The Rich Uncle

1

The Rich Uncle

“ Guess what?” Ramona Quimby asked one Friday evening when her Aunt Beatrice dropped by to show off her new ski clothes and to stay for supper. Ramona’s mother, father, and big sister Beezus, whose real name was Beatrice, paid no attention and went on eating. Picky-picky, the cat, meowed through the basement door, asking to share the meal.

Aunt Beatrice, who taught third grade, knew how to behave toward her third-grade niece. “What?” she asked, laying down her fork as if she expected to be astounded by Ramona’s news.

Ramona took a deep breath and announced, “Howie Kemp’s rich uncle is coming to visit.” Except for Aunt Bea, her family was not as curious as Ramona had hoped. She plunged on anyway because she was happy for her friend. “Howie’s grandmother is really excited, and so are Howie and Willa Jean.” And so, to be truthful, was Ramona, who disliked having to go to the Kemps’ house after school, where Howie’s grandmother looked after her grandchildren and Ramona while the two mothers were at work.A rich uncle, even someone else’s rich uncle, should make those long after-school hours more interesting.

“I didn’t know Howie had a rich uncle,” said Mrs. Quimby.

“He’s Howie’s father’s little brother, only now he’s big,” explained Ramona.

“Why, that must be Hobart Kemp,” said Aunt Beatrice. “He was in my class in high school.”

“Oh, yes. I remember.That boy with the blond curly hair who played baseball.” Mrs. Quimby motioned to her daughters to clear away the plates. “All the girls said he was cute.” “That’s the one,” said Aunt Bea.“He used to chew licorice and spit on the grass to make the principal think he was chewing tobacco like a professional baseball player, which was what he wanted to be.” “Where’s this cute licorice-chewing uncle coming from, and how did he get so rich?” asked Ramona’s father, beginning to be interested. “Playing baseball?” “He’s coming from—” Ramona frowned.

“I can’t remember the name, but it sounds like a fairy tale and has camels.” Narnia? Never-never-land? No, those names weren’t right.

“Saudi Arabia,” said Beezus, who also went to the Kemps’ after school. Being in junior high school, she could take her time getting there.

“Yes, that’s it!” Ramona wished she had remembered first.“Howie says he’s bringing the whole family presents.” She imagined bags of gold like those in The Arabian Nights, which Beezus had read to her. Of course, nobody carried around bags of gold today, but she enjoyed imagining them.

“What’s Howie’s uncle doing in Saudi Arabia?” asked Mr. Quimby. “Besides spit-ting licorice in the sand?”

“Daddy, don’t be silly,” said Ramona. “I don’t know exactly.” Now that she was the center of attention, she wished she had more information.“Something about oil. Drills or rigs or something. Howie understands all about it. His uncle earned a lot of money.” The Quimbys were a family who had to worry about money.

“Oh, that kind of rich,” said Mr. Quimby.

“I thought maybe a long-lost uncle had died and left him a castle full of servants, jewels, and rare old wines.”

“Daddy, that’s so old-fashioned,” said Ramona. “That’s only in books.” The conversation drifted off, leaving Ramona behind. Her father, who would earn his teaching credential in June, said he was inquiring around for schools that needed an art teacher, and he also told about the problems of the men who worked in the same frozen-food warehouse where he worked on weekends at below-freezing temperatures.

Mrs. Quimby told about two people who got into an argument over a parking space at the doctor’s office where she worked. Aunt Bea talked about a man named Michael who had invited her to go skiing and was the reason she had bought new ski clothes.

Beezus wondered aloud if Michael would ask Aunt Bea to marry him.Aunt Bea laughed at that, saying she had known him only two weeks, but since this was January, there were several months of skiing left and there was no telling what might happen.

No more was said about Howie’s uncle that evening. Days went by. Uncle Hobart didn’t come and didn’t come. Every evening Mr. Quimby asked, “Has Old Moneybags arrived?” And Ramona had to say no.

Finally one morning, as Ramona and Howie were waiting for the school bus, Ramona said,“I don’t think you have a rich uncle at all. I think you made him up.” Howie said he did too have a rich uncle.

Even little Willa Jean, when Ramona went to the Kemps’ after school, talked about Uncle Hobart and the presents he was bringing. Ramona informed Howie and Willa Jean rather crossly that her mother said it wasn’t nice to talk about other people’s money. They paid no attention—after all, he was their very own uncle, not Ramona’s—and went right on talking about Uncle Hobart this and Uncle Hobart that. Uncle Hobart had landed in New York. He had actually telephoned, 7 live and in person. Uncle Hobart was driving across the country. Uncle Hobart was delayed by a storm in the Rockies. Ramona wished she had never heard of Uncle Hobart.

Then, one day after school, Ramona and Howie saw a muddy van parked on the Kemps’ driveway.

“It’s Uncle Hobart!” Howie shouted, and began to run.

Ramona took her time. Somehow she had expected Uncle Hobart to arrive in a long black limousine, not a muddy van. She followed Howie into the house, where the famous uncle turned out to be a medium-young man who had not shaved for several days and who was wearing old jeans and a faded T-shirt. He was holding Willa Jean on his lap. The warm, sweet smell of apple pie filled the air.

“Down you go, Doll,” said Uncle Hobart, lifting Willa Jean to the floor and grabbing Howie in a bear hug. “How’s my favorite nephew?” he asked, and held Howie off to look at him while Mrs. Kemp hovered and Willa Jean embraced her Uncle Hobart’s knee.

Ramona was embarrassed. She felt she was in the way because she was not related.

She sat down on a chair, opened a book, but did not read. She studied Uncle Hobart, who didn’t look rich to her. He looked like a plain man—a big disappointment.

Willa Jean let go of her uncle’s knee.“See what Uncle Hobart brought us,” she said, and pointed to a pair of objects that looked like two small sawhorses, each holding a red leather cushion. Willa Jean sat astride one.

“Giddyup, you old camel,” she said and informed Ramona,“This is my camel saddle.”

“Hey, a camel saddle!” said Howie when he saw his present. He imitated Willa Jean.

After a few more giddyups, there was nothing more to do with a camel saddle except sit on it.

Pooh, who wants a boring old camel saddle, Ramona wanted to say, at the same time wishing she had a saddle to sit on these winter days when she liked to read by the furnace outlet.

Finally Uncle Hobart noticed Ramona.

“Well, who’s this young lady?” he asked.

“Howie, you didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend.”

Both Ramona and Howie turned red and somehow felt ashamed.

“Aw, that’s just old Ramona,” Howie muttered.

To Ramona’s horror, Uncle Hobart began to strum an imaginary guitar and sing:

“Ramona, I hear the mission bells above.

Ramona, they’re ringing out our song of love.

I press you, caress you,

And bless the day you taught me to care.’

Ramona knew right then that she did not like Uncle Hobart and never would. She had heard that song before. When Grandpa Day lived in Portland, he used to sing it to tease her, too. “I’m not Howie’s girlfriend,” she said in her most grown-up manner. “I have to stay here until my mother is through work. It is”—could she get the words out right?—“strictly a business arrangement.” Uncle Hobart found this very funny, which made Ramona dislike him even more.

“Cut it out, Uncle Hobart,” said Howie, a remark much appreciated by Ramona, who pretended to read her book while inside she churned with anger. She was glad she didn’t have an Uncle Hobart. She was glad she didn’t have any uncles at all, just Aunt Beatrice, who never embarrassed children and who always came when the family needed her.

“Did you bring us any more presents?” asked Willa Jean.

“Willa Jean, that isn’t nice,” said Mrs.

Kemp, smiling because she was so happy to have her youngest son home at last.

“Willa Jean, how did you guess?” asked Uncle Hobart. “Come on out to the van, and I’ll show you.”

“Me, too?” Howie quickly forgot his annoyance.

“Sure.” As he went out the door, Uncle Hobart said,“It’s great to be back in a country full of green grass and trees.” Ramona heard Howie ask, “What do camels eat if there isn’t any grass?” When they returned, Ramona lost her struggle to be interested in her book. Uncle Hobart was carrying a small accordion.

“Grandma, look!” Howie was wheeling what appeared to be part of a bicycle. “It’s a real unicycle!”

“Is it broken?” asked Willa Jean.“It has only one wheel.”

“Hobart, whatever were you thinking of ?” Mrs. Kemp frowned at the unicycle.

“I was thinking of the unicycle you wouldn’t let me have when I was Howie’s age,” said Uncle Hobart. “Now, Mom, don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll help him. He’s not going to break any bones.” He set the accordion on the floor by Willa Jean. “And this is for you,” he said.

Willa Jean eyed the accordion.“What does it do?” she asked.

“You can play music on it,” answered her uncle.“It’s a Viennese accordion. I bought it from one of the men I worked with and even learned to play it a little.” “Isn’t that lovely, Willa Jean?” said Mrs.

Kemp. “Your very own musical instrument.

We’ll put it away until you’re old enough to learn to play it.”

“No!” Willa Jean put on her stubborn look. “I want to play it now!”

Uncle Hobart took the accordion and began to play and sing:

“Ramona, I hear the mission bells above, Ramona, they’re ringing out our song of love.” Ramona stared at her book as she thought mean, dark thoughts about Uncle Hobart.

He stopped playing and said, “What’s the matter, Ramona? Don’t you like my music?”

“No.” Ramona looked the uncle in the eye. “You’re teasing. I don’t like grown-ups who tease.”

“Why, Ramona!” Mrs. Kemp was most disapproving. “That’s no way to talk to Howie’s uncle.”

“Now, Mom, don’t get excited,” said Uncle Hobart. “Ramona has a point. I was teasing, but I’ll reform. Okay, Ramona?”

“Okay,” agreed Ramona, suspecting he might still be teasing.

“Uncle Hobart, Uncle Hobart, let me play it,” begged Willa Jean.

The uncle placed Willa Jean’s hands through the straps at each end of the accordion. “You squeeze in and pull out while you press the little buttons,” he explained.

Before he could give any more instruc-tions, Howie grabbed his uncle by the hand and dragged him outdoors. Mrs. Kemp, sure that bones were about to be broken, followed.

Ramona watched through the window.

Uncle Hobart hopped on the unicycle and, waving to his audience, pedaled to the corner and back.“See, nothing to it,” he said.“Once you know how.” “Hobart, where on earth did you learn to ride that thing?” his mother called out from the front steps.

“In college,” answered her son.“Come on, Howie, it’s your turn.” Holding the unicycle upright with one hand, he helped Howie 15 mount the seat over the single wheel. “Now pedal,” he directed. Howie pedaled; the unicycle tipped forward, setting Howie on the sidewalk.

Indoors, Willa Jean struggled with the accordion, too heavy for her, and made it give out a loud groan, as if it were in pain.

“No, not that way,” Ramona heard Uncle Hobart say. “It’s like riding a bicycle, only instead of balancing sideways, you have to balance back and forth at the same time.” With a flushed and determined face, Howie mounted the unicycle again. If he learns to ride it, maybe he’ll let me ride his bicycle, thought Ramona, who longed for a bicycle, even a secondhand, three-speed bicycle. Howie tipped over backward into his uncle’s arms. The accordion squawked.

Ramona felt rather lonely, left out and in the way.

“Hobart, do be careful,” shouted Mrs. Kemp above the squawk and screech of Willa Jean’s playing.

Ramona could see that learning to ride a unicycle was going to take time, so she turned her attention to Willa Jean and the accordion.

Willa Jean set her gift on the floor and sat down on her camel saddle with a scowl.“It’s too big and it won’t play music.”

“Let me try.” Ramona was sure she could make music come out of the accordion. It looked so easy. She slipped her hands through the straps. The only song she could think of was, unfortunately, “Ramona.” She pumped and pushed the buttons, only to produce the cry of a suffering accordion. She tried push-ing different buttons while she pushed the bellows in and out. Hee-haw, hee-haw. This was not the music Ramona had in mind.

“Maybe your uncle can show you how when he has more time,” she told Willa Jean as she set the accordion down carefully on Howie’s camel saddle.

From outside, Mrs. Kemp’s warnings continued. “Hobart! Howie! Be careful!” Ramona and Willa Jean stood by the window to watch Howie, protected by his uncle, actually ride a few feet before he pitched forward onto the sidewalk.“I did it!” he shouted.

He’s going to learn to ride it, thought Ramona, and then I’ll get to ride his bicycle.

Willa Jean returned to the accordion as if it might have learned to play while she let it rest, but no, it went right on shrieking and groaning.“I know how I’ll make it play,” she said.

Ramona turned from the window in time to see Willa Jean set her accordion on one end on the floor. Holding it down with one foot through the strap, she used both hands to stretch it up as high as she could pull it.

Then, as Ramona understood what she was about to do and tried to grab her, Willa Jean quickly took her foot out of the strap, turned, sat on the upended accordion, and lifted both feet from the floor. As she sank down, the accordion uttered one long screech, as if it were dying in agony.

“Willa Jean!” cried Ramona, horrified and delighted by the dreadful piercing noise that left her ears ringing. Willa Jean jumped up beaming. The accordion, Ramona could see, would never rise again. Its bellows had split, silencing it forever. “You broke it,” Ramona said, knowing she might have done the same thing at Willa Jean’s age.

“I don’t care,” said Willa Jean.“I made a big noise, and now I don’t want it anymore.” Mrs. Kemp burst in to see what had happened. “You naughty girls!” she cried when she saw the remains of Uncle Hobart’s present.

“But I didn’t do it,” protested Ramona.

“It’s not my fault.”

“An expensive musical instrument ruined,” said Mrs. Kemp. “You’re a big girl, Ramona.

You should know better than let Willa Jean break it.” She turned to her granddaughter.

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself ?”

“No,” said Willa Jean.“It’s a dumb old thing that wouldn’t play.”

“Willa Jean, go to your room,” ordered Mrs. Kemp, who usually felt that anything Willa Jean did or said was cute, sweet, or adorable.“I’m ashamed of you, spoiling your nice uncle’s homecoming.” Scowling,Willa Jean did as she was told.

Mrs. Kemp turned to Ramona. “As for you, young lady, you sit on that chair until your mother comes for you.”

Ramona sat, and Ramona seethed, angry at the unfairness of all that had happened.

Why should she have to look after Willa Jean when her mother paid Mrs. Kemp to look after Ramona? And Uncle Hobart was just plain stupid to give a little girl something she couldn’t use until she was older, but then, grown-ups were often stupid about presents.

Ramona knew. She had been given books

“to grow into,” and by the time she had grown into them, they had lain around so long they no longer looked interesting. But an accordion—growing up to an accordion would take forever.

Outside, other children had come to watch Howie learn to ride his unicycle. Ramona could hear shouts and laughing, and once in a while, a cheer. It isn’t fair, Ramona told herself, even though grown-ups were always telling her life was not fair. It wasn’t fair that life wasn’t fair.

Ramona watched Mrs. Kemp lovingly polish her new brass tray and coffee pot from Saudi Arabia. Ping-ping-ping went the timer on the kitchen stove. Howie burst in crying, one knee of his jeans bloody. Uncle Hobart followed with the unicycle. The afternoon was not fair, but neither was it boring.

“Oh, my goodness,” cried Mrs. Kemp.“I knew this would happen. I just knew he would get hurt on that contraption.”

Ramona could hear Willa Jean singing from her room:

“This old man, he is dumb.

Knick-a-knack paddywhack,

Give a dog a phone,

This old man comes rolling home.”

Ramona smiled.Willa Jean never got the words to songs right.

Ping-ping-ping insisted the timer.“Hobart, turn off the oven and take out the pie while I attend to Howie,” directed harassed Mrs. Kemp.Willa Jean stalked into the living room, picked up her camel saddle, and stalked out again. In spite of her bitterness, Ramona found the whole scene most entertaining to watch, better than TV because it was live.

When Howie limped back to the living room with one leg of his jeans rolled up and a bandage on his knee, he sat on the couch feeling sorry for himself. Ramona felt sorry for him, too.

“M-m-m.” Uncle Hobart inhaled.“Smell Mom’s apple pie. Just what I dreamed of every night when I was overseas.” He gave his mother a smacking kiss.

“You’re not fooling me.” Mrs. Kemp was delighted. “You can’t make me believe you dreamed of my apple pie every night. I know you better than that.” Uncle Hobart noticed Ramona impris-oned on a chair. “What’s the matter with Howie’s girlfriend?” he asked.

Of course, Ramona did not answer a man who did not play fair. He had promised to reform and not tease.

“Hobart, what do you think of a big girl who sits and watches while a little girl breaks her accordion?” Mrs. Kemp, Ramona understood, did not want an answer. She wanted to shame Ramona.

Ramona was suddenly struck by a new and disquieting thought. Mrs. Kemp did not like her. Until this minute she had thought all adults were supposed to like all children.

She understood by now that misunderstandings were to be expected—she had had several with teachers—and often grown-ups and children did not agree, but things somehow worked out. For a grown-up to actually dislike a child and try to shame her, she was sure had to be wrong, very, very wrong. She longed for Beezus to come, so she could feel someone was on her side, but Beezus found more and more excuses to delay coming to the Kemps’ after school.

Uncle Hobart apparently thought he was expected to answer his mother’s question.

“What do I think of Ramona? Since she’s Howie’s girlfriend, I think she’s a great kid.

Don’t you, Howie?”

“Oh, shut up, Uncle Hobart.” Howie scowled at the carpet.

Good for you, Howie, thought Ramona.

You’re on my side.

“Howie!” cried Mrs. Kemp.“That’s no way to talk to your uncle.”

“I don’t care,” said Howie. “My knee hurts.”

“Really, I don’t know what got into you children this afternoon.” Mrs. Kemp was thoroughly provoked.

Ramona could have told her in one word: grown-ups. Instead, she stared at her book and thought, I am never going to come back here again. Never, never, never. She did not care what anyone said. She did not care what happened. She was not going to be looked after by someone who did not like her.

“Poor Mom,” said Uncle Hobart. “How about a piece of your apple pie.” Poor us. Ramona included Howie and Willa Jean in her pity as she wished that someday, just once, she too could sit on an accordion. She knew she never would, even if she had the chance. She had grown past Willa Jean’s kind of behavior, which had been fun while it lasted. Ramona smiled as she recalled the happy afternoon she had spent, when she was Willa Jean’s age, boring holes in the garage wall with her father’s brace and bit—until she was caught.