Call Me Amy (2 page)

I decided my best bet would be to leave her mail by the door and run. I glanced at my own pile. One was addressed to Nancy in scribbled handwriting. I rolled my eyes. Must be that gross boy she met last summer at camp. I held the envelope up towards where the sun had been, hoping to read it, but no luck. “Amy,” I
could picture Nancy's voice saying, “you're getting as nosy as Postmistress Sally.”

There were several bills and letters for my parents. Without meaning to, I began peeking through Miss Cogshell's large bundle of mail. Exotic stamps were on several of them—France, England, Africa. Who would write to her?

Soon I found myself in front of the small house by the pier. The sun had slipped behind the clouds, and turned the sea a dull grey. Miss Cogshell's place, weathered from ocean winds, always appeared dark and dreary. A tiny, enclosed widow's walk stuck out from the top of her roof. Its only window overlooked the harbor. I pulled my eyes away remembering the stories the kids told. They said Old Coot spied on people through that dusty window. I held my breath, and inched along her pathway.

I was about to toss the package on her back step, when the door flew open. I stood frozen to one side as I watched Miss Cogshell, in a massive, flowered house-coat, burst through to the yard.

“Oh my, I've lost it.” Her eyes darted about at the distant pine trees. Her cobwebby hair, whiter than spray off the crest of a wave, was swept back in a loose bun, and I watched her glasses slip down her bulbous nose. Then she saw me standing there with my mouth open. I was surprised to see a slight flush spread over her large, pale features as she pushed her glasses back
up. Never being this close to her before, I was mesmerized by her size.

“I just saw my first spring robin go by the kitchen window,” explained Miss Cogshell, in an unexpectedly high, joyful voice. “Sometimes they perch over there on the clothesline.”

I glanced at the empty clothesline, and then forced myself to push the mail towards the old woman.

“Oh, my letters. Just let me wash this flour off my hands.” She gripped the handrail for support, fumbled with the latch, and then turned her bulky frame back towards me. “Do come in.”

Still holding the envelopes, I wanted to say no, but my mouth was too dry. As she opened the door, a sweet smell escaped from within.

“I haven't baked in months. I bake today and here you are—a visitor.” Miss Cogshell continued to hold the door, her stretched-out arm like a loaf of freshly risen bread dough. Before I could come to my senses, I stepped inside.

“Now you look familiar. Which one are you?”

“Amy Henderson,” I whispered. Miss Cogshell hunched over, peered right into my face, and read my lips through her thick glasses. She looked enormous in her tiny kitchen. And I have to admit I suddenly
felt
like a shrimp.

“Ah, yes, you're in that lovely home on the hill. Your father's done well for himself.” Miss Cogshell
hauled her massive bulk to the sink, turned on the faucet, and spoke softly, almost as if she'd forgotten I was there. “If only Rosie was here to see. She was always so proud of her boy.” Miss Cogshell continued to reminisce while she washed her swollen hands. “There are so many new people from away now. Especially the summer people. Every year someone seems to be coming or going. And busy! My goodness, aren't people busy nowadays?” She stopped and looked at me, her face flushing again. “My land, how I do run on.”

I wondered how Miss Cogshell kept track of so much, until I remembered the widow's walk and a chill raced through me. I didn't know what else to do, so again I thrust the bundle of mail towards her.

“Oh, yes, my mail. I do thank you.” She wiped her hands dry on a clean dishtowel. Then her face saddened as she took the envelopes. “I have been so self-involved the last few weeks it must've slipped my mind.” She glanced through the pile while I edged back towards the door. “Looks like someone cares about this old coot after all.”

Did she say
old coot?
My jaw must have dropped a mile, but Miss Cogshell was too busy ripping into her letter from France to notice. She grinned at the rainbow stationery and then put it back on top of the bundle.

“I'll leave these until later. Right now I've got to get you some cookies to bring home to your family.” She
reached over a row of cookbooks, got down a flowered china plate and gently stacked it with hot gingersnaps.

I fidgeted with my zipper pull while I waited, suddenly needing to go to the bathroom, yet too afraid to ask. My eyes wandered around the cluttered kitchen. A heap of newspapers was stacked next to a curio cabinet, and countertops were layered with odds and ends; only the stove shone spotless. An open cupboard revealed piles of packaged junk food—chips, Twinkies, Devil Dogs. Several faded calendars were tacked to the wall, and hanging in the window was half an old bleach bottle with ivy spilling out of it. Little cups with green sprouts sat in a row on the windowsill.

“Lupines,” she explained, catching my glance. “I'll get those into the ground in the next month or so, God willin'.”

Finally, she had the plate ready. “You've got your Grandma Rosalie's eyes, you know.”

“Thank you,” I murmured, as I balanced the plate on top of my mail and pushed out through the back door. That wasn't so bad, I decided.

I had happy memories of Gram Rosalie and could still taste her blueberry pies. Nancy and I spent many mornings picking berries and then Gram would help us turn them into fancy pastry. I'd always make a special mini one in a tiny tin. Just the plumpest, bluest berries would go into my pie and every fork press along the
edge of the crust would be as perfect as I could make them.

I tried to picture Gram's eyes. I was only nine when she died but, yes, I was sure they were blue, not brown, so the old lady was evidently crazy.

With a great sigh of relief to have made my escape with all my body parts intact, I hurried for home.

I
SPENT THE
whole of Sunday practicing for an oral report due first period on Monday. I must have gone over the darn thing fifty times in front of my mirror. Didn't matter. The idea of talking while the whole class stared, terrified me. I got no sleep that night.

The next morning at breakfast I couldn't eat. “I feel gross. Maybe I should stay home today.”

“What about your report?” My father cut his toast into little squares. “The one about Amelia Earhart?”

Ugh. Even though my dad had a thousand things on his mind, I guess it would be asking too much for him to forget hauling me all the way to the library in Thomaston the previous Saturday to get the book.

“Are you chicken?” Nancy sat across from me, wolfing down Alpha-bits.

“Nope, I forgot all about book reports being due today,” I lied.

N
EEDLESS TO SAY
, the long bus ride to school felt more nauseating than usual.

In English class, when our teacher, Mr. Hendricks, asked Craig Miller to start us off, Craig said, “Huh?”

“You were supposed to prepare a three minute talk about a nonfiction book you read.” Mr. Hendricks put both hands on his hips, which always left chalky prints on his pants.

“Oh, sure. Of course.” Craig swaggered up to the front of the room in his old army jacket. “I read this really cool book about Bonnie and Clyde.”

“Really?” Mr. Hendricks raised his eyebrows. “And the book title is?”

Without missing a beat, Craig said, “
The Outlaws
.” I could tell Craig hadn't even thought about the assignment until this moment. My mouth fell open as he described a movie I had watched on TV last week. Obviously, he had, too. He wrapped up his speech with “If you want to know how it ends, you'll have to read the book.” And then he was back in his seat, grinning.

Mr. Hendricks nodded, oblivious. Gee, that was an easy grade. Too bad for Craig that all his papers couldn't be done out loud.

When it was my turn I shakily moved to the front of the class. I looked out at the faces before me. After a moment I opened my mouth and an odd squeak came out. I heard Pamela snort, followed by Claire's high-pitched giggle. Everything I practiced went poof. I
couldn't even remember the title of my book; never mind what happened or what I liked about it. A cottony feeling filled my throat and hotness swept over me. I glanced at my index cards. I had spent hours fiddling with sentences so I could get my whole speech to fit on five cards in tiny print. The words blurred before me.

Mr. Hendricks looked at his watch. “Have you prepared something, Miss Henderson?”

I tried to nod.

“Why don't you sit down then if you have nothing to share?”

In my haste to leave, my hands fell open and index cards flew everywhere. One slid under a boy's sneaker. Down on my hands and knees, I almost had it, but at the last second, the foot slid it farther away. I heard a snicker. I made another grab for the card and got hold of it. The sneaker pressed down on top of it and I don't know what possessed me, but I balled my other hand into a fist and slammed down hard on the kid's toes.

“Ow!” he hollered.

I got my cards all accounted for, banged my head coming up from under the desk, and somehow, with all the power I could summon, placed one foot in front of the other and took the six steps to my desk. I wanted to cry. What a failure.

On my way out of class, Mr. Hendricks told me I could pass in a paper report for a D. One little D wouldn't do too much damage to the super high grades I had in that class, so by the time I rode the bus home, it was a distant memory—one I was glad to be done with.

From the bus window, I glanced down the road to Miss Cogshell's house and saw her come stumbling out the back door again. She must have spotted another robin.

“Old Coot, Old Coot,” called the boys' voices from the rear of the bus. I cringed and hoped Miss Cogshell wouldn't hear. She wasn't awful enough to deserve
this
. I peeked around my seat and watched the back of Craig Miller's blond head, unable to tell whether he joined in on the taunts.

Oh well, it wasn't my problem. Even if Miss Cogshell did make delicious cookies, I had to admit I'd rather them tease her than me. That's when I remembered the china plate. My mother had refilled it with some store-bought peppermints, and insisted that the plate be returned by today.

So, later that afternoon, I found myself making my way back down to the pier. When I got to the bottom of our hill, I balanced the plate with two hands and began to walk in as straight a line as I could, one heel coming down right in front of the toes of my other foot. Sometimes I pretended I was on a tightrope and
other times I liked to count how many steps it took to get across the road.

Someone's whistling interrupted my silence. I scanned the area and spotted light hair above army green—Craig coming towards the pier on his bike. I'd seen him down here several times lately and wondered what he was up to. I stopped walking like a goober and hid the plate to one side of me. All I needed was to have Craig see me delivering treats to Old Coot. He flew by, however, whistling away, without even noticing me. I moved on towards Miss Cogshell's back door.

I opened the outside glass door and knocked, then waited, and then knocked again. I studied the peeling paint of the buoys that hung on either side of the door. They were blue with two thin green stripes around the bottoms. Fishermen always have their own combination of buoy colors so their markers will be easy to identify. Had Miss Cogshell's father been a fisherman? It was hard to picture her being a little kid with parents and all.

I peered around a tall, bare lilac bush to inspect her backyard. Past the clothesline, in a far corner of the yard was the neatest little shack. A woodshed, I guessed, probably empty now except for passing squirrels. Old tarpaper covered parts of the roof while over-grown shrubbery almost blocked the entrance. A smaller shed across from it must have been an old outhouse.
I turned back and gave one last hard thump, when suddenly the door swung open.

“Miss Cogshell?” I called, as I stepped inside. The house was silent except for the distant ticking of a clock. The deserted kitchen had a surprisingly lived in, cozy feeling. I placed the plate of peppermints on the center checks of the blue vinyl tablecloth, so Miss Cogshell couldn't miss them.

As I turned to leave, my eye caught the sunlight shining in on the corner curio cabinet. The glass doors gleamed and all the little china animals on the shelves came alive. Their many reflections bounced off the mirrors that lined the inside walls of the cupboard. I gazed in at the glimmering figures—turtles, pigs, cats, and even a wolf. A small moose peeked out from behind a plump owl. I stood on tiptoe to see better, but could still only glimpse the head and one antler.

Ever since I'd seen a moose amble through our back yard, I'd been crazy about them. Without thinking, I opened the glass door and reached in behind the owl to pick up the moose. I cradled its smooth finish, more polished than a sea-worn pebble, gently against the palm of my hand.