Wrestling with Tom Sawyer

by L. L. Samson

  “Why not?” She put it in her own pocket.

  Tom grabbed another apple as they made their way to the door.

  Downstairs in the bookshop, the brass chandelier lights with gold linen shades cast a warm glow over the store.

  “It’s nice here,” said Tom. “Your aunt is a kind lady. Everybody’s been real nice.”

  None of the other travelers had been excited about returning to their native world. “Will it be hard to go back?” Ophelia led Tom to the shelves labeled AMERICAN LITERATURE, 1800–1850.

  “I miss my friends. I even miss Sid. Well, just a little.”

  “Aunt Polly and Becky?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, it won’t be long before the circle opens up once more.”

  She searched the shelves filled with books arranged alphabetically by last name of the author. “Twain, Twain.” Her fingertips slid along the names: Hawthorne, Melville, Stowe … “Here it is!” Her index finger curled over the top of the book’s spine, and she tipped it into her hand.

  Tom accepted the hardback book bound in leaf green fabric. “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer,” he read aloud, then looked up at Ophelia. “Well, don’t this just beat all?”

  “It sure does.”

  “Look here, Ophelia!” He held the book out in front of him with both hands. “Tom Sawyer, that’s me, right there on the cover!”

  The rain still beat its wet fists against the shop’s front windows.

  “Want some hot chocolate?” she asked.

  “Huh?

  “Don’t worry. You’ll like it.”

  Near the sales counter, Aunt Portia had installed a hot beverage machine. Cappuccinos, lattes, coffee, and hot chocolate were dispensed at the simple touch of a button.

  (Take that you bumptious (self-important) coffee bars! Portia hoped to drum up more business this way because, heaven help us, books aren’t enough anymore. Frankly, the coffee tastes much better at Seven Hills than what I get out of the vending machine in the English Department. Maybe it isn’t such a bad idea, after all!)

  Ophelia positioned a white paper cup beneath the spout and pressed the backlit green button beside the words HOT COCOA.

  As the machine resurrected itself from the sleep of a store closed on Sunday evening (imagine that!), the pfoof sound of powder falling and then hot water spluttering hid the sound of the basement door opening. Tom’s fascination with this marvel of machinery and Ophelia’s feeble explanation of how it worked stole all of their attention.

  “Not a sound,” a low voice whispered, as its owner snatched Tom from behind just as Ophelia picked up the cup of hot cocoa.

  They both shouted in surprise, and Ophelia jumped, sloshing the scalding liquid over her hand. “Ow!”

  Joe brandished (shook or waved) a knife. The lights from the chandelier danced along its blade, as his hand comfortably gripping the bone handle. “I said quiet.”

  “Injun Joe!” cried Tom.

  Joe grabbed Tom by his hair.

  “Ouch!”

  “If you two don’t keep still, I’ll kill you both right here.”

  Ophelia forgot about her burned hand.

  fourteen

  A Dark Darker Than Dark

  or Who Knew So Much Could Happen Underground?

  Cato Grubbs never failed to throw a little extra spice into the stew of trouble he created for the trio around the eleventh of every month. Frollo, the evil alchemist deacon who raised Quasimodo, headed the lineup. Starbuck, though an honorable fellow and first mate aboard Captain Ahab’s whaling ship The Pequod, sufficiently threw matters off as well. And the three musketeers made for a rousing fight. But all of these people put together weren’t as dangerous to Linus, Ophelia, and Walter as Joe was to Tom.

  Joe was what was then called a “half-breed.” One parent was Native American; the other was Caucasian. Most likely, he wasn’t accepted by either society. I tell you this, dear reader, to enable you to look at characters in a more well-rounded manner. While Mark Twain doesn’t appear to do the same for Joe, you can know that when a human being is cast to the rim of society through no fault of his own, he most likely will not feel responsible to, or possess even a basic respect for, the people who placed him there.

  Bear this in mind. Thank you. And don’t forget to brush your teeth before going to bed.

  Ophelia, then Tom, climbed down the basement steps into Cato’s secret lair.

  All right, all right! Lair might be overstating it somewhat. Villains much more suave and superheroes with superhuman strength have lairs. The Bat Cave would qualify. Cato Grubbs lived in a musty room in the basement of a bookstore, a place that smelled of earth, stone, minerals, mothballs, stale sweat, and empty containers of ramen noodles. The word pigsty might be more appropriate.

  Joe followed.

  “Do you know how you got here?” asked Ophelia.

  Joe laughed a single “Hunh” though partially closed lips, his dark eyes hard. “Some fancy feller found me in McDougal’s Cave. Brought me right here.” He glared at Tom. “You know ‘bout where he is, boy?”

  Tom shook his head like a dog that just climbed out of a lake. “No! No, sir! I ain’t never see’d that man!”

  “Then why you in the house, Tom Sawyer?”

  Ophelia ignored the question. “Did that fancy man tell you Tom would be here?”

  “He sure enough did.” Joe gripped the knife harder and rested the point beneath Tom’s chin. “Now, you gonna get me back to where I can find the treasure, ain’t you?”

  Ophelia answered, “But we’re not—”

  “Yes, sir,” Tom said. “You just follow me, and we’ll find it quicker than a wink, I reckon.”

  “You’d better.”

  Joe opened the door to the tunnel and pushed them through. As Joe was closing the door, Tom whispered to Ophelia, “As long as he thinks we know where the treasure is, I reckon he’ll keep us alive. Just follow my lead.”

  This, thought Ophelia, is one bright little boy.

  And she was exactly right.

  The darkness swallowed them whole as the door to the world above closed behind Joe.

  A loud click echoed against the stone walls.

  Ophelia snapped on her light.

  “What’s that?” Joe barked.

  “It’s like a tiny kerosene lamp,” she said.

  And he was satisfied. “Get going, you,” he said, giving Tom a stiff shove.

  “Hey!” Tom shouted, put out.

  Ophelia stifled a smile. Maybe they would be all right after all.

  Linus and Walter crawled through the not-so-secret door in the bathroom from the secret passage to The Pierce School.

  They went directly to the attic where they could talk without whispering.

  “Should we take this to the police?” asked Linus.

  “Too late for that now, mate. We should wait until morning.”

  Linus reached for his notebook hoping to find a reply from Cato, which he found.

  “Oh no,” he said.

  Walter held out his hand, knowing better than to ask Linus to read it aloud.

  Post-murder. Post-trial. Post-escape.

  Have fun, little meddlers.

  Rage filled Walter’s face. He took three deep breaths and fisted his hands into tense balls of bone and tendon.

  Linus took back the notebook feeling much the same as Walter, but never one to show the extent of his emotions.

  “Okay,” said Walter. “This is bloody awful. I was stupid enough to think even Grubbs has his limits.”

  “Me too.”

  “Birdwistell can wait. We’d better find Ophelia and Tom and figure out what to do with Joe. Hopefully he’s still in Cato’s quarters.”

  They checked Ophelia’s room first. Laden as it was with books and clothes scattered like a bird lady’s breadcrumbs (at least Linus piles his dirty clothing), they lifted her comforter just to make sure she wasn’t underneath it.

  Linus led the way down the hall to his
own room.

  “Not here either. Maybe they’re having a snack.”

  Linus pointed to the apple bowl. “Another one is missing, so maybe not.”

  Walter scratched the back of his neck. “How in the—”

  “I notice things. I count things.”

  “Apparently,” Walter mumbled.

  Nobody was in the kitchen either. Linus began to worry, but he said nothing other than, “Bookshop.”

  “Right.”

  Each footstep down the stairs to Seven Hills Better Books deposited another stone of unease into their stomachs. Walter’s intuition raised the hairs on his arms like stalks of grass. He said nothing.

  And the boys’ silence meant nothing because as soon as they pushed open the door to the shop, the light from the chandelier exposed the spilled cup of hot chocolate. And there at the foot of the basement steps, its hard cover open and lying facedown, lay The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.

  Linus moved first, running down the basement stairs with more speed and agility than Walter would have imagined him capable.

  He descended into the basement to find a set of wooden attic stairs spilling from a hole in the basement ceiling. He scrambled up into the opening, Walter at his heels. Only about two feet of air rested between the floor and ceiling.

  “How could this not be noticed upstairs?” Walter whispered when they both lay on their bellies.

  “False ceiling.” Linus turned on the flashlight that he had forgotten to remove from his hoodie pocket, fortunately. “See?”

  The light shone around a space roughly the same footprint as the house.

  “Why would anyone build this?”

  “Don’t know,” Linus said. “But there’s where it leads.”

  Another opening with a second set of pull-down stairs, lit up under his flashlight.

  “Guess there are more mysteries in this place than just the attic,” said Walter. “That must lead to Cato’s room.”

  Linus crawled over and looked down. “Nobody’s in there.”

  “Then let’s follow them!”

  Linus laid a hand on his friend’s arm. “Hold up.”

  “But, mate. Ophelia and Tom might be—”

  “Joe is most likely armed. Let’s get Father Lou.”

  “I see your point.” As the one who’d roamed the streets of London with quick fists and a sharp knife, Walter didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of that himself.

  “Let’s just hope he isn’t asleep,” said Linus, following Walter up the basement steps.

  They yanked open the front door of the shop and ran across the street, the rain soaking them as thoroughly as a bucket of water thrown over their heads.

  A bounty hunter finds people who are wanted by the law. And like a shark fisherman, he or she reels them in for a price. That price is called the bounty. Father Lou has never hunted down a roll of power towels. (Although there’s nothing more sanitary than a clean paper towel to clear up a mess.)

  Due to the fact that Father Lou—or as he was known back then, “Lou the Bonecrusher”—handed out violence (punches, kicks, choke holds) like a calling card, he slept, as the saying goes, with one eye open. In other words, he woke at the slightest sound with a glint in his eye, fists curled, ready for a fight.

  Please let him be awake, Linus thought. He glanced at his watch when they stopped under the small porch roof that hovered over the landing in front of the dark blue kitchen door.

  11:11 P.M.

  Maybe that was a good sign.

  He lifted a fist to knock, knowing it would vibrate the white cotton curtains behind the door’s window, and hoping the dark kitchen didn’t mean there was a sleeping priest inside. “Twelve hours to go.”

  “We’ve got to find them,” said Walter. “I don’t think Ophelia would ever forgive herself if Tom was eaten by the acids between the worlds.”

  “He’s just a kid.”

  Walter sighed. “Yeah. I can’t stand Cato.”

  Linus rapped on the door as loudly as he could.

  fifteen

  Madge Will Be Madge

  or Why Right Now?

  Father Lou understood firsthand the dangerous waters in which Tom and Ophelia were now swimming. “A man on the run—and after a murder conviction, too—is one of the most desperate kind.” He was thankful he’d discarded all of his guns when he took the collar of a priest. A gun would be far too dangerous in the close, dark tunnels, and fear was the greatest tempter. He opened his nightstand drawer and extricated (took out) his Bowie knife. If a fight ensued, at least it would be fair. Then again, five people were believed to be dead at the man’s hands already.

  Father Lou’s tender heart heavied a little. Could there be some sort of turnaround for Joe here in Real World?

  Well, a person can always hope. He pulled on his leather jacket.

  He inwardly uttered a quick prayer of protection for all concerned, and requested a miraculous intervention and outcome as well. Although I’m not trying to be pushy or tell You what to do, he prayed. Lou slipped the knife into the back pocket of his jeans, then quickly added, And please make it so that I’m not forced to use this thing. I’d really rather not.

  Father Lou is much smarter than Linus and Walter put together, if one factors in the ability to remember to take along an umbrella when the sky decides to overflow, which I do.

  The three men dashed into the bookshop.

  Father Lou closed the umbrella and stuffed the dripping, believe it or not, Tweety Bird bumbershoot (a very old-fashioned word for umbrella) in a stand by the door. One can assume a younger person left it behind at the church. “Have you said anything to your aunt and uncle, Linus?”

  “Uh … no.”

  “I certainly haven’t uttered a word to Madge,” Walter volunteered.

  “I can hardly blame you there.” He marched over to the counter. “Let’s write a quick note and leave it here, just in case.”

  Father Lou glanced at his watch. On a piece of scratch paper that Portia kept near the register, he scribbled the words:

  We’ve gone into the tunnels at 11:29 P.M. on Sunday the 13th to find Ophelia and Tom whom we suspect are already in there. The tunnels are accessed over at the school.

  Linus, Walter, and Father Lou

  “Good. We’ve covered our bases,” he said.

  Walter stood at the basement steps. “This way, Father.”

  Several minutes later, they gathered in Cato’s secret room. Walter opened the door to the storage area, and the old wedding dress swung with the door. The light bulb still burned like a watching eye from its socket in the ceiling.

  “Whoa,” said Father Lou, quickly looking around as they passed through. “Look at all this junk.”

  “Wow,” Linus muttered, his eyes taking in the jars and tins of supplies. He was a bit disappointed in himself, considering the circumstances, at the relief he felt when he spied the A, B, and C powders on the uppermost shelf.

  “Here’s the door to the tunnel.” Walter turned the handle and pulled. “Locked? That’s odd.”

  Father Lou tried. “There must be a latch on the other side so Cato can lock himself inside or outside of this dump, whatever he needs.”

  “That leaves only two ways we know of to enter the tunnels,” Walter said, heading back into Cato’s room. “Either the cave by the river or the basement of the school.”

  “The river entrance isn’t far from the dam,” said Linus.

  “With this rain, I don’t trust the river,” said Father Lou.

  “And the school tunnel is quite a bit closer.” Walter closed the storage room door behind them.

  “Madge,” said Linus.

  “I’d almost rather brave the river,” said Father Lou, as he disappeared into the ceiling.

  “I could say amen to that,” mumbled Walter, the next one to climb up.

  And I could say amen to that amen, thought Linus, following Walter into the darkness.

  Thankfully, Aunt Portia and Uncle Augustus
were long asleep by the time the three rescuers tiptoed down the hall to the bathroom.

  Perhaps tiptoed isn’t quite right. Father Lou and Linus walked lightly, a gingerly placing of the entire foot on the floor. Walter practiced his T’ai Chi steps, placing his heel first, then rolling to a flat foot. He pivoted the heel as he redistributed his weight. He was silent as a cat and just as graceful.

  When they entered the bathroom and Linus knelt to remove the passageway door, Walter couldn’t help but wonder what might happen to them all. A fight would probably erupt if Joe was as desperate as Father Lou claimed. Thankfully, Walter knew how to keep his head. But the words of Sensei Yang echoed in his mind as he crawled along the secret passage: If you use what I have taught you against another human being, it is only because you failed. The real victory is not to fight at all.

  Walter hadn’t fully understood that statement until now. When he was a small lad, filled with anger and wanting only to lash out, his mum would take him by the shoulders, look into his eyes, and say, “Use your words, lovey.”

  The thought of the mum he loved so much made Walter all the more fearful. They only had each other in this world, really. Except for Auntie Max, but she was a downright kook sometimes.

  He needed to remember their wisdom just then.

  Could they reason with Joe? He hoped so. Perhaps his own desperation to do the right thing, to turn his back on who he had become in London, had grown roots deep enough to match the desperation of the man who had kidnapped the girl Walter admired most.

  Oh yeah, and Father Lou accompanied them. (Sometimes Walter gets a little big for his britches, but it’s mostly in his head, so you can forgive him.)

  They resumed their silent stepping out of the supply closet, down the hallway of the boys’ dormitory wing, and across the balcony overlooking the grand entry hall.

  Thankfully, burgundy carpet runners flowed down the two curved staircases, each a mirror of the other. It absorbed the shock of their footfalls on the old steps.

  However, nobody had yet figured out how to trod silently on the twelfth step down, which never failed to let out a weary groan. Word traveled around the student body that if a boy or girl wanted to sneak down to the kitchen for a forbidden midnight snack, the twelfth step on the right-hand staircase, and the second-to-last step on the left-hand flight of stairs must be avoided at all costs.