I stare at the happy girl in the grass until all the tears filling my eyes blur the picture.
My all-time favorite sundae is vanilla ice cream with a glob of Marshmallow Fluff, a spattering of rainbow sprinkles on the side, and a mix of exactly fifty percent hot fudge and fifty percent caramel. Mama’s is chocolate ice cream with chunks of banana, whipped cream, and a cherry on top. She doesn’t care as much about ratios.
Our all-time favorite place to go in the city for sundaes is Sunshine’s on the Bay. That’s where we are today, sitting at their very best table. It’s the one next to the front window that looks out over the water. From that spot we can watch all the sailboats and ships going back and forth across the bay. We can even hear the barking sea lions sunning themselves on the docks outside.
Today is perfect.
Sunny and warm and perfect.
On perfect days like this, every table at Sunshine’s is full. And today is no different. Mama and I have on our best sundresses and our fancy sandals with the gold buckles on the heels. She’s telling me all about the free animal clinic she opened up in Charlie’s garage and all the animals that came to see her.
Someone knocks loud on the front window.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Lemonade!”
Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Lemonade Liberty Witt!”
I turn to see Tobin Sky, Willow Creek’s official Bigfoot detective. He’s standing on the sidewalk wearing his Bigfoot safari hat strapped tight under his chin, with his Polaroid hanging from his neck. He’s peering at me between cupped hands through the front window. Painted letters on the glass advertise the ice cream of the month.
Suck a Lemon Sundae Supreme.
“Lemonade!” he calls again. “We got another call!”
“Mama, this is Tobin…,” I say, turning back to face her.
But the chair across from me is empty.
“Mama?” I call, looking around the shop.
But now the place is empty and everyone is gone. Even Mr. Bingham at the counter, who wears a paper hat and always gives me extra sprinkles.
“Lemonade!”
Bang. Bang. Bang.
My eyes peel open. I stare straight up at a star-free ceiling, which hangs above a bare-naked wood floor. An itchy wool blanket covers me, and the round frame of the redheaded girl’s picture is lying next to me on the bed.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
I pull myself up and drag my tired body to the window. I feel all worn out, and my eyes are hot and scratchy. When I push the faded blue curtains to one side, Tobin is standing there staring at me from under his safari hat.
“What do you want?” I holler back at him through the glass, rubbing at my eyes.
“Employees at Bigfoot Detectives Inc. clock in at precisely oh eight-thirty hours,” he tells me.
“What time is it?”
“It’s oh eight-thirty-five hours.” He holds his watch up to show me. It has a smiling cartoon Bigfoot on it with hairy brown arms that are pointing to an eight and a seven.
“And we just got another call.” He waves the yellow legal pad at me.
I push the window up.
“Mrs. Dickerson again?” I ask, thinking that fresh molasses cookies sound like a way better breakfast than sticks and seeds and bark.
“No, the Millers out on Miller Ranch had an encounter. They think they caught something on film during a hunting trip. They have pictures. Hurry and get dressed.”
“Can’t,” I inform him. “I’m calling in sick today.”
“Sick?” He puts his hands on his hips. “You can’t call in sick on your second day of work.”
“Says who?”
“Section two, article five of the Bigfoot Detectives Employee Manual,” he says.
“How do you have an employee manual for a business without any employees?”
“I typed it up last night,” he says. “And article five, paragraph six, specifically addresses tardiness, attendance, and professional demeanor.”
I yawn and rub at my eyes again.
“And I have to tell you, this doesn’t look good under any of those categories,” he goes on.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll meet you in the garage.”
“You mean the Bigfoot Headquarters.”
“Yeah, right. HQ.”
“When?”
“I don’t know,” I say, exasperated. “Five or ten minutes.”
“Well, which is it? Five or ten?”
“Five, okay? Five minutes.”
He checks his watch, pushes a few buttons, winds it, and then lifts it up to his ear.
“I will expect to see you at the Bigfoot Detectives Headquarters at oh eight-forty-two hours, then,” he says. “Do you want to synchronize?”
I roll my eyes and slam the window shut.
After I yank on a pair of jean shorts and pull a San Francisco T-shirt over my head, I carefully twist my red curls into one long braid down my back. I pull Mama’s suitcase out from under the bed and untie the orange and green crocheted yarn braid on the handle.
“Elizabeth Lilly Witt,” I whisper, touching the letters of Mama’s writing.
It’s an important name. The most important name in the whole universe. I say it out loud every day so the universe remembers how important it is, and that it still matters to someone.
And also so it doesn’t disappear.
Like she did.
I slide the name tag under my pillow and tie the yarn at the end of my braid, just like the zesty girl in the picture. I check myself in the mirror above the sink in the bathroom.
The spitting image. Mrs. Dickerson said so.
I grab my shoes from the front hall and sit on the floor to tie them. That’s when my eye catches something new on the kitchen counter and I stretch my neck to get a better look.
On the counter, next to the toaster, is a ten-pack of Twinkies.
Tobin is sitting at the ratty desk shuffling through his yellow legal pad when I make it to the Bigfoot Headquarters.
“You’re late,” he says flatly, looking at his Bigfoot watch and then at me. “It’s now oh eight-fifty-three hours. I’ll let you off with a warning this time, but if it happens again, I’m going to have to make a note of it in your employee file.”
“You do that,” I tell him, stuffing the last of my breakfast Twinkie in my mouth.
Tobin stares at me.
“That’s what you’re having for breakfast?”
“Yep,” I say with my mouth full.
“I don’t think Charlie would think that’s very nutritious.”
“S’pose not,” I say, sucking the filling off the plastic wrapper.
Tobin wrinkles up his nose and watches me as I lick.
“You…ah, you have whipped cream on your chin.” He points.
While I’m wiping my mouth with my arm, the green phone jingles. Tobin dives to grab it before it has a chance to ring again.
“Hello? Bigfoot Detectives Inc. We provide a full range of Bigfoot services for your convenience. How may we help you today?”
Tobin listens for a minute. I watch his eyebrows come together and his cheeks turn bright pink. Then he slams the phone down without saying one word.
I jump.
He sits frozen while I wait for him to say something. But he doesn’t.
“Who was that?” I finally ask.
He tucks his yellow legal pad under his arm and stands up.
“Wrong number,” he says.
“What did they say?”
“Nothing.” He grabs his leather case. “Let’s go, it’ll take a good twenty minutes to get out to the Miller Ranch by bike. They got some pictures developed and think maybe they got something on film.”
“Okay,” I say.
Tobin stops in front of me and holds his hand out. There’s something in it.
“Here,” he says.
In his palm is a handmade name badge with a carefully printed name on the front.
LEMONADE LI
BERTY WITT
Assistant Bigfoot Detective
On the back there’s a safety pin stuck in a wad of clumped-up Elmer’s. It makes me feel kind of important to see my name in writing like that. Especially with the title and all.
“Thanks,” I tell him, taking it.
“Yeah, well, you pledged the oath and all, so we needed to make it official.”
The rims around his eyes are redder than normal, and I wonder if it has anything to do with that wrong number.
“So, when do I get my hat?” I ask, pinning the badge to the front of my T-shirt.
“A hat? Oh, no, you can’t get a hat until you make partner,” he tells me. “A hat is a much higher level of security clearance. You’d have to take a whole different oath and everything. Nope, we’re nowhere near a hat.”
“Why not?”
“Those are the rules.”
“Whose rules?”
“Official corporation rules.”
“What if I make my own hat?”
“No, no, no.” He shakes his head. “Nope, that wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be official. Uh-uh…it’s only for partners in the Inc. You said you don’t want to be a partner, right? ’Cause you aren’t staying. That’s what you said, right?”
“Yep,” I say. “That’s right. I’m blowing this Popsicle stand.”
“You just ate a Twinkie.”
“What? No, I mean yes, I’m leaving,” I say, straightening my new badge. “Definitely leaving.”
“Then all you get is that.” He points to my front.
“Fine.”
The phone rings and Tobin turns to ice again.
Ring.
“Aren’t you going to get that?” I ask.
“No,” he says, heading toward the door. “We have to go, and you already made us late enough.”
“What if it’s another sighting?” I ask. “What if it’s the sighting? What if it’s Mrs. Dickerson with warm cookies fresh from the oven?”
“It’s not. Plus, the machine can get it. Hurry up.” Tobin puts a hand on the knob.
Ring.
I lunge toward the desk and grab the receiver.
“Don’t!” he hollers.
“Hello?” I say. “Bigfoot Detectives Inc. We can…ah, handle Bigfoot things…or sightings and…ah, look for dental ridges and, yeah, whatever needs Bigfoot-related…ah, needs that you feel are…um…hello?”
Tobin hits his forehead with his palm and shakes his head at me.
“Dermal ridges,” he whispers. “Dermal ridges, not dental.”
“Help me!” a voice screeches in my ear. “Bigfoot is eating me!”
“What?” I ask.
Laughter.
“Who is this?” I demand.
“Tobin, help save me from the Bigfeet!” the voice screeches again.
More laughing.
I can feel my volcano bubbling up and over the sides, ready to spurt smoldering-hot lava up to the sky. I look at Tobin, and he turns away.
“It’s BigFOOT, you stupid idiot!” I tell the kid on the other end of the line. “BigFOOT! It’s not plural. It’s singular. Singular! Everyone who’s anyone knows that!”
The receiver on the other end slams down with a bang.
Tobin’s back is to me now, his hand still on the doorknob.
“Wrong number?” he asks without turning around.
I slip the phone receiver back into its cradle.
“Yeah,” I say. “Definitely a wrong number.”
He stands there a few more seconds without looking at me, and then pushes the door open without saying one word.
Mr. Miller’s son, Jay, shows us four pictures that are blurry at best.
Grainy at least.
And just plain dark and fuzzy.
Tobin tells him that anything is better than nothing. But after seeing these pictures, I think this anything is a real close second to nothing. I guess whatever’s in the pictures could be something if you squint your eyes real tight and cock your head to the left. And we know for sure it’s not a tree stump or anything like that, because in each picture it’s in a different spot and a different position.
But is it a Bigfoot?
Tobin makes an executive decision to bring in an expert witness to give the final yea or nay about the images in the grainy shots, so we stop in at Charlie’s store that afternoon. The store is set on the edge of Highway 299 and made entirely of logs. Even the roof is made of thick, heavy logs. The store has a dark green wooden door with a bell on it, so that whenever someone opens it, the thing jingles to let Charlie know there’s a new customer.
The bell on the door rings when Tobin and I push it open, which makes Charlie look up at us from behind the counter where he’s sitting on a stool reading a book. Right next to the door is a big bulletin board with newspaper clippings of Bigfoot sightings. Some from California and others from other states. There’s even an article about a Bigfoot story someone told President Theodore Roosevelt in the 1800s.
“Well, there they are!” Charlie calls out, setting his book aside and taking off his glasses.
Tobin, the Millers’ pictures in hand, makes a beeline for Charlie while I explore the shop. It’s bigger on the inside than it looks on the outside, and there’s a humongous stone fireplace right in the middle of the room with fat, lumpy pillows scattered across the floor all around. There’s a hand-carved sign over the fireplace that says:
TAKE A STORY, LEAVE A STORY
In the far corner is a gargantuan wooden Bigfoot, a little like the one at the center of town. Except this Bigfoot is holding another carved sign, letting customers know that they can get their picture taken with it for a dollar.
The shelves are covered in anything and everything Bigfoot-related—posters, greeting cards, T-shirts, coffee mugs, and even a Bigfoot doormat, which is just one big brown foot.
There are other sections too, all clearly labeled with even more carved wooden signs. In the FINE CUISINE section there is an aisle labeled EXOTIC JERKIES OF THE WORLD. There is any kind of jerky a person could ever want.
If you’re a person who eats the stuff, that is. Which I’m not. Beef, deer, bear, elk, buffalo, ostrich, and even kangaroo.
Disgusting.
Next to the jerkies are jars of olives stuffed with things like garlic and nuts and cheese. There are all kinds of fancy crackers with seeds on them and some cookies, too.
There is a section labeled HUNTING AND FISHING, which is where I see a whole basket of safari hats, just like the one Tobin wears. Except these are all plain with no letters on them. I pick one up.
“Tobin,” I call, modeling it for him. “What do you think?”
“Nope,” he tells me. “I already told you. You’re not approved for that level of security clearance. Come on, now, we have to show Charlie the pictures.”
I walk up to the counter and rest my elbows on the glass. There’s a spinning tower of Bigfoot key chains, a box of maps, and a basket of saltwater taffy, each piece individually wrapped in wax paper.
Two for a nickel.
“What do you think?” Charlie asks after I’ve thoroughly examined the place. He picks out a pink piece of taffy for me and hands Tobin a brown one.
“It really is Bigfoot Souvenirs and More,” I tell him, unwrapping the taffy and putting it in my mouth.
“S’pose so.” He smiles at me.
I turn away.
“Charlie,” Tobin says, pushing up his glasses. “When did the Fotomat say the film is going to be developed?”
“They said four days,” Charlie says. “So maybe Thursday. You kids had your lunch yet?”
“Not yet,” Tobin tells him, and juts his chin in my direction. “This one had a Twinkie for breakfast.”
Big fat blabbermouth.
“We can call Diesel’s Deli and have them make us up some sandwiches. How does that sound?”
“Can you look at these first?” Tobin asks Charlie, handing him the envelope of pictures.
The bel
l on the door dings. We all look up to see a family. A mom, a dad, and a little girl about four years old.
“Welcome!” Charlie calls out to them, slowly getting up from his stool. “Welcome to Bigfoot Souvenirs and More! We have everything and anything related to the elusive Bigfoot that you could ever want to take home with you! Please let me know if I can help you find anything.”
“Thank you,” the man says, while the girl runs to the section labeled TOYS, which is filled with baskets of stuffed Bigfoot and other animals of the forest.
“Okay.” Charlie settles back down on his stool and pulls his glasses out of his shirt pocket. “Let’s see what you got here.”
While Charlie and Tobin lay the four pictures out on the counter, I watch the man and the woman and the girl go through the stuffed toys. They smile and laugh together. I bet somewhere they have a happy house with a happy hallway full of happy family pictures.
And I bet one day soon there will be another one showing their happy trip to Willow Creek.
I sigh.
“We just got back from a call out at the Miller Ranch,” Tobin is telling Charlie. “Mr. Miller and his son Jay got these while they were out hunting. We’re wondering what you think about them.”
Tobin lines up the four pictures in perfect order in front of Charlie.
“They’re blurry,” Tobin tells him.
“And grainy,” I say.
“Mmmm-hmmm,” Charlie says, leaning over the pictures.
We all examine them together. Tobin pulls his magnifying glass from his back pocket to get a closer look. He lets me and Charlie take turns too.
“Well,” Charlie says, stroking his beard. “Whatever it is, it’s definitely big, isn’t it?”
“Bipedal, too,” Tobin says.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Bipedal means it walks on two feet,” Tobin explains.
“Don’t bears do that too?” I ask.
“Very good, Lem,” Charlie says. “You’re exactly right. But there are some big differences in determining whether it’s a bear or a Bigfoot.”
“Like what?”
“Well, Bigfoot has longer hair, and it’s scraggly, too. It’s been mostly reported as reddish brown. Kind of like an orangutan. But sometimes it’s reported in other colors. Some black, some dark brown—”
Lemons Page 4
