The Pantry Door by Julie Steimle (top 100 books of all time checklist TXT) 📕

goldfish bowls they were aiming for. She lifted the cloth to another booth selling pie then looked on both sides of the space ahead before darting straight to the stage where her grandmother was selling raffle tickets. Right there in the dirt, she ducked behind Grandma Schmidt and under the wooden stage.

“What’s this? Back already?” Grandma Schmidt lifted her arms peering back at Katy with the same surprise she would have if her granddaughter was hiding underneath her skirt.

Thomas Gibson tromped over that patch of grass, looking around, but avoiding Grandma Schmidt’s gaze with all the worry of guilt. He had that same shifty look the other Gibsons had, even though they were only cousins. When he stomped off again, Katy slipped out of her hole and whispered upward. “Can I just hide here for a while?”

Her grandmother sighed. She rested a hand on Katy’s head. “Is he picking on you?”

“He’s trying to kill me,” Katy said, ducking under the stage again.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Grandma Schmidt set her hands to her hips. She walked directly from the stage straight to where Thomas Gibson was now lifting up tablecloths to peek under them.

Over that distance, Katy watched her grandmother stick one of her fingers into the man’s face then verbally assault him with every stern word in her vocabulary. His tall figure hunched, backing up from her though he peered around to see if he could spot where Katy was hiding. Her grandmother’s shouts rose, even over the twang of the band that played with the fiddle whipping out a vigorous jig.

“…pick on a little girl! If your father were here, he’d be ashamed of you!”

His voice was too low for Katy to make out. The man hunched lower, but his drunken gaze searching the park said that if he got a hold of her, he would still flatten her.

“…Don’t make me bring out the secret weapon!” Grandma Schmidt shouted at him, lifting her chest up higher as she looked down on him.

“Ah, the old man is dead, Ma Schmidt! You can’t threaten me with that!”

Katy climbed out from her hiding place. There was something stirring in her as she watched her grandmother heft up her fat bag. Though Katy doubted her grandma would bring a gun to the park, the woman certainly did lift up the bag as if she’d clobber him with it. And Thomas Gibson stared at it as if she had. Katy crossed over to her grandmother and stood by her side.

“Tell me, Kathleen. Do you know how to play all your grandfather’s songs?” Grandma Schmidt asked her, peeking at her out of her corner of her eye without giving any space to the man that glared at her granddaughter when Katy arrived.

Though her lip trembled, Katy lifted up her chin like her grandma and said, “Every one.”

With a pert nod, Grandma Schmidt then said to Thomas Gibson, “There. You see now?”

Though Katy had no idea what their argument meant, she could see the effect it had on that Gibson man. He withdrew farther back and stared at Katy with a growing look of horror. But then he drew himself up and hefted his chin high so that he peered down his nose at Katy.

“So?” he said.

Katy’s grandma nodded to her. “And you can play every one of his instruments, right?”

Katy just blinked at her and shrugged this time. “You know I can.”

But that hit Thomas Gibson like a blow to the gut. He took a large step back. Then he pointed at Katy. “You—you’re a witch!”

Making a face, Katy shook her head. “You’re stupid.”

“Now, Katy, that’s not polite,” her grandma said, though she smiled at her.

Thomas Gibson retreated farther, his face going paler as he escaped across the grassy park to where his truck was parked. Katy watched him growing more and more befuddled with each step he took. However, he finally left her and her grandmother alone.

Grandma Schmidt turned and gazed down at Katy, setting a hand on her hip again. Disapproval as well as exhaustion rested on her wrinkled but usually kind face. “Ok, now what brought this on?”

Katy shrugged. Then when she saw her grandma was not convinced, she said, “I was helping Mr. Johnson tell the piper story is all. The guy told me to keep it quiet, and I told him—”

She then cringed.

“You mean to tell me you spoke rudely to him and made him angry?” Her grandmother sighed, resting her hand against her forehead. “Oh, Kathleen. What am I going to do with you?”

Kicking a worn part in the grass, Katy looked at her feet. “Nuthin’.”

Grandma’s soft hand rested on the back of her head. “My dear girl. One of these days you are going to have to learn to control that tongue of yours. Lucky for you he’s still scared of the Schmidts. I had to remind him who your grandpa was and who you are.”

“And who am I?” Katy murmured, wondering for herself. She felt so alone. All she wanted to do was go back home and talk to Nissa. But undoubtedly Nissa was at the Founders’ Day celebration in her magic world.

Her grandmother gently caressed the back of Katy’s hair. “You are your grandfather’s pride and joy.”

The Evening

 

Katy stayed by her grandmother for as long as it took to sell all the tickets. Then as a duo, they walked through the booths admiring the things on sale and buying a wrapped sandwich and some pie to eat as the day passed. There were games, eating, and a great deal of talking among the old folk. As the sun rose higher and the games and playing continued, Grandma Schmidt retired for a small nap in the story tent, expecting Katy to entertain herself on her own. To Katy, that only meant that she had to go out and risk getting jumped by a Gibson again. Katy decided to bite her tongue and stow away the clarinet for a while, venturing out to the playground where other children played.

Stepping to the sand from the grass, Katy found an empty swing and sat down. She rocked back and forth and back and forth until she noticed one of the kids from the story telling tent standing there. He gazed up at her with the same doe eyes as in the story tent, biting his lip as he peered at her face. Then his sister, Martha Sandberg, who lives just up the hill with all those pretty horses, arrived and looked at her in the same way.

“What?” Katy stared hard back at them, clutching the chains to her swing with a growing feeling of annoyance.

“Can you finish the story?” Martha asked. Her eyes begged it.

Katy blinked and then looked towards the tent. Mr. Johnson was out cold, leaning back in his lawn chair near her grandma. She heaved a sigh and shook her head. “Didn’t Mr. Johnson tell you the rest?”

“Not after you left. He told the story of Thumbellina. He said he can’t tell the Pied Piper without a piper.”

Rolling her eyes, Katy hung in her swing, leaning on the chain. “I don’t have my grandpa’s clarinet with me anymore.”

“So? Tell it anyway,” Martha said. Her eager smile grew wider. Two other boys came over and sat along the railroad tie that edged the sand box, nodding. They also wanted to hear it.

Drawing in another breath, Katy glanced around at the shadowed playground. Everything stood in the shade of the huge oak tree. It was around noon. The air was warm. And inside she felt a comfort that said why not tell it? It would do no harm. Some stories should never be left unfinished.

So, Katy heaved up her chest and nodded to the girl. “Ok, so when the town was so overrun with rats that the people were going crazy thinking that they would starve, they sent out a message throughout all the land that they would reward sixty gold pieces to the man who rid them of the rats.”

“Not a woman?” one of the older Gibson girls, asked, standing near the metal bar that held the swing set into the ground. Her face twisted in a sneer.

Meeting her eye, Katy nodded with a simple gesture. “Back then they didn’t have equal opportunity. We are talking about the dark ages here.”

Several of the girls laughed, even Carly Hillerman who stood next to that older Gibson girl. Katy’s insides tightened up. Averting her eyes to the younger children, she continued her story anyway, counting on the hecklers to ruin it all.

“Many men tried,” Katy said, “But in the end, no one could rid the town of Hamlin of the rats…until one morning when the sun rose over the mountains, they heard a tune.”

Katy whistled the tune. It was high and merry and straight from the Pied Piper’s Symphony. Several of the little kids clapped, waiting excitedly. Somebody said ‘boo’, but all the other children hushed him up.

“Standing near the town well where wild grapes grew—”

“Wild grapes grew? That’s stupid,” Carly said, sneering at Katy. “What? Did he come out of the well on the grapevine?”

“Hey! That’s how my grandpa tells it. And he wrote the symphony so shut up!” Katy shouted back.

Carly took a step towards Katy. “Don’t tell me to shut up!”

“Shut up!” the other kids listening shouted back at her.

Blinking, Carly took a step back. She glanced to her cousin who also hissed at her to be quiet.

“So,” Katy said louder, eying Carly before continuing. “Standing near the well where the wild grapes grew was a man all in patches with a long, shiny wooden pipe, playing a tune that made them all want to come out and meet him.”

Katy whistled a piece of the tune, not noticing that other children drew from the adults and stood closer to listen.

“The mayor hurried to the front of crowd, and with all authority asked him who he was and what his business was.” Katy gave a dramatic pause, nodding to the girl who had asked for the story. “Well the piper in patches said to the mayor that he heard about his problem, and for the agreed price of sixty silver coins, he would rid them of the rats. After they shook on it and the mayor agreed, the piper went immediately to work.”

Right away, Katy hummed and then whistled the tune that drew out all the rats in the story. Most in the area had heard it before, smiling as they heard it again. A couple dogs paused and jogged over, peering at Katy with tongues hanging out, panting in stares at her. Even a couple of birds landed on the bar above the swing, cocking their heads as she whistled the tune out. Then she stopped with a grin, feeling the eagerness of the little kids waiting on her every word. Her grandmother had woken up and listened with a smile, gazing towards the play yard—though Katy did not know it. Grandpa Schmidt used to say that the best part of music was seeing who was made happier by it.

“Every rat came out every hole,” Katy swiped her hand with flourish, showing how many rats dumped out from the houses. “Hundreds. Millions. Billions of rats crawled after him. And the piper walked