OCR Text |
Show Twisters . . . 67 told Smiley. "It just had the feel of bad luck, you know what I mean?" By the time we four got to the head of the line, the driver was closing the doors. "Sorry," he said, "I can't jam in one more person." Smiley's expression drooped as we were forced to step back, but not for long. An older black kid in a front seat just stood up and got off so she could have his place. Ruth Pavelka cheered. I didn't know the kid, but he looked about eighteen, and his sweatshirt said, "It's Hard To Be Humble When You're A Cornhusker." The driver thanked him, then stepped down so he could help Smiley on. Suddenly she was in no big hurry, now that her seat was reserved. "I'd sure enough have perished if it hadn't been for you kids," she said, patting each of us in turn. "Come by for some fresh-baked cookies real soon, you hear?" I saw Arthur and Stacey grin at each other as something of Smiley's spirit passed between them. Even I felt better. "Soon," she'd said, "come by soon." Then we were waving goodbye and Smiley was waving back at us through the window. The faint smell of cookies, so tantalizing seconds before, disappeared as quickly as it came. I was out on the farm with my dad. With Grandpa and Grandma . . . I was thinking of the farmhouse which had been built during the Great Depression without a basement. The storm cellar was a long way from the backporch, I remembered, and the doors were very hard to open. |