The Lost Boy's Gift

by Kimberly Willis Holt

  Spider tapped four of his legs on the table. “Let’s see. Decisions, decisions. If I have the Earl Grey, I’ll be set for the day. Just the right zing to spin and spin. But jasmine sounds so romantic.”

  When it appeared Spider would never make up his mind, Tilda said, “I’m the classic sort. I’d go with the Earl Grey.”

  Spider examined Tilda from head to toe. “Yes! Good point. Jasmine it is.”

  While the kettle perked, Tilda went to her sewing box and found a thimble. When she returned to the kitchen, Spider didn’t seem to be anywhere in sight. She looked out the window. The hard rain had turned into a light drizzle. Maybe the rude fellow had decided to leave. Tilda let out a big long sigh. Now she could get on with her day—read the paper, drink her tea, eat her buttermilk biscuits, and go into the garden to dust her hosta.

  The kettle whistled.

  “Yoo-hoo, Miss Butter?”

  Spider was perched on the table in the same spot where Tilda usually placed her biscuits. The very spot.

  “Your kettle is call-ing to you,” sang Spider. “Call-ing to y-ou.”

  Tilda marched to the stove and poured the hot water over a bag of jasmine tea. She tapped her foot and waited.

  “How about that weather?” Spider was in no hurry.

  Tilda drummed her fingers on the countertop.

  “Did I mention you have the most exquisite hosta?”

  Tilda turned around. “What about my hosta?”

  “I saw a grasshopper eyeing those tender leaves, and I quickly spun a web. It was some of my finest work, if I do say so myself. It was sheer and tightly woven. The grasshopper had no idea what he was in for when he hopped my way.

  “Such a struggle, he wiggled and squirmed, but it was no use. He lost his fight. Yes indeed, it was a mutually satisfying event.”

  “How so?” Tilda was thinking of the grasshopper.

  “You got to keep your perfect hosta and I got a nutritious meal. One must eat one’s greens.”

  Tilda felt conflicted. She loved her hosta. She had big plans for it, and appreciated Spider’s help, but she really wished he would leave.

  “You know,” said Spider, “I’m like a captain and my web is like a ship. We’re constantly on the move and my courage is forever challenged.”

  Tilda ignored him.

  “Mmm, the tea, dear lady?”

  Tilda scooped a teaspoon of tea from her cup and dripped it into the thimble. Then she slid it across the table until the thimble reached her guest.

  Spider crept up the side of the thimble, and with every move (eight—one for each leg) he yelled, “Hot, hot, hot, hot, hot, hot, hot, hot! I dread this part, but it’s so worth it.”

  Tilda smelled something. The biscuits!

  She grabbed a pot holder, quickly opened the oven door, and pulled out the pan. “Almost burned!”

  “Oh, they look just perfect,” Spider said.

  Tilda ignored him, easing the biscuits onto her plate.

  “Exactly the way I desire them,” continued Spider. “Cocoa-colored like a brown praying mantis.”

  “Would you have one?” she asked. Aunt Sippy had taught Tilda manners.

  “Perhaps just a crumb,” he said.

  She broke off a tiny bit of biscuit and offered the crumb to Spider.

  He accepted it.

  Then she noticed his legs shaking like threads on a tassel blowing in the wind.

  He pointed with one of them over Tilda’s shoulders and squeaked, “Eeee, eee, eee!”

  Tilda looked behind her. Fred was coming toward them, probably to give the floor under the table a good sniff in hopes of finding a buttermilk biscuit crumb.

  “Sorry to drink and run,” Spider said in a breathless voice, “but I have a busy, busy day ahead of me.” He spun a thread from the back of the chair and lowered himself down to the floor, taking his crumb with him.

  Tilda opened the door, and Spider left the same way he entered. But not before saying, “Good day, Tilda Butter! Thank you for the tea.”

  Tilda waited until Spider was out of sight. Then she fetched her wet paper, placed a buttermilk biscuit on a plate, and gave Fred’s head a nice pat.

  “Good boy, Freddie,” Tilda said. “You scare spiders after all.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE GIANT

  THE NEW HOUSE had boxes everywhere. Some were stacked so tall they reminded Daniel of the downtown skyline he could see from his old bedroom window. Pretending he was a giant, he climbed to the top of a pile, making his way to the one that towered above the rest in the center of the room. The one with the box at the top and the words WEDDING CHINA spelled out in black.

  Daniel stepped up, up, up. There he was, atop the highest stack, his head skimming the ceiling. He was taller than anyone in the entire world. Including his dad. Well, not his dad. His dad was the tallest, strongest, smartest person in the whole wide world. If only his dad were here to see him now. Daniel, the giant. He peered down and saw a spider making his way between the boxes. The spider had ahold of something. It looked like a crumb.

  If Daniel had had his slingshot, he would have gotten rid of that spider. But he didn’t need the slingshot. He was a giant. He could just land on him.

  He started to jump to the floor.

  Then he decided maybe he shouldn’t.

  Then he thought, What the heck. He swung his arms back, paused, and thought, Nope. Maybe not.

  With all his shuffling and moving, the china box was inching off the one beneath it. Finally, it slid completely away and hit the floor with Daniel falling on top.

  He knew the sound of breaking dishes. He was a champion accidental dish breaker. But this was his mother’s WEDDING CHINA. And even though they never once used a piece, even though the china had been stored in a cabinet in the dining room (a room they never used), he knew he was in trouble. He froze, expecting his mother to burst into the room.

  Where was she?

  The spider, carrying the crumb like a precious jewel, took off from near a box and headed out of the room.

  Daniel studied the city of boxes, planning his escape. Slowly, he weaved through the maze of cardboard until he reached the front door. It was raining outside, but he didn’t care. Off he ran, racing past the yellow cottage, then the green one, the purple one, and all the others. His sneakers smacked the street, making loud thumps through the raindrops. He didn’t stop until he reached the end of the street. He would have kept on, but he couldn’t because of what was in front of him.

  Daniel had run into a pond.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SNAIL TALE

  THE NEXT MORNING the sun shined so brightly every puddle along While-a-Way Lane had disappeared. It was garbage day. From her front window, Tilda saw the woman next door carry a moving box to the curb. Even from where Tilda stood, she could make out the writing on the box. WEDDING CHINA.

  Goodness pudding, thought Tilda. No wonder they seemed so sad.

  Soon she’d go over with a pie and make introductions. Surely they’d almost finished unpacking.

  For now, Tilda would check on her hosta. It was only mid-spring and already the plant measured three feet high and four feet wide. Finally she would have a specimen grand enough to enter in the Falling Star Valley Garden Show.

  She could just imagine her hosta, its lime-colored leaves shiny from a careful dusting. And if her entry won first place, it would be included on the Garden Club float in the Falling Star Valley Parade. And best of all, she would get to ride on the float too. She would wave at all of her neighbors as the float made its way down their street. And they would wave back. She’d wanted to be in a parade ever since she was a little girl.

  Aunt Sippy always won first place at the garden show. It didn’t matter if Aunt Sippy entered a rose or Shasta daisies or hostas. Aunt Sippy could grow anything. Sometimes she dug plants out of dumpsters that neighbors had thrown out because they thought they were dead. Mere days later, they would be thriving under Aunt Sippy’s care, gro
wing to gigantic proportions.

  While some neighbors’ sunflowers peeked over fences, Aunt Sippy’s stretched past chimneys, heading to the clouds. Her pumpkins grew so huge, she hollowed out one and made a playhouse for Tilda, complete with cabbage cushions and acorn bowls.

  That was Aunt Sippy’s gift. Tilda wanted to be like her aunt more than anyone. If only she could win first place at the garden show. Every year she entered, but she never got first, second, or third place. Even an honorable mention would have been dandy.

  She could hardly wait to see how much the hosta had grown since she checked it yesterday.

  Tilda hurried outside and headed to the garden. There she let out a scream. Holes dotted an entire leaf of her prized plant.

  “Please don’t shout,” said a teeny-tiny voice.

  Tilda looked around, but the voice was coming from below. It was coming from her hosta. She lifted the damaged leaf, and there was a teeny-tiny snail peering up at her. She felt the blood leave her face. All she could say was “You! You snail!”

  Tilda plucked up the creature and held it with her thumb and forefinger.

  The snail’s antennas quivered. “Please don’t squish me like you did my momma and poppa!”

  That was exactly what Tilda had planned to do. But now she asked, “I squished your momma and poppa?”

  The snail’s antennas nodded. “Over in the arugula patch.”

  “Those were your parents?”

  Fred came over to her and rolled on his back. He always did that when he wanted a good tummy scratch.

  “Not now, Fred.”

  But Fred stayed belly side up.

  Seemed like time stood still out there in the backyard. Still as a dragonfly resting on a twig, the three of them waiting. Tilda was waiting to figure out what to do with the snail. The snail was waiting to see what Tilda would do with her. Fred was waiting for a scratch.

  She gazed at her poor hosta. She studied the snail. It was only a snail. What was one less snail in the world? Then she remembered. This would be three less snails in the world if you counted this little snail’s parents.

  “Please, ma’am!” begged the snail.

  Tilda straightened her back. “Why did you have to eat my hosta?”

  “I’m a snail,” the tiny voice said, as if that should make all the sense in the world.

  Tilda could feel the smooth surface of the shell between her fingers. This was someone’s home.

  “If only you’d chewed my arugula.” Then she covered her mouth with her other hand because she realized she’d said the dreadful word. Arugula.

  “But I couldn’t bear to go over there.” The snail lowered her antennas. “The sadness.”

  Tilda should never have mentioned the arugula. Still, she had a dilemma. “What am I to do with you, then? If I let you go, you will eat something else in my garden. I had big plans for this hosta. I was going to show it at the Falling Star Valley Garden Show.

  “I only nibbled one leaf. You could remove it.”

  Tilda frowned. “It will be lopsided!”

  “If you remove the one across from it, the plant would be even.”

  Tilda rubbed her chin and imagined the hosta minus two leaves. It was an option, a not so bad one. The hosta would have a couple of leaves missing, but no one would know (not even a garden show judge) because the plant would be perfectly balanced.

  “But then what?” Tilda asked. “What am I to do with you?”

  “Well,” the teeny-tiny snail said carefully, “I’ve always wanted to be a pet.”

  “A pet? What in the world would I do with a pet snail?”

  “Do you have a terrarium?” asked the snail.

  “No,” Tilda said. She babied her outdoor plants, but she forgot to water the indoor ones.

  “Everyone should have a terrarium,” the snail said. “They’re no trouble at all. Just imagine, a little garden inside a jar.”

  Tilda tried to see it. One more thing to dust.

  “I’ll keep the glass clean,” the snail said as if she’d read Tilda’s mind.

  “And how does such an itsy-bitsy creature as yourself know anything about terrariums?”

  “My mother was a terrarium snail until the gentleman who owned it moved away. Before he left, he let Momma loose in the woods. That’s where she met my poppa. It was love at first slime. They were so happy until … until the … arugula patch.”

  When the teeny-tiny snail started to sniffle, Tilda found herself wondering where she could buy a terrarium. She wondered about that so deeply that without knowing it, she began to scratch Fred’s belly. He had fallen asleep on his back, while patiently waiting.

  That was how Tilda Butter became a terrarium owner and got a pet who was nothing like her beloved Fred, nothing like him at all.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  TOP-NOTCH SPY

  ALTHOUGH HIS MOTHER never mentioned the broken china, Daniel found the pieces the next day in the box next to the garbage can—chips with purple flowers from teacups, plates, and bowls. Even the pieces that weren’t broken were there.

  They’d lived on While-a-Way Lane two whole days and Daniel hadn’t seen any kids his age. Not one kid any age. His mom reminded him that it was spring break and that the other kids were probably traveling. Spring break was no fun when everyone else was on vacation. Everyone but the old people.

  The only friends he’d met were two squirrels outside his window the first morning he woke up in his new bedroom. The next morning he left peanuts in the yard for them. He was delighted when they came back, but that was the most excitement he’d had since he moved here. Mostly he’d been bored until his dad called each night.

  Daniel’s mom said she would ride bikes with him when she had a spare moment, but that would be no fun. In his old neighborhood, she had pedaled so slowly because she enjoyed looking at everything. Now she’d probably be twice as pokey since everything would be new here. He thought about going to the pond, but he wanted to wait until his dad could go with him. Then a bigger, better idea came to him. Every street should have a top-notch spy, and While-a-Way Lane’s should be him.

  Daniel, Top-Notch Spy. He loved the sound of it so much that he wrote his new title out on a piece of paper and taped it to his bedroom door. His mother would probably never notice anyway. She was too busy looking for a job.

  Daniel went outside to start on his new job. He was about to begin with the next-door neighbor, the woman he saw talking to herself with the big dog. Then the mail jeep came down the road. He hid behind the bush near his front door, waiting for the vehicle to stop. When it reached his box, Daniel watched a bald man with a round face open it and slip in some envelopes. For a split second he wondered if his dad had written to him. Sometimes his dad sent him postcards from his business trips. Daniel could check later. Right now he was on a mission.

  Who was the mailman? Maybe he wasn’t a mailman. Maybe he was a spy, too. After all, he saw everyone’s mail before they did, didn’t he?

  When the mailman drove to the house next door, Daniel followed, hiding behind his neighbor’s big pot of flowers. Suddenly he heard a dog barking. Had he been discovered? No. The next-door lady’s dog was barking at the mailman. Daniel’s dad said dogs were good judges of character. He told Daniel their sense of smell was so strong, they knew when someone might be good or bad.

  The dog kept barking.

  “Stop that, Fred!” It was the lady.

  She waved at the mailman. “Hello, Dewey Wonder! Thank you for the mail!”

  The mailman waved and drove to the next house. When the lady and the dog disappeared inside her home, Daniel took off down the street, following Dewey Wonder’s mail jeep. When Dewey reached the next house, Daniel crossed the road and ducked behind a thick tree trunk.

  This time after Dewey Wonder stopped, he got out of the jeep with a small package. Daniel watched Dewey’s every move—the way he paced quickly up the walk, the way he glanced down at the faded hopscotch game someone had chalked on t
he sidewalk, the way he carefully laid the package down on the welcome mat, first taking his handkerchief out and giving it a quick dusting.

  “He doesn’t fool me,” Daniel muttered. Maybe the mailman was about to do something sneaky.

  And Dewey Wonder did. On the way back to his jeep, he stopped in front of the chalk lines on the sidewalk, looked both ways, and hopped, hopped, hopped. When he came to the two side-by-side squares, he landed on them with both feet, scissor-crossed his legs two times, then moved forward on one foot. He seemed so pleased with himself that when he reached the top square, he turned around and hopped all the way back.

  A hopscotching mailman may have seemed unusual to a boy like Daniel, but he was not looking close enough. If he’d been looking close enough, he would have seen a glimmer of the boy that Dewey Wonder had never let go of.

  Young Dewey grew up in a fun-loving, game-playing family. His parents and his competitive little brother, Charlie, played hopscotch, ran relay races (Charlie always won), and did family Hula-Hooping sessions. (Dewey had marvelous balance and could go for hours keeping a Hula-Hoop swirling around his plump waist.)

  The Wonders lived at the tip-top of Pointy Mountain, the very one that Daniel could see from his bedroom window. Dewey’s family had never visited Falling Star Valley, and so one day they set out to do just that. Their little car wound its way down the mountain, each switchback opening them up to new sights—the cotton balls the Wonders had seen below, they now clearly realized were sheep on a farm, the colorful blocks lined up were cottages on a street, the little puddle was actually a pond.

  When they turned on While-a-Way Lane, with the multicolored cottages, Dewey’s mother said, “Oh my, these homes are as scrumptious as sherbert.”

  “Yes, indeed,” his father said.

  They came to a yellow cottage with sunflowers that towered above the roofline, and Dewey noticed a girl wearing a polka-dotted dress. She was sitting on the lawn, peering between the grass blades. Dewey was in awe, not of the street with the strawberry, lemon, and blueberry hued cottages, nor the giant sunflowers, but of the girl. She was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.