Dear Mr. Henshaw / Дорогой мистер Хеншоу. 7-8 классы
Шрифт:
Mom is right about Dad and his truck. I remember how fun it was to ride with him and listen to calls on his CB radio. Dad showed me hawks sitting on telephone wires waiting for little animals to be run over. Dad was hauling a load of tomatoes that day, and he said that some tomatoes are grown especially strong for hauling. They may not taste good, but they don’t squash.
That day we stopped at a weighing scale and then had lunch at the truck stop. Everybody knew Dad. The waitresses all said, “Well, look who is here! Our old friend, Wild Bill,” and things like that. Wild Bill is the name Dad uses on his CB radio.
When Dad said, “Meet my kid,” I stood up as tall as I could so they would think I was going to grow up as big as Dad. The waitresses all laughed a lot around Dad. For lunch we had chicken, potatoes, peas, and apple pie with ice cream. Our waitress gave me extra ice cream to help me grow big like Dad. Most truckers ate really fast and left, but Dad stayed around and played the video games. Dad always wins.
Mom’s friends are leaving, so I guess I can go to bed now.
Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,
I hate my father.
Mom is usually home on Sunday, but this week there was a big event, and she worked a lot. Mom never worries about paying the rent when there is a big order.
I was all alone in the house, it was raining and I didn’t have anything to read. I had to clean the bathroom, but I didn’t because I was mad at Mom for divorcing Dad. I feel that way sometimes which makes me feel awful because I know how hard she has to work and try to go to school, too.
I was looking at the telephone until I couldn’t wait any longer. I picked up the receiver and called Dad’s number in Bakersfield. All I wanted was to hear the phone ringing in Dad’s trailer which wouldn’t cost Mom anything because nobody would answer.
But Dad answered. I almost hung up. He wasn’t away in some other state. He was in his trailer, and he hadn’t phoned me. I thought I had to talk to him. “You promised to phone me this week and you didn’t,” I said.
“Easy, kid,” he said. “I just didn’t have the time to do it. I was going to call this evening. It’s not the end of the week yet.”
I thought about this.
“Some trouble?” he asked.
I didn’t know what to say, so I said, “My lunch. Somebody steals the good stuff out of my lunch.”
“Find him and punch him in the nose,” said Dad. I could tell he didn’t think that my lunch was important.
“I hoped you would call,” I said. “I waited and waited.” Then I was sorry I said it. I still have some pride left.
“There was heavy snow in the mountains,” he said. “I had to put chains on wheels and lost some time.”
I know about putting chains on trucks. When the snow is heavy, truckers have to put chains on the drive wheels – all eight of them. Putting chains on eight big wheels in the snow is no fun. I felt a little better. “How’s Bandit?” I asked.
There was a strange pause. For a minute I thought that we were disconnected. Then I knew something must have happened to my dog. “How’s Bandit?” I asked again louder, remembering that Dad might have lost some of the hearing in his left ear from all that wind.
“Well, kid – ” he began.
“My name is Leigh!” I almost shouted. “I’m not just some kid you met on the street.”
“Easy, Leigh,” he said. “When I had to stop to put on chains, I let Bandit out of the cab. I thought that he would get right back in because it was snowing hard, but after I chained up, he wasn’t in the cab.”
“Did you leave the door open for him?” I asked.
Big pause. “I think I did,” he said which meant that he didn’t. Then he said, “I whistled and whistled, but Bandit didn’t come. I couldn’t wait any longer because I had a deadline for delivering a load. I had to leave. I’m sorry, kid – Leigh – but that’s the way it is.”
“You left Bandit to freeze to death!” I was crying from anger. How could he?
“Bandit knows how to take care of himself,” said Dad. “I think he will jump into another truck.”
I wiped my nose. “Why would the driver let him in?” I asked.
“Because he’ll think that Bandit is lost,” said Dad, “He won’t leave a dog to freeze.”
“What about your CB radio?” I asked. “Didn’t you send a call?”
“Surely I did, but I didn’t get an answer. Mountains kill the signal,” Dad told me.
I was going to say that I understood, but here comes the bad part, the really bad part. I heard a boy’s voice. He said, “Hey, Bill, Mom wants to know when we’re going out to get the pizza?” I felt sick. I hung up. I didn’t want to hear any more, when Mom had to pay for the long distance phone call. I didn’t want to hear any more at all.
To be continued.
Dear Mr. Henshaw,
I don’t have to pretend to write to Mr. Henshaw anymore. I have learned to say what I think on a piece of paper. And I don’t hate my father either. I can’t hate him. Maybe things would be easier if I could.
Yesterday after I hung up on Dad I fell down on my bed and cried and swore and punched my pillow. I felt so terrible about Bandit riding around with a strange trucker and Dad taking another boy out for pizza when I was all alone in the house with the dirty bathroom when it was raining outside and I was hungry. The worst part of all was that I knew if Dad took someone to a pizza place for dinner, he wouldn’t have phoned me at all, no matter what he said. He would have too much fun playing video games.