Dotty’s Suitcase Read Online Free PDF

own.”
    â€œEven if I don’t go anywhere,” Dotty said, raising her head to look at him, “it wouldn’t matter. I’d have it waiting in case I ever did go someplace. I’d put it under my bed,” she told her father, “and I’d take it out and look at it every night before I went to sleep, and keep it polished so I could see my face in it.” She sighed and put her head against her father’s cheek. “And if I can’t have a suitcase,” she whispered into his ear, “I’d like to be pretty.”
    Mr. Fickett closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the chair. He cleared his throat, and after a minute he opened his eyes and looked at her, wordless. She put up her hand and stroked his cheek.
    â€œBut a suitcase is my first choice,” she said.

CHAPTER 6
    In the night Mr. Kimball’s pigs woke dotty with their yelling. She lay with her hands behind her head and thought about the sound of the door closing in the empty house. If Olive had been there, she would’ve barged in, hollering, “Who’s there?”, her red hair standing up as if charged with electricity, eyes flashing, fists clenched. Olive knew no fear. Instead, Olive lay tidily asleep in her four-poster bed over in Boonville, and neither the sound of pigs nor of doors closing disturbed her dreams.
    You write me, you old Olive. You better. I know a stamp costs three cents. But you write me.
    The pigs kept up their squealing. That meant a blizzard was on its way. Uncle Tom said that and he was usually right. Uncle Tom was an authority on all of nature’s weather signals. Pigs making a racket meant a blizzard, spider webs shining in the sunset meant a frost, frogs croaking in the rain meant warm, dry weather. Lots more.
    Suppose the bank robber was hiding down cellar. Suppose he’d snuck in while Dotty was seeing Aunt Martha home. Most likely he was sitting down there, filling his stomach with last summer’s preserves. Dotty got so mad at the thought that she turned back the covers and stuck out her foot. She’d fix him. It was cold out there. She dropped back to think things over and was asleep before her head hit the pillow.
    Early next day, before the rest were awake, she crept to the cellar door and listened. There was no one there. She felt it in her bones. Just as well. She didn’t feel much like doing battle. Funny how the morning took care of a lot of things. On her way to the bathroom she saw her father sitting on the edge of his bed, putting something inside his shoe. His shoulders were bent and tired looking, even this early in the day. Poor Daddy. There had never been a time in Dotty’s memory when he hadn’t been worried about money. The depression touched everyone, and although Mr. Roosevelt was President and lots of folks, except rich ones, had faith in him, he was only a man, not a miracle worker. Dotty never missed one of his fireside chats. The entire family huddled around the radio as if it were a huge, bright fire, and listened eagerly to the sound of his beautiful, persuasive voice, telling Americans that things were bound to get better. He sounded so vigorous and hopeful, so confident and sure of himself that just listening to him made her feel better. Mr. Fickett looked ten years younger while listening to Franklin Roosevelt tell how he was going to put the nation back on its feet. It was only after the radio had been turned off that his face fell into its familiar patterns.
    Dotty sighed deeply, thinking about money and how too little of it wore people down and out. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have enough money or—praise be!—too much. If there was such a thing.
    Her father raised his head and looked at her, startled.
    â€œI didn’t know you were awake,” he said.
    â€œWhat’re you doing?” She watched while he put on one shoe and tied it. Then he picked up the other one and she