The Rule of Threes - Marcy Campbell (the little red hen read aloud .txt) 📗

“No, no, no,” Mom cut in. “No lectures about office life. We want these kids to want to have jobs, Bob.”

I smiled, but Tony didn’t. He’d stuffed two muffins into his face already and was sliding his casserole around on his plate with his fork. I didn’t blame him; there were too many chunky bits in it. But didn’t he know that you couldn’t let anyone see you sliding it around, if you wanted to make it look like you’d eaten some?

Dad fake-pouted at Mom. “Fine, then, what did you do at work today?”

“Well, you know, it’s mostly been calls from home for a few days.” She had a tight smile as she glanced over at Grandma. I didn’t think Grandma noticed. She was picking at her casserole just like Tony was.

“Yes, yes, that’s right,” Dad said quickly, and we all went back to eating silently for a few seconds, but I could see the silence was killing him.

“So, then, Mags . . . ,” he started, and I knew what was coming. “Tell me something good.”

Dad had tried this last week, and Grandma and Tony both said “pass,” which I didn’t know was allowed.

“Mags?” Dad said. “Anyone?”

I looked around, waiting for someone to speak. Mom looked kind of sad and disappointed, at something besides the casserole, I figured. Tony and Grandma just sat there. Well, fine. I had something important to say.

“Okay, I’ll go,” I said. “I finished setting up the outer office for the contest yesterday, and it looks really great!” I glanced at Tony, who wasn’t even pretending to eat anymore. “And Tony helped!” I continued. “That can be your something good, Tony, or your something big, or whatever.”

“Is that true, Tony?” Dad asked.

“I don’t know. I guess.”

“Of course you did!” I said. I looked around at everyone. “Tony helped me paint the bookcase. He’s really great at painting. I may make him my new permanent helper!” I felt like I was talking too loudly, or taking up too much space, or both. I was trying to fill the emptiness I felt in the room, and I could only fill it by making myself bigger.

“How about you, Mom?”

“Me? Oh, uh, let’s see . . . I got my email inbox down to twenty. Does that count?”

“Hooray!” I said, holding up my milk for a glass clinking, but we didn’t seem to do that anymore now that it was the five of us. Mom left me hanging.

“I finished my cross-stitch,” Grandma said, smiling at me.

“Hooray!” I said again.

“That’s great, Eleanor,” Dad said. I noticed he’d been calling her Eleanor ever since she moved in. He used to call her Mom sometimes, but maybe now he was trying not to confuse her. “See, you can find something big in every day! Just a matter of how you look at things.”

Tony cleared his throat. “I’m going to my . . . I mean, I’m going to the living room,” he said. “I have homework.” He pushed his chair away from the table, and Mom said, “Don’t forget to clear your place.” Usually, Mom made everyone stay at the table until we were all finished.

Tony grabbed his plate, but his fork tumbled off, clanging on the table. He just left it there and quickly slipped out of the room. I didn’t know what was bugging him, but with Tony, I’d learned it was best to let him cool off a bit, have some space.

As me and Mom and Dad cleared the rest of the things, Grandma stayed where she was, watching the birds at the feeder. There were a couple blue jays at the moment, regular visitors, but I knew she would say that just because they were common, didn’t mean they weren’t beautiful.

The three of us shifted around each other in the kitchen for fifteen minutes or so, loading the dishwasher and washing the pans. At any other time, we’d be having a family discussion, but Grandma was right there within earshot. I imagined this was how it was if you had little kids and couldn’t talk about serious things until they went to bed. I imagined this was how it used to be for my parents, with me.

Later that night, I decided to take my phone into Grandma’s room and show her the pictures of the outer office and the before and after of the bookcase. I walked across the hall to where Grandma’s door was half open. I knocked.

“Yes?” came her voice, reed-thin and quivering like one of those stalks in the pond outside the assisted living facility.

“Hey, Grandma,” I said, peeking around the door. I held up my phone. “I thought I could show you the photos of the room I did.”

Grandma stuck her needle, threaded with red floss, into her fabric and looked at me blankly. Weird—I was sure this was the same cross-stitch she’d been working on for weeks, but it looked a little different, almost like she’d taken some stitches out.

I was going to sit on the edge of the bed, but it hadn’t been made yet. Honestly, it smelled kind of bad in the room, like maybe Grandma needed a bath. My mom had been helping her with that, which I knew wasn’t easy.

I suddenly thought, maybe Grandma wasn’t able to make her bed. Well, I could help. That was an easy thing for me to do. I went to the side of the bed and pulled up the sheet, and that was when I saw my tissue box on her nightstand, the one that was missing from my desk, and next to it, a little stack of my books, Easy Holiday Crafts on top. Oh, well, if she wanted to borrow some things, that wasn’t a problem.

“What are you doing, girl?” Grandma asked.

Girl? I tried to ignore that. Sometimes Dad called me “his girl,” so maybe that was what she meant.

“I’m making your bed for you,” I said. “Just sit right there. You can work on your cross-stitch while I take care of it. Do you want me to