Wrestling with Tom Sawyer

by L. L. Samson

  Aunt Portia and Ophelia had painted the kitchen a brilliant lime green a couple of weeks before. The cabinets were now a citrusy yellow, and all of the wooden chairs had been painted their own bright colors: sunset orange, strawberry, plum, petal pink, lavender, and aquamarine.

  Aunt Portia entered the kitchen and sat next to Tom (who’d chosen to sit in the plum chair, by the way). “Well, well! Who have we here?” she trilled. When somebody trills, they’re speaking in a higher tone than usual. So that puts Portia’s normally high voice somewhere near Sirius (the brightest star in the night sky).

  Ophelia reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a jug of milk. “Oh, it’s just Tom Sawyer,” she said nonchalantly (casually, as if what she was talking about was a boring, everyday occurrence like watching cartoons or playing video games).

  Aunt Portia clapped her hands, and her abundant rings jangled together like pennies in a coin purse. “Well, how utterly delightful!” She turned to Tom and laid a hand on his arm. He regarded her as one regards a force of nature, intriguing but uncontrollable. “So tell me, Tom. Is Becky Thatcher as pretty as everyone says?”

  If her question surprised Tom, he didn’t show it. “Oh, yes ma’am! Prettier even! She’s just about the prettiest girl you ever saw!”

  “Seen,” said Ophelia. “You’ve ever seen.”

  “Seen,” repeated Tom. “S-E-E-N. Seen.”

  Aunt Portia giggled.

  Ophelia procured a glass from the cabinet over the sink. “That’s not helping, Aunt Portia. That boy’s grammar is atrocious.”

  “Atrocious,” said Tom. “A-T-R-O-C-I-O-U-S. Atrocious.”

  “Well, you can’t say that about his spelling, Ophelia. Would you mind frying me up a piece of that ham?”

  “Not at all.” Ophelia poured the milk and set the glass by Tom’s plate. “Why do you keep spelling everything?”

  “Is you my teacher or ain’t you?” Tom chugged half of the cold milk.

  “Are you my teacher or aren’t you?” corrected Ophelia, dragging out the platter of leftover party ham from the fridge yet again. She remembered watching Walter slice it and felt her heart warm.

  “I ain’t your teacher!”

  Aunt Portia giggled again.

  “Well?” asked Tom.

  Ophelia peeled the cellophane off the plate and stabbed two pieces of ham with a serving fork. “I guess so. Yes. Yes, I am your teacher.”

  “Then if you don’t care about my spelling, I reckon nobody else will give a nevermind what I says, either ways.”

  Ophelia had absolutely no idea what to do with that sentence. She arranged the ham slices in the cast iron pan.

  Thankfully, Aunt Portia came to the rescue, albeit with unsettling news. “Four more books were missing this morning. I have no idea what to do.”

  “Really?” asked Ophelia. “So many people were here for the party. Do you think it could have been one of the guests?”

  “Heavens, I hope not!”

  “Or maybe the burglar was using the party as cover,” Ophelia suggested.

  “Now, that I can believe,” said Aunt Portia.

  Tom looked up from his food. “You got you a thief afoot in these parts?”

  Ophelia let that slide. “Yes, unfortunately.”

  “I knowed a thief once. Stole all sorts of things. Likker. Treasure. Most everything.”

  “Injun Joe?” asked Ophelia.

  Tom slapped the table. “Don’t tell me you know ‘im too? Well, I reckon I must not be too far from home, then.”

  “I know way more than you think and a whole lot more than you’d like, Tom Sawyer.” Ophelia flipped the ham.

  By the time Aunt Portia’s ham finished cooking, Tom’s plate was cleaner than my kitchen sink. (I just employed what is called hyperbole or exaggeration. Nothing is cleaner than my kitchen sink.)

  Tom perched on Ophelia’s favorite park bench and gazed out over the Bard River. The water, reflecting the trees on its banks and the sky overhead, rambled along at a slower pace knowing that cold weather was just around the corner.

  Just a moment. Let’s be honest, shall we? That river didn’t know any such thing. I was employing a literary device known as personification. Another fancy word for this concept is anthropomorphism. Say that three times fast! This concept means one assigns human qualities to otherwise nonhuman objects. A good example of this is the saying, “Even the walls have ears.” I cannot speak for your walls, but mine can’t hear a blessed thing. It simply means, “Be careful what you say; anybody and everybody could be listening in.” If you ever find yourself trapped in the pages of George Orwell’s dystopian novel (a story set in a world no sane person would wish to inhabit) titled 1984, you’ll know precisely what I mean.

  Ophelia had just tried her best to explain Tom’s current situation.

  “I ain’t real?” he asked.

  “Of course you are. As real as I am. See?” She ran her hand over her bare forearm, then Tom’s. He’d been delighted by the fashions of the day: comfy shorts and a soft T-shirt with short sleeves. “A feller could get used to such,” he’d said with a grin after his bath.

  “I don’t reckon I’m real if I started in the mind of a book writer—ouch!”

  Ophelia had pinched his arm. “See?” she said.

  He glared at her, rubbing the sore spot.

  “So let’s have as much fun as we can until you have to go back. Okay?”

  Tom slumped down on the bench and crossed his arms over his bony chest. “I reckon. I ain’t going to give you no lip about it, neither.”

  “I’m not going to give you any lip about it.”

  Tom wondered if he’d ever use a state of being verb again. Only he didn’t think of it in those words exactly. A state of being verb merely implies existence. Am. Is. Was. Were. Can you am? Can you is? Can you was? Can you were? You cannot help but do so! Terrific, isn’t it? Your mom might say, “Why are you sitting around doing nothing?” Well, you can confidently know that you’re busy just being. It may not seem like much, but it certainly beats the alternative. (Think about it.)

  “And you say I get to go home?”

  “Yes. The day after tomorrow.”

  “I reckon it’ll be fine.” He leaned over, picked up a pebble, and hurled it into the Bard.

  “Let’s go see Father Lou,” said Ophelia.

  Just then, the angry shouting of older boys drew their attention toward the middle of the park.

  “A fight!” Tom sprung to his feet and sprinted forward in such a flash that Ophelia had no time to catch him.

  “Tom! Don’t!” she cried, hoping to grab him before he picked up a big sack of trouble.

  Impossible.

  Tom Sawyer had perfected the art of being “almost caught.” In other words, he could ascertain (figure out) the very last second before getting away, and he could run faster than almost anybody in St. Petersburg (Missouri, not Russia), his hometown. (Mark Twain doesn’t say so; I just like to think that he could.)

  “Beware The Black Avenger of the Spanish Main!” he cried, flinging himself into the fray without a moment’s hesitation.

  Ophelia dabbed a wet washcloth over the angry abrasion on Tom’s forehead. “Your tussle with Walter should have given you a clue, Tom.”

  Walter nodded, sitting on the edge of the tub. “Those blokes were almost twice your age, mate.”

  “Much obliged to you, Walter,” Tom said, perched on the closed lid of the commode (toilet).

  Using his martial arts skills, Walter had broken up the fight without hurting anybody too seriously. Tom had provided the chance he’d been waiting for since joining Mr. Yang’s class. He pushed playfully at the side of Tom’s head.

  “Clearly, they weren’t playing at pirates,” said Ophelia.

  Tom winced. “If Joe had been there …” Tom was referring to his best friend Joe Harper, a.k.a. (also known as) The Terror of the Seas.

  “We’d be cleaning him up too,” said Ophelia. She laid aside the w
ashcloth. “There! Almost as good as new.”

  “Notwithstanding the black eye he’ll have when he wakes up tomorrow,” said Walter. “If you’re absolutely keen on getting into fights, mate, come get me first.”

  “Sounds like a mighty good idea.” Tom rubbed a tender spot on the back of his head.

  “You have to give him credit, though,” Ophelia said, gathering up the first aid supplies, “he hung in there for a long time, considering how little he is.”

  “I ain’t little.” Tom sulked.

  “Aren’t. Aren’t little.” Ophelia left the bathroom.

  Walter’s eyes met Tom’s.

  “She always so bossy?” asked Tom.

  “I’m afraid so, mate. You’ll get used to it. You have to. Or else it will drive you crazy.” Walter paused and thought about the Ophelia he’d come to know. “She really does care, which is why she’s like that. You know anybody like that?”

  Tom nodded. “Aunt Polly. She’s even worse than that girl. And less pretty.”

  “Pretty helps, doesn’t it?”

  Sigh.

  “Well, here we are again, Ophelia darling!” said Aunt Portia as the two sat in folding chairs for another community meeting.

  The last time there’d been such a meeting, a wildcat was on the loose. Nobody ever spotted the big cat again after that, thereby disclosing the pointlessness of most meetings. A little time, some patience, and most problems tend to resolve themselves. That is, unless germs come into play. Now for those matters—the sooner we can meet, the better. I’ll cheerfully provide refreshments!

  Professor Birdwistell lowered himself next to Aunt Portia. (Knowing Birdwistell, to say he lowered himself didn’t exclusively refer to his body movement, but also his attitude that such a meeting was beneath him.) He regarded the metal folding chair with disdain.

  “Portia,” he said with a sniff and an upward lift of his chins.

  “Well, hello, Kelvin!” she answered with her prevailing exuberance (cheerfulness). Aunt Portia consistently nourishes a hopeful inclination for every person and every situation (she thinks the best of others). “What brings you here?”

  He laughed, the disdain from his expression now transferred to his voice. “I should imagine it’s the same matter that brings you here,” he said with a supercilious (arrogant, snobby) sniff.

  “Have you a cold, dear?” Aunt Portia asked.

  Ophelia stifled a laugh with her hand.

  “Why, no. Of course not! The Birdwistells are a hearty lot, madam.”

  “Oh, it’s miss, not madam. Allergies, then? You have me a bit worried, what with all of the sniffing you do.”

  “No allergies either, thank you very much.”

  “A nervous tic?” she asked.

  Ophelia shot up from her seat and raced out into the hallway of the basement at All Souls Episcopal Church, where the meeting was being held. She was bent double and holding her sides in silent gales of amusement when Father Lou rushed up and placed a concerned hand on the back of her head.

  “Ophelia! Are you all right?”

  Father Lou is someone who asks such questions sincerely. He doesn’t ask, “How are you doing?” and then become impatient when you fail to answer the expected “Fine” or “Busy!” Rather, Father Lou truly wants to know your present state, and that makes him either a saint or very nosy. Ronda chalks it up to a mixture of the two.

  “I’m all right. I just had to get out of there!” She gulped down another burst of laughter. “My aunt was doing a number on Birdwistell.”

  “Like Ronda did at the party?”

  “Oh no! As only Aunt Portia can do and still get away with it!”

  Father Lou peered inside the room. “I wonder what brings him here?” He tightened his ponytail and smoothed his priestly gray shirt.

  Ophelia started laughing all over again.

  “I have a job for you,” he said, “if that’s okay with you.”

  A minute later, Father Lou called the meeting to order and invited participants to speak. Some expressed their fear, others felt angry; but all felt disconcerted that there had been no sign of forced entry.

  “We need to determine a common theme here—other than antiques, of course,” Father Lou said. “I’d like everyone to make a list of the stolen items and the names of people who’ve been in your home recently. Ophelia?”

  Ophelia passed out sheets of paper and stubby yellow pencils that assumed you would make no mistakes. (No erasers.)

  “In the meantime,” said Father Lou, “I’d encourage all of you to batten down the hatches and be on the lookout. After you’ve finished your list, just leave it on the table by the door. Please help yourself to some refreshments at the back of the room.”

  Of course.

  Through no fault of her own, Clarice Yardly-Poutsmouth was forced to learn the secret of the enchanted attic just a month ago. She’d watched as the Countess de Winter, d’Artagnan, and all three musketeers returned to 1600s France.

  She was not impressed.

  In fact, she wanted nothing to do with the characters traveling from Book World to Real World and back again. “I’d rather play tennis,” she decided. But as Linus’s girlfriend, she sought to be supportive of his scientific endeavors and his latest experiments with literary travel. Linus was just as glad she didn’t care about the circle. It made it easier not to have her involved, and she was far less likely than most people to blab about it to others.

  With her long blond hair gathered into a messy bun and still wearing her soccer uniform after The Pierce School’s win over Princeton High that morning, Clarice now sat on the blue sofa while working on a social studies group project. “Why do teachers assign group projects when only one person does all of the work? They do know that, don’t they?” she complained. And who can blame her?

  Sitting at the lab table on the other side of the attic, Linus scribbled a note to his cousin, mentor, and sometimes nemesis (arch enemy), Cato Grubbs:

  He placed the note between the pages of Cato’s own publication Trapdoors to Other Realms, and then turned to Clarice. “Hot dog?”

  Clarice stood up. “Absolutely.”

  They visited their favorite stand over at Paris Park and consumed three dogs each, serious about doing their bit to keep Mr. Bolwecki in business. Enjoy that kind of fast metabolism while you’re blessed with it, my dears, because soon enough even looking upon a donut will add girth to your frame (make you gain weight).

  While Ophelia attended the community meeting and Linus sent notes and ate hot dogs with his pretty girlfriend, Walter escorted Tom around the school. The equipment in the lab fascinated Tom. “It’s like that table in the attic!”

  “Which, let me warn you, you are never to touch,” Walter said. “Linus is easygoing enough, but don’t touch his work.”

  They progressed down the hall into another classroom. “This is the math room,” said Walter.

  “You got different classrooms for different subjects?” Tom stood in the middle of Mr. Harper’s room. “This room is just for cipherin’?” (Arithmetic.)

  “Yes. We’re also divided by grade level, as well.”

  “We got just one big room.”

  “That’s the way it was back then.”

  “A feller sure can get in a heap more trouble that way.” Tom rubbed his backside without thinking.

  “Things have changed in that regard too. Teachers don’t hit students anymore.”

  “Is that so? I reckon things get outta hand!”

  “Not really.”

  Tom looked confused, then shrugged. “I reckon you’d know.” He patted the desk chair. “What’s this here stuff?”

  “Plastic.” (Where was Linus when you needed a good explanation? Walter’s description of plastic had left Tom utterly befuddled (confused).)

  As they left the computer lab, Madrigal Pierce materialized (suddenly appeared). Her Saturday clothes looked just like all her others: Long skirt, high heels, crisp blouse, and the requisite sh
awl.

  “Walter! Who is this? And what is he doing in the school? You haven’t requested an authorized visit.”

  And then Walter lied. I can’t put it any other way. I will say, however, that he made it believable.

  “Ms. Pierce, this is Kyle’s cousin, Tom. He’s made a surprise visit this weekend. He’s interested in attending school here, and Kyle asked me to show him around while he finishes up his math homework.”

  Madrigal pursed her lips, not fooled for a moment, but too tired to make an issue of it. She’d been up late the night before helping Ronda clean up after the big party. “Just finish up quickly, Walter.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Walter said.

  She clicked away down the hall.

  “Who’s Kyle?” asked Tom.

  “Your new cousin. I’ll take you to meet him.”

  When Tom and Kyle met each other, both felt as though they’d found a long lost friend. As Mark Twain himself put it, they were “two souls with a single thought.”

  Have you ever met someone and right away you knew you’d found what some people call “a kindred spirit”? It isn’t ten minutes into your encounter before you feel like you’ve known this person all of your life. The conversation flows without impediment (hindrance, obstacle) and you agree on so many things. You’re a night owl. So are they! They like roller coasters. So do you! They believe reality television is a blight upon the human race and could quite possibly be the downfall of our civilization. Obviously, you feel that way as well.

  Well, Tom Sawyer had no idea that reality TV shows existed. Still doesn’t, much to my relief. Imagine taking that sort of behavior back to the 1800s. You might be thrust into the nervous hospital, and if that isn’t telling … ahem. Now, where were we?

  Walter had sternly warned Tom not to reveal his true identity to anyone. While he could make it known that he was from Missouri and talk about his friends and family, under no circumstances was he to divulge so much as a word about Mark Twain or the 1800s in general. Bearing in mind his scuffle in the attic with Walter, Tom readily agreed.