The Pantry Door - Julie Steimle (reading strategies book txt) 📗

out the window, tossing down a folded paper flower she had made as part of her box decorations.

Nissa set her hands on her hips, grinning broader. But when the flower floated down, she caught it. “It won’t be scary. I get to be up there with the fire chief and his dogs. The Gibsons won’t be able to mess with me at all. It will be fun!”

She then lifted up the flower and blinked at it. Her grin grew wider.

The Gibsons. Katy had almost forgotten them. She frowned. But then she leaned over the sill and peered at where the ladder had sunk into the ground. Pointing, she said, “What about that? Could you get it out at all? I tried yesterday, but it is stuck in the ground for me.”

Tucking the flower into her front pants pocket, Nissa shrugged once and walked straight to the ladder, hunkering down to pull it out with brute force. She shifted her feet first to give enough grounding for one good heave.

“I hadn’t tried. Let’s see now.” Nissa wrapped her hands around the top rung.

Almost in an instant it zipped up from the ground, heaving Nissa right up with it to the window. She shrieked, her body flopping behind her while hanging on for dear life. It practically flung her into Katy’s arms once she was up at the window. Katy grabbed any part of Nissa that she could and pulled her into the room to prevent her from falling back out and breaking both her legs. Both panted on the plush cloud-like carpet, clenching each other as if letting go would be a bad thing. Then Katy and Nissa broke into a fit of giggles.

“Wow!” Katy rolled back, gasping with her eyes to the ceiling and the grapevine wallpaper on it.

“Crazy ladder.” Nissa rocked to the other side, dropping on her knees with a peek back towards the window. “What was it trying to do?”

“Does this happen often to you?” Katy asked her as she sat up.

Nissa shook her head, glancing around at the peaceful and clean surroundings of the room. “Not until I met you. You must be one of my father’s special friends.”

Blinking several times, Katy stared. “I don’t know your father. Maybe the land is just magic.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Shrugging, Nissa drew a deck of cards out from her pocket. “So, you do you want to play a game?”

Katy grinned and nodded.

Nissa dealt. Her eyes sparkled. “Great. If I win, you show me how to make that paper flower.”

Blushing, Katy ducked her head. “I’ll show you anyway.”

*

Early Saturday morning Katy rose the moment she smelled breakfast cooking. She practically hopped up the steps in spite of herself. Not everything was set on the table either. Her grandmother had the butter out, but she was still making the eggs.

“Good morning Early Bird! I didn’t expect you up yet!” Grandma Schmidt did indeed look surprised. So surprised, in fact, that she nearly scorched the eggs.

Finding it difficult to keep from smiling, Katy just shrugged. She didn’t know why she felt so happy. Perhaps it was from finding a magic room, or better, a friend that didn’t care that she loved origami more than playing cards, and music more than origami. Both girls had made a bower of flowers from paper in that upper room. And Nissa took a handful back with her when she climbed down the ladder that afternoon, just as the ladder sunk into the grass like a magic escalator. It was another thing to add to their amazing collection of secrets.

“So, no gardening today,” Grandma Schmidt said, scraping the frying pan around a few times before spooning the eggs onto a paper napkin in the center of a plate.

Katy walked over and looked at the bacon that sizzled on another pan, grimacing at the rubbery strips with a wish that they had sausage instead. Her grandmother would consider it rude to say she hated bacon, but this time Katy decided against saying anything. She didn’t have to eat everything her grandmother made.

“When we’re all dressed, we’ll head out to the park and help set up for the Founder’s Day celebration,” said her grandmother.

Tilting her head back, Katy asked aloud, “How long is this thing anyway?”

“This thing?” Her grandma scooped up the bacon and set it next to the eggs.

Rolling her eyes Katy said, “The party thing. How long is it going to go?”

With an amused chuckle at Katy’s choice of words, Grandma Schmidt drew in a breath and let it out again. “The Founders’ Day celebration will last all day.”

Katy groaned, hanging her arms like rags from her shoulders.

“Kathleen Neilson, please. Have a little bit more enthusiasm. And be a dear and open the orange juice for me. My arthritis.” Grandma Schmidt picked up the plate and set the eggs and bacon on the table. The orange juice was in a can of concentrate sitting on the counter near the stove.

Closing one eye, Katy smirked at her. “I thought you made freshly squeezed.”

Shrugging with a playful smile, her eyes twinkled as she replied, “Concentrate is cheaper, and it saves time. Come on now. Everything will get cold.”

Her grandmother turned to pour a cupful of pancake batter onto the skillet now primed for cooking. Katy smothered a snort and did as she was asked, crossing the creaky floor to the container of juice concentrate and the pitcher. It wasn’t so bad. Though she doubted the old woman’s arthritis was as terrible as all that, it really didn’t hurt to help out. In a way, Katy felt needed. It was a strange feeling, actually. Though she did some chores at home, it wasn’t the same as helping her grandmother out. Housework at home felt forced, like torture. Here, she could see that extra hands would be helpful. Here, Grandpa Schmidt’s extra hands helping out were missed.

They finished setting up breakfast and ate, hardly talking though her grandmother told her to choose comfortable clothes for the Founders’ Day celebration since they would be outdoors all day. She also told Katy she should take up one of her grandfather’s hats from the wall peg in the washroom so she wouldn’t get a sunburn from remaining outside.

After they cleaned up the breakfast dishes, Katy strolled into the washroom and stared at each hat that hung on the wall. There were coats, galoshes, snow boots, and gardening clogs set under them. But the hats that hung on the brass pegs each had their own personality, and each told a story about Grandpa Schmidt. There was a red baseball cap next to a dusty blue one. He usually wore the red one when they went out to the park, although he used the blue one when he couldn’t find the red one. He had a straw cowboy style hat, breezy for when he worked in the garden and yard. She had always thought her grandfather looked at home in that hat, but she liked him best in the red baseball cap. There was a felt cowboy hat also, and a leather one. Hanging on the far wall, though, was his pointed brown leather hat that had all the semblance of belonging in Sherwood Forest. She had called it his Robin Hood hat, and Grandpa Schmidt laughed heartily when she had tried it on as a child. It fit on his head perfectly, the pointed end working like the brim of his red baseball cap, perfect for keeping rain and sun out of his eyes. It had a long pheasant’s plume in it at one time, but the feather had since disintegrated. Out of all the hats, Katy wanted to take the red one, but it had never fit. So she lifted his second best hat off the hook, the straw one, and set it on her head.

“Do you want me to braid your hair?” Grandma Schmidt was standing in the doorway, leaning back to admire Katy’s choice.

Katy just shrugged, glancing back. “I can do it myself.”

“French braid?” her grandmother asked.

Ducking her head, Katy blushed. She did like French braids, but her arms always ached trying to make them. Her mother always did them for her.

Her mother. Katy flushed, remembering that she was still mad at her mother.

“No,” Katy said, her face darkening as she pulled the hat off. “I’ll do it myself.”

She stomped back through the kitchen and down the basement steps.

Her grandmother sighed then turned from the door, watching her.

 

They walked to the park just off the old school grounds. Katy glanced at the empty fenced pool just as they stepped over the grass, looking for a walkway to cross over the ditch that ran along the side of the road. Katy carried the box for the raffle tickets. Her grandmother hefted the stacks of ticket rolls under her arm along with her purse that looked more like a large satchel made of carpetbag. Everything they needed was in it: suntan lotion, spending money, and a number of odds and ends Grandma Schmidt had that she had not told Katy about until they arrived at the bandstand. There, the local country band was setting up to play. Several of the members were also firemen for the town.

“Howdy, Grandma Schmidt!” One man tipped his hat to her, lifting it up with a friendly smile. His guitar leaned against a large black speaker, and he had to take the pick out his mouth to speak.

Grandma Schmidt nodded back, walking to the area where workers were hanging up the raffle sign. Katy hopped up the steps then sat on the edge of the stage. She practically blended in with those working around the area with her grandpa’s hat on, though she had opted for jeans and a powder blue tee shirt that had sparkly words declaring her ‘too cool’ to the world. Looking at all the locals that were setting up folding tables, enveloping them with checkered tablecloths—they set pies, cakes, and jams on them. She sighed aloud wondering if she was going to be bored out of her mind.

“Here, Kathleen.” Her grandmother pulled something out of her overlarge purse.

It was one of her grandfather’s black music cases. She could only guess which instrument was inside. Katy almost didn’t want to touch it, holding up her hands as though her grandma had set a spider onto her lap.

“I promised Mrs. Tippets you would play for us today,” Grandma Schmidt said.

“You what?” Katy stood up, the case nearly falling off her knees. But seeing it fall, Katy caught it and pulled the case close to her chest like she would a baby she had about dropped. “Grandma! You should have told me! I don’t wanna do it!”

But in the eye of her grandmother, she saw a number of looks. The first was disappointment, and it stabbed like her mother’s own stares that past month. The second was a look of sternness that said Katy would do it if she wanted to eat dinner for the next week. The third was encouraging, that it was about time Katy let go of her sadness and picked up music again. Perhaps that was the worst one because Katy yearned to open the case herself to see which instrument her grandmother had chosen.

“That’s not fair! You’re supposed to ask me if I wanted to!” Katy’s voice lingered on a whine, already feeling defeated without even an argument.

“Open it up, and play something,” her grandmother said with a shrug.

For a moment Katy just held the case to her chest. Her grandfather had let her handle all of his instruments except the really old pipe with the beads. That one, he said, was an antique. Grandma Schmidt would have most likely taken one of the other woodwinds since the case was too small and clearly the wrong shape to be a violin.

Exhaling with all the disgust Katy could voice, she gave her grandmother a look, turned toward the stage and set the case down to open it. Flipping up the clamps, she lifted