Maid Mary Anne by Ann M. Martin
Nicky and Buddy didn’t vote. They stayed in the backyard the rest of the afternoon, looking hotter and more miserable the more furiously they hammered away at their fort.
They reminded Jessi of a saying on a poster she’d seen: “Suppose they had a war and nobody came.” Because some kid had teased him, Nicky had declared war on what he thought was sissy stuff. Now he was discovering how much stuff that meant he couldn’t do. He was having a war, and it just wasn’t any fun.
“And he was wearing this tool belt,” said Mallory, shaking her head.
“Nicky Pike, Macho Man.” Jessi cracked up all over again.
I was at a meeting of the BSC and I was having a great time, like being at a party, almost. I’d been so busy lately that I hadn’t even seen Jessi or Mal or Claudia or Stacey or Kristy — not to mention Dawn — in what felt like forever.
“I don’t think Nicky has quite gotten the idea that being a macho man means there’s more stuff he can’t do, than stuff he can do,” said Stacey.
“Yeah. I hope he gets it soon.” Mal rolled her eyes. “Otherwise I expect him to start pounding on his chest, like some gorilla. Although,” she added thoughtfully, “between the triplets and Vanessa, he’s not getting away with much.”
“Poor Nicky,” said Dawn.
“Hey,” said Kristy. “Being a male chauvinist pig — or even a male chauvinist piglet — doesn’t earn any sympathy from me!”
“Tough Kristy,” teased Claudia. “Have some Gummi Worms.”
“Thanks,” said Kristy. She chewed for a moment, then said, “Somehow, they taste better than those cookies you brought, Mal. No offense.”
Mal laughed. “That was the last batch — I don’t know what kind you’d call them. We put everything that was left over in the batter.”
“That explains it,” said Kristy.
The phone rang and Kristy answered it crisply, in spite of the Gummi Worms (that’s Kristy for you). “Baby-sitters Club.”
She listened a moment, then motioned to me. “It’s for you.”
It was Mrs. Towne.
I took the phone from Kristy, listened to Mrs. Towne, and said, “Of course I can. I’ll be there right away.”
I hung up and looked around. It felt as if I’d just arrived at the meeting. But I was glad I’d thought to give Mrs. Towne Claudia’s number, so she’d know where to reach me during club meetings.
“Is it an emergency?” asked Kristy, frowning. I could see that, as club president, her sense of organization was offended because I was leaving early.
“I’m sure it is,” I replied.
“Well, okay,” said Kristy. The phone rang again, and while Kristy was taking down the information, I slid the appointment book over to Dawn, waved at everyone, grabbed my backpack, and hurried out.
It wasn’t an emergency after all. Mrs. Towne just needed me to bring up a box from the basement.
“Just set it on the kitchen table. Thank you so much, Mary Anne. I know I’m technically able to navigate stairs now that I’m off the crutches, but I’m still a little leery of them.”
“I can understand that,” I answered. “But I’m glad this wasn’t an emergency.”
“An emergency? Oh, no. What gave you that idea? I hope you didn’t worry …”
“It’s okay … Well, I’d better be getting home.”
“You wouldn’t like to stay for a late tea with cookies?”
“Thanks, Mrs. Towne. But it’s almost dinnertime. And I ate a ton of cookies at our meeting.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Towne, “if you’re sure. Thanks again.” We walked slowly back down the hall and I went outside and got on my bicycle. I glanced back as I rode out of the driveway. Mrs. Towne was standing in the doorway, looking so lonely.
I waved. She waved back and closed the door, and I headed home, feeling tired, annoyed — and guilty.
At the next BSC meeting, I told Mal how much I liked the cookies she’d made with everything in them. (She’d brought more to the meeting.)
“Wait’ll I tell the triplets,” answered Mal. “They’ll love it.”
“Maybe you should reconsider it, Mal,” Jessi said. “They might want to make the same cookies again.”
Mal looked thoughtful and we all burst out laughing.
“I thought they tasted pretty good.” Claudia looked around, only half kidding. That made us all laugh even harder.
And that’s when the phone rang.
I knew who it was the moment Kristy nodded, looking at me. I reached out and took the receiver.
It was Mrs. Towne. She wondered if I could come over.
“Is it an emergency?” I asked.
“Well, no,” she said. She sounded surprised — and a little hurt.
I felt bad. What could I do?
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be over as soon as possible.”
I hung up the phone, feeling six pairs of eyes on me.
“Mrs. Towne,” I explained, unnecessarily. “I better go.”
“Is it an emergency?” asked Kristy.
“Well, no,” I said. “Listen, I have to leave. I’ll talk to you guys later.”
I’d been edging toward the door while I was talking. Before Kristy could say anything else, I whisked out and dashed down the stairs, feeling guilty. Again.
Guilty. And angry. Angry that I’d had to leave the second BSC meeting in a row for something that wasn’t an emergency. Angry that Kristy was obviously annoyed with me. Angry that I’d had to defend myself just for being nice.
Nice.
Nice.
The word repeated itself in my head as I pedaled my bicycle. And the more it repeated itself, the more I didn’t like the sound of it.
Nice isn’t always good. Or unselfish. Or the right thing to do. Sometimes, it’s just the easiest thing to do.
I was going to have to do something not so nice now, I decided, as I reached Mrs. Towne’s house. I was going to have to talk to her about our relationship.
After all, her ankle was healing nicely. She could go up and down stairs now. She only needed one cane for getting around. And her original bulky cast had been changed to a lightweight walking one. She was a little slower, maybe, but almost as mobile as before her accident.
“Mary Anne.” Mrs. Towne met me at the door, a smile of welcome on her face. I felt a horrible pang of guilt shoot through me. How could I do anything to hurt Mrs. Towne’s feelings?
But I had to.
I took a deep breath. “Mrs. Towne. Hi. Listen, could we talk?”
The welcoming smile on Mrs. Towne’s face faded a little. But she stepped back and motioned me in. “Of course. Come on in. Why don’t we sit on the sunporch. Would you like some tea?”
“No. No, thank you. Not right now.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m sure.”
When we’d taken our places at the table, Mrs. Towne said, “Is something wrong, Mary Anne?”
“No,” I said. “Not exactly. Well …” I drew in a deep breath. “Yes. Yes, there is. Mrs. Towne, I like you very much. You’re a terrific person and you’ve taught me so much about sewing that I never thought I’d have a chance to learn …”
“I’ve enjoyed it,” said Mrs. Towne.
“I have too. And I appreciate your letting me help you out in exchange for lessons.”
“But …” said Mrs. Towne. “There’s a ‘but,’ isn’t there?”
I nodded. “I love visiting. I like helping you. But I can’t always come on the spur of the moment, like today. I have responsibilities in the Baby-sitters Club, and I’m teaching a kids’ sewing class myself, and I have a family and friends … I mean, I need time for all that. And lately, it seems as if I haven’t had any. As if I’m always answering a call from you.”
I ducked my head. Then I thought, “Don’t be a coward, Mary Anne.” I looked up, wondering how angry and hurt Mrs. Towne would be.
She didn’t seem angry at all. In fact, she was biting her lip, loo
“Mrs. Towne? I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be. Don’t be one bit sorry, Mary Anne. You are absolutely right. I’ve been very selfish with you.”
“No! You broke your ankle and it’s been …”
Mrs. Towne raised her hand. “Hear me out. The last few times I’ve called, I haven’t really needed your help. You know that and I know that. I just felt, well, lonely. I wanted some company. Not that I don’t have friends of my own, my own age. But I liked your visits.” She laughed. “It reminded me, I guess, of having my son around the house again somehow.”
“Oh, Mrs. Towne.”
“Mary Anne, can we still be friends, even though I’ve been so thoughtless and selfish?”
I couldn’t believe it! Mrs. Towne thought she’d been selfish, and I thought I was the one being selfish.
“Don’t say that! Of course we can still be friends. And we still have our sewing lessons …”
“Why don’t we go back to our original arrangement for the lessons,” suggested Mrs. Towne. “You can pay me with money instead of work.”
I smiled gratefully. “I’d like that. But who will help you around here? You can’t do everything yourself.”
“No, I can’t. But frankly, even before the accident, I was thinking of hiring a housekeeper to come in and help me. I’ve worked hard all my life. I deserve a little help now. So that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“It’s a great idea,” I said.
“Yes, it is,” agreed Mrs. Towne. She hesitated, then said, “Would you like some tea?”
“I can’t,” I said. “I have to get home for dinner. But let’s plan to visit regularly. Let’s schedule a tea meeting right now.”
“Great,” said Mrs. Towne. “I’d like that.”
“I would, too,” I said. “Definitely.”
As I rode my bicycle home, I felt very tired. Talking to Mrs. Towne had been hard. But I also felt sort of giddy and weightless. I hadn’t realized how much of a chore visiting Mrs. Towne had become. If I had let things go on, in pursuit of some idea about being unselfish, I would have ended up hating those visits, I realized. And that would have been unfair to Mrs. Towne and to me.
Now I felt great. I’d kept Mrs. Towne as a friend, and I was looking forward to our next visit.
“You remember that junk food art show I had?” asked Claudia thoughtfully.
“Uh-huh,” I answered, a little distractedly. It was the next to last quilting and sewing class and we were inside (our series of perfect summer days had been interrupted by rain) piecing together the squares of the quilt, which involved laying them out on the floor to see how they looked. With so many of the blocks appliquéd and embroidered and decorated with flowers, it was sort of like flower arranging. I shifted a red tulip on a blue background away from a pink rose on a darker pink background.
“I want a corner,” said Vanessa.
“Okay,” I replied. We’d laid out the quilt on paper long before, in one of the earliest classes. But that wasn’t the same as seeing the finished blocks together.
“Well, what about a junk food quilt?”
“What, Claudia?”
Fortunately, she didn’t seem to mind my distraction. She was, I realized, in the grip of creative vision. “A junk food quilt. You appliqué junk food designs on blocks, maybe even put stuffing under the appliqué to make the designs more three-dimensional, then join them together. It would be a statement about life, two basic needs joined in one presentation.”
“What?” I said. “What are you talking about, Claud?”
“Food and warmth!” cried Claudia. “Can’t you see it?”
“I don’t think junk food counts as one of the basic needs in life,” I answered.
“It does in my life,” Claudia answered loftily, unfazed by my lack of enthusiasm.
“I like it,” said Becca Ramsey.
“You do?” Claudia beamed.
“Yes, I love junk food. But my mother says junk food is bad for you.”
“But do you like my idea?” asked Claudia.
Becca bent over and shifted one of her flower squares thoughtfully. “What idea?”
“Never mind,” said Claudia. She caught my eye and said, “So I’ll continue to be a great, unappreciated artist for a while longer.”
“Well, we appreciate you, Claud. So you’re not a completely unappreciated artist.”
“Thanks, Mary Anne. Underappreciated, then. I guess my public will have to wait.” Claud squatted down by Charlotte Johanssen and said kindly, “Charlotte, I think you have your — tulip — upside down.”
“No, I don’t,” said Charlotte. “It is growing that way.”
“Oh. So it is,” said Claudia. “I can see that now.”
Just then, we heard a commotion at the front door: a series of thumps like someone running across the porch. But no one rang the door bell or knocked.
I opened the front door and looked outside. No one was there. Had I heard the wind? But the rain had stopped, at least for the moment, and there was no wind.
Another series of thuds, this time from near the back of the house, caught my attention. I closed the front door and locked it, then headed for the back. No one was there either.
Maybe it had been a gust of wind, I thought. I was glad it wasn’t late at night, or I might have started worrying about ghosts — not that I believe in ghosts, of course.
Almost as soon as I returned to the den, we heard a muffled crash from outside.
“That does it,” I said. I jumped up and headed for the back door.
“I’m coming, too,” said Claudia.
“Me, too,” said Claire.
“Why don’t we all go?” said Claudia.
So the six of us went to the back door. No one was there. We trooped outside and I led the way around the side of the house — and spotted the shine of a yellow rain slicker in the shrubbery. I bent down and peered under the lower branches.
Nicky and Buddy were crouched there, looking half pleased, half scared.
“What are you guys doing?” I asked.
Sheepishly, they crawled out and stood up.
“Did we scare you?” asked Nicky.
“No,” I said. “Were you trying to?”
Nicky and Buddy looked at each other and then back at me and shook their heads.
“No,” said Nicky. “We just sort of came by to visit. See how things are going. You know.”
Things? Could they possibly be curious about the quilt?
“Well, why didn’t you knock on the door?” asked Claudia.
The boys shrugged.
“Hey, let’s get out of the rain,” I suggested.
“It’s not raining,” said Vanessa.
“Before it starts again,” I said. “Come on in and take a look at the quilt. We’re piecing it together now.”
“I guess we could look at the quilt,” said Buddy, and he and Nicky came inside with us. After the two boys had hung up their raincoats by the door, they followed us back to the den.
“We’re laying the blocks out in the order we want, see?” said Claudia. “And then I’m going to draw a picture of the final design and we’ll sew the blocks together according to the design.”
“It looks okay,” said Buddy.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Has it been hard?” asked Nicky.
“I don’t think so,” I answered. “But then, we’ve all worked together.”
“It’s been fun,” said Charlotte. “I want to make more quilts.”
“Me, too,” said Claire.
“Me three,” said Vanessa.
“Me four,” said Becca.
“Maybe we will,” I said. “We’ve missed you guys. Maybe you’ll join us if we make another quilt.”
Nicky looked away. “I don’t know,” he told the far wall. “Maybe.”
“I guess it is hard, though, if someone is teasing you about it,” I went on.
Claudi
“I don’t like being teased ever,” Nicky declared to the wall.
“Me, neither,” said Buddy.
“I guess it depends on who’s doing the teasing. And why they’re doing it. Maybe you could tell me who was teasing you guys.”
“Clarence,” said Nicky, suddenly looking right at me. “Clarence Morris.”
“Oh,” I said blankly.
“He’s in our class at school. He lives a couple of blocks over,” explained Buddy. “He’s a real pain.”
“A jerk,” said Nicky.
“Yeah,” Buddy agreed. “He teases everybody about everything. Like after I stopped sewing class? He started laughing at my bicycle.” Buddy’s outraged face told me what he thought of that.
“Yeah, and he teased me about having such a big family.” Nicky looked, if possible, even more outraged. “I’d like to wreck him.”
I said, “I don’t think that would help, do you, Nicky?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I’m not going to, anyway. I’m just going to ignore him.”
“Does this mean,” Claudia asked carefully, “that Clarence didn’t really think it was weird and sissy for boys to sew?”
“He didn’t care,” said Nicky. “He just wanted to pick on us.”
“Well, maybe you’d like to help us finish the quilt then,” I suggested.
“That’s okay,” said Nicky quickly. He folded his arms, and threw out his chest, trying to look tough.
“Thanks,” said Buddy. “But we’ll just, you know, watch for a while.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Ta-da!” Claudia held up the drawing. “Now, we’ll divide the quilt into six sections, and each of us will take the squares for one section and sew them together according to this pattern.”
After a little jockeying, we divided the chores up. By the time we were organized, Nicky and Buddy had sat down on the floor with us.
“Here,” said Nicky. “I’ll thread that needle for you. You want purple thread, right, Claudia?”
“Right. Thanks, Nicky.”
A minute later, I heard Buddy say to Vanessa, “Do you need a thimble? … Here.”