Read Who Made Stevie Crye? for Free Online Page B

look at, twenty-some bright, black characters, a graffito as perplexing and impersonal as a scrawled obscenity. What I have written, Stevie thought, I have written:

    TYPEWRITERS ARE OBNIPOTENT.

VII
    “ Mom’s in a grumpy mood because she didn’t get a lick done all day,” Teddy said.
    “Is that why we’re having chicken potpies?” Marella asked.
    “The grumpiness I admit to,” Stevie said testily, stooping before the oven to peer at the potpies dripping beige lava on the burnt-black baking sheet. “What that has to do with our evening menu, though, escapes me. There’s nothing wrong with potpies, for God’s sake. They’re inexpensive, and reasonably nutritious, and you’ve both said you like them.”
    “Once in a while,” Teddy said.
    “ I don’t like them,” Marella corrected her mother, “ I never told you I liked them.”
    “And you always fix ’em when you’re in a grumpy mood, Mom. If you were feelin’ great and somebody served you one, you’d turn grumpy. That’s the way it is with you and potpies.”
    “Listen, buster, if anybody in this house served me anything , I’d turn a cartwheel for joy. As soon as basketball season’s over— season’ s a great word for it; you never even play any games—anyway, as soon as these nightly practice sessions are over, you can take over the chef’s duties.” One hand hidden in a padded glove, Stevie carried the baking sheet to the table and upended a potpie on each plate. “Beggars can’t be choosers, and fanny-sitters can’t be grousers. My alleged grumpiness does not revoke these hallowed rules, and I’m damn tired of hearing about it.”
    “It’s not alleged ,” Teddy said. “You admitted it yourself.”
    Stevie gave the boy a long withering look, and they ate for a while in silence. Marella, Stevie noticed, toyed with her dinner, plunging a fork into each tidbit of chicken and revolving it skeptically in front of her before either eating it or dislodging it from the tines beside her salad. Had she fully recovered from her virus? Her face looked drawn, almost transparently pale. As for the potpies, well, they would probably never elicit a rave review from Julia Child or Gourmet magazine, and Stevie began to feel sorry for the girl.
    “Why couldn’t you get anything done?” Teddy asked. “I thought those people Sam and Elsa know fixed your typewriter.”
    “The typewriter wouldn’t cooperate,” Marella said. “It’s fixed, but it wrote Mama a nasty note.”
    “I was being facetious, Marella. It just seemed the silly thing was acting up, resisting me. That’s the kind of day I had. Of course, being told how grumpy I am and having my delicious dinner insulted has improved my spirits so much that I may try to do some work this evening.”
    “Oh, Mama,” said Marella, crestfallen. “Please don’t.”
    “Why not? If you’d like to see sirloin strip on this table again, or even prime ground round, Mama’s gotta grind it out. Otherwise it’s vitamin bars and chicken tripe forever.”
    The children stared at her, uncomprehending.
    “That’s a sort of a joke, just to prove I’m not all that horrendously grumpy. Bars and tripe forever. Stars and stripes forever. See?”
    Marella said, “I wanted you to help me memorize my lines for our Fabulous February skit.”
    “You were home all day yesterday,” Stevie pointed out. “Why didn’t you mention your skit then? This is the first I’ve heard about it.”
    “She was having too much fun pretending to be sick.”
    “I was not!” Marella replied, glowering at Ted. “I forgot about it. Miss Kirkland reminded us today.”
    “Now who’s the grump?” Teddy said.
    Lord, thought Stevie. Spare me this persnickety hassle. I was almost coming out of it, but if these two get going, I’m liable to lapse and dump my potpie right into somebody’s lap.
    Blessedly, the telephone rang. Teddy left the table to answer it. “It’s for you, Mom,” he said, bringing her the receiver on