Blossom Promise

by Betsy Byars

  Now he began leaping excitedly up the trunk of the tree. His high, shrill barks rang through the afternoon air, above the roar of the creek.

  Pap looked up the tree. “Well, it is a possum for once, Mud.”

  Pap watched the possum. It was a miserable ball of wet fur curled in the shelter of a forked limb.

  “He probably got flooded out of his home. We won’t give him any more misery than he’s already got. Let’s let him be, Mud.”

  Mud did not obey immediately. Pap had to say “Let him be” one more time before it had the desired effect.

  Mud got down reluctantly. “Good dog,” Pap said. As they started around the field, side by side now, Pap took up his story.

  “Well, Mud, I went out there on the dock, waddling like a duck. I was just going to take a few steps with my brothers holding me, but soon as I got my feet on the water, they let go.”

  The memory caused Pap to pause for a moment, drawn back in time. He put out his arms the way he had that July Sunday, then he shook his head.

  “Oh, them shoes floated all right, Mud. Jess was right about that. They floated. Only I didn’t. I was turned upside down in two seconds flat.

  “My brothers never were ones to do the smart thing. They went running to the house, yelling ‘Mama, Alec’s drowning!’ If they knowed I was drowning—which I was—why didn’t they jump in?

  “I couldn’t hear none of this. I was too busy holding my breath. Well, my mother dove in wearing her Sunday dress and an apron. It was the first time she was ever known to go in water willingly. My brothers dove in too—and then the hired man came up and saw everybody jumping in and he jumped in too. Between the five of them they turned me right side up or I’d not be walking along the creek today.”

  Pap paused again to watch the creek. “This is the worst flood in the history of the state. If the rain had gone on, let’s see”—he paused to figure it out—“twenty-two more days, it would have been as bad as the flood in the Bible.

  “Everywhere you look, Mud”—he turned his head to take it all in—“there’s fine old fields covered with water, chickens floating away on pieces of chicken houses, trees that I’ve leaned on for years looking like they could use my help now.

  “I tell you, Mud, if this creek don’t stop rising soon, there ain’t going to be no more valley.”

  CHAPTER 7

  The Wrangler Riders

  There was only one contestant left in the saddle bronc riding event, but the announcer was reminding the crowd, “It ain’t over till it’s over, folks, and here in chute number eight is Spitfire.

  “Folks,” he went on, “this horse does everything right except that his clutch slips. Here he comes! It’s a snappy ride. It’s a good one! … That’s a sixty-seven score for Scooter. Let’s pay them all off, folks.”

  There was applause for all the bronc riders. The applause grew louder as the winner came in and raised his hat to the crowd.

  Maggie was waiting at the south end of the arena, behind the gate, with the other Wrangler Riders. The winner of the bronc riding event went back to the chutes.

  Then the gate opened, and Maggie’s heart stopped beating. Beyond the other Wrangler Riders she could see the arena … the crowd …

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” Joe Nevada said, “the Sixty-first Annual Tucson Rodeo is proud to present the Wrangler Riders. This is a thank you from Wrangler to all of their many customers over the years.”

  The band began to play. The music was so fast, so furious, Maggie couldn’t even tell what the song was. The first Wrangler Rider—B.B.—kicked her horse, let out a war whoop, and rode into the arena.

  B.B.’s specialty was Indian riding. She went around the arena as fast as the music. As she passed the grandstand, she dropped under her horse, came up on the other side. On her second pass she hit the ground and vaulted back on her horse. The crowd burst into cheers.

  “And now, folks,” the announcer said, “here’s Sadie the Lady Williams.”

  Sadie came into the arena riding two horses; both of them were black. She rode gladiator style, with one foot on one horse, one on the other. As she passed the grandstand, she stepped onto one horse and raised her hat. On her second pass she jumped nimbly back and forth. The roar from the crowd filled the air again.

  “We’re proud to have Vicki Blossom back with us today. We’ve missed her. Here she comes, folks. Let’s give her a rodeo welcome home.”

  Vicki Blossom did a headstand on her first pass. Maggie watched her from the gate.

  Maggie’s heart had moved up and lodged in her throat. She couldn’t swallow. She tried to wet her lips and tasted dust. The blood was pumping so hard in her neck she could hear it above the roar of the crowd.

  Her mother was back at the gate. Her horse reared. “Come on, shug,” she said to Maggie. Maggie dug her heels into Sandy Boy.

  In a daze she heard the words of the announcer.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we got a three-generation cowgirl with the Wranglers this afternoon—Maggie Blossom. Her granddad was Alec Blossom, the best rope twirler I’ve ever seen, her dad was Cotton Blossom, a world champion, and that’s her proud mom, Vicki Blossom, on the yellow horse.”

  Maggie and her mom went around the arena, side by side. On their first pass, they hooked their knees over the saddle horn and dropped off the side of the horses. On the second pass, they did shoulder stands.

  The blood rushed to Maggie’s head. The arena, the grandstands whirled around her. The whole world was a blur of color and noise.

  Then, before she knew it, all the Wrangler Riders were in the arena, riding around, whooping, doing one trick after another. On the last pass, they all hooked their knees around their saddles and dropped off the backs of their horses. They raised their hats to the crowd as they left the arena.

  The announcer said, “Let’s put our hands together and show all the Wrangler Riders what we think of them.”

  “It was over so quick,” Maggie said to her mother when she was out of the arena and right-side-up. They started riding for the stables, side by side. Maggie’s face was flushed with excitement.

  “I know—five minutes in the arena always does seem like five seconds.”

  B.B. pulled up beside them. “You did great, Maggie,” she said.

  “Thanks.”

  She said, “You’re going to be better than your old lady one of these days.”

  “Now, now, let’s don’t get carried away,” Vicki said, laughing.

  Maggie laughed too. She unsaddled Sandy Boy as her mom and the other Wrangler Riders unsaddled their horses. From the arena they could hear applause, shouts, groans of sympathy, Joe Nevada’s enthusiastic “Boy, I like this one, we got one going, folks.”

  “I’m just going to hate to leave all this and go home, Mom,” Maggie said.

  “But you got to go to school. The only way you got to come at all was because of spring break.”

  “I know.”

  “Still, I guess it wouldn’t hurt you to miss one week of school.”

  “What do you mean, Mom?”

  “I mean I’m going to let you stay another week. The school won’t care. I’ll give you a note saying you were sick.”

  “Mom, will you really?”

  “Yes, and anyway, Maggie, it’ll be summer before long. We’ll all be together on the circuit. Our lives will just be one long rodeo.”

  B.B. passed behind Sandy Boy. She grinned at Vicki and winked. “Bull riding’s coming up, Vicki,” she said. “You sure don’t want to miss that.”

  “B.B.,” Vicki said. She glanced at Maggie in a warning way.

  Maggie looked at her mother. “I thought you never watched the bull riding anymore, you said you couldn’t, not after what happened to Daddy.”

  “Well, I couldn’t for a long time,” Vicki Blossom said quickly. “I still can’t hardly watch it, but I’m getting better about it. I tell you what. Let’s both watch it today, want to?” She put one arm around Maggie and glance
d at B.B. over Maggie’s head. “Some people,” she said, “ought to learn to keep their big mouths shut.”

  CHAPTER 8

  The Queen

  “What do you want to call it?” Vern asked Michael.

  “I don’t know. What do you want to call it?”

  “I don’t know. I asked you first.”

  Vern and Michael had now nailed the last plank into place. The raft was finished. It was at the edge of the water, ready to be launched with one good push.

  The raft was the most beautiful thing Vern had ever seen. He had always enjoyed making small things, and in the past he had often made little rafts because twigs and vines were mainly what he had to work with.

  He had spent a lot of time on those little rafts, making sure they were seaworthy before sending them down the creek, imagining them reaching the ocean, bobbing in the ripples of the tide. All those dozens of tiny rafts seemed now to have been working models for this—the real thing. He had been a scientist perfecting his craft, and now here it was, a reality at last.

  The only thing left to do was give it a name.

  “I’m not good with names,” Michael admitted. “That’s why I get bad grades in English. I can write the stories, but I can’t give them names. Mr. Levy won’t even read it if he sees ‘A Story’ on the top.”

  “Well, I can’t name stories either.”

  The boys stood in silence for a moment, watching their creation beside the rushing waters. The one thing they both knew was that it was beautiful, and it deserved an impressive name.

  The base of the raft was made of the logs they had found in the woods and carried, one boy on each end, to the creek. The top was a deck of boards. The boards were all different shapes and sizes, some new boards, some gray and weathered. The boards overlapped—it gave a sort of shingled look, and the boys figured the water would flow over the boards the way rain ran down a shingled roof.

  The effect was one of unity, harmony, great beauty, and—the boys thought—strength.

  At the back of the raft was the mast and the bedsheet sail. The sail was mostly for decoration, but it was already flapping briskly in the breeze, raising the level of excitement, giving the boys the feeling that the voyage was already under way.

  “Why has it got to have a name?” Michael asked. “Why couldn’t it just be the raft?” With his fingers he put quotation marks around the last two words.

  “It’s got to have a name. Like, remember, Junior’s UFO was the Green Phantom? Anyway, boats always have names.” This was important to Vern. Years from now he wanted to be able to remember it by name.

  Michael sensed this was important to Vern. He said, “I saw a special on TV about a raft, but I can’t remember the name or we could use that. It was foreign.”

  “Our name should be American.”

  “How about …” Michael paused. “Now, remember I’m not very good at names.”

  “Me either.”

  “Then how about this. The USS Mayflower. You can’t get any more American than that.”

  “Yes, it’s American all right.”

  Vern scratched his head with his dynamited finger. The end of the finger had been blown off one time when Vern was investigating a small black cylinder which turned out to be a blasting cap.

  Whenever Vern scratched his head with his dynamited finger, Vern was deep in thought.

  Finally Vern said, “I don’t know. It’s too—naval or something, too old-timey maybe.”

  “Well, I told you I wasn’t good at names,” Michael said.

  “How about something like …” Vern paused to swallow. He had had this name in mind all morning, but he wanted to wait until the last minute to spring it. He looked off into the distance, trying to appear deep in thought.

  He let his face light up, as if the idea had just that second popped into his mind. “How about the Queen?” he said.

  “Say it again.”

  “The Queen. You know, like the Mississippi Queen or the Delta Queen. Ours will just be the Queen.”

  “It’s okay, I guess,” Michael said.

  “If you don’t like it …”

  “No, it’s fine,” Michael said impatiently. “It’s perfect! Get the Mello Yellow.”

  Vern reached into the bib of his overalls, where he had put the can for safekeeping. The can had left a cold spot on his chest. He handed the can to Michael, and Michael pulled the tab.

  Vern would have liked the honor of christening the raft himself, but he didn’t want to be a hog—naming the raft and christening it too.

  “I christen thee the Queen,” Michael said. He poured a little Mello Yellow onto the upper deck.

  The boys stood in silence for a moment, awed by the official words they had previously heard only on TV or at the movies.

  It was Michael who broke the spell. He took a gulp of Mello Yellow, burped, and passed the can to Vern. Vern drank, burped, and passed the can back to Michael.

  The can went back and forth until it was empty. At that point, Vern wiped his hands on the bib of his overalls.

  “Now,” he said, “let’s push the Queen into the water and get going.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Junior’s Journey

  Junior got up from the steps. He stuffed his suitcase under his arm.

  “I’ve had it,” he said.

  He glanced down at his watch. The hands still pointed to 3:05.

  “I will wait exactly three more minutes and then I’m leaving. That is my final word.”

  Junior closed his eyes so he could concentrate on counting out the minutes. Since his watch didn’t work—it had said 3:05 since the day Junior found it in the Sears parking lot and strapped it on his arm—Junior had developed his own method of counting time.

  Junior’s way was to close his eyes and stand absolutely still until he thought three minutes was up. Then he would keep standing there until he thought another three minutes was up. That worked out fine. Minutes were exactly twice as long as most people thought.

  When both three minutes were up, Junior opened his eyes. Pap wasn’t in sight, so Junior said, “That’s it.”

  He went into the house. He crossed the hall and entered the kitchen. He breathed air that smelled of the fried egg sandwiches Pap had fixed that morning.

  Junior thought that Pap and Mad Mary were the best cooks in the world. Both of them put a lot of originality into their cooking. Mary did it with possum and onions, Pap with bacon grease.

  Junior thought that very few cooks would take their sandwiches and, just before serving them, toss them into hot bacon grease for a few seconds. A lot of people in this world—and not just people overseas either—had never even tasted a fried sandwich. At least that’s what Pap said, and Junior believed him.

  Junior looked around the kitchen counter, but he couldn’t find a sheet of paper, so he took a brown paper bag, folded it, and wrote. “I have gone to Mary’s. Don’t worry. I know the way by heart.” He signed it “Love to all, Junior.”

  He propped the note on the table, like a tent, and went back out onto the porch. He adjusted his paper bag suitcase under his arm. He was leaving—that was definite, but while he was going, he would give Pap every chance in the world to put in an appearance.

  He took the steps one by one, like a small child. In a sort of processional way—pause—step—pause—step, he crossed the soggy yard.

  At the edge of the forest, his head snapped up. His head always went up like a flag when he had a brilliant thought. This was Junior’s thought—the horn on Pap’s truck.

  Junior hit himself on the head. “You should have thought of that an hour ago.” He ran down the hill to where Pap’s truck leaned against the oak tree. The truck was sideways, so Junior had a hard time getting the door open. He slid into the driver’s seat. He leaned on the horn.

  One long, two shorts. This was Pap’s signal to Mud when he wanted to go somewhere. Junior repeated the signal. Beeeeeep. Beep. Beep.

  He leaned back to wait.
r />   It was steaming hot in the truck. The truck had been shut up for days. Junior wiped his dripping brow.

  He sat forward and gave the signal one more time. Beeeeeep. Beep. Beep. He leaned up to look out the windshield. He glanced up the creek and down. Slowly, the smile faded on his face. He climbed out of the truck and jumped down onto the soft wet earth.

  That was it, Junior decided. He would go to Mary’s by himself.

  His head snapped up. Another brilliant thought.

  He would go to Mary’s, but not by himself. He would take Dump along. Then if Pap got mad, he could say, “I knew you didn’t want me to go by myself, and I didn’t. I took Dump.”

  Well, one thing was working out. He would not have to look for Dump. Dump was under the house with the frogs.

  “I’ll crawl under,” Junior told himself, “pull him out, and be on my way.”

  He ran up the hill.

  “Dump,” he called happily. “Good news! You and me are going somewhere really fun! We’re going to Mary’s!”

  Clutching his paper bag suitcase, Junior ran to the house.

  Beeeeeep. Beep. Beep.

  Pap stopped in his tracks.

  He had just heard the sound of his truck’s horn. It was the signal he used to let Mud know he was ready to go. Pap lifted his head with sudden thought.

  “Oh, Mud, that’s Junior,” he said. “That is Junior.”

  The new tone of Pap’s voice made Mud stop too. Mud turned to see if anything was wrong.

  “Yes, Mud, something is wrong,” Pap said, reading his mind. “We clean forgot about Junior.”

  Mud watched Pap, his ears drawn together, his brow wrinkled.

  “I promised to take him to Mary’s. Come on, Mud, we got to get home. Junior is going to be mighty unhappy with us.”

  Pap turned. As he began retracing his steps, he called, “I’m coming, Junior, I’m coming.”

  He knew he was too far away for Junior to hear him, but it made him feel better.