Hat Off, Ring, Hat On

"Ding." The little brass bell on Grandma Fen's gate post said its name out loud, and Ravi jumped. He was a small penguin in a blue knit hat that was two sizes too big, and the hat slid down over his eyes whenever he jumped. He pushed it up with one flipper. "That's the harbor bell," said Grandma Fen. "It tells the whole street it's evening."

Grandma Fen had flour on her flippers because a big pot of onion soup was bubbling on her stove, and she smelled of warm bread and wet pavement and something sweet. She came down the path and tapped the bell with one claw. "Ding," it said, round and warm as a spoon. "When it's dry, it says come in, come in," she said. "When it's wet, it only mumbles."

From the top of her steps you could see the whole waterfront. There was the boat shed with the crooked door, the inn with the blue paint, the long gray pier, and every house with its lamp in the window, waiting to be lit. Ravi liked standing there. The street felt like a big room with the rain outside it.

Ravi lived two doors down, in the tall house with the green door, and he could find his way home with his eyes shut, but he liked being at Grandma Fen's best. Her porch had a bench and a bell and always something warm inside.

"I need a bell keeper tonight," said Grandma Fen. "Every evening, when the harbor lamps come on, that bell rings to tell the street it's time to come in. I'm stirring soup for half the harbor, so the job is yours. Are you big enough for it?"

"I'm big enough," said Ravi. His hat slid down over his eyes. He pushed it up. "Big enough," said Mina from the gate. She was his big sister, and she had brought a tin of smooth stones to play with on the porch, because waiting is quicker with a game.

Grandma Fen pulled something soft from her apron: a little knitted cozy, small as a mouse, with a tiny button on top. "Hat on when it rains," she said. "Hat off to ring. Hat on again after. Promise me."

"Promise," said Ravi. He said it inside his head so he wouldn't forget, and it came out like a little song: hat off, ring, hat on. Hat off, ring, hat on.

Papa was on the porch bench with a mug of tea and his warm coat, so Ravi and Mina sat on the top step under the porch roof, where the drizzle couldn't reach them. Mina set out three tin cups and hid one smooth stone under a cup. "Left or middle?" she asked.

Ravi chose wrong. Mina chose wrong. They both giggled. "You peeked," said Mina. "I did not peek," said Ravi. "Your hat peeked. It slid down and peeked under." Ravi pushed his hat up and said, "My hat is a very bad penguin," and they giggled again.

Then the rain got serious. It came down tip-tap, tip-tap-tap on the porch roof and the path and the gate, and silver lines of it ran down the bell's little brass shoulders. "Hat on!" said Ravi, and he ran down the three wet steps, with Papa coming down the path beside him, and he set the cozy over the bell.

The bell looked snug and silly in its knitted hat. "Hmm," it said, muffled and low. "Just like Grandma said," said Ravi. "Mumbling."

Then he went back up and counted lamps. The first harbor lamp blinked on across the water, a warm gold square in a tall dark house. "One," said Ravi. Another came on higher up. "Two." Then three, four, five, squares of honey light in the wet blue evening, and the rain tapped on a hundred roofs around them.

"Three is the boat shed," said Ravi. "Four is the inn with the blue door." Counting was a good job for a bell keeper, he decided. It kept his flippers still and his mind busy and his eyes on the far end of the harbor, where the pier poked into the water like a long gray finger.

"When the lamp over the harbor steps winks on, that's the last one," Grandma Fen had said. "Ring then." So he watched, and Mina rolled a warm stone into his flipper so he could keep playing while he watched. Six came on. The rain tapped. The stones went click in the tin cups.

Then the wind arrived. Not a big wind, just a busy one, the kind that turns umbrellas inside out and pulls at loose scarves. It came whooping along the path, plucked the cozy right off the bell, and carried it tumbling, over and over like a small knitted bird.

The cozy landed by the gate, right next to the harbor cat. The harbor cat was gray, with wet whiskers and a wide, comfortable sit, and it did not get up for anybody. It looked at the cozy. It put one paw on it. "Oh no," said Ravi. "Oh no, oh no, oh no."

"Don't grab it," said Papa from the top of the steps. "Cats don't like grabbing. Be slow, and ask first." Mina was already running, and she came back with a ball of Grandma Fen's wool. "May we borrow it?" she called. Grandma Fen's voice came through the window: "Take the whole ball. That cat's been after it all week."

Mina rolled the wool down the path. It bounced, it wobbled, it rolled to a stop by the cat's nose. The cat's ears went up like two little flags. Then it stood, and away it went, batting the wool down the path in happy swooping loops, and there was the cozy on the step, free. Papa laughed so loud that the cat looked up.

Ravi picked up the cozy. It wasn't soft as a mouse anymore. It was heavy and drippy, soft as a wet sock, and when he put it back on the bell, the bell said, "Hmm." "It's still mumbling," said Mina.

Ravi thought about it. A soaking wet cozy would make the bell wet too, and then the bell would mumble all night, and the street wouldn't hear it, and that would be a promise gone wrong. He needed something dry to put over the bell. Then he looked at his own hat.

He pulled off his blue knit hat. It came off easily, being two sizes too big, and he pulled it over the bell instead, and the pom-pom sat on top like a cherry on a bun. "There," he said. The rain was cold on his ears, but penguins don't mind a little rain.

"Ravi," said Mina. "Your hat. Your ears." "The bell needs it more," said Ravi. "And penguins are waterproof, mostly." He wiggled his ears to show her they were fine.

That was when the last lamp winked on, far away at the end of the pier, one small square of gold at the edge of the water. "That's seven!" said Mina. "That's the last one! Ravi, that's the last one, go!"

Ravi ran down the path with Papa beside him. He pulled his own blue hat off the bell, took hold of the little cord, and his heart went tap, tap, tap. "Hat off," he said. "Ring." He pulled.

"Ding!" said the bell. It said it clear and round and bright, the way Grandma Fen said it should, and the sound rolled out over the wet street and the harbor and all the roofs. "Come in, come in," said the bell. "Come in, come in."

Up and down the street, doors opened. Someone laughed. Someone called, "Soup's on at Fen's!" Hoods and hats came bobbing down the path in the rain, and the inn keeper came with his apron on, and the boat shed family came with their spoons already out. And Grandma Fen came too, with her red shawl and her ladle, and she stopped and looked at her bell, wearing Ravi's blue hat.

"Ravi," she said. "Did you ring my bell?" "Hat off, ring, hat on," said Ravi. "But the cozy got wet, so I used my hat instead." He reached up to push his hat out of his eyes and found nothing there at all, and everybody laughed, the kind way.

Grandma Fen took the wet cozy and folded it into her apron pocket. "Come in, come in," she said, just like the bell. "Both of you, before your ears turn into ice cubes."

People dripped on the mat and shook out their umbrellas and said hello to everybody. The whole street smelled of onion and toast and wet wool, which is a very good smell on a rainy evening.

Inside, her kitchen was gold and warm and full of onion smell. The soup went clink-clink into bowls, and the toast floated on top like little rafts. Ravi held his bowl with both flippers and his ears stopped feeling like cold pennies. "Penguins are waterproof," he told the inn keeper, "but soup is better."

The harbor cat was asleep in the corner on the whole ball of wool, which was a terrible mess, and nobody minded. Grandma Fen filled Ravi's bowl again and said, "Tomorrow evening, bell keeper?" and Ravi said, "Yes," so fast that soup nearly jumped out of the bowl.

Later, the rain softened to a whisper, and Papa walked them home, two doors down. Grandma Fen lent Ravi a dry hat for the walk, and it was even bigger than his own, and it slid down over his nose, and Mina laughed all the way to their gate.

In his bed, Ravi listened. The rain went tap, tip-tap-tap on the roof above him, soft and steady. One window across the harbor was still warm and gold, and then it went dark, and then another went dark, one by one, until the whole harbor was blue and quiet.

He could still hear it inside his head, that one clear note, round as a spoon. Come in, come in. Softer and softer it went, until it was only a hum, and the hum was only the rain, and the rain was only sleepy.

Ravi's eyes grew heavy as two smooth stones. The last lamp in the harbor went dark. And the bell keeper of Rainy Steps slept, with his ears warm and his hat on loan to a bell.