Free The Quilt by Gary Paulsen Page B

songs that made Clair blush, even though when they weren't laughing she sang along.
    The wallpaper never did get pasted to the walls, and instead his grandmother and Clair sat in the kitchen and talked about when they were young. The boy sat listening because they laughed the whole time they talked, and he thought how much fun they must have had when they were young.
    “I should have married Clarence,” Clair said once.
    “He didn't ask you,” his grandmother said, laughing, “he asked me. And I married him. You married Sven, remember?”
    “Yes, Alida,” Clair said, “but Sven was weak and Clarence was strong.”
    “You had three sons with Sven before he died.”
    “But you had four, Alida, and four daughters, before Clarence passed on….”
    “That's true. But even so, you loved Sven, didn't you?”
    “Sven was a poet,” Clair said, nodding, but then she smiled and added, “But poets don't always get the wood cut, if you know what I mean.”
    And his grandmother laughed and blushed and said, “Oh, you, Clair, you're terrible!”
    And they laughed and laughed, sipping the sticky wine, and the boy didn't understand most of what they said. As the evening came on he kept closing his eyes and opening them more slowly, and he finally felt himself being carried to bed and thought if his mother was this way when she drank he would not mind it so much.
    The next morning the sound of his grandmother slamming pans in the kitchen woke him up and he went out in his pajamas to see her making pancakes.
    “This morning,” she said, all smiles, “we are having buttermilk pancakes fried in bear grease with honey on top.”
    “What's bear grease?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.
    “It's grease made from bears. Clair brought two quarts of it over when she came to help with the papering and I thought you might like to taste pancakes made with it. It's the very best for pancakes and doughnuts and rubbing on your boots.”
    And while he tried to think of how you could getgrease from a bear or why you would use it for pancakes or doughnuts or why you would rub it on your boots, his grandmother's ring came from the phone hanging on the wall.
    He loved the party line. In the city everybody had their own private phone but here all the phones were on the same line and each had their own special ring. His grandmother's ring was a short, a long and then another short, but they heard all the rings and often his grandmother would put her hand over the mouthpiece and hold the earpiece to her ear and listen in on other people's conversations.
    It was called rubbernecking, and he loved it even though his grandmother said it was wrong.
    “But you do it,” he said.
    “Yes, but it's still wrong, and it's very wrong for you, my little Norwegian.”
    But this time the ring was for her and she wiped the flour from her hands and took the earpiece from the hook on the side and rose on her toes to reach the mouthpiece.
    “Hello, yes, this is Alida!” She always yelled in thetelephone and she started every sentence with “Hello, yes,” as if she needed to constantly reestablish that she was still there listening. “Hello, yes, Kristina, go ahead!”
    The boy heard only the one side, though he listened hard.
    “Hello, yes, I see.”
    And: “Hello, yes, that will be fine. How soon?”
    And: “Hello, yes, I'll have to get Elmer to give us a ride out. It depends on his truck. With the gas rationing he has to run it on tractor fuel and sometimes he can't keep it running. We'll see you when we see you.”
    She listened again, then: “Hello, yes, there's no problem. He's a good boy and no trouble. Yes, then, we'll see you.”
    And she hung up and turned to the boy and smiled and said, “We're going to go spend some time with Kristina. Her man is off in the war and she needs some help on her farm.”
    Which is how it happened that the boy learned of the quilt.

The boy had not been raised on a farm. Most of his life he had been in Minneapolis,