Turtle in Paradise

by Jennifer L. Holm

  The Diaper Gang’s got Pudding today, and Buddy, too, because Aunt Minnie has to do Mrs. Winkler’s washing. She takes in laundry to make money. Kermit’s right—Buddy’s more trouble than a baby. He’s spent the entire morning complaining. He’s hot. He’s tired. He’s bored. He’s thirsty. He needs to use the outhouse. Now he’s hungry.

  “I’m so hungry I can’t think!” Buddy whines.

  “You can’t think ’cause you ain’t got no brains, Buddy,” Beans says.

  “I got a headache ’cause I ain’t got no food in my belly!” Buddy whines.

  “Come on, let’s go to my house,” Pork Chop says.

  “Mrs. Soldano makes the best bollos on Ashe Street,” Kermit tells me. He pronounces it “BOY-ohs.”

  “You better not let Mami hear you say that,” Pork Chop says. “She thinks she makes the best bollos in all of Key West.”

  A sign that says SOLDANO’S announces the little lunch counter that’s set under the porch in front of a house. There’s a man eating a sandwich on a stool.

  “You must be Turtle!” a round-cheeked woman bustling behind the counter says with a warm smile. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “All bad,” Pork Chop says.

  “I hope you children are hungry, because I need someone to try my latest batch of bollos,” Mrs. Soldano says.

  “I’m starving!” Buddy cries.

  Mrs. Soldano places a plate of fried balls of dough in front of us and the boys grab them as fast as they can. I pick one up and take a bite. It’s tasty, all garlicky and spicy.

  “What’s in them?” I ask.

  “Black-eyed peas, garlic, pepper, and a few other secret things,” Mrs. Soldano says.

  “These sure are swell, Mrs. Soldano,” Buddy says, licking his fingers. “But I think I might need to try some more to see if I like them better than the last bunch you made.”

  “You say that every time, Buddy,” she laughs.

  “Say, you win last week, Mrs. Soldano?” Kermit asks.

  “I’ll win this week. I picked good numbers,” she says.

  “Win what?” I ask.

  “The bolita,” Mrs. Soldano says.

  “Cuban lottery,” Pork Chop tells me.

  “You’ll still make us bollos when you’re rich, won’t you, Mrs. Soldano?” Buddy asks.

  “Of course, Buddy,” she says.

  Mrs. Soldano makes us lunch—toasted ham and pickle sandwiches on Cuban bread and something called flan for dessert. The flan is delicious and creamy.

  When we’re done, she hands a bowl of flan to Pork Chop.

  “Take this over to Nana Philly,” she says.

  “Mami,” he complains, but she just orders, “Go,” and turns to a new customer.

  We walk down Francis Street, stopping in front of a house that looks abandoned. The windows have shutters that have been nailed down with boards.

  “What are we doing here?” I ask.

  “Bringing Nana Philly her lunch,” Pork Chop says. “You think we’d come here for any other reason?”

  I look at the house. “Someone lives in there?”

  “You mean the shutters?” Kermit asks. “They’ve been up for years. She put them up for a hurricane and won’t let anyone take them down. There’re probably a million scorpions living behind them by now anyway.”

  Beans parks the wagon with the sleeping Pudding in the shade of a tree. Then the boys start to walk inside.

  “You just gonna leave him?” I ask. “What if somebody takes him?”

  Beans scoffs. “Who’d want him?”

  “I’m not going in there,” Buddy announces. “You can’t make me!”

  “Oh, Buddy,” Beans says. “She can’t hurt you now.”

  “I don’t care,” he insists, his chin jutting out. “I ain’t going in!”

  “Suit yourself,” Beans replies, and walks in the front door, not bothering to knock. He calls out, “Miss Bea? You here?”

  No one answers back.

  I follow the boys into a dark parlor. It’s surprisingly cool, with little bits of light filtering in through the shuttered windows. Most of the parlor is taken up by a hulking piano that looks like it’s crumbling in places.

  “Termites,” Kermit says, catching my look. “That piano is crawling with them. I swear this house is going to just collapse around her one of these days.”

  “You can hope,” Pork Chop says.

  “Why doesn’t she just get rid of the piano?” I ask.

  “Her daddy was a wrecker and he saved it from a sinking ship.”

  “Wrecker? You mean he’s the one that broke that piano?” I ask.

  “You don’t know anything, do you?” Pork Chop says.

  “That’s Nana Philly’s daddy,” Kermit says, and points to an oil painting of a cranky-looking old man. Most old people are cranky. Not that I blame them. How can you be happy when you know you’re gonna be dead soon?

  Kermit explains, “When ships would wreck around Key West, he would salvage the cargo before it sank and then sell it off. Furniture, liquor, silk, jewelry, you name it. He was one of the richest men in Key West.”

  “What’s Buddy so scared of?” I ask as we file down a narrow hallway.

  “Her,” Pork Chop whispers, looking in the door of a small bedroom.

  A tiny, frail-looking old lady is sitting on a rocking chair reading a fashion magazine. She could probably use some fashion advice, considering what she’s wearing: a long white cotton nightgown with a dressing gown over it, black stockings, and a red cloche hat that makes her eyes poke out like a mole peeking up at the world.

  “Hi, Nana Philly,” Beans says. “Miss Bea gone out?”

  The old lady blinks her blue eyes fast when she sees me. She opens her mouth with obvious effort.

  “Thadie,” she says. It comes out in a frustrated moan.

  A cheery woman with silver hair and a large straw hat bustles in and says, “Why, hello, children! I was out back hanging laundry. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Hi, Miss Bea,” Kermit says.

  Pork Chop holds out the bowl. “Mami’s flan.”

  “How sweet of her! Miss Philomena does love her flan,” she says.

  Miss Bea doesn’t look much younger than the old woman in the chair.

  “You must be Sadiebelle’s girl! You look just like your mother.” She turns to Nana Philly. “Doesn’t she look just like her mother, Miss Philomena?”

  Nana Philly’s mouth curls up on one side, but the other side stays tugged down. It looks like she’s smiling and frowning at the same time. Something about her seems familiar.

  “I’m Turtle,” I say.

  Miss Bea smiles warmly. “We’re just so pleased to meet you! Maybe you can visit sometime?”

  “We gotta go, Miss Bea,” Pork Chop says with a touch of impatience. “We got babies.”

  “Of course you do,” she says. “Be sure to thank your mother for the flan, Pork Chop.”

  Back outside, under the glare of the hot sun, I turn to the boys.

  “I don’t understand,” I say. “What’s so scary about that old woman? She can barely talk.”

  Pork Chop guffaws.

  “I guess you could say she was a little different before she had her accident,” Kermit says.

  “Nana Philly had a fit last summer and fell, and now she can’t walk or talk that good,” Buddy says.

  “Best thing that ever happened, if you ask me,” Beans says.

  “You said it, pal,” Pork Chop says.

  “Miss Bea lives with Nana Philly now. Takes care of her,” Kermit says. “Ma helps out, too, of course. Brings in lunch most days, so Miss Bea can get out for a break.”

  “Miss Bea’s a saint,” Beans says.

  “You’d have to be to live with Nana Philly,” Pork Chop says.

  “How can you say that about a poor old lady?” I ask.

  “Because she’s meaner than a scorpion!” Buddy says.

  “It’s true,” Kermit agrees
.

  “She said Ma would be better off dead than married to Poppy,” Beans says.

  “And she stood up in church and told the minister his sermon was so boring he ought to be crucified!” Pork Chop adds.

  “God himself could come down from heaven, and Nana Philly would tell him he did a lousy job,” Kermit says, and they all laugh.

  “She hates kids most of all,” Buddy exclaims. “She washed my mouth out with soap!”

  “Mine too,” Kermit admits.

  “And mine,” Pork Chop adds.

  Beans nods.

  “That’s a lot of soap,” I say.

  “Old Nana Philly,” Kermit says almost wistfully. “Francis Street sure is a lot quieter these days.”

  “How can you talk about someone’s grandmother like this?” I ask.

  “Someone’s grandmother?” Beans says. “You mean your grandmother, don’t you?”

  “My grandmother? But Mama told me she was dead!”

  “She’s not dead. She’s just mean,” Kermit says.

  Now I know why those eyes looked so familiar—they’re the exact same shade of blue as Mama’s. But why did Mama lie? And what am I supposed to do with a grandmother?

  “Do I have a grandfather, too?” I ask.

  “Nah, Grampy’s dead,” Kermit says. “Died right around the time Buddy was born.”

  “Wasn’t my fault!” Buddy exclaims. “I was just a baby!”

  “I can’t believe I have a grandmother,” I say.

  “Believe it,” Pork Chop says.

  “Welcome to the family,” Beans says, smirking.

  9

  The Diaper Gang Knows

  We’re splashing around in the water at the little beach at the end of Duval Street. It’s the only way to cool off on a hot day, and every day is hot here. I wade in up to my waist in a bathing suit that Aunt Minnie found for me.

  A beaming boy comes running up.

  “It’s Ira!” Kermit exclaims.

  “I’m back, fellas!” the boy announces like a returning hero. He’s got a moplike head of curly red hair. He looks like Little Orphan Annie without the red dress.

  “When’d you get in from Miami?” Beans asks.

  “Last night. It took us forever to get home. The ferry ran aground.”

  “Poppy told me that when the highway’s finished we won’t need no ferries,” Kermit says.

  “Can’t be soon enough for me,” Ira agrees. He strips off his shirt and dives into the water.

  “What were you doing in Miami?” I ask him when he surfaces.

  He gives his wet head a shake. “Who are you?”

  “I’m just some cousin from New Jersey,” I say before Beans can.

  Ira says, “My little brother needed an operation, so we had to take him to the hospital there.”

  “What’s he sick from?” I ask.

  “Dumbness,” Pork Chop says.

  “Eggy lit some firecrackers and wouldn’t believe me when I told him to throw them,” Ira says. “He blew his thumb off, and his pinkie, too.”

  “How’s Eggy doing?” Kermit asks.

  “He’s got so many of my aunts worrying over him, he can’t fart without one of them jumping,” Ira says. “So what’d I miss? Have we had a lot of babies?”

  “The Diaper Gang was Ira’s idea in the first place,” Kermit tells me.

  “I’m the brains of this operation,” Ira says.

  “I wouldn’t brag about that,” I say.

  “We been busy,” Beans says. “But we’re gonna need a new wagon soon.”

  “Where we gonna get the dough for a new wagon?” Ira asks.

  Everyone’s quiet, and then Kermit wiggles his eyebrows and says, “The Shadow knows!”

  The boys are always quoting the Shadow. He’s a mysterious narrator from a crime radio show. I like the Shadow as much as any other kid, but you’d think if he knew so much, he’d give some advice to President Roosevelt. Far as I can tell, he needs all the help he can get.

  A pretty lady with a broad-brimmed hat walks by with a handsome man.

  “Pork Chop. Beans. Are you boys having a pleasant summer?” she asks.

  Beans looks frozen, but Pork Chop swallows and mumbles, “Yes, Miss Sugarapple.”

  “See you two in the fall,” she says, and they stroll off.

  “Not if I’m lucky,” Beans says.

  “Your teacher?” I ask.

  Kermit says, “Pork Chop and Beans got in big trouble with Miss Sugarapple.”

  “What did you do?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” Beans says.

  “They stole the answer sheet for a test from Miss Sugarapple’s desk,” Kermit says.

  “We didn’t steal it!” Pork Chop says. “We borrowed it!”

  “They had to stay after school every day for the last month and write I will not steal on the chalkboard two hundred times,” Kermit says.

  “Guess you won’t steal next time,” I say.

  Beans sneers. “Next time we won’t get caught.”

  After we finish swimming, we have a cut-up. A cut-up is something these Conch kids do every chance they get. Each kid brings whatever they can find lying around or hanging on a tree—sugar apple, banana, mango, pineapple, alligator pear, guava, cooked potatoes, and even raw onions. They take a big bowl, cut it all up, and season it with Old Sour, which is made from key lime juice, salt, and hot peppers. Then they pass it around with a fork and everyone takes a bite. It’s the strangest fruit salad I’ve ever had, but it’s tasty.

  “Listen, fellas,” Ira says, spearing a piece of potato. “I been thinking.”

  “About how to get us a new wagon?” Beans asks.

  Ira shakes his head. “I met this kid named Lester in Miami and he told me about tick-tocking.”

  “What’s that?” Pork Chop asks.

  “All you need is a rock and string,” Ira says, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It goes like this.”

  Ira explains that you take a rock and tie it to a long length of string—long enough to reach across a roof. Then stake out a house and wait until everyone’s asleep. You throw the rock over the house so that it lands on the opposite side near a window. When you tug on the string, it scrapes the window and makes a scary sound, as if a bony hand is trying to get into the house. The folks inside are scared so bad, they scream their heads off, and you take off running.

  “And the best part?” Ira finishes. “No one knows who did it! What do you think, fellas?”

  “I like it!” Pork Chop says. “Who should we tick-tock first?”

  An evil glint appears in Beans’s eyes.

  “Miss Sugarapple,” he says.

  It’s late, and I’m lying in bed, listening to mosquitoes buzz. The night air is thick with the sweet scent of frangipani. Smokey’s curled into my side, her paws twitching in her sleep, like she’s dreaming of chasing mice. Archie told me once that what he really sells is dreams.

  “Nobody needs fancy face cream. A lady buys it because she wants to feel young or find a husband or feel prettier than her neighbor,” he told me. “All I do is sell her that dream, bottled up nice and tidy in a cream, or maybe a new hat, or some brushes.”

  “But what if she doesn’t have a dream?” I asked him.

  “Princess,” he said, laughing, “everybody’s got a dream.”

  I’ve almost fallen asleep when a scream shatters the quiet, and I know that the Diaper Gang has struck.

  The Conch Telegraph kicks in the next morning.

  When I go outside, the Diaper Gang boys are sitting on the porch, talking excitedly.

  “That was hilarious, pal!” Pork Chop chortles. “She screamed so loud, they heard her in Cuba!”

  Jelly comes walking down the lane. “You kids hear about the ghost at Miss Sugarapple’s place?”

  Beans feigns ignorance. “What’s that, Jelly?”

  “Miss Sugarapple says a ghost was trying to get into her house.”

  “A ghost?” Beans asks.
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  “Scared her nearly to death, she said.”

  “Gee whiz,” Beans says. “I sure do hope Miss Sugarapple’s okay. She’s our favorite teacher.”

  Jelly walks into his tiny house and Beans grins.

  “This is the bee’s knees, fellas!” he says.

  Pork Chop starts laughing and says in a low, menacing voice, “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Diaper Gang knows!”

  Pudding starts crying, and I sniff.

  “I don’t know about the hearts of men, but I’d bet there’s something evil lurking in that diaper,” I say.

  Over the next few days, the Diaper Gang tick-tocks the houses of various folks who they think have wronged them, including a preacher, a store clerk who never gave out free gumballs, some man who yelled at them for picking his Spanish limes, and a girl named Lucy who sat in front of Beans in school and wouldn’t let him cheat off her test.

  But I guess spending all night scaring folks is starting to take its toll, because when I go down to breakfast on the third day, Beans and Kermit are practically asleep at the table.

  “Late night, Shadow?” I ask, and Beans glares at me.

  There’s a knock on the door and Ira comes tromping in. He’s got dark circles under his eyes, too.

  “We got babies,” he says, and Beans stands up and walks out after him, Kermit and me trailing behind.

  By early afternoon, everyone’s drooping and not one of the boys has any patience left for the crying babies. It’s just me and Beans and Ira. Kermit was only too happy to go home when Aunt Minnie hollered for him that it was time for his nap.

  “I wish I had rheumatic fever so I could take a nap,” Ira says.

  Pudding is crying in the wagon.

  Beans snaps at me. “Oh, just pick him up, why don’t you?”

  “I’m not in the Diaper Gang,” I say.

  “Who cares?” Ira says with a yawn. “We’re beat.”

  I pick up Pudding. He nuzzles his sweaty head into the bare skin of my neck and closes his eyes, his little fist tugging on my hair. I guess this is why they warn you about picking up babies. If he stayed quiet like this, I wouldn’t ever want to put him down.

  Pork Chop comes limping down the lane. When he gets closer, I see that his knee’s all torn up and raw-looking.