Sharon Creech - Walk Two Moons

If there had been a vase, we would have squashed it, because our heads moved completely together and our lips landed in the right place, which was on the other person’s lips. It was a real kiss, and it did not taste like chicken.

And then our heads moved slowly backward and we stared out across the lawn, and I felt like the newlY born horse who knows nothing but feels everything.

Ben touched his lips. “Did it taste a little like blackberries to you?” he said.

At this point in my story, Gram interrupted. “Oh yes, yes, yes!” she said. “I’ve been waiting for that kiss for days. I do like a story with some good kisses in it.”

“She’s such a gooseberry,” Gramps said.

We were churning through Montana. I didn’t dare check our progress on the map. I didn’t want to discover that we couldn’t make it in time. I thought that if I kept talking, and praying underneath, and if we kept moving along those mountainous roads, we had a chance.

Gram said, “But what about Peeby? What about her mother kissing the lunatic? I didn’t like that kiss very much. It was the other one I liked—the one with Ben.”

I found Phoebe at the bus stop, sitting on the bench. “Where were you?” she asked.

I did not tell her about seeing Ben or his mother. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. “I was afraid, Phoebe. I couldn’t stay there.”

“And I thought you were the brave one,” she said. “Oh well, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. I’m sick of it.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. They sat there on the bench having a gay old time. If I could toss rocks like you can toss rocks, I’d have plonked them both in the back of the head. Did you notice her hair? She’s cut it. It’s short. And do you know what else she did? In the middle of talking, she leaned over and spit on the grass. Spit! It was disgusting. And the lunatic, do you know what he did when she spit? He laughed . Then he leaned over and he spit.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Who knows? I’m sick of it. My mother can stay there for all I care. She doesn’t need me. She doesn’t need any of us.”

Phoebe was like that all the way home on the bus. She was in an extensively black mood. We got to Phoebe’s house just as her father pulled in the driveway. Prudence rushed out of the house saying, “She called, she called, she called! Mom called! She’s coming home.”

“Terrific,” Phoebe muttered.

“What was that, Phoebe?” her father said.

“Nothing.”

“She’s coming tomorrow,” Prudence said. “But—”

“What’s wrong?” her father said. “What else did she say?”

“She sounded nervous. She wanted to talk with you—”

“Did she leave a number? I’ll call her back—”

“No, she didn’t leave any number. She said to tell you not to make any prejudgments.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” her father said. “Not make any prejudgments about what?”

“I don’t know,” Prudence said. “And oh! Most, most important! She said that she was bringing someone with her.”

“That’s just grand,” Phoebe said. “Just grand.”

“Phoebe—?” her father said. “Prudence—did she say who she’s bringing?”

“I honestly could not say.”

“Did she refer to this person at all? Did she mention a name?” He was getting agitated.

“Why no,” Prudence said. “She didn’t mention a name. She just said that she was bringing him with her—”

“Him?”

Phoebe looked at me. “Cripes,” she said, and she went into the house, slamming the door behind her.

I couldn’t believe it. Wasn’t she going to tell her father what she had seen? I was bursting at the seams to tell my own father, but when I got home, he and Margaret were sitting on the porch.

Margaret said, “My brother told me you’re in his English class. What a surprise.” She must have already told my father this, because he didn’t look too surprised. “He’s a terrific teacher. Do you like him?”

“I suppose.” I didn’t want to talk about it. I wanted Margaret to vanish.

I had to wait until she went home to tell my father about Phoebe’s mother, and when I did tell him, all he said was, “So Mrs. Winterbottom is coming home. That’s good.” Then he went over to the window and stared out of it for the longest time, and I knew he was thinking about my mother.

All that night I thought about Phoebe and Prudence and Mr. Winterbottom. It seemed like their whole world was going to fall apart the next day when Mrs. Winterbottom walked in all cuddly with the lunatic.

The next morning, Phoebe phoned, begging me to come over. “I can’t stand it,” she said. “I want a witness.”

“For what?”

“I just want a witness.”

“Did you tell your father? About your mother and—”

“Are you kidding?” Phoebe said. “You should see him. He and Prudence spent all last night and this morning cleaning the house. They’ve scrubbed floors and bathrooms, they dusted like fiends, they did laundry and ironing, and they vacuumed. Then they took a good look around. My father said, ‘Maybe it looks too good. Your mother will think we can function without her.’ So they messed things up. He’s very put out with me that I wouldn’t help.”

I did not want to be a witness to anything, but I felt guilty for running away the day before, and so I agreed. When I got to her house, Phoebe, Mr. Winterbottom, and Prudence were sitting there staring at each other.

“Didn’t she say what time she was coming?” Mr. Winterbottom asked.

Prudence said, “No she did not, and I wish you would quit acting as if it is my fault that she did not say more than she did.”

Mr. Winterbottom was a wreck. He jumped up to straighten a pillow, sat back down, and then he leaped up to mess up the pillow again. He went out in the yard and walked around in circles. He changed his shirt twice.

“I hope you don’t mind that I’m here,” I said.

“Why would I mind?” Mr. Winterbottom said.

Just as I thought they would all go stark raving mad, a taxi pulled up outside. “I can’t look,” Mr. Winterbottom said, escaping to the kitchen.

“I can’t look either,” Phoebe said. She followed her father, and I followed Phoebe.

“Well, gosh ,” Prudence said. “I don’t know what has gotten into everybody. Aren’t you excited to see her?”

From the kitchen, we heard Prudence open the front door. We heard Mrs. Winterbottom say, “Oh sweetie—” Mr. Winterbottom wiped the kitchen counter. We heard Prudence gasp and her mother say, “I’d like you to meet Mike.”

“Mike?” Mr. Winterbottom said. He was quite red in the face. I was glad there was no axe in the house or I am fairly certain he would have picked it up and headed straight for Mike.

Phoebe said, “Now, Dad, don’t do anything too rash—”

“Mike?” he repeated.

Mrs. Winterbottom called, “George? Phoebe?” We heard her say to Prudence, “Where are they? Didn’t you tell them we were coming?”

Mr. Winterbottom took a deep breath. “Phoebe, I’m not sure you or Sal should be around for this.”

“Are you kidding?” Phoebe said.

He took another deep breath. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. Here we go.” He stood up straight and tall and walked through to the living room. Phoebe and I followed.

Honest and truly, I think Phoebe nearly fainted dead away on the carpet. There were two reasons for this. The first one was that Mrs. Winterbottom looked different. Her hair was not only short but also quite stylish. She was wearing lipstick, mascara, and a little blush on her cheeks, and her clothes were altogether unlike anything I had ever seen her in: a white T-shirt, blue jeans, and flat black shoes. Dangling from her ears were thin silver hoop earrings. She looked magnificent, but she did not look like Phoebe’s mother.