Walnut, up Maple, across Plum, and toured slowly down Main, and there she was, walking away from them. Little Klein slumped down in his seat, barely breathing.
“You aren’t going to see them from down there, that’s for certain. We’d better circle back closer to your house,” suggested Widow Flom. “If we stay nearby, we’ll have a better chance of intercepting them.”
Little Klein waited until the car had made a couple of turns before he pulled himself back up and started watching again.
Sure enough, as the car coughed its way up the Maple hill, there was a leaping, yapping dog, bounding its way around three strapping boys. Widow Flom tooted her horn and pulled over beside the boys.
“Hold up there, boys. Meet your brother and me in my kitchen. Go on inside.” She winked. “It’s not locked. The dog can come in, too. Just keep his snout off the counter.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Flom, but we’ve got to get home. Another time,” said Matthew.
“This is not a social invitation, young man. I will see you in my kitchen.”
Four boys arrived home for supper that night without their dog. If their parents noticed, neither one mentioned the fact. Dinner conversation centered around Stanley — stories of his sales, his travels, people he’d met, places he’d stayed, unusual sights he’d seen, places he promised to take them all someday.
That night the doghouse stood empty. When Little Klein crept downstairs to get a glass of water, he peered out at the dogless yard and scanned for signs of a tall girl in boots hiding in the bushes or near the garage. He crawled back into bed feeling every ounce of his smallness.
Mother Klein lay on her side, watching the moonlit yard, hoping that wherever LeRoy had been during the day, he would leave it and return home by morning.
Widow Flom snored on through the long hours of LeRoy’s pacing and whining, through his kitchen foraging and toilet water slurping.
Stanley Klein simply slept.
Morning broke cloudy and barkless. Stanley studied his glum boys around the breakfast table. His eyes traveled from tallest Matthew to broadest Luke to muscular Mark then down to the pencil-armed Little Klein, shoveling oatmeal into his small “o” mouth as fast as his spiny hand would travel. Stanley stopped eating and frowned.
“Is he getting enough to eat?” Stanley asked of no one in particular.
Mother Klein followed Stanley’s eyes to Little Klein.
“Of course. Look at him go.”
“Has he been sick?
“No. What’s the problem?”
“He hasn’t grown at all since I saw him last.”
“He’s our frail one, Stanley.”
Little Klein held his spoon still and looked up.
“I have so grown. You can check the grow lines on the door.”
“Nine years, Esther. I think the boy is out of the woods; he’s not going to die a feeble infant. What we have here is the product of too much mollycoddling.” Stanley pushed away from the table and paced around it as six bowls of oatmeal grew cold. “Enough. While I’m home these next two weeks, we’re going to start toughening him up.” He looked at the Big Kleins, who refused to meet his eyes. “And I’m going to need everyone’s help.” The Bigs folded their arms across their chests without comment.
Mother Klein stood with two hands on Little Klein’s shoulders.
“He’ll grow when he’s good and ready.”
“When’s LeRoy coming home?” pestered Little Klein.
“Forget about that dog for a minute and concentrate, Big Guy,” his father admonished.
Big Guy. Little Klein hesitated. Toughen him up. Little Klein imagined himself running with the rough crowd, sporting a black eye, muscles bulging out of his shirtsleeves.
“What exactly would we be doing?” he inquired hesitantly. The Bigs glared at him for breaking their silent treatment in support of LeRoy.
“Now you’re coming around,” Stanley exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. “We’ll start with strengthening. Things like pull-ups. You’re going to have
“You aren’t going to see them from down there, that’s for certain. We’d better circle back closer to your house,” suggested Widow Flom. “If we stay nearby, we’ll have a better chance of intercepting them.”
Little Klein waited until the car had made a couple of turns before he pulled himself back up and started watching again.
Sure enough, as the car coughed its way up the Maple hill, there was a leaping, yapping dog, bounding its way around three strapping boys. Widow Flom tooted her horn and pulled over beside the boys.
“Hold up there, boys. Meet your brother and me in my kitchen. Go on inside.” She winked. “It’s not locked. The dog can come in, too. Just keep his snout off the counter.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Flom, but we’ve got to get home. Another time,” said Matthew.
“This is not a social invitation, young man. I will see you in my kitchen.”
Four boys arrived home for supper that night without their dog. If their parents noticed, neither one mentioned the fact. Dinner conversation centered around Stanley — stories of his sales, his travels, people he’d met, places he’d stayed, unusual sights he’d seen, places he promised to take them all someday.
That night the doghouse stood empty. When Little Klein crept downstairs to get a glass of water, he peered out at the dogless yard and scanned for signs of a tall girl in boots hiding in the bushes or near the garage. He crawled back into bed feeling every ounce of his smallness.
Mother Klein lay on her side, watching the moonlit yard, hoping that wherever LeRoy had been during the day, he would leave it and return home by morning.
Widow Flom snored on through the long hours of LeRoy’s pacing and whining, through his kitchen foraging and toilet water slurping.
Stanley Klein simply slept.
Morning broke cloudy and barkless. Stanley studied his glum boys around the breakfast table. His eyes traveled from tallest Matthew to broadest Luke to muscular Mark then down to the pencil-armed Little Klein, shoveling oatmeal into his small “o” mouth as fast as his spiny hand would travel. Stanley stopped eating and frowned.
“Is he getting enough to eat?” Stanley asked of no one in particular.
Mother Klein followed Stanley’s eyes to Little Klein.
“Of course. Look at him go.”
“Has he been sick?
“No. What’s the problem?”
“He hasn’t grown at all since I saw him last.”
“He’s our frail one, Stanley.”
Little Klein held his spoon still and looked up.
“I have so grown. You can check the grow lines on the door.”
“Nine years, Esther. I think the boy is out of the woods; he’s not going to die a feeble infant. What we have here is the product of too much mollycoddling.” Stanley pushed away from the table and paced around it as six bowls of oatmeal grew cold. “Enough. While I’m home these next two weeks, we’re going to start toughening him up.” He looked at the Big Kleins, who refused to meet his eyes. “And I’m going to need everyone’s help.” The Bigs folded their arms across their chests without comment.
Mother Klein stood with two hands on Little Klein’s shoulders.
“He’ll grow when he’s good and ready.”
“When’s LeRoy coming home?” pestered Little Klein.
“Forget about that dog for a minute and concentrate, Big Guy,” his father admonished.
Big Guy. Little Klein hesitated. Toughen him up. Little Klein imagined himself running with the rough crowd, sporting a black eye, muscles bulging out of his shirtsleeves.
“What exactly would we be doing?” he inquired hesitantly. The Bigs glared at him for breaking their silent treatment in support of LeRoy.
“Now you’re coming around,” Stanley exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. “We’ll start with strengthening. Things like pull-ups. You’re going to have
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