Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret - Blume Judy - Страница 21

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That night the doorbell rang at eight. We were in the den. I said I'd see who was there. I opened the front door.

"Grandma!" I screamed. I threw my arms around her. "What are you doing home?"

"If Mohammed doesn't come to the mountain-the mountain comes to Mohammed."

I laughed, knowing that I was Mohammed and that Grandma was the mountain. There was a man standing next to Grandma. Grandma turned to him. "Morris," she said. "This is my Margaret."

Then Grandma closed the front door and told me, "Margaret darling, this is Mr. Morris Binamin."

"Rhymes with cinnamon," he said to me.

I smiled.

Grandma looked marvelous-very tan and pale blonde. Mr. Binamin had a lot of silver hair, a moustache to match, and black-rimmed eyeglasses. He was tan too. He held Grandma's arm.

"Where are they?" Grandma asked.

"Mom and Dad are in the den," I said.

"With your other grandparents?"

"No… they're gone."

"Gone!" Grandma cried. "But I thought they were staying all week."

"We thought so too," I said.

"But Morris and I came especially to see them."

"You did!" I said. "How come?"

Grandma and Mr. Binamin gave each other a secret look. "Well… we thought you might need our support."

"Oh Grandma! I can manage just fine by myself."

"I know you can. You're my Margaret, aren't you? Tell me-did they try anything?"

"Like what?" I asked.

"You know," Grandma said. "Church business."

"Well… kind of," I admitted.

"I knew it!" Grandma cried. "Didn't I tell you?" she asked Mr. Binamin.

Mr. Binamin shook his head. "You had them pegged right all the time, Sylvia," he said.

"Just remember, Margaret… no matter what they said… you're a Jewish girl."

"No I'm not!" I argued. "I'm nothing, and you know it! I don't even believe in God!"

"Margaret!" Grandma said, "Don't ever talk like that about God."

"Why not?" I asked. "It's true!" I wanted to ask God did he hear that! But I wasn't speaking to him and I guess he knew it!

By that time my mother and father were in the living room and Grandma was making the introductions.

My parents gave Mr. Binamin the once-over and he was pretty busy sizing them up too.

Then my mother made coffee and served warm Danish. She offered me some milk and ginger snaps but I wasn't hungry. I wanted to get out of there so I yawned very loud without covering my mouth.

"Margaret dear, if you're so tired, why don't you go up to bed," Grandma said.

"I think I will. Goodnight, everybody."

Sometimes Grandma is almost as bad as everybody else. As long as she loves me and I love her, what difference does religion make?

Mr. Benedict announced that our individual reports on our year-long project would be due next Friday. They wouldn't be graded so we were to be completely honest and not worry about pleasing him. He hoped we had each learned something of value. On Thursday night I wrote a letter.

May 25

Dear Mr. Benedict,

I have conducted a year-long experiment in religion. I have not come to any conclusions about what religion I want to be when I grow up-if I want to be any special religion at all.

I have read three books on this subject. They are: Modern Judaism, A History of Christianity, and Catholicism-Past and Present. I went to church services at the First Presbyterian Church of Farbrook. I went to the United Methodist Church of Farbrook on Christmas Eve. I attended Temple Israel of New York City on Rosh Hashanah, which is a Jewish holiday. I went to Confession at Saint Bartholomew Church, but I had to leave the Confessional because I didn't know what to say. I have not tried being a Buddhist or a Moslem because I don't know any people of these religions.

I have not really enjoyed my religious experiments very much and I don't think I'll make up my mind one way or the other for a long time. I don't think a person can decide to be a certain religion just like that. It's like having to choose your own name. You think about it a long time and then you keep changing your mind.

If I should ever have children I will tell them what religion they are so they can start learning about it at an early age. Twelve is very late to learn.

Sincerely, Margaret Ann Simon

On Friday everybody handed in a thick booklet with a decorated cover. All I had was the letter. I couldn't put that in with the pile of booklets. I was too embarrassed. It looked like I hadn't done any work at all.

When the bell rang I sat at my desk while everyone else filed out of the room.

When Mr. Benedict looked up he said, "Yes, Margaret?"

I walked to his desk with my letter.

"I didn't hand in a booklet," I said.

"Oh?"

"I, uh… I wrote you a letter instead." I handed it to him, then stood there while he read it.

"I really tried, Mr. Benedict. I'm-I'm sorry. I wanted to do better." I knew I was going to cry. I couldn't say anything else. So I ran out of the classroom.

I got to the Girls' Room before the tears came. I could still hear Mr. Benedict calling, "Margaret- Margaret-" I didn't pay any attention. I splashed cold water on my face. Then I walked home slowly by myself.

What was wrong with me anyway? When I was eleven I hardly ever cried. Now anything and everything could start me bawling. I wanted to talk it over with God. But I wasn't about to let him know that, even though I missed him.

On June seventeenth the PTA gave us a farewell party in the gym and none of the sixth-grade girls wore socks. I wore my first pair of sheer stockings and got my first run in them one hour later. All I could think of was I'd be in seventh grade in September and I was growing up. My mind knew it-even if my body didn't.

The party in the gym was a lot like the Thanksgiving square dance. Mrs. Wheeler and Mrs. Fishbein were chaperones but this time they were dressed in regular clothes.

Our class presented Mr. Benedict with a pair of silver cufflinks that Gretchen's mother had gotten wholesale. He seemed very pleased, because he cleared his throat a lot and sounded like he didn't know what to say except thank you-and that although we hadn't started out to be the greatest sixth grade in the world, we'd come a long way. And thanks to us, next year, he'd be an experienced teacher-very experienced! Then we all laughed and some of the girls cried but I didn't.

Nancy, Gretchen, Janie and I had lunch downtown by ourselves and talked about how it would feel to go to Junior High. Janie was afraid she wouldn't be able to find her way around and she'd get lost. Gretchen said probably the teachers would all be mean and Nancy said suppose we weren't in any classes together and then we all went home and cried.

Later that day my mother started packing my camp trunk. I watched her put the stacks of shorts and polos into it. Then I heard the lawn mower. Moose was back. First I got excited about seeing him and then I got mad, thinking about Laura and those stories he helped spread around.

I ran downstairs and outside and yelled, "Hey Moose!" He didn't hear me because the mower made' too much noise. So I ran over to where he was cutting and I stood right in his way so he'd have to notice me and I shouted again. "Hey Moose!"

He shut off the mower. "You're in my way," he said.

"I want to tell you something," I said.

"Go ahead."

I put my hands on my hips. "You know what Moose! You're a liar! I don't believe you ever took Laura Danker behind the A amp;P."

"Who said I did?"

"What do you mean who said it!"

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