All About Sam Read Free

much more interesting than the thing that hung over his crib in the pan tree.
    He could hear footsteps. He knew they were Anastasia's footsteps. Hers were noisy, and they had dangling shoelaces flapping, unlike his mom's softer steps or his dad's firm, big ones.
    Sam waited. He smiled, waiting, under the green chair.
    Then the footsteps stopped—they were quite close to him—and he heard Anastasia scream. "Mom! Sam's gone!"
    He heard his mom's soft footsteps coming very fast. He waited quietly, smiling to himself.
    "He was here ten minutes ago!" he heard Anastasia say. "He's been kidnapped! Someone climbed in the window and stole him!"
    "That's impossible," he heard his mom say in a worried voice.
    Anastasia wailed, "He's been kidnapped! Someone climbed in the window and stole him! Look for a ransom note!"
    "Don't be foolish," his mom's voice said, but it sounded very nervous.
    "Here! Here's a ransom note, right here on the desk! You read it, Mom. I can't bear to. It says steak, right at the top. They'll return Sam if we give them steak. Read it, and then call the FBI immediately."
    "That's my grocery list," Mom said. "Don't be ridiculous. Is your dad home? Did he come in the back door, and I didn't notice? Myron? Are you home? Do you have Sam?"
    "Mom!" Anastasia begged. "
Do
something!"
    Under the chair, Sam grinned. He had never caused such a commotion before, not even the night last week when his ear ached and he cried for a whole hour.
    He watched their feet, and he listened to their voices with interest. Finally, he laughed out loud, pushed hard with his arm, leaned, and rolled out from under the chair.
    Anastasia and Mom burst out laughing. Mom knelt, picked him up, said "Silly old Sam," and blurble blurbled into his neck, mixing the blur-bles with kisses.
    Gotcha, Sam thought with delight.

    Sam was frustrated.
    He couldn't make them understand what he was saying. His mouth didn't work right. He would try very hard to call politely to them, "I want my diaper changed," or "I woke up from my nap and I am very lonely here in the pan tree," but it always came out sounding like "Waahhh."
    Or he would try to say, "Another spoonful of those mushed-up peaches-and-tapioca, please," but it would sound like "Phhhhfft," and the peaches-and-tapioca in his mouth would fly out and wind up on his stomach and his feet.
    He could understand what
they
said. Every word. At least, he could understand what his family said: his mom, his dad, and Anastasia, his sister.
    Strangers were something different. They spoke another language, apparently. Strangers sometimes leaned over his crib or his carriage and said things like "Ba-ba, boo-boo" or "kootchy kootchy," and none of that made any sense at all, so he just smiled politely or stared at them with a puzzled look.
    Once—only once—did it come out right. His mom had been feeding him, and it was strained apricots, one of his favorites. He wanted more. Lots more, right away. While he was trying to say that, but saying "Phhhfft" instead, she gave him another spoonful. So Sam smiled and said thank you. And it worked. It sounded like "Tattoo," but his mom understood, and she clapped her hands and called, "Myron! Anastasia! Come quickly!"
    They came running, both of them, and Mom said, "Sam said 'thank you' when I gave him a bite of apricots!"
    Dad and Anastasia both frowned and stared at Sam.
    "Impossible," Dad said.
    Sam wiggled around so that his little tilted chair bounced up and down. He waved his arms. He grinned. "I did! I really did!" he said. But it sounded like, "Blah, blah, blurb," and darn it all, he lost the whole bite of apricots, right down his bib.
    "He really did," mom said.
    Dad and Anastasia both laughed. "Give us a break, Mom," Anastasia said, and she poked a finger in Sam's armpit for a tickle.
    "Another few months, Katherine," Dad said. "
Then
he'll start talking."

    Now another few months had passed. He had some teeth now. Sometimes he bit his own finger by