Free Me and Rupert Goody by Barbara O'Connor Page A

said.
    â€œRototillers?” Uncle Beau’s voice was starting to crack.
    â€œAnd fans and toasters and hot plates.” Rupert smiled.
    Uncle Beau’s eyes got watery and he blinked real hard. “Guess I never knew you could do all them things.” He looked down at the hot plate in his lap. “Guess there’s a lot of things I don’t know about you.”
    The glider squeaked as Uncle Beau pushed it back and forth. We all sat there, looking at the hot plate and listening to that squeaking glider.
    â€œWell, now,” I said, jumping to my feet. “Time for pound cake!”
    I brought out the cake with four candles on it. (That’s as many as I could find.) Me and Rupert sang “Happy Birthday”. Uncle Beau closed his eyes and blew out the candles.
    â€œDid you make a wish?” I said.
    And then it happened. Uncle Beau started crying. Not big boohoo crying. Just chin-quivering, eye-blinking, tear-rolling crying.
    â€œYeah, I made a wish,” he said. “Wished I’d done things differently. Wished I could see Hattie Baker one more time. Wished I’d held Rupert in my arms when he was born.”
    Me and Rupert didn’t move a muscle. Didn’t make a sound.
    â€œWished Rupert could’ve known his mama,” Uncle Beau went on. “Eyes like stars in the sky. A smile that could make a saint a sinner. Not that I was a saint, mind you.” He
leaned forward and winked at me and Rupert, making another tear roll down his whiskery face.
    He took a sip out of the whiskey bottle and looked up at the sky. “Hattie, Hattie, Hattie,” he said real slow, shaking his head. “I wish I could have just one more laugh with you, Hattie. Wish you could see your boy here, all grown up and fine as can be.”
    Rupert gazed up at the stars.
    â€œThat’s all my wishes, Gravel Gertie,” Uncle Beau said, leaning back and pushing the glider again.
    Well, I knew this was whiskey talk. That’s what Mama calls it. I’d heard it plenty of times from Daddy. Sad, weeping, loving-everybody kind of talk. “That’s the whiskey talking,” Mama always says, real disgusted-like. “I got no time for whiskey talk.”
    But coming from Uncle Beau, that whiskey talk sounded like coming-from-the-heart talk. I sat beside him and held his hand and helped him push the glider back and forth. Somewhere up on the mountain, an owl hooted. We all watched the sky, not talking. The stars seemed extra-shiny that night. The crickets chirped extra-loud. The breeze blew extra-soft. And I knew that Uncle Beau knew that Rupert knew that I knew—that Hattie Baker was out there somewhere watching us.

Thirteen
    It took a while, but Rupert finally figured out which chores were mine and which chores were his. I didn’t squawk about him putting the bargain table out, but he knew better than to touch the bottle caps or put out the doughnuts or sort the produce. We took turns dusting the Indian souvenirs. When it came time to stock the shelves, I let Rupert hand me the cans and boxes while I stacked them neatly, labels facing out. I showed him how to use the roll-on pricer, but half the time he’d get two or three price tags on one can and I’d have to peel off the extras.
    Uncle Beau stayed busy with the summer tourists coming in and out all day. Sometimes he took a nap out on the porch and me and Rupert would mind the store. I wouldn’t let Rupert use the cash register, but he was pretty good at bagging. At least he had sense enough not to put the bread on the bottom.

    After supper, me and Rupert and Uncle Beau played Parcheesi on the porch till the mosquitoes came out. Then we’d go inside and watch TV and eat ice cream. Uncle Beau liked to say, “I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream.” And every time Rupert would repeat it. “I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream.”
    After I turned the sign and