Some Luck Read Online Free PDF Page B

“Now, he did not let me ride Uncle Leon’s Clydesdales, but the Percherons …”
    Underneath Frank, the warm, rounded gray surface rippled and moved, and Eloise took both of his hands in hers and put them into the hair, and said, “Hold on, Frankie,” and so he gripped that hair. He could feel her through his suit, hard against his back and shoulders. In front of him rose a monumental gray shape that ended in two points, and then the gray shape shifted and they were moving forward. Frank loved moving forward—didn’t matter, wagon, buggy, cultivator. He threw his arms into the air, but Eloise was still holding him. Papa’shead stayed right there in front of him as the horse moved, but when he turned to look at her, he saw that Mama was smaller, her hands on her hips. All the animals stared—the sheep and the cows and the other horse. The rooster flew down from his perch, lifting his wings and making a squawk. “Good boy,” said Papa.

1922

    A T THE SUPPER TABLE , Ragnar, Eloise, and Papa sat up straight, and Frank sat up straight, too. Ragnar, Eloise, and Papa never got up from the table during supper, and Frank stayed in his seat, too. Ragnar, Eloise, and Papa never wiggled in their chairs. Frank wiggled in his chair. Ragnar, Eloise, and Papa picked up their forks and knives and cut their sausage. Frank pressed the back of his spoon into his sweet potato, lifted it out, and pressed it in again. “Eat some, Frankie,” said Eloise, and Frank inserted the tip of his spoon into the orange mound and lifted it. A bit adhered to the spoon, and Frank brought it to his mouth. “Good boy,” said Papa.
    “Ja, jeg elske søt poteter, når det er alt det er,” said Ragnar.
    “Ragnar may not like the rabbit sausage,” said Papa, “but I do. Always have. One thing, Eloise, that you should remember is that a farmer doesn’t have to grow and sell everything he eats. There’s a whole world out there.”
    “I like pheasant,” said Eloise.
    “Me, too,” said Papa. “You go out into the cornfield after the harvest, and the pheasants are there pecking at the dropped kernels. When I was a boy, we got them with our slingshots, just for fun. And for supper.”
    Frank put his finger on the bit of sausage and then picked it up andput it in his mouth. It was bitter, not like the sweet potatoes. He made a face, but then he picked up another bit.
    “He’ll eat about anything,” said Papa. “That’s a good quality in a farmer. When I was in France, that was a place where they eat anything that moves or grows. I admired that.”
    “Did you eat a snail?” said Eloise.
    “Lucky to eat a snail,” said Papa. “Little fish with the heads on, fried up hard. Didn’t like that so much. Their animals eat about anything, too. Pumpkins. Turnips. Beer. Saw a man give his horse a beer.”
    “Do they have beer in France?” said Eloise.
    “Up north, where we were, they do,” said Papa.
    “How long were you there?” said Eloise.
    “Less than a year; wished I’d stayed longer and seen some different parts.”
    Where was Mama? Frank’s thoughts returned to this. He thought maybe she was upstairs. Although Frank could climb the stairs and come back down without falling, Papa had blocked them off. He hadn’t seen Mama in a long time, though sometimes he heard her voice floating in the air.
    Frank said, “Mama!”
    “Can’t go to Mama yet,” said Papa. “But Granny’ll be down in a bit.”
    “Mama,” said Frank.
    Eloise, who was sitting closest to him, pointed with her fork to his sausage. She said, “It’s good for you. Make you big and strong.”
    Frank gripped the spoon more tightly in his hand, raised his arm, and brought the spoon down on the mound of sweet potatoes. The mound jumped.
    “No,” said Papa.
    “No,” said Frank.
    “Eat your food,” said Papa. “You’re old enough to eat what’s on there.”
    Ragnar and Eloise looked at each other. Ragnar cleared his throat. “Jeg skjønner en tantrum