Turtle in Paradise

by Jennifer L. Holm

  “What happened to you?” I ask him.

  He spits out the words. “Too Bad.”

  “Too Bad followed us when we went tick-tocking last night,” Ira says. “Pork Chop tripped over him.”

  “How could you trip over him?” I ask.

  “I didn’t see him! It was dark!” Pork Chop says. “I hate that kid.”

  “Well, you didn’t have to cry so loud,” Ira says, looking annoyed. “The Shadow’s supposed to be mysterious! You almost got us caught!”

  “You see my leg? It hurt!” Pork Chop says.

  The next afternoon we’re sitting around having a cut-up when Kermit comes hurtling down the lane, waving a newspaper.

  “Fellas!” he exclaims. “We made the paper!”

  The headline shouts Key West Cursed by Weeping Ghost?

  “Weeping ghost?” Pork Chop says. “What are they talking about?”

  “Read it,” Beans orders, and Ira obliges.

  “‘Is a mysterious ghost haunting the lanes of our fair town? Residents have reported strange goings-on of late. Mrs. Josephine Higgs of Peacon Lane is the most recent recipient of a ghostly visitation. “I heard her knocking at the window,” Mrs. Higgs said. “I think she was trying to communicate with me.” ’”

  “I wasn’t trying to communicate with you,” Pork Chop says in an outraged voice. “I was trying to scare you!”

  “Who is she, anyway?” I ask.

  “My first-grade teacher,” he says with a scowl.

  “Boy, you sure do hold a grudge,” I say.

  “Keep reading,” Beans says.

  Ira continues: “‘Mrs. Higgs believes the spirit may be the widow of a sailor who died at sea. “I never heard such a sad sound as her weeping. She was just crying her heart out. The poor thing,” Mrs. Higgs said.’”

  Ira finishes and looks up. Everyone is quiet. Pork Chop has turned beet red.

  “Maybe you’ll get your own radio show,” I say to Pork Chop. “Just like The Shadow.”

  “Really?” he asks.

  “Sure,” I say. “You can call it The Crybaby.”

  10

  The Man of the House

  They say that when the stock market crashed, men were so upset at losing their fortunes that they threw themselves off buildings. I can’t imagine killing myself over something like that, but then again I’ve never had a fortune to lose.

  Pudding is dozing in the wagon under the hot sun, and Termite is chasing Smokey around the porch. Whenever Termite gets too close, my cat swipes the dog with her sharp claws. Termite howls and howls.

  “Why’d you name that dog Termite?” I ask Beans.

  “He followed me home one day. Ma told me to get rid of him, but no matter what I did, he always came back.”

  “Can’t get rid of termites!” Pork Chop says.

  The postman walks up. Being a postman is just about the best job a person can have. The hours are good and then, of course, there’s the job security: there’s no end of bad news to deliver in hard times.

  “Letter for you, Miss Turtle,” he says, handing me an envelope.

  “Thanks,” I say, and tear it open.

  Dear Turtle,

  How are you, baby? I miss you something awful.

  Mrs. Budnick never sleeps and doesn’t care if anybody else does, either. She thinks nothing of waking me up in the middle of the night to make her tea or toast. I’m so tired I can barely see straight. The only thing that keeps me going is thinking of you.

  Someday this will all be behind us, I promise. I’ve been thinking that maybe I can become an actress. Can’t you just see my name in lights? All I need to do now is get a screen test with Warner Brothers.

  Love always,

  Mama

  P.S. Please give your aunt my love, and tell her not to kiss any Curry boys.

  I sigh. This is why I worry about Mama. She’s always getting zany ideas. I don’t know what she’d do without me to figure things out.

  “What’s it say?” Kermit asks me.

  “Mama’s head is so high in the clouds, I’m surprised she doesn’t bump into Amelia Earhart.”

  “How can your mama’s head be up in the clouds?” Buddy asks. “Ain’t it attached to her neck?”

  “Look! It’s Killie the Horse!” Beans says suddenly, an edge of excitement in his voice.

  An old man riding a horse-drawn wagon is coming down the lane. The horse looks like it’s going to drop dead any minute. I’ve never seen a sorrier-looking animal. And the man doesn’t look much better. He’s wearing filthy old clothes and has a wild, whiskery beard. The wagon is piled high with all sorts of trash.

  “Murderer,” Pork Chop whispers.

  “What?” I ask.

  “He killed a horse. Whipped it to death!” Ira says.

  The man doesn’t look like he could kill a fly, let alone a horse.

  “Says who?” I ask.

  “Says everybody!” Pork Chop says.

  The boys grow quiet as the wagon passes. The next thing I know, all the boys are chasing after the wagon, taunting the old man.

  Their mocking cries fill the lane: “Killie the Horse! Killie the Horse!”

  They jump onto the back of the wagon.

  “Leave me be!” the old man cries, but he loses his balance and goes tumbling onto the dusty lane.

  The boys erupt into peals of laughter.

  A lady steps out of her house and shouts, “You boys stop that right now! You hear me?”

  The boys mouth a few halfhearted “Yes, ma’am”s and come sauntering back, snickering under their breath.

  “You see the look in his eyes when we jumped on the wagon?” Pork Chop says. “That was swell!”

  “You said it, pal!” Beans says.

  Killie the Horse stands up and climbs gingerly back onto the wagon, gives a whistle, and starts off.

  “What should we do now?” Ira asks.

  “Maybe you should go drown some kittens,” I suggest.

  “Ain’t no fun in drowning kittens,” Beans says.

  “Yeah,” Pork Chop says. “You gotta light their tails on fire and watch ’em run around!”

  A tall man carrying a sack over his shoulder turns onto Curry Lane and Beans inhales sharply.

  “Poppy,” he says, his throat thick.

  Then he leaps up and runs down the lane. Beans throws himself headlong into the arms of his father, who drops his sack and hoists Beans up easily, hugging him hard. Kermit and Buddy go racing down the lane, too, shouting “Poppy’s home!” Even Termite waddles to greet his master, yipping happily.

  My uncle’s face is tan as old shoe leather. He looks hot and tired, and has a pale patch of skin on his chin where a beard must’ve been.

  Aunt Minnie opens the door and steps out onto the porch. She doesn’t fling herself into his arms and kiss him like Mama when she sees Archie. She just wipes her hands on her apron and says, “You shaved, Vernon.”

  “Stopped at the barbershop on my way home,” he says, rubbing his chin. He looks at me and back at Aunt Minnie, a question in his eyes. “Something you want to tell me?”

  Aunt Minnie rolls her eyes. “She’s Sadiebelle’s girl. Just showed up.”

  “Got the family resemblance, all right.”

  “Poppy!” Buddy says, tugging on his father’s hand. “Will you play marbles with me?”

  Pudding, thoroughly disturbed by all the shouting, starts crying.

  “That one ours, too?” Uncle Vernon asks with a jerk of his head.

  “You haven’t been gone that long,” Aunt Minnie says, and everyone laughs.

  Whenever Archie comes back from a sales trip, it’s like Christmas. He buys perfume for Mama—Je Reviens in a tall blue glass bottle that looks like a skyscraper—and pretty things for me, like mother-of-pearl comb-and-brush sets.

  Then he takes us all out for a fancy meal—chicken à la king and peach melba ice cream—and Mama dancing after.

  Uncle Vernon doesn’t buy treats like Archie, but thi
ngs are different with him in the house. Beans is a little nicer, and Buddy has fewer accidents, and Aunt Minnie doesn’t seem so tired. Uncle Vernon’s got a quiet way about him. He doesn’t say much at all. But I like him.

  Aunt Minnie makes beef soup for dinner to celebrate Uncle Vernon being home. It’s delicious. I eat three bowls.

  After the dishes are done, the boys play outside in the lanes and Aunt Minnie delivers clean laundry.

  It’s just Uncle Vernon and me. He pulls a sewing box down off a shelf and takes it into the parlor, where he sits by a lamp. He threads a needle, picks up a shirt from a basket of clothes needing mending, and starts sewing a tear on the elbow. His stitches are small and perfect.

  “Gee, I never met a man who could sew,” I say.

  “My daddy taught me. He was an old Conch sailor. He always said you should know how to mend your own sail.” He cocks his head. “You know how to sew?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Housekeeper does the mending.”

  Uncle Vernon hands me a needle and thread and a pair of Buddy’s pants. There’s a tear in the bottom.

  I look at the radio. “Can we listen to Little Orphan Annie?”

  He turns it on and we sew and listen to Annie and Sandy.

  “That Sandy’s a smart dog,” Uncle Vernon says.

  “Not as smart as Smokey,” I say.

  “I saw that you brought a cat. What happened to her fur?”

  “A bunch of mean kids did it. They tricked her with some ham and then lit her tail on fire.”

  “That’s a hard lesson,” he says. “Bet she won’t let that happen again.”

  When I’m finished mending the tear, I hold out the pants for Uncle Vernon to see.

  “Not bad,” he says.

  “Not much point, if you ask me,” I say. “Can hardly keep pants on him.”

  “How are you settling in here?” Uncle Vernon asks.

  “I’m not used to having cousins,” I admit.

  “You’ll get used to them. I see you’ve already acquired a taste for turtle,” he says.

  “What?” I ask.

  He looks amused. “Dinner. That was three bowls of turtle soup you had, you know.”

  “I thought it was beef!” I say, feeling slightly sick. “Seems mean to eat something you’re named after.”

  “Nothing mean about filling your belly. And turtle’s cheap meat.” He studies me. “Where’d you get that name of yours?”

  “Mama says I’ve got a hard shell.”

  And I do. I haven’t cried since I was five years old. I don’t think I have much of a choice, to tell the truth. Who else is going to hold things together when Mama falls apart after some man disappears? Once you get out of the habit of crying, you hardly even miss it.

  “A hard shell, huh?” he says. “Must take after your aunt. I don’t know anyone who’s got a harder shell than my Minerva.”

  “Hard as a brick,” I say.

  Uncle Vernon looks at me. “You know, the thing about a turtle is that it looks tough, but it’s got a soft underbelly.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “So I hear your mother is seeing a salesman,” he says, tying off a knot. “What’s he sell?”

  “Encyclopedias,” I say.

  “He successful?”

  “Archie can sell anything,” I say. And then, “Mama really likes him.”

  He looks at me. “What about you?”

  “I like him a lot,” I say. “He’s not like all the others.”

  He nods. “You know, your aunt and your mother were the prettiest girls in Key West in their day. They couldn’t walk down a lane without boys tripping in front of them.”

  “Mama’s still pretty,” I say. “Mr. Leonard swore he’d leave his wife for her.”

  “Mr. Leonard? Who’s he?”

  “Mrs. Leonard’s husband,” I explain. “A family we worked for.”

  “I see,” Uncle Vernon says. “And how did that turn out?”

  “Mrs. Leonard fired Mama.”

  “Now that doesn’t seem fair.”

  “It wasn’t. Especially since Mama was the third housekeeper Mr. Leonard proposed to,” I say.

  Uncle Vernon laughs. “Sounds like Mrs. Leonard should have fired Mr. Leonard.”

  “You said it,” I say. “Good help is hard to find.”

  11

  Ladies Who Lunch

  Forget hair tonic and encyclopedias. The Diaper Gang’s on to something with their diaper-rash formula.

  A lady with a screaming baby appeared at the crack of dawn on the front porch.

  “Is Beans home?” she asked me in an anxious voice.

  “Beans!” I hollered. “You got a customer!” Beans came to the door.

  “It’s Nathaniel’s bungy. It’s just terrible. I’ve tried everything. I don’t know what else to do,” the mother said, looking like she was going to burst into tears at any second. “Can I please have some of the diaper-rash formula?”

  Beans went back inside and returned with a bag of the formula. “But you gotta let his bungy air out first before you put it on,” he advised.

  “Bless you, Beans,” the woman said.

  A few days later, the same woman comes back. This time she’s smiling, and so is the baby.

  “I don’t know how to thank you, Beans,” she says. “The formula cleared it up right away.”

  “Always does.”

  “Here,” she says, giving him a handful of tickets. “I bought one for all of you. There’s a Shirley Temple picture playing.”

  After she leaves, I turn to Beans.

  “You ought to patent that formula,” I say. “You’d be the Rockefeller of diaper rash.”

  “I know,” he says.

  We’re walking out the front door to go to the matinee when Aunt Minnie calls to us from where she’s ironing in the parlor.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, wiping a hand on her forehead. “But one of you kids is going to have to go over to Nana Philly’s and give her lunch. I’ve just got too much laundry to do today.”

  “Not me,” Beans says quickly.

  “Me neither!” says Kermit.

  “No way, no how, Ma!” Buddy says.

  Aunt Minnie looks up at the ceiling as if she’s praying for patience. She’s going to be praying a long time at this rate.

  “I’ll do it,” I say. Nana Philly can’t be any worse than Shirley Temple.

  Aunt Minnie gives me a long look. “Thank you, Turtle,” she says. She sounds surprised. “You’re a good girl.”

  “Course I am,” I say. “You’re just used to rotten boys.”

  “Why, Turtle!” Miss Bea says with a confused smile when she opens the door. “How lovely to see you! But I was expecting your aunt.”

  “Aunt Minnie’s got laundry. I’ll give Nana Philly her lunch,” I say.

  “Aren’t you a dear,” she says. “Well, whatever you make her, just be sure it’s soft.” She lowers her voice a notch. “Her teeth aren’t very good.”

  “All right,” I say.

  “I won’t be long,” she says, walking down the steps. “You’re so sweet to do this!”

  But I’m not sweet—I’m curious. It’s not every day you find out you have a grandmother you didn’t even know was alive. And despite what everyone says about Nana Philly being terrible, I’ve been wanting to see if she’ll be different with me. After all, I’m a girl. Maybe she just hates boys. Wouldn’t blame her if she did.

  I walk into the house with fresh eyes. This is where Mama grew up. A thousand questions flash through my mind: Which bedroom did she sleep in? Did she run up and down the hallway? Did she sit at the piano? I hope not. That stool doesn’t look too sturdy.

  Nana Philly is sitting in the rocking chair in her bedroom reading a new magazine. She’s dressed the same way as when I first saw her.

  “I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Turtle,” I say. “Your granddaughter.”

  She looks up.

  “Sadiebelle’s girl.�
��

  And blinks.

  “Mama’s in New Jersey,” I explain. “She got a job as a housekeeper to a rich lady.”

  Nana Philly stares at me.

  “I’m supposed to make you lunch. You hungry?” I ask.

  The old lady doesn’t say anything; she just looks back down at her magazine. It’s not exactly the tearful reunion I was imagining, although maybe that blink was her way of saying she was happy to see me. Then again, maybe she has dust in her eye.

  I go into the kitchen and look around. Mama’s always making fancy lunches for the ladies she works for. You wouldn’t even know people were standing in breadlines if you walked in and saw what they were eating: iced cantaloupe, shrimp aspic, caviar sandwiches with cream cheese, hearts of lettuce with French dressing, meringue cookies.

  There’s no caviar or cream cheese in sight, but there is bread on the table and milk in the icebox, so I decide to make milk toast. I toast up some bread, stick it in a bowl, and pour milk over it. It’s tasty, and it’s mushy.

  Nana Philly eyes the bowl suspiciously when I place it on the little table in front of her.

  “It’s milk toast,” I say. “We eat it all the time.” Strange as it seems, I want her to like it.

  She doesn’t move and then I realize why.

  “Oh, no! I forgot your spoon,” I say, and rush back into the kitchen. I hear a thump, and when I return, the bowl is lying facedown on the floor, milk splattered everywhere.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  Nana Philly doesn’t say anything. Not that I really expect her to.

  “I must have put it too close to the edge,” I say, and clean up the mess. Then I set about making another bowl of milk toast. I bring it out—with a spoon this time—and place it in front of her on the little table.

  “Here you go,” I say. “I hope you like it.”

  She looks at the bowl for a moment and then her hand whips out and knocks it right off the table and onto the floor.

  I’m so shocked, I just stand there. I didn’t really believe what the boys said about her before, but I do now.

  “You did that on purpose,” I say. “Why? I’m your granddaughter!”

  Her mouth twitches as if this amuses her.

  Something hopeful in me hardens. She reminds me of all the rotten kids I’ve ever lived with.