Anastasia Krupnik by Lois Lowry

Author:Lois Lowry
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Humor, Childrens, Purchased From Amazon by GB
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Published: 1979-10-24T04:00:00+00:00

“The Macy’s parade is the most boring thing I have ever seen,” said Anastasia gloomily, “and I hate Thanksgiving.”

Her mother opened the oven door, poked a fork into the turkey skin so that juice ran out and made a hissing noise. “You like turkey,” she said.

“Yeah. But we could have turkey any time. I hate the Macy’s parade, and after that I hate the football games, and also I hate pumpkin pie. Why do you have to make pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving? Is there a rule somewhere that you have to make pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving? If you want to know the truth, pumpkin pie smells like throw-up. It’s gross.”

“Anastasia Krupnik, you are being gross, and if you don’t get out of this kitchen I’m going to throw something at you, maybe a pumpkin pie. Go. Go talk to your grandmother.”

Anastasia muttered something as she left the kitchen.

“What did you say?” her mother called.

“Nothing,” she called back. What she had muttered was, “I hate my grandmother.”

Anastasia’s grandmother was ninety-two. Nobody else’s grandmother was ninety-two. Robert Giannini’s grandmother was fifty; she played the Hammond Organ in a bar and lounge. She wore false eyelashes, Robert said, and called out, “All riiiight,” when the TV showed closeups of the cheerleaders during Thanksgiving football games.

Jennifer MacCauley’s grandmother was fat, worked in a bakery, and brought home all the unsold cookies at the end of each day. “Weight Watchers here I come,” Jennifer MacCauley’s grandmother always said, and laughed.

But Anastasia’s grandmother was ninety-two and lived in a nursing home. The wrinkles on the side of her mouth were scabby. She talked with her mouth full, and what she said usually didn’t make any sense, and there were food spots on the front of her dress.

She made Anastasia feel sad, and scared. Who needed that?

Anastasia wandered into the living room where her father was asleep on the couch with the Boston Globe open across his chest. In the corner by the window, her grandmother sat in a big chair, smoothing her dress across her lap over and over again with her thin hands. There were veins like cat’s cradles pulled tight on the backs of her hands.

Anastasia sighed, sat down on the floor beside her grandmother, and said, “Hello, Grandmother,” politely. She had already said hello four times since her father had brought her from the nursing home. But her grandmother forgot things.

The scary, clawlike hands smoothed her hair. Funny how soft and nice that felt. If she didn’t look at the hands it was okay. If she just looked at her grandmother’s moist, kind eyes, everything seemed almost okay.

“What’s your name? You have such pretty hair.”

“Anastasia.” She had already told her that, again and again. Most people remembered their grandchildren’s names, she thought angrily, and also their birthdays.

“My boy’s hair is this color. His name is Myron,” said the old woman.

For pete’s sake, thought Anastasia. Myron is forty-five years old, asleep on the couch, and he’s bald.

“Myron is a good boy,” her grandmother said dreamily.

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