An Ocean in Iowa Read Online Free Page A

where Claire and Maggie practiced for their weekly lessons.
    The day they moved in, Joan had her daughters stand with their backs to the kitchen closet door. Resting a book on their heads, she drew lines that recorded their height. When Scotty could stand, she included him. Throughout the years, the marks climbed the door, becoming, as the Judge liked to say, “evidence that big things are happening.”
    The living room had a large picture window, which Joan decided was perfect for displaying the artwork of her children. During those first years, watercolor paintings and crayon drawings were taped in the window for all the neighbors to see.
    One summer Claire made a snow scene out of construction paper, gluing tiny paper flakes to the page, coloring in a snowmanand two girls pulling a boy on a sled. Joan hung Claire’s creation in the window even though it was only June.
    “Mom,” Claire protested, “don’t put it up now.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because it’s summer.”
    “People need to be reminded of winter. Winter is coming.”
    “Mom!”
    “There’s nothing worse than art that no one sees.”
    While Joan was out running errands, an embarrassed Claire took the snow scene down and hid it under the basement stairs. But Joan hunted it down and returned it to its rightful spot. Claire considered tearing it to pieces, but decided against it when she realized Joan would painstakingly tape it back together. The snow scene remained displayed in the window.
    While other children filled in their coloring books, getting praise for staying in between the lines, the Ocean kids could be found painting their driveway, no lines or requirements. “Just paint!” Joan would shout. She’d supply them with water-soluble paints or colored pieces of chalk and turn them loose. On most days, primitive images, oftentimes resembling cave drawings, covered their driveway. They might trace each other, kiddie crime scenes with a rainbow of colors. On an average summer day all three Ocean children would be busy creating.
    But the day of Scotty’s party was not your average day.
    The driveway had been rinsed clean the day before in anticipation of the party guests. A painted sheet hung across the garage door: SCOTTY = 7 . A second banner covered the picture window with HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SCOTTY followed by three exclamation points. A cluster of multicolored balloons had been tied to the infamous mailbox, indicating that if you were looking for a party, you had come to the right place.
    The invited guests included Scotty’s best friends of the moment—David Bumgartner and Dan Burkhett. Other about-to-be second graders, Craig Hunt, Richard Hibbs, and Jimmy Lamson, came, too. Even Tom Conway from down the street was invited, at Joan’s insistence, because Tom, Scotty’s least favorite friend of the moment, was a neighbor, and he would see the other kids arriving, Joan said, and it would hurt his feelings. “And we don’t want to hurt Tom’s feelings, do we?”
    Yes, we do, Scotty thought.
    “There is nothing worse,” Joan said, “than deliberate cruelty.”
    So when he opened the front door and found Tom Conway’s chubby face and crooked smile staring at him through the screen, Scotty tried to be nice.
    Tom held up a large square gift-wrapped box. “Happy birthday,” he mumbled. Tom’s gift was wrapped in the peach-colored sports page section of the
Des Moines Sunday Register.
The box was surprisingly light.
    Scotty shook it but he heard nothing.
    “Invite him in,” Joan whispered to Scotty, who reluctantly ushered his neighbor inside.
    ***
    In the kitchen Claire was mixing a pitcher of grape Kool-Aid. She whispered, “Of course,
he
would be first.” Claire often seemed to articulate Scotty’s feelings before he even knew he felt them.
    Scotty said, “Yeah,” and extending a paper cup, he waited for Claire to pour.
    “And what do you bet, Scotty, he’ll be the last one here.”
    “Yeah,” said Scotty, looking out the