“Hang on,” I tell her.
I push the bench over and climb up and pull her out. She leaps out of my arms and runs off.
“That’ll teach you to not jump on furniture.”
There’s a hole in the top of the piano and I look inside, curious. It’s a mess—all bits of decaying wood and termite wings—but something catches my eye: a cigar box. It must have been in the piano for a long time, because there’s a thick layer of dust on it. I open it.
Right on top is a pile of little shells, and beneath that is a folded-up piece of paper, and beneath that is a gold coin.
I hold the coin in my hand, turning it over. Then I unfold the paper. It’s some kind of a map. I read the words at the top.
This being Where Blacke Caesar putte His Treaffure
I stare at it for a long time, but I don’t believe for a moment that it’s real. That’d be like believing in bloodsucking vampires and mad scientists bringing dead men to life.
I close the cigar box, put it back inside the piano, and pretend I never saw it all.
But it’s funny. Even though I try to forget the coin and the map, I can’t stop myself; I go back and look at them every chance I get. I keep thinking that maybe they are real. It’s like monsters. You know there’s no such thing, but you can’t help but wonder if they’re out there somewhere in the dark night, just waiting to get you.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I go looking for Slow Poke. He’ll know if the map’s real or not, and I trust him. But when I get to the docks, his boat’s gone.
“Sorry, Turtle. He left this morning,” Ollie says.
“How come you didn’t go with him?”
Ollie looks sheepish. “He’s doing an errand for Johnny Cakes. Didn’t need any extra help.”
“Know when he’ll be back?” I ask, and he shakes his head.
When I return to Curry Lane, the Diaper Gang’s playing marbles.
“Fellas,” Ira says, “we’re not working Labor Day. Even the Diaper Gang deserves a day off!”
“You said it, pal,” Pork Chop says. “Besides, I hear there’s a circus coming to town!”
“Do you think there’ll be elephants?” Buddy asks.
“If we’re lucky, there’ll be a tiger and it will eat you,” Beans says. “And you better put some pants on before Ma comes home and beats your bungy good.”
“Too late,” Kermit says.
Aunt Minnie’s walking down the lane, and she looks mad.
“Your father won’t be coming home this weekend after all!” she says. “He picked up some extra work helping out a fella on his house up there.”
Nobody says anything, and she sighs.
“At least he’s getting paid,” she says, and then looks at Buddy. “Buddy, where are your pants?”
“I can’t find ’em,” he whines.
“Honestly,” she says, and grabs him up and carries him into the house, his wiry body wiggling the whole way.
Beans turns to the boys, rolling a marble between his fingers. “Come on, fellas. Let’s go challenge those White Street boys to a game.”
As they start to walk away, I squeeze the coin in my pocket. I picture Mama on her hands and knees scrubbing Mrs. Budnick’s floor and I make a decision.
“Wait a minute,” I say.
Pork Chop says, “No girls allowed.”
“I think this is a lot more interesting than a marble game,” I say, and hold out the gold coin.
“Where’d you get that?” Beans asks.
“Nana Philly’s house. It was in the piano.”
“The piano? What was it doing in there?” Kermit asks.
“I don’t know. But this was with it,” I say. I pull the map from the pocket of my dress and hand it to Ira.
He looks at it, his eyes widening in disbelief. “It’s a map! To Black Caesar’s treasure!”
Hearing Ira say it out loud makes it seem real, and for a moment, I can almost see the treasure glinting under the sun—shiny gold and silver coins and jewels big as coconuts. I have to dig my nails into the palm of my hand to stop from trying to reach out and grab it.
“Don’t be a sap. It’s fake,” Pork Chop says, but there’s something in his voice, as if he’s trying to talk himself out of it.
Kermit is holding the gold coin. “Looks pretty real to me. Nana Philly’s daddy was a wrecker. Who knows what he took off ships!”
“Give it here,” Beans says, snatching the map from Ira. He studies it. “This is the sponger’s key, with the cistern and the shack.”
“How do you know?” I ask.
He looks down his nose at me. “Because I been sailing since I was in diapers.”
“Fellas, fellas!” Ira says, his voice humming with excitement. “What if it is real? Just like with Old Ropes? This could be big! Bigger than King Kong!”
The boys turn to Beans, waiting for his judgment, and I find myself holding my breath along with them. Is this how all those men on Wall Street lost their fortunes? Did they follow a dream so big they couldn’t see that they were chasing fool’s gold?
Beans gives a reluctant nod and says, “All right.”
“When do we go?” Ira asks, and then they’re all talking at the same time, about shovels and boats, and I can’t help but think that this is exactly like something a Hollywood screenwriter would tap out at his typewriter. And I just bet some dumb director would cast Shirley Temple to play me.
14
Lying, Stealing, No-Good Kids
It’s a fact: if a kid is being nice, he’s probably up to no good. I guarantee you some kid was behind the Titanic sinking. He probably offered to steer the ship so the captain could get a cup of tea.
We tell Aunt Minnie what Pork Chop and Ira are telling their mothers, that we’re gonna wake up early and go fishing for conch so that they can make conch stew for Labor Day.
“That’s nice,” Aunt Minnie says. “Too bad your father won’t be here to enjoy it.”
Ira is waiting for us on the porch when we walk out into the dark. The sun’s not even up yet. He’s got a roll of maps in one hand, a shovel in the other, and a canteen slung on his shoulder. The lane is empty, except for a black cat with a streak of white fur down its back, skulking around. It looks like a skunk.
“Where’s Pork Chop?” I ask. He’s been in charge of getting us a boat.
“Here he comes,” Beans says.
Pork Chop’s running down the street, huffing and puffing. He’s carrying a bulging sack.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Mami was worried we’d be hungry. She made us breakfast and lunch and some snacks, too.”
We walk quickly through the quiet streets. The only person we pass is Killie the Horse driving his sorry wagon. At the docks, boats bob in the water.
“Which one’s ours?” I ask Pork Chop.
“Right here,” he says, stopping in front of a boat with a motor. He hops in, and the boys pile in after him.
“Sure is nice,” I say.
“And fast!” Kermit adds.
“Rumrunner needs a fast boat,” Ira agrees.
“Wait a minute,” I say. “Whose boat is this?”
“Johnny Cakes’s,” Pork Chop says.
“Johnny Cakes is letting us use his boat?”
Pork Chop shrugs. “Not exactly. But he’ll never know. He’s in Cuba.”
“We’re stealing Johnny Cakes’s boat?” I exclaim.
“We ain’t stealing it,” Beans clarifies. “We’re borrowing it.”
The sun is high and hot. Everyone has caps on except me, and I can feel my cheeks baking. I should have listened to Slow Poke about wearing a hat. In fact, I probably should have just waited until he got back, because if Slow Poke and Ollie were Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, then Pork Chop and Beans are Laurel and Hardy, with Ira and Kermit thrown in as a couple of stooges.
They bang around the boat, tripping over each other and arguing about which way to go and who gets to be captain. We circle the same
key again and again and seem to be completely lost. At this rate, we really might end up in China.
Finally, the little key with the shack is in sight. I can hardly believe it. We sail as close as we can and then Beans hollers, “Throw in the hook, Pork Chop!” Everyone leaps into the shallows with their shovels and wades to shore. Ira unfolds the map and looks around.
“We just need to find this tree,” he says, tapping the paper. “It looks like a Y.”
I look into the thick jungle and remember something Archie told me.
“I hate selling in the country,” he said. “Trees fall. Roads get washed out. Nature changes things. Sometimes you can hardly recognize a place you were at a year before.”
“How old do you think this map is?” I ask.
Ira studies it. “Pretty old, I guess.”
“Then the trees are all gonna be different,” I say. “Might not even be around anymore.”
Pork Chop doesn’t care. He grabs up a shovel and walks into the thick brush.
“Follow me,” he says. “I got a nose for treasure.”
By late afternoon, we’re hot, dirty, and exhausted. We’ve dug a dozen holes all over the key, and all we’ve found is a whole lot of nothing. It’s like looking for hair on Mr. Edgit’s head.
Pork Chop flings his shovel at a tree with a growl of frustration.
“You got a nose for dirt,” I say.
“I think I’ll buy some ice cream with my share of the treasure,” Kermit says, nibbling on a bollo.
Pork Chop grunts. “Your share? All you’ve done is eat.”
“I got a weak heart,” Kermit says.
“But not a weak stomach,” Beans observes. “You better not eat all those bollos.”
“Maybe we’re just looking in the wrong spot,” Ira says, wiping a filthy hand across his forehead.
Beans is staring at the ground, a scowl on his face. “There is no right spot.”
We all look at him.
“That map’s not real.” He shakes a finger. “I think mean old Nana Philly put it there knowing we’d find it.”
“But, Beans,” Ira says, “that doesn’t make any sense. If she knew about the map, don’t you think she would have mentioned it to somebody a long time ago? Nobody can keep a secret in Key West!”
“You know she hates kids,” Beans counters.
“Yeah,” Pork Chop says in quick agreement. “That’d be just like her.”
“We been had, fellas,” Beans says, and points at me. “Should’ve known better than to listen to a girl.”
“This is why we don’t let girls in the Diaper Gang in the first place,” Pork Chop says.
Ira looks at me, disappointment clear in his eyes. But Beans is not to be denied.
“Let’s go, Pork Chop,” Beans says. “Maybe we’ll make it back in time to get some ice cream.”
“You said it, pal,” Pork Chop says, and they start walking away. “I say we try that nickel-on-the-bottom trick.”
Ira and Kermit linger with me. They don’t want to give up the dream, either.
“They’re right,” I say. I must have been crazy to believe in something like pirate treasure.
Ira sighs.
“Come on,” I say. “We better go, or they’ll leave us here.”
I’ve only taken a few steps when my foot catches on something and I go tumbling backward, my bottom hitting the ground hard.
“Ow!” I cry, and look down at the culprit: a thick stone, the size of Buddy’s head.
“You okay, Turtle?” Ira asks.
Pork Chop looks back at me on the ground and starts laughing. “Look! She fell on her bungy!”
Beans joins in, hooting with laughter, and a moment later I start laughing, too. I can’t help it! Because it is funny. It’s the funniest thing ever. I laugh and laugh and laugh.
Pork Chop and Beans stop laughing and look at each other like they think I’ve gone loony.
“You think the sun’s getting to her?” Pork Chop asks.
I’m still laughing. “My bungy found it!” I say. “My bungy found it!”
“What’s she talking about?” Beans asks, walking back.
“That,” Ira says, staring at the stone I tripped over. It has a letter carved in it.
C
“So what?” Pork Chop says. “It’s a U.”
“Have you ever even been to school?” I ask. “It’s a C.”
Beans sucks in his breath.
“For Black Caesar,” Ira whispers.
15
A Dream Come True
Maybe Mama is right after all. Maybe life is like a Hollywood picture, with happy endings around every corner. The boy gets the girl. The millionaire adopts the orphan. The poor kid finds the pirate treasure.
“Hot dog, that’s a swell lot of gold,” Kermit says.
“You can say that again,” I say.
“Hot dog, that’s a swell lot of gold!” he shouts with a grin.
It took longer than we thought to dig up the rotting trunk. What was left of it, anyhow. It was buried deep beneath the stone.
Now we’re all just standing around, staring at the pile of dirty gold coins. You’d think when a dream comes true you’d scream until your heart gives out, but the reality is you just turn dumb from the wonder of it all.
“What do we do now?” Ira asks.
“Whatever we want, pal!” Beans hoots. “We’re rich! Rich!”
And then it’s like a dam cracks and we’re yelling at the top of our lungs, hollering so loud a bird goes shrieking out of the trees like a newsboy on a corner.
This is how Little Orphan Annie must have felt after Daddy Warbucks took her in: she’s never going to have to worry about anything ever again! She’s the luckiest orphan in the entire world!
“This is better than winning bolita!” Pork Chop crows.
“How much you think it’s worth?” I ask.
“Millions!” Pork Chop says. “We’re rich as Rockefeller!”
Beans looks up at the sky. “We better get a move on, fellas. It’ll be getting dark soon.”
We empty out what’s left of the food from Pork Chop’s sack and pile the gold in.
“I gotta go,” I say. “I’ll meet you at the boat.”
I do my business, and when I reach the shore the boys are standing there staring at the horizon. It takes me a moment to figure out what they’re looking at—or not looking at.
“Where’s the boat?” I ask.
“Halfway to Cuba, probably.” Beans’s expression turns thunderous. “Pork Chop here never threw in the hook!”
“I threw it in,” Pork Chop insists. “I did!”
“Then what happened to the boat?” Beans asks.
“I—I—I don’t know!” Pork Chop stammers. “Maybe someone just came along and took it!”
I can’t believe it. I knew I should have waited for Slow Poke.
Ira holds up his hands. “Fellas! It’ll be okay. There’s always boats coming past here. Every sponger uses this key. Someone will pick us up. We’ll be fine.”
“How fine are we gonna be when Johnny Cakes finds out we lost his boat?” I ask.
Kermit turns pale.
“We’ll buy him a new boat,” Ira says. “We’ll buy him a hundred boats! We’re rich!”
Kermit cracks a smile. “Oh, yeah. I forgot.”
There’s plenty of water to drink in the cistern, but that’s the only good news. All that’s left to eat is three bollos and half a Cuban sandwich, which we divvy up.
“None for you,” Beans tells Kermit. “You already ate more than your share.”
We pile inside the small shack to sleep, lying on the ground next to each other. It’s worse than being forced to watch a Shirley Temple picture. At least a theater is air-conditioned, which is more than I can say for the shack. But that’s not even the worst of it.
The place is buzzing with mosquitoes.
“They’re gonna eat us alive,” Kermit says, smacking his arm.
The boys jostle each other for room.
“Get your elbow out of my face!” Beans snaps.
“It’s not in your face,” Pork Chop says.
I lie on the filthy floor and try to ignore the pests—insect and boy—by telling myself that it’s just one night. There are folks all over the country who’ve lost their homes—they’re living in tents, in boxcars, under bridges. I can survive one night in a shack.
“Stop touching me!” Beans says.
“I’m not!” Pork Chop says.
“This is all your fault anyway,” Beans growls. “If you’d just set the hook …”
“I did!” Pork Chop shouts.
“You didn’t!” Beans shouts back.
Pork Chop leaps up. “I don’t have to take this from you! I’m leaving!”
“No, you ain’t! I’m leaving first,” Beans says, and he rushes past Pork Chop into the night.
Then it’s just me, Ira, and Kermit.
“Well, at least there’s more room now,” Ira says with a sigh.
“Yeah,” Kermit agrees. “And it’ll be quieter, too. Beans snores. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since Turtle got here.”
I smack a mosquito. “You ain’t gonna get a good one tonight. I can’t believe we’re stuck here.”
“We’ll get picked up in the morning. Don’t worry,” Ira says in a reassuring voice. “Just think about how we’re going to spend all this gold.”
The bag of treasure is under his head like a pillow.
“Guess we can afford a new wagon for the gang,” Kermit says.
“We can even get two!” Ira pipes in.
“And all the ice cream we can eat!” Kermit says. “You think I can buy myself a new heart?”
“Sure,” I say. “Be sure to give your old one to Beans. He could use one.”
“What about you, Turtle?” Ira asks. “What are you gonna buy?”
Turtle in Paradise Page 8
