Free The Unmaking of Rabbit by Constance C. Greene

came the peach pie à la mode, “If you can handle it,” Mr. Barker said, and it turned out they both could.
    â€œI really like to eat,” Gordon said, putting his hands over his stomach.
    â€œYou had me fooled,” Mr. Barker laughed.
    â€œMy mother and father went to a fancy hotel this week end to celebrate their wedding anniversary, and I bet the food isn’t as good there as it is here,” Gordon said.
    â€œWedding anniversary, eh?” Mr. Barker’s eyes twinkled. “Me and the missus, we were married during a blizzard, and it’s been tough sledding ever since.”
    â€œYou!” Mrs. Barker laid a fond hand on his cheek. “He made that joke up,” she explained, “and he never misses a chance to drag it in.”
    â€œTrouble is, she knows I couldn’t get along without her, and that’s why I can get away with jokes like that.” Mr. Barker lit his pipe and settled back in his chair. “There’s one thing about women, and don’t you fellows forget it. They like to be told how you feel about ’em, gents. Unless I tell Irma here every day I love her, not to mention that she’s the best cook in town, she gets as ornery as an old rhinoceros.”
    That’s the truth, Mrs. Barker’s smile said. She was like a little jack-in-the-box, jumping up and down throughout supper to make sure everybody had what he wanted. She wouldn’t let them help at all.
    â€œYou men go into the parlor, and I’ll be through in a jiffy,” she said.
    Mr. Barker turned out to be an expert on bears, turtles, and lots of other things. He told them there was nothing in the whole world that smelled worse than a bear but that they were smart and had a sensational sense of smell. Turtles see the same colors as people do, he said, and Paul wondered how he knew.
    Then Mrs. Barker joined them and listened to him talk about the nutritional value of kidneys and brains, not to mention liver. Paul was just wishing somebody would change the subject when Mr. Barker looked at his pocket watch and said it was about time to start home.
    â€œI don’t like to hustle you,” he said, “but they’ll worry if you’re out too late.” He said he’d drive them home.
    No, they protested, they were old enough to walk. He conceded a point and said he’d drop them off at their corner.
    Mrs. Barker kissed each of them good-by, and Paul didn’t even mind. “You’re two nice boys,” she said firmly. “Tell your mothers I said so. And your grandmothers too. I don’t know who deserves more credit. Maybe both. Anyway, it’s been a pleasure to have you. Come again soon.”
    Mr. Barker let them out at the corner, as he’d promised, and as they walked through the deserted street, feeling independent, Gordon said, “They’re nice, easy, you know what I mean? You feel easy when you’re there, like you’re not trying or anything, and you can say what you want and they hear you.”
    â€œYeah,” Paul agreed.
    â€œBut you know something about what Mr. Barker said? About how you should tell people how you feel about them? I never told anybody I love them. Not since I was a little kid. Not my mother or my father or anybody. Did you?”
    â€œI guess not,” Paul said, trying to remember.
    â€œSee you tomorrow,” Gordon called out as they came to Mrs. Tuttle’s house. “First thing.” He was gone.
    But tomorrow was Saturday. And Freddy Gibson. And all kinds of things. Paul wished tomorrow wouldn’t come.

14
    But tomorrow always comes.
    â€œI said eight sharp.” Freddy looked at his watch. “It’s two minutes past.” Paul had told Gran he was going to play ball with some kids. “This early?” she’d asked, glad that he’d made some friends.
    Freddy’s eyes were flat with dislike, his fists clenched at his side. The gang formed a