The Quimbys’ Quarrel

4

The Quimbys’ Quarrel

“But Ramona,” said Mrs. Quimby on Saturday, “I’ve already told you that I boiled several eggs so I wouldn’t have to boil an egg for you every morning. I put the boiled eggs on one shelf in the refrigerator and the raw eggs on another. In my hurry, I took an egg from the wrong shelf. I am sorry. There is nothing more I can say.” Ramona remained silent. She felt mean and unhappy because she wanted to forgive her mother, but something in that dark, deep-down place inside her would not let her. Hearing her teacher call her a show-off and a nuisance hurt so much she could not stop being angry at almost everyone.

Mrs. Quimby sighed in a tired sort of way as she gathered up sheets and towels to feed into the washing machine in the basement. Ramona stared out the window and wished the misty rain, which fell softly and endlessly, would go away so she could go outdoors and roller-skate away her bad feelings.

Beezus was no help. She had spent the night at Mary Jane’s house with several other girls, and they had stayed up late watching a horror movie on television and eating popcorn. Afterward they stayed awake talking, too scared to go to sleep. That morning Beezus had come home tired and grouchy and had fallen asleep almost immediately.

Ramona wandered around the house looking for something to do, when she discovered her father sitting on the couch, pencil in hand, drawing pad on his knee, frowning at one bare foot.

“Daddy, what are you doing that for?” Ramona wanted to know.

“That’s what I keep asking myself,” her father answered, as he wiggled his toes. “I have to draw a picture of my foot for my art class.” “I wish we got to do things like that in my school,” said Ramona. She found pencil and paper, pulled off one shoe and sock, and climbed on the couch beside her father. Both studied their feet and began to sketch. Ramona soon found that drawing a foot was more difficult than she had expected. Like her father, she stared, frowned, drew, erased, stared, frowned, and drew. For a little while she forgot she was cross. She was enjoying herself.

“There,” said Ramona at last. She had drawn a good, not an excellent, foot. She looked at her father’s paper and was disappointed in what she saw. It was the kind of picture a teacher would pin up off in the corner where no one but the artist would notice it. Her father’s foot looked like a flipper. For the first time, Ramona began to doubt that her father was the best artist in the whole world. This thought made her feel sad in addition to reminding her she was cross at that world.

Mr. Quimby studied Ramona’s picture. “That’s not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all.”

“My foot is easier to draw.” Ramona felt as if she should apologize for drawing a better foot than her grown-up father. “My foot is sort of—neater,” she explained. “Your foot is kind of bony and your toes are hairy. That makes your foot harder to draw.” Mr. Quimby crumpled his drawing and threw it into the fireplace. “You make me sound like Bigfoot,” he said with a rueful laugh, as he threw a cushion at Ramona.

The day dragged on. By dinner time Ramona still had not been able to forgive her mother, who looked even more tired. Mr. Quimby had crumpled several more unsatisfactory drawings of his foot, and Beezus had emerged from her room sleepy-eyed and half-awake, when her mother called the family to supper.

“I wish we could have corn bread again,” Ramona said, not because she particularly liked corn bread, but because she felt so cross she wanted to complain about something. Corn bread was a pretty shade of yellow, which would have looked cheerful on a misty day. She leaned forward to sniff the plate of food set before her.

“Ramona.” Even though her father did not speak the words, his voice said, “We do not sniff our food in this house.”

Ramona sat up. Broccoli and baked potato, both easy to eat. Pot roast. Ramona leaned closer to examine her meat. She could not find one bit of fat, and there was only a bit of gravy poured over her serving. Good. Ramona refused even the tiniest bit of fat. She did not like the slippery squishy feeling in her mouth.

“Delicious,” remarked Mr. Quimby, who did not feel he had to inspect his food before eating.

“Nice and tender,” said Beezus, beginning to cheer up after her hard night.

Ramona seized her fork, speared her meat to her plate, and began to saw with her knife.

“Ramona, try to hold your fork properly,” said her father. “Don’t grip it with your fist. A fork is not a dagger.”

With a small sigh, Ramona changed her hold on her fork. Grown-ups never remembered the difficulty of cutting meat when one’s elbows were so far below the tabletop. She succeeded in cutting a bite of meat the way her parents thought proper. It was unusually tender and not the least bit stringy like some pot roasts her mother had prepared. It tasted good, too. “Yummy,” said Ramona, forgetting her anger.

The family ate in contented silence until Beezus pushed aside her gravy with the side of her fork. Gravy was fattening, and although Beezus was slender, even skinny, she was taking no chances.

“Mother!” Beezus’s voice was accusing. “This meat has a rough surface!”

“It does?” answered Mrs. Quimby innocently.

Ramona understood her mother was trying to hide something when she saw her parents exchange their secret-sharing glance. She too scraped aside her gravy. Beezus was right. One edge of her meat was covered with tiny bumps.

“This meat is tongue.” Beezus pushed her serving aside with her fork. “I don’t like tongue.”

Tongue! Like Beezus, Ramona pushed her meat aside. “Yuck,” she said.

“Girls, stop being silly.” Mrs. Quimby’s voice was sharp.

“What do you mean you don’t like tongue?” demanded Mr. Quimby. “You were just eating it and enjoying it.”

“But I didn’t know it was tongue then,” said Beezus. “I hate tongue.”

“Me too,” said Ramona. “All those yucky little bumps. Why can’t we have plain meat?”

Mrs. Quimby was losing patience. “Because tongue is cheaper. That’s why. It’s cheaper and it’s nutritious.”

“You know what I think,” said Mr. Quimby. “I think this whole thing is a lot of nonsense. You liked tongue when you didn’t know it was tongue, so there is no reason why you can’t eat it now.” “Yes, this whole thing is ridiculous,” said Mrs. Quimby.

“Tongue is disgusting,” said Beezus. “Picky-picky can have mine.”

“Mine, too,” echoed Ramona, knowing she should eat what was set before her, but tongue—Her parents were asking too much.

The meal continued in silence, the girls guilty but defiant, the parents unrelenting. When Mr. Quimby finished his serving of tongue, he helped himself from Ramona’s plate. Picky-picky, purring like a rusty motor, walked into the dining room and rubbed against legs to remind the family that he should eat too.

“I wonder,” said Mrs. Quimby, “why we named the cat Picky-picky.” She and Mr. Quimby looked at one another and only partly suppressed their laughter. The girls exchanged sulky glances. Parents should not laugh at their children.

Beezus silently cleared the table. Mrs. Quimby served applesauce and oatmeal cookies while Mr. Quimby talked about his work as Santa’s Little Helper in the frozen-food warehouse. He told how snow fell inside the warehouse door when someone opened it and let in warm air. He told about a man who had to break icicles from his moustache when he left the warehouse.

Snow indoors, icicles on a moustache—Ramona was full of questions that she would not let herself ask. Maybe working as Santa’s Little Helper wasn’t as much fun as she had thought.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Mr. Quimby to Mrs. Quimby, when the last cookie crumb had been eaten. “You need a rest. Tomorrow the girls can get dinner and you can take it easy.” “Good idea,” said Mrs. Quimby. “Sometimes I do get tired of cooking.”

“But I’m supposed to go to Mary Jane’s tomorrow,” protested Beezus.

“Call her up and tell her you can’t come.” Mr. Quimby was both cheerful and heartless.

“That’s not fair,” said Beezus.

“Tell me why it isn’t fair,” said Mr. Quimby.

When Beezus had no answer, Ramona understood their plight was serious. When their father behaved this way, he never changed his mind. “But I don’t know how to cook,” Ramona protested. “Except Jell-O and French toast.” “Nonsense,” said Mrs. Quimby. “You are in the third grade, and you can read. Anyone who can read can cook.”

“What’ll we cook?” Beezus had to accept the fact that she and Ramona had no way out.

“The same things I cook,” said her mother. “Whatever I have bought on special that you can find in the refrigerator.”

“And corn bread.” Mr. Quimby, his face serious but his eyes amused, looked at Ramona. “I expect to be served corn bread.”

That evening, after the dishes had been put away, Picky-picky was polishing gravy from his whiskers and their parents were watching the evening news on television. Ramona marched into Beezus’s room and shut the door. “It’s all your fault,” she informed her sister, who was lying on the bed with a book. “Why didn’t you keep still?” “It’s just as much your fault,” said Beezus. “You and your yucks.”

Both girls recognized nothing would be gained by arguing over blame.

“But you like to cook,” said Ramona.

“And you like to make Jell-O and French toast,” said Beezus.

The sisters looked at one another. What had gone wrong? Why didn’t they want to prepare dinner?

“I think they’re mean,” said Ramona.

“They’re punishing us,” said Beezus. “That’s what they’re doing.”

The sisters scowled. They liked to cook; they did not like to be punished. They sat in silence, thinking cross thoughts about parents, especially their parents, their unfair, unkind parents who did not appreciate what nice daughters they had. Lots of parents would be happy to have nice daughters like Beezus and Ramona.

“If I ever have a little girl, I won’t ever make her eat tongue,” said Ramona. “I’ll give her good things to eat. Things like stuffed olives and whipped cream.” “Me too,” agreed Beezus. “I wonder what there is for us to cook.”

“Let’s go look in the refrigerator,” suggested Ramona.

Beezus objected. “If they hear us open the refrigerator, Mom and Dad will think we’re hungry, and we’ll get a lecture on not eating our dinner.” “But I am hungry,” said Ramona, although she understood the truth of Beezus’s words. Oh well, she wouldn’t actually starve to death before breakfast. She found herself thinking of French toast, golden with egg under a snowfall of powdered sugar.

“Maybe….” Beezus was thoughtful. “Maybe if we’re extra good, they’ll forget about the whole thing.”

Ramona now felt sad as well as angry. Here she had worked so hard to do her part by getting along at the Kemps’, and now her family was not pulling together. Something had gone wrong. Beezus was probably right. The only way to escape punishment was to try being extra good.

“OK.” Ramona agreed, but her voice was gloomy. What a dismal thought, being extra good, but it was better than allowing their parents to punish them.

Ramona went to her own room, where she curled up on her bed with a book. She wished something nice would happen to her mother and father, something that would help them forget the scene at the dinner table. She wished her father would succeed in drawing a perfect foot, the sort of foot his teacher would want to hang in the front of the room above the middle of the blackboard. Maybe a perfect foot would make him happy.

And her mother? Maybe if Ramona could forgive her for not boiling the egg she would be happy. In her heart Ramona had forgiven her, and she was sorry she had been so cross with her mother. She longed to go tell her, but now she could not, not when she was being punished.