave her sister a you-shut-up look. Beezus smiled serenely. Ramona hoped she wasn’t going to start acting like Mary already.

Mrs. Quimby stopped rubbing to look at Ramona. “And where are you going to get this sheep costume?” she asked.

Ramona felt very small. “I—I thought you could make me a sheep suit.”

“When?”

Ramona felt even smaller. “After work?” Mrs. Quimby sighed. “Ramona, I don’t like to disappoint you, but I’m tired when I come home from work. I don’t have time to do a lot of sewing. A sheep suit would be a lot of work and mean a lot of little pieces to put together, and I don’t even know if I could find a sheep pattern.” Mr. Quimby joined in the conversation.

That was the trouble with a father with time on his hands. He always had time for other people’s arguments.“Ramona,” he said,“you know better than to involve other people in work without asking first.” Ramona wished her father could sew. He had plenty of time. “Maybe Howie’s grandmother could make me a costume, too,” she suggested.

“We can’t ask favors like that,” said Mrs. Quimby, “and besides material costs money, and with Christmas coming and all we don’t have a nickel to spare.” Ramona knew all this. She simply hadn’t thought; she had wanted to be a sheep so much. She gulped and sniffed and tried to wiggle her toes inside her shoes. Her feet were growing and her shoes felt tight. She was glad she had not mentioned this to her mother. She would never get a costume if they had to buy shoes.

Mrs. Quimby draped the towel around her shoulders and reached for her comb.

“I can’t be a sheep without a costume.” Ramona sniffed again. She would gladly suffer tight shoes if she could have a costume instead.

“It’s your own fault,” said Mr. Quimby.

“You should have thought.”

Ramona now wished she had waited until after Christmas to persuade her father to give up smoking. Then maybe he would be nice to his little girl when she needed a sheep costume.

Mrs. Quimby pulled the comb through her tangled hair. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “We have that old white terry-cloth bathrobe with the sleeve seams that pulled out. It’s pretty shabby, but if I bleached it, I might be able to do something with it.” Ramona stopped sniffing. Her mother would try to make everything all right, but Ramona was not going to risk telling about her tight shoes in case she couldn’t make a costume out of the bathrobe and needed to buy material.

That evening, after Ramona had gone to bed, she heard her mother and father in their bedroom talking in those low, serious voices that so often meant that they were talking about her. She slipped out of bed and knelt on the floor with her ear against the furnace outlet to see if she could catch their words.

Her father’s voice, coming through the furnace pipes, sounded hollow and far away.

“Why did you give in to her?” he was asking.

“She had no business saying you would make her a sheep costume without asking first.

She has to learn sometime.”

I have learned, thought Ramona indignantly. Her father did not have to talk this way about her behind her back.

“I know,” answered Ramona’s mother in a voice also sounding hollow and far away.

“But she’s little, and these things are so important to her. I’ll manage somehow.”

“We don’t want a spoiled brat on our hands,” said Ramona’s father.

“But it’s Christmas,” said Mrs. Quimby, “and Christmas is going to be slim enough this year.”

Comforted by her mother but angry at her father, Ramona climbed back into bed.

Spoiled brat! So that was what her father thought of her.

The days that followed were difficult for Ramona, who was now cross with her cross father. He was mean, talking about her behind her back that way.

“Well, what’s eating you?” he finally asked Ramona.

“Nothing.” Ramona scowled. She could not tell him why she was angry without admitting she had eavesdropped.

And then there was Beezus, who went around smiling and looking serene, perhaps because Mrs. Mester had given her an A on her creative-writing composition and read it aloud to the class, but more likely because she was practicing for her part as Mary.

Having a sister who tried to act like the Virgin Mary was not easy for a girl who felt as Ramona did.

And the costume. Mrs. Quimby found time to bleach the old bathrobe in the washing machine, but after that nothing happened. The doctor she worked for was so busy because of all the earaches, sore throats, and flu that came with winter weather that she was late coming home every evening.

On top of that, Ramona had to spend two afternoons watching Howie’s grandmother sew on his sheep suit, because arrange-ments had now been made for Ramona to go to Howie’s house if Mr. Quimby could not be home after school.This week he had to collect unemployment insurance and take a civil-service examination for a job in the post office.

Ramona studied Howie’s sheep suit, which was made out of fluffy white acrylic. The ears were lined with pink, and Mrs. Kemp was going to put a zipper down the front.

The costume was beautiful, soft and furry.

Ramona longed to rub her cheek against it, hug it, take it to bed with her.

“And when I finish Howie’s costume, I am going to make another for Willa Jean,” said Mrs. Kemp.“Willa Jean wants one, too.” This was almost too much for Ramona to bear. Besides, her shoes felt tighter than ever.

She looked at Willa Jean, who was clomping around the house on her little tuna-can stilts.

Messy little Willa Jean in a beautiful sheep suit she didn’t even need. She would only spoil the furry cloth by dribbling apple juice down the front and spilling graham-cracker crumbs all over it. People said Willa Jean behaved just the way Ramona used to, but Ramona could not believe them.

A week before the Christmas program Mrs. Quimby managed to find time to buy a pattern during her lunch hour, but she did not find time to sew for Ramona.

Mr. Quimby, on the other hand, had plenty of time for Ramona. Too much, she was begining to think. He nagged. Ramona should sit up closer to the table so she wouldn’t spill so much. She should stop making rivers in her mashed potatoes. She should wring out her washcloth instead of leaving it sopping in the tub. Look at the circle of rust her tin-can stilts had left on the kitchen floor. Couldn’t she be more careful?

She should fold her bath towel in half and hang it up straight. How did she expect it to dry when it was all wadded up, for Pete’s sake? She found a sign in her room that said, A Messy Room Is Hazardous to Your Health.

That was too much.

Ramona marched out to the garage where her father was oiling the lawnmower so it would be ready when spring came and said, “A messy room is not hazardous to my health. It’s not the same as smoking.” “You could trip and break your arm,” her father pointed out.

Ramona had an answer.“I always turn on the light or sort of feel along the floor with my feet.”

“You could smother in old school papers, stuffed animals, and hula hoops if the mess gets deep enough,” said her father and added, “Miss Radar Feet.”

Ramona smiled. “Daddy, you’re just being silly again. Nobody ever smothered in a hula hoop.”

“You never can tell,” said her father.“There is always a first time.”

Ramona and her father got along better for a while after that, and then came the ter-rible afternoon when Ramona came home from school to find her father closing the living-room windows, which had been wide open even though the day was raw and windy. There was a faint smell of cigarette smoke in the room.

“Why there’s Henry running down the street,” said Mr. Quimby, his back to Ramona.

“He may make it to the Olympics, but that old dog of his won’t.”

“Daddy,” said Ramona. Her father turned.

Ramona looked him in the eye. “You cheated! ”

Mr. Quimby closed the last window.

“What are you talking about?”

“You smoked and you promised you wouldn’t!” Ramona felt as if she were the grown-up and he were the child.

Mr. Quimby sat down on the couch and leaned back as if he were very, very tired, which made some of the anger drain out of Ramona.“Ramona,” he said,“it isn’t easy to break a bad habit. I ran across one cigarette, an old stale cigarette, in my raincoat pocket and thought it might help if I smoked just one. I’m trying. I’m really trying.” Hearing her father speak this way, as if she really was a grown-up, melted the last of Ramona’s anger.

She turned into a seven-year-old again and climbed on the couch to lean against her father. After a few moments of silence, she whispered, “I love you, Daddy.” He tousled her hair affectionately and said, “I know you do. That’s why you want me to stop smoking, and I love you, too.” “Even if I’m a brat sometimes?”

“Even if you’re a brat sometimes.” Ramona thought awhile before she sat up and said,“Then why can’t we be a happy family?” For some reason Mr. Quimby smiled. “I have news for you, Ramona,” he said. “We are a happy family.”

“We are?” Ramona was skeptical.

“Yes, we are.” Mr. Quimby was positive.

“No family is perfect. Get that idea out of your head. And nobody is perfect either. All we can do is work at it. And we do.” Ramona tried to wiggle her toes inside her shoes and considered what her father had said. Lots of fathers wouldn’t draw pictures with their little girls. Her father bought her paper and crayons when he could afford them. Lots of mothers wouldn’t step over a picture that spread across the kitchen floor while cooking supper. Ramona knew mothers who would scold and say,“Pick that up. Can’t you see I’m trying to get supper?” Lots of big sisters wouldn’t let their little sister go along when they interviewed someone for creative writing. They would take more than their fair share of gummybears because they were bigger and . . .

Ramona decided her father was probably right, but she couldn’t help feeling they would be a happier family if her mother could find time to sew that sheep costume.

There wasn’t much time left.