by Betsy Byars
The band struck up “Hey, Look Me Over.” The gate opened. The grand entry began.
Sandy Boy had been in so many rodeo parades, so many grand entries, he could probably have done it blindfolded. But, for Maggie, it had been a long, long time, of waiting and practicing. This grand entry was something special.
When Maggie was little, she used to ride in front of her mom in all the grand entries. “Smile, shug,” her mother was always saying. “Don’t be so serious.”
People used to point them out as Vicki and Maggie rode around the rodeo grounds together. “That’s Cotton’s wife and kid,” they said. “Do you mind if we take your picture?”
“We’d be proud,” Vicki always answered.
There was a newspaper picture of the two of them in the family scrapbook. There was no date, but the caption was “Vicki Blossom and daughter Maggie. Vicki will be doing trick riding this weekend at the rodeo. Her daughter is rodeo mascot.” Even being rodeo mascot had not made Maggie smile. “You look as solemn as an owl,” her mother said when she saw the picture.
But this rodeo was different. She would not be riding in front of her mom. She would not be a mascot. She was on her own, and as far as Maggie was concerned this was the beginning of her new life. For the first time, people were actually treating her like an adult.
The procession wove around the arena. Striped flags snapped over the grandstands. The crowd cheered. The horses pranced. The procession ended with all the horses and riders side by side, facing the crowd.
“And now,” Joe Nevada said in a more serious voice, “while our flag is carried around the arena, let’s stand. This beautiful banner was a gift from God. We think of the many places she’s been we didn’t want her to be and we thank her for our freedom. And now the number one song in the national hit parade, the National Anthem!”
Some of the horses were sidestepping, nervously prancing in place, but not Sandy Boy. Maggie leaned forward and patted his neck.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that the other Wranglers had their hats off and their hands over their hearts. Quickly Maggie did the same.
Then, too soon for Maggie, the grand entry was over and the procession was leaving the arena. The Wrangler Riders would be coming back to perform between the bareback riding and the steer wrestling events.
Maggie paused in the sunshine to catch her breath. Behind her the gate had closed. The bareback riding event was under way.
The announcer was saying, “The handle they use is about the size of a suitcase handle, folks, but that’s where the likeness ends, ’cause I don’t think your average suitcase weighs fifteen hundred pounds and jumps around on the end of your arm.”
The crowd laughed.
“Let’s go now to the bucking chutes. First up is Pete Dobler on Jr. Garrison. Here he comes, folks.”
Vicki Blossom rode up beside Maggie. “I was nervous,” Maggie admitted.
“You?”
Maggie nodded.
“Why on earth would you be nervous? You been doing this all your life.”
“It’s different now,” Maggie said, “I’m different now.”
“Well, no daughter of mine’s going to be nervous. You can be excited if you want to, but that’s it.”
“All right,” Maggie said, “I’m excited.”
Behind them the crowd groaned. The announcer was saying, “—down too soon and he left out the back door. Back door, side door, it don’t matter as long as you get out before the house burns down. Let’s pay him off, folks.”
There was applause. “In about fifteen minutes,” her mom pointed at her, “that applause will be for you.”
“Oh, Mom.”
“It will. Smile, shug. Don’t be so serious. We’re having fun!”
CHAPTER 4
The Thing Under the Porch
“Paaaaaaap!”
Junior was leaning forward despondently. Both elbows were pressing into his paper bag suitcase.
“Why doesn’t he come on home?” he asked Dump. “Where is he?”
Junior glanced down. He noticed for the first time that Dump was no longer there listening to him. Dump had gone back under the house to pester the frogs.
“Just go off and leave me, Dump, I don’t care,” Junior said. “Everybody in this whole family can go off and leave when they want to but me.” His voice was deep with pity and resentment.
He began to list his grievances. “Vern didn’t have to wait for Pap to take him to Michael’s. Pap didn’t have to have special permission to go down the creek. Neither did Mud. You go under the house every time you want a frog. I am the only Blossom who has to have permission.”
He made a scornful face to show what he thought of permission. He wished every single one of them had been there to see it.
Junior heard a heavy thud as Dump’s head struck the floorboards, then a yelp of pain. Every now and then Dump would get so intent on the frogs, he would forget he was under the house and rear up like a horse.
“That’s what you get,” Junior said wisely.
In the silence that followed, Junior added, “Anyway, you better leave those frogs alone, Dump. Their juice is poison. Pap told me so. That’s why your mouth foams so much when you catch one.”
Junior went back to feeling sorry for himself.
He said, “Pap knows I’m going to spend the night with Mary. I’ve been waiting and waiting to do this and now Pap just goes off. He doesn’t care whether I get to go or not. He only cares about the flooooood.” Another scornful face.
Junior rolled his eyes down to where the swollen creek roared, rushing to the sea. Normally this would have been a great adventure for Junior. The creek had never been this high in his lifetime.
And not only that, but all kinds of interesting trash was coming down with the flood—boards, buckets, wooden crates, old tires. Junior should have been down on the bank, pulling in these things, storing them in the barn for his next invention.
Junior watched as a garbage pail lid swirled into sight. A flicker of interest came to his eyes, but he shook it off. The only thing in the whole world that he wanted was to go to Mary’s.
“Paaaaaaaap! Come onnnnnnnnn!” Junior yelled. “Are you ever coming?”
Junior glanced down at his paper bag. It was as flat now as an old pillow. He plumped it back into shape.
Then, slowly, he unfolded the top. He had done this so many times that the top had fringes.
With squinted eyes, he took in the contents. The only thing he could seem to see anymore was his Snickers bar. He gave a long, regretful sigh.
He reached down into the bag and his fingers curled around the candy bar. He didn’t want to be doing this, but he couldn’t stop himself. He pulled it out slowly.
He unwrapped it for the fourth time. There was only one inch of candy left. Junior turned it sideways and bit off half, leaving a small cube of candy. At least it looked nice and square, Junior thought, like something out of a box of chocolates. He wished he had one of those little frilled paper cups to set it in. Well, he didn’t.
He folded the cube up in the wrapper and put it in his paper bag. Junior no longer thought of his paper bag as a suitcase. It was too out of shape.
“Now,” he said firmly, as he had done several times since he took his seat on the porch steps, “I am not going to eat any more of my candy bar no matter what. If I do, I won’t have anything for a snack tonight. Mary will be eating her candy, and I’ll just have to sit there. She would offer me some of hers probably, but—”
Just thinking about sitting beside Mary, candyless, watching her enjoy her candy bar, made him throw back his head in anguish.
“Pap! Pleeeeease! Pleeeeeease come home!”
Dump’s ears went back up. He had now recovered from hitting himself on the head and was ready for more action.
A frog jumped beside him and Dump swirled. He reached out with one paw.
To Dump’s surprise, the move was successful. The frog was pinned to the ground.<
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Dump spent a moment enjoying the feel of the frog throbbing softly beneath his paw. Then he bent and gingerly took the frog by one leg. He held him for a moment, dangling in the air, as if he weren’t quite sure what he wanted to do next.
The frog jerked and Dump snapped at him. The snapping motion brought the frog into Dump’s mouth. There was a brief moment of satisfaction, and then Dump’s mouth was filled with the bitter liquid he hated.
He dropped the frog and shook his head to get rid of the terrible taste. Spit flew. Dump shook his head again. His long ears flapped around his head.
“Pleeeeease!” Junior begged above him.
Dump shook his head again. The bitter taste was almost bearable, and Dump looked down at the frog. The frog sat where he had been dropped. Dump watched him. Dump liked a moving target. He scratched the earth behind the frog, trying to provoke him into action. The frog did not move, and Dump lay down to wait it out.
“Pleeeeeeease!” Junior yelled louder.
Dump lifted his head. He had just seen something. Something in the distance, in the shadows around the chimney, had moved. Tail up, Dump got to his feet.
For a long moment he watched. He didn’t even seem to be breathing. Then slowly he began to move toward the chimney.
He took three steps. He went into a hunter’s crouch. His front legs trembled with excitement.
He was close enough now to smell the creature, and it did not smell like frog. He took three more steps. He stopped beside an old faded wooden crate.
Dump’s ears were pulled together in puzzlement. He had never seen anything like this before. He had never smelled anything like this either. He sat down tensely on his haunches to watch.
It was not a frog. It was long and coiled, and it watched Dump with bright, slitted eyes that never blinked.
In a crouch, Dump left the apple crate and moved forward. He was five feet away from his target now.
He pawed the ground again. Dump had long colt-like legs, and his movements were often more like a horse than a dog.
Still the long, coiled thing did not move. Dump went one step closer. He pawed the earth again. The long, coiled thing watched him with unwavering eyes.
Above him, on the porch, Junior yelled, “Pulleeease!” one last anguished time, but Dump was too intent on this thing under the porch to hear.
CHAPTER 5
Up the Creek Without a Paddle
“Michael, where are you going?”
Michael and Vern stopped in their tracks. They were at the kitchen door of Michael’s house. Vern had been reaching for the doorknob. His mudstained hand froze in the air. Beside him, Michael swallowed aloud.
“Nowhere, Mom,” he said.
“Michael …”
“Mom, we were just going outside.”
“What’s that behind your back?”
“Nothing.”
“I don’t like that kind of answer.”
Vern did not look at Michael’s mother. Vern did what he always did around Mrs. McMann. He watched the floor. He was familiar with all the floors in Michael’s house. He could not remember the color of any of the walls or the furniture, but he knew the floors. This was the artificial brick Congoleum.
Even though he was watching the floor, Vern knew, from the cold silence that followed, exactly what Mrs. McMann’s expression would be—disapproving. Nobody could say, “I don’t like that answer,” better than Michael’s mom. She turned it into a double accusation—she made Michael feel bad for giving the answer and Vern for somehow inspiring it.
“Michael,” his mother prompted.
She took off her glasses. This was even more ominous. Vern felt she could see directly into their minds without the protective tinted glass.
Slowly Michael brought the paddle out from behind his back.
“That’s the paddle to your father’s pontoon boat, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“What were you planning to do with it?”
Both of the boys were watching the floor now. Michael did not answer.
“Look at me, Michael.”
Vern was glad he didn’t have to look at her. Even if she had demanded that he do so, he wasn’t sure he could.
“You boys were not planning to put your father’s boat in the creek, were you?” There was genuine horror in her voice now.
“No, ma’am!” Michael said emphatically. He met his mother’s look with equal horror. His voice rose with shock and relief. “Dad told us never to use the boat without him.”
“Yes, but—”
“I would never take the boat without permission. I promise. I only wanted the paddle. Mom, that’s the truth. I would never—”
“I believe you, Michael.”
There was another silence. Vern waited, shoulders hunched tensely for the next question. It would be, “Then what were you going to do with the paddle?”
When Michael answered it—and Michael didn’t lie to his mother—then the trip down the river would be over. Michael would not be allowed to go, and neither would he.
Michael’s mother often said, “Now, Vern, your mother would not want you to do that.” Vern had stopped saying, “She doesn’t care what I do, Mrs. McMann! Honest!” because that answer seemed especially displeasing.
“Vern,” Michael’s mother said.
Vern shut his eyes. His shoulders got ready to take a hard blow.
“What have you got behind your back?”
“Me?”
He looked up, as surprised by his question as Michael had been.
“Yes.”
Vern brought out a can of Mello Yellow. He had instinctively hidden it because he and Michael were going to use it to christen the raft. Vern knew Michael’s mother would somehow sense that this was not just a normal can of pop, that it was going to be used for something she would not approve of.
To his surprise, Michael’s mother actually smiled.
“Can we go now?” Michael asked quickly, seizing the opportunity of a lifetime—that was how it seemed to Vern anyway.
“Yes, you can go.”
Both boys turned to the door. Vern’s muddy fingers curled around the doorknob.
“Only, Michael—”
Both boys stopped.
“Put the paddle back where you got it.”
“Yes’m.”
“I’ll wait outside,” Vern said quickly. He rushed out of the house. He stood in the middle of the yard, gulping in the clean, fresh air like a man just out of prison.
Vern was still standing there, breathing through his mouth, when Michael joined him. “Anyway,” Michael said, “we can get along without the paddle. All we really needed it for was to make sure we ended up on your side of the creek. Boards will do. I mean, we don’t have to paddle our way down the creek or anything. That’s what floods are for.”
Vern turned to Michael, and he used an old expression of Pap’s. “I thought we were goners,” he said.
CHAPTER 6
The Floating Shoes
“Mud, now that’s what I call a flood,” Pap said.
Pap was standing at the edge of Snake Creek, watching the water sweep around the grove of willow trees.
“Right over there is where you and me sit and fish.” He shook his head. “Only our rock is five feet under water. No telling what the fish think about all this.”
Pap turned to look down the creek. Again he shook his head.
Beyond the willow trees, the creek left its banks entirely and took a shortcut through the Edwards’ field. The whole pasture was under water. Only the tips of the fence posts stuck up, and the barbwire between was strung with trash. The Angus cows had been moved to higher ground.
“You’re never going to see more water than this in your whole life, Mud. The valley’s more water now than it is land.”
Pap’s old eyes shone. From the time he was a boy, Pap had had a fascination with water. He’d almost drowned four times before he reached the age of ten.
He had
just finished telling Mud about the first time—he was one year old and he fell into the toilet which his family had just gotten installed. It was the first indoor toilet in the history of the Blossom family, so naturally it was a fascinating thing to all of them.
If his mother hadn’t heard the splash and come in saying, “Alec, if you’re playing in the toilet again, I’m going to wear you out,” well, he wouldn’t be here today.
Now, as he and Mud started around the flooded pasture, he began telling about his second near-drowning. Mud broke away to take a shortcut. He ran through the shallow water, his long legs glistening in the sunlight.
Pap kept walking slowly, taking the long way around, the way that favored bad knees.
“Mud, I had a brother Jess that was a lot like Junior,” Pap said, even though Mud was too far away to hear him now. “Jess would make things, only he wouldn’t test them himself the way Junior does. He had better sense. He’d get us, his little brothers, to test them. I was the water man. If it had anything to do with water, then Jess would offer it to me.”
Mud ran back. He leaped nimbly over a fallen tree. Pap climbed over, holding on with both hands.
He sat for a moment on the wet wood, giving his knees a rest.
“One time it was floating shoes. Jess swore I could walk clear across the pond and not even get wet if I’d put them on.”
Mud circled back around the clearing with his nose to the ground, on the scent of something. Pap got up slowly and started walking.
“I put up a little struggle, but I ended up letting him tie the fool things on my feet. They was inner-tubes folded in half with my feet tied in the middle.
“Well, I went out on the dock where we fished. The floating shoes was big clumsy things, but I knew they’d float because they were blowed up tight.”
Mud paused at the foot of a large tree. He looked up intently into the dripping branches. His look sharpened. His ears flopped back. In a bound he put his paws on the trunk and let out a piercing bark.
“What is it Mud? Possum?”
That was Mud’s attack word. Whenever Pap used it—whether he was pointing to a hole in the ground with his boot or a cat in a tree, Mud knew what was expected of him.
