Free The Best Man by Richard Peck

she could. But it was all right. I was there.
    â€¢ • •
    It was perfect attendance on the day of the last field trip.
    Now that we could walk to school, we wanted to be driven everywhere else. But we walked that afternoon, just the troops and Mrs. Stanley and Mr. McLeod. A couple of die-hard au pairs with toddlers in strollers came along behind, but they fell back when we got to Grandma and Grandpa’s house.
    I’d already had to do an introduction in class, about Grandpa’s career. Written out, of course. I’d had to use semicolons twice because Mr. McLeod really liked semicolons. I told them how Grandpa built the school and a lot of the town. How he doesn’t like it when people make changes, or litter on the lawn.
    There was barely room, and you had to be careful. But everybody was impressed. “Awesome,” they said, and “This is as good as the Museum of Science and Industry.” Little Josh Hunnicutt was totally into it. It was more his scale.
    Somebody was sitting over in a shadowy corner, past the picture. Grandpa himself, though not quite full-sized anymore, sitting there, dressed in his summer suit. Only half of him worked.
    I went over to him. He didn’t say anything, but caught my eye with his good one, and pointed with his good hand. Dad had made a display of blueprints, rolled up and tied with ribbon. Grandpa pointed to his bad hand.
    He wanted me to put a rolled-up blueprint in the hand that didn’t work. When I did, it looked like he was holding it, like he was still in business. He winked at me, and I turned to the room.
    â€œListen, this is my grandpa, the great architect, the builder of our town.” I’d told them before, but they could hear it again, and see him. “This is Mr. Addison Clark Magill, born on September 13, 1942, the day Cubs shortstop Lennie Merullo committed four errors in one inning.” I told them all about him, and he smiled with half his mouth, and one eye twinkled.
    Then it was time to introduce him to Mr. McLeod.
    He came over, and Uncle Paul came with him. “Grandpa, this is my student teacher, Mr. McLeod. Mr. McLeod, this is my grandpa, Mr. Addison Clark Magill.”
    Grandpa put up his working hand. Mr. McLeod took it in both of his.
    â€œMy son has built all this to remind me of my lifeand my small contribution to Chicago,” Grandpa said, only a little slurry. “I believe Chicago’s the finest city in the world.”
    â€œSo do I, sir,” Mr. McLeod said, close to Grandpa’s ear because the troops were making a racket and Grandpa’s hearing wasn’t great.
    â€œAre you a Chicago man?” Grandpa asked.
    â€œNo, sir,” Mr. McLeod said. “I’m from Council Bluffs, Iowa.”
    â€œThat where your people are?” Grandpa asked.
    â€œNo, sir. I lost my parents when I was a kid. I was fostered, and so I had many homes and none.”
    â€œThen you’re welcome in this one,” Grandpa said, and shifted his good eye to Uncle Paul.

12
    W e’d wanted to give Mr. McLeod a party on his last day. We’d given Argus a party, and we were still up to here with brownies. But the week got away. You could smell summer from here. Then it was Friday.
    The first bell had rung, and we were ready for our workout. But Russell Beale was missing.
    â€œHe’s not absent,” Raymond Petrovich said. “I saw him coming into school.”
    Mrs. Stanley sent Raymond and me to check the boys’ restroom. It was five minutes after the hour. You worry about sixth graders, but Raymond wasabout as tall as any of them. And there were two of us. Also, I was eleven. I’d had my birthday.
    We ducked into the nearest boys’ restroom, but it was empty. Then we thought we might as well check the one in the other wing. Andy was at his post by the front door. Mrs. Rosemary Kittinger’s replacement was at the desk.
    Russell was in the other restroom, watching the