Dicey's Song: Chapters 4–8

She looked around the dinner table at the three subdued faces and the one wary one.

Some of the people were hurrying on, as if they had a lot to do and not much time. Others were meandering about, stopping at store windows, as if they had a whole day to kill.

They stood in front of a small table covered with wool, while Gram touched the skeins of yarn and made “hnm” sounds.

At that moment their sandwiches were put down in front of them. Dicey looked at hers, four triangles of toast layered with turkey and bacon, lettuce and tomato, like rock strata on cliffs.

It had been the same way with the big kerosene stove they used to heat their drafty cabin back up home, in Provincetown.

She told them what Maybeth’s teacher had said, and the notion she and Dicey shared about Maybeth not being able to learn the way this school taught reading.

Dust motes danced lazily up and down in the light.

Miss Eversleigh stood in front of the class wearing her usual dark suit and usual nylon blouse with her usual pin on the lapel of her jacket.

She was glad he had a friend, but she had the feeling that he wasn’t going to do much to help Maybeth, feeling the way he did. Her foreboding was correct.

He talked and talked, about the different ways of teaching and the theories behind them. He used words she’d never heard before: dyslexia, dysgraphia, remediation, word recognition, effective learning, affective learning.

He talked and talked, about the different ways of teaching and the theories behind them. He used words she’d never heard before: dyslexia, dysgraphia, remediation, word recognition, effective learning, affective learning.

He talked and talked, about the different ways of teaching and the theories behind them. He used words she’d never heard before: dyslexia, dysgraphia, remediation, word recognition, effective learning, affective learning.

He talked and talked, about the different ways of teaching and the theories behind them. He used words she’d never heard before: dyslexia, dysgraphia, remediation, word recognition, effective learning, affective learning.

But I think—for years and years they taught using the phonic method. Remember, Dicey? Where you learn what the letters and phonemes and blends say, and you sound out words.

How would you pronounce that? Dicey wondered idly, listening, remembering the phonemes James talked about with Maybeth.

He carried his guitar slung over his back, like a minstrel out of Robin Hood.

“I guess we called her pert,” she said, with a smile moving her thick features.

Millie stopped talking, and didn’t recommence, although Dicey waited a good while.

A chicken was roasting in the oven, and Maybeth had to get up to baste it every now and then, which gave James a chance to report to Dicey.

She could see each individual brick on the old building, as if the cold made each brick contract into itself.

She stared at Mr. Chappelle’s pale, impassive face as he read about Momma.

In the first place, her tongue felt like it was frozen solid, and her head was a block of ice, and all the blood in her body had chilled and congealed.

“What I primarily resent is the deceitfulness of it, the cheap trickery, the lies,” Mr. Chappelle declared.

Certainly the sky had that heavy, leaden look to it.

His eyes were set far apart, the way Momma’s and Maybeth’s were, and his yellow hair straggled over onto his forehead.

His face was oval and tapered down to a small chin.

What Dicey thought, leaning back against her chair, her stomach stretched taut, was that the chestnuts were worth the trouble, the whole meal was worth the trouble.

For a piercing instant, Dicey longed for Momma to be with them, sitting on the other side of Sammy, to complete the picture.

Mr. Lingerle lifted his face and halted his laden fork at mid-journey to his mouth.

Each of the many ounces of flesh that made up his body seemed to emanate comfort, contentment, good will.

So they dashed back down the path, to join the two adults, who moved more sedately.

The cold weather had been nudged aside by an unexpectedly balmy day.

Sunlight poured warm out of a cloudless sky; the breeze blew gently, wafting the warm air around.

The two earnest, intelligent faces looked at Jeff.

They sang together: “Someone beckons me from heaven’s open door, and I can’t feel at home in this world, any mo-ore.”