Jackson Jones and the Puddle of Thorns

by Mary Quattlebaum

  “Be careful, Bigfoot, you’ll stomp our investment.”

  Reuben tiptoed out of the garden. “Maybe we should water it.”

  “You think so?”

  Reuben considered the seedling. “Must be hard work pushing out of the ground. It could use a drink.”

  I stepped around the big puddle by the faucet, uncoiled the hose, aimed.

  Water hit the seedling with the force of a hurricane.

  Flattened it.

  Reuben gazed into the mud. “You killed it, man.”

  “Maybe it’ll pop up again.”

  “That plant is a goner.”

  I felt pretty bad. One dollar down the drain.

  Reuben eyeballed me. “Ain’t you going to fix it?”

  “How am I supposed to fix a dead plant?”

  But Reuben just crossed his arms and kept eyeballing me.

  I pulled off my Air Jordans.

  Squidge, squidge. The cold mud squeezed between my toes.

  I looked all around. I didn’t want anyone to see me cuddling a dead plant. I had my cool reputation to think of.

  Juana was coming through the gate. Gaby and Ro hopped behind.

  “Jackson Jones, Jackson Jones,” they shouted happily, “eats some bread to make his bones.”

  Juana shrugged. “They think they’re poets.”

  “Juana, Juana, eats iguanas.”

  Juana ignored them. She turned to Reuben.

  “What’s Jackson doing?”

  “Fixing a plant he killed.”

  “I didn’t kill it. I watered it.”

  Juana considered the plant. “Looks dead to me.”

  Gaby and Ro shrieked, “Plant murderer.”

  Very coolly I leaned over, dabbed some mud around the tiny shoot, straightened the leaves.

  Whop! Something knocked me in the butt. The next thing I knew—mouthful of mud.

  Gaby screamed with laughter.

  Reuben leapt after her.

  I jumped up, hit the garden path running. Yow! The wood chips dug into my bare feet. Gaby was a blurred dress weaving in the flower beds. Hop. Hop. Yow! Yow! I’d get her.

  “Jackson’s dancing,” Ro screamed.

  I dived. Reuben swiveled. We pinned Gaby like a muddy wildcat.

  “Jackson loves Juana,” Gaby howled.

  “Leggo my sister.” The voice was quiet, clipped. I looked up.

  Legs apart, jaw set, Ro dangled one white shoe over the brown, oozing puddle by the faucet.

  My Air Jordan.

  “Juana,” I yelled.

  Juana leapt.

  The next thing I saw: Juana clutching one white shoe.

  The other sinking in the mud.

  “You hurt me,” Ro howled.

  Then a familiar voice growled: “Bouquet Jones, looks like you done turned into a seed.”

  Very funny, I thought. I shook Gaby off. Refused to look over by the gate at that Blood Green.

  “Boooo-kay loves Juana,” Gaby screamed.

  Head up, shoulders loose, I just kept walking. Very coolly. Yow! Yow! Those wood chips dug into my feet.

  I picked my shoe out of the mud, wiped it on the grass.

  “We were just leaving,” said Juana.

  “Me too,” said Reuben.

  I didn’t answer.

  As Juana herded the kids out, Gaby softly chanted: “Boo-kay’s sneakers in the mud. Boo-kay’s sneakers smell like crud.”

  Blood had already left. Gone to spread the news of my new name.

  As I thumped my dirty shoe to the gate, Mailbags called, “I see you have your first weed.”

  “What do you mean, weed?”

  “That weed.” Mailbags thumbed at the one green shred in my garden. “You should pull it out. You don’t want weeds crowding your flowers.”

  Great. I had killed a weed and then rescued it.

  First one plant (weed), then two plants (weeds), then green leaves bombing all over the ground. Maybe weeds. Maybe… flowers.

  “Dollar flowers,” I said, surveying my business empire.

  Only one corner of my empire was not cooperating. That rosebush. It looked like a pile of mean sticks.

  “This thing should be busting with flowers.” Reuben examined the thorns. “Maybe your mama should talk to it.”

  “Then my mama would be talking to her birthday present. And I don’t want her talking to her birthday present before her birthday.”

  Reuben kicked some wood chips. “I’m tired of this garden. Mud, plants, water. Water, plants, mud. When we gonna see some roses?”

  Mailbags moseyed over. His garden looked as perfect as a picture in one of Miz Lady’s magazines.

  “Boys, you better pick out those weeds. Otherwise they’ll choke your flowers.”

  “More work?” Reuben looked horrified.

  “Which ones are the weeds?” I asked.

  “Look for the biggest plants.” Mailbags grinned.

  My spirit dropped to the bottom of my Air Jordans, but I pulled off my shoes and waded into the garden.

  “There’s got to be an easier way,” Reuben moaned.

  “Just pull.”

  “Why don’t we shoot a few hoops first?”

  “Pull.”

  “Let’s get a Mars bar. I got fifty-nine cents.”

  I kept leaning, pulling, tossing.

  “I quit,” said Reuben.

  “You can’t quit, you’re a business partner.”

  “I quit anyway. Jackson, man, all you think about are these one-dollar greens. You are ob-sessed.”

  I kept pulling.

  “This garden is nothing, man. Look at that rosebush. A puddle of thorns.”

  Lean, pull, toss.

  “I got some good ideas for Captain Nemo.”

  Lean, pull, toss.

  “I guess I’ll do the next Captain Nemo adventure myself.”

  I straightened. I was plenty mad. “Captain Nemo is nothing without my writing.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “Besides, it’ll take you forever to do the next story.”

  “Will not.”

  “Forever and a Sunday,” I said. By now I was boiling mad. “You are slow, Reuben. S-L-O-W. We could have done a thousand Captain Nemo comics by now, but you’re so slow.”

  “What do you mean, slow?”

  “Look at your shoelaces,” I said. Reuben looked down. “Such finicky perfect bows. I’ve seen you tie one bow six—no, eight times until it’s perfect. Why don’t you just tie your laces?”

  Reuben kept looking down at his perfect bows. Then he turned and, still looking down, walked to the gate.

  “I’ll buy out your share of the garden,” I yelled.

  Reuben opened the gate.

  “I don’t care if you take over Captain Nemo,” I hollered.

  Reuben, looking down at those finicky bows, disappeared around the corner.

  “Fine,” I screamed.

  “Fine,” I muttered to the next weed. Yank.

  Puddle of thorns. I’d show him. Yank.

  Thinks he can write Captain Nemo—Ha! Yank.

  I showed those weeds no mercy. Yank. Yank. Yank. What kind of best friend quits a business, takes over your writing, and insults you all in one Saturday afternoon?

  No kind of best friend. Reuben and I were quits as business partners, Nemo creators, and best friends.

  Finally, I limped home. My back ached. An interesting blister had formed on my thumb.

  “Oh, Jackson”—Mama beamed—“you are enjoying your garden so much.”

  Yeah, right.

  Mama set out some dinner. “I can hardly wait to see what’s growing there.”

  “Mostly weeds,” I muttered.

  But to myself, I added: That garden’s growing nothing but trouble.

  And that garden continued growing trouble. Trouble and weeds.

  The next day I shoved $2.57 into an envelope and stuck it under Reuben’s door. No name, no note, nothing. A hostile business takeover.


  On Monday I found a note taped to my door: What about interest? So I calculated ten percent of $2.57 for six weeks. That came to thirty-eight cents. I stuck thirty-eight cents under Reuben’s door.

  On Tuesday I got a picture of a perfect Captain Nemo. Inside the cartoon bubble were these words: “Written and Illustrated by Reuben Casey.” Written was underlined twice.

  I wanted to rip the picture, right through Nemo’s finicky helmet and finicky space armor, down to his finicky boots.

  Instead I yanked weeds.

  Wait till I’m rich. Yank.

  I’ll be swimming in basketballs. Yank.

  Written and illustrated by Reuben Casey—Ha! Yank. Yank. Yank.

  Miz Lady yelled over the garden fence, “Money keeps showing up under my door, Mister Cool. Must be the tooth fairy.”

  School wasn’t much better.

  Me passing Reuben with my frozen-cool face.

  Him passing me with his Popsicle face.

  Blood Green calling me Flower Boy, Sissy.

  Blood drawing chalk flowers on the sidewalk.

  Blood shrieking, “Boo-kay!” like a crazy parrot.

  Each weed became a perfect picture of Blood’s mean smirk. Yank. Yank. Yank.

  “Don’t you want to play basketball?” Mama asked.

  “Gotta work.”

  “Don’t you want to visit Reuben?”

  “Gotta weed.”

  “Want to go out for pizza?”

  “Can’t till it’s dark.”

  Mama was wearing her worry look a lot these days. “You certainly enjoy that garden.”

  Yeah, right.

  That garden was growing nothing but trouble and weeds.

  Even Abraham and Juana wouldn’t help. Abraham said he had allergies and that the garden would be the death of him. (His mother’s words.) Juana said that I’d treated Reuben like dirt and she wouldn’t work for a cheating friend. (Her words.)

  Yank. Yank. Yank.

  Mailbags even started paying me to weed his garden. So did old Mrs. Groomsby.

  That garden was growing trouble, weeds, and dollar bills.

  And finally flowers.

  One day a few buds. The next day— BOOM! Zinnias zinging. Nasturtiums knocking. Marigolds gleaming like gold.

  I just sat down hard. This garden would be some kind of present for Mama’s birthday.

  Then one day my weeds stopped growing.

  I couldn’t understand it. Mailbags’s weeds still grew. Mrs. Groomsby’s weeds still grew. But my flowers flourished without the hint of a weed.

  “Why?” I asked Mailbags.

  Mailbags fingered a marigold.

  “Sometimes I see things,” he said, “when I start my rounds in the morning. Mind you, morning mist moves like a ghost, so I can’t be sure. But I thought I saw something in your garden.”

  “What?”

  Mailbags looked down. “Maybe a boy.” He scratched his ear thoughtfully. “Maybe your friend.”

  I snorted. “He’s no friend.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Sure is doing a friendly thing.”

  “Now that I’m going to be rich, he just wants back in the business.”

  “Is that so?”

  “And he stole Captain Nemo from me.”

  Mailbags squinted up at the sun. “That morning mist sure tricks the eyes.”

  I watched Mailbags mosey back to his garden.

  “He called the rosebush a puddle of thorns,” I hollered.

  Mailbags turned. “Puddle of thorns.” He chuckled. “That’s a good description.”

  “Wait till it sprouts those five-dollar roses.”

  “Jackson,” said Mailbags, “that bush is going to be a puddle of thorns for a while. Roses take a long time to bloom—five-dollar or otherwise.”

  I kicked the ground. “Four dollars and ninety-five cents for a puddle of thorns. What kind of investment is that?”

  “A lousy one,” said Mailbags, whistling off to his cucumbers.

  What a rip-off, I thought. Next year I planned not to have a garden. I’d make sure Mama was clear on that before my eleventh birthday. T-shirt, sports stuff, money—no garden. Someone else could have those stinking roses.

  But if I didn’t have roses, at least I had plenty of one-dollar zinnias, nasturtiums, and marigolds. Surely enough for one basketball.

  Mama’s birthday was in two weeks.

  Then no more flowers, no more garden, no more trouble.

  Just me quick dribblin’, dunking, scoring. Shooting hoops all summer long.

  “Forty-eight, forty-nine,” I mouthed. The zinnias tossed in the breeze.

  “What ya doing, Jackson?” Gaby materialized suddenly, lugging the thumb-sucking Ro.

  “Nothing,” I said, losing count.

  “You were doing something,” Gaby said. “I saw your lips move.”

  “Does Juana know you’re here?”

  “Sure,” said Gaby. “She says we can’t go to the store with her anymore ’cause Ro breaks stuff. She said you’d watch us.”

  “Didn’t break nothin’,” Ro mumbled around his thumb.

  “The juice bottle was slippery,” Gaby explained. She pulled Ro’s thumb out of his mouth. “Or so he claims.”

  Ro popped his thumb back in.

  “I don’t have time to baby-sit,” I said.

  “Were you praying?” Gaby persisted. “Jackson was praying,” she explained to Ro. Ro nodded solemnly.

  “I was counting. At least until you interrupted.”

  “Count away.” Gaby sniffed. “Who’s stopping you?”

  I started again. Silently one-two-three…

  “Forty-nine, sixty-four, three, eleven,” said Gaby.

  “One trillion, ninety-two, three,” sang Ro.

  I stopped.

  Gaby looked innocently at me. “What’d I do? I was just counting. I can count. It’s a free country.”

  I started again. Twenty-seven, twenty-eight.

  “You’re counting the flowers,” said Gaby.

  Thirty-four, thirty-five.

  “Juana says you’re going to sell your mama’s flowers. She says you cheated your best friend.”

  Forty-two, forty-three, forty-four.

  “Me, I tell her it’s a hard world. A man’s got to make money.”

  Fifty—“What?” I said.

  “Also a girl and her small brother,” Gaby continued.

  “So now you think we’re partners?”

  “Could be,” said Gaby. “If I like the deal.” She squatted. “Kids like Ro can help a business, especially if they’re small and cute.” She gazed significantly at Ro.

  He stared back, working his thumb.

  I said, “Looks like he has a plug in his face.”

  Gaby tugged Ro’s fist. He held tight. They struggled.

  “Anyway,” said Gaby, giving up, “the thumb-sucking’s part of his charm.” She surveyed Ro, spat on the hem of her T-shirt, wiped his cheek. “Just try us. Cut a few of those red things.” She waved at the zinnias. “Set up shop. Business will boom.”

  “How much?” I asked suspiciously.

  “This time free,” said Gaby. “Next time we talk money.”

  I cut ten zinnias. Mailbags said thinning was good for a garden. So I wasn’t exactly selling Mama’s birthday present before she saw it—I was thinning.

  Gaby dragged Ro to the street corner. She stuck three dandelions in his hair, swiped again at his face.

  “Look cute,” she commanded.

  “I gotta pee.”

  “Hold it.”

  To me she said, “Better work fast.”

  “What do I do?”

  Gaby rolled her eyes. “I thought you were the big businessman. You gotta yell, ‘Get your fresh flowers here.”’

  “We need a sign.”

  Gaby glanced at the squirming Ro. “There’s no time.”

  Suddenly she screamed, “Fresh flowers, right here!”

  An old l
ady almost dropped her groceries. “Goodness, dear, you scared me.”

  “Want to buy some flowers?”

  “I don’t think so, dear. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “They’ll be dead tomorrow,” said Gaby.

  The old lady just looked surprised and shuffled off.

  “Fresh flowers!” Gaby screamed at the passing cars.

  No one stopped.

  “Cheap jerks.”

  Ro was really squirming now. “Gaby,” I said, “maybe we should take Ro—”

  “Quiet,” she hissed. Her lips curved into a sweet smile.

  Coming toward us was a woman with hair as big and shiny as Captain Nemo’s helmet. Amazing! Her lips were the color of zinnias and her eyes blue-painted up to the brow. A sweaty man lumbered beside her.

  “Oh, Frank,” crooned the woman. “Just look at these adorable children.” Her perfume advanced on us like the prow of a battleship. I stepped back.

  “These flowers would look great with your dress,” Gaby said hopefully.

  “Red flowers with this orange?” The lady tittered.

  Her blueberry eyes swept over the zinnias and settled on Ro. By this time the little guy was wriggling like an earthworm. I felt sorry for him.

  “What a precious child!” cried the lady.

  A look of pain crossed Ro’s face. “Gaby,” he whispered.

  “He’s my brother,” said Gaby. “Very well behaved.”

  The lady patted the dandelions on Ro’s head.

  “The flowers are on sale today,” Gaby prompted. “One dollar a flower. Ten dollars for the bunch.”

  “That’s not a sale,” I whispered.

  Gaby kicked me.

  “Such a little businesswoman,” said the lady.

  She smiled at Gaby.

  Gaby smiled back.

  They looked like they were trying to out-smile each other.

  The lady showed some more teeth. “Frank,” she said.

  Frank mopped his forehead. He pulled a ten-spot out of his wallet and gave it to me. He didn’t even look at it.

  Gaby’s smile relaxed.

  The lady smiled brilliantly all around and sailed off in the midst of her perfume.

  “Phew.” Gaby held her nose. “You mean people pay for that smell?”

  “There you are.” Juana pounced on Gaby. “What are you doing?”

  “Selling flowers,” said Gaby. “Jackson, give me my share.”

  I fished in my pocket and came up with sixty-two cents.

  “Seven dollars,” said Gaby.