The shelf where Tank’s football trophies had been was empty. The top of his brother’s scuffed-up desk that had been littered with motorcycle magazines and empty potato chip bags was bare.
Walter’s stomach squeezed tight and his legs felt shaky.
He stared at the bed where Tank would sometimes sleep the day away while their daddy banged on the door every hour or so. Instead of a jumble of sheets and smooshed-up pillows, there was a flowery quilt with a crocheted afghan folded neatly at the end of the bed.
Instead of the blanket that Tank had nailed over his window to keep out the light, there were lacy white curtains.
Walter closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then he put his hand on the knob of the closet door and counted to three:
One.
Two.
Three.
He opened the door and peered inside.
Empty.
No football jerseys.
No fake leather jacket.
No muddy work boots.
Walter felt a little sick.
Just two days ago he had sat on Tank’s unmade bed and held Tank’s trophies and even put on Tank’s jacket.
And now?
Poof!
Everything was gone.
His mother had taken away everything that was left of Tank.
Walter hurried out to the barn to sit in Tank’s truck. He started to climb inside, but something caught his eye in the corner of the barn by the lawn mower.
A stack of cardboard boxes with Tank written on the sides with black marker.
Walter felt anger swirl around him and then hit him hard, like a punch. How could his mother put Tank’s things away in boxes like that? How could she erase Tank right out of the house like he’d never even lived there?
He climbed into the truck and whispered, “Hey, Tank.” Then he let the engine run while he shuffled Tank’s cards and counted the quarters in the canvas bag. He jiggled the Born to Be Wild key chain and put on Tank’s sunglasses. He gave himself a thumbs-up in the rearview mirror the way Tank used to, but he didn’t look cool like his brother had.
He took the envelope out of the glove box and looked down at his name and address scrawled in Tank’s scribbly writing and felt that mixed-up tangle of anger and sadness.
Why had Tank wanted to leave Harmony so bad?
Had his life in the army really been so much better?
And how could he have gone to fight in a war overseas like he did without even coming home to say goodbye to Walter, who loved him so much?
And the question that stabbed at Walter the most was this: Had Tank planned on ever coming back to Harmony?
Walter held the envelope in his shaking hands and wondered if he should open it. Maybe this last letter said the things Walter wanted it to.
About missing Harmony.
About wanting to come home.
But what if it didn’t?
He tossed the envelope back in the glove box and put his hands on the steering wheel. He pretended he was big and strong like Tank and not small and puny like he really was. He pretended the kids at school wanted to be his friend instead of making fun of him, like they really did. And he pretended he was driving far away from Harmony without looking back.
Then he stopped pretending and had himself a good cry.
THIRTEEN
The next day, Walter and Posey sat on the porch steps with Porkchop and listened to Banjo complain.
“Anybody who thinks sleeping in the back of a truck is a good idea oughta be run out of town,” he said, putting both hands on his back and shaking his head.
Then he leaned over the engine of his truck and muttered under his breath. Every now and then, he tapped on something with a wrench or jiggled a hose.
“Maybe it’s the fuel pump,” Posey said.
“Or the carburetor,” Walter said. Tank’s truck had always seemed to have a problem with the carburetor.
Banjo laid the wrench down on the fender of the truck and wiped his greasy hands on his overalls.
“Well, ain’t I lucky my truck broke down right here in the midst of a couple of mechanical geniuses?” he said. Then he bowed slightly and made a dramatic sweep of his arm. “Step right on over here and be my guest, geniuses.”
Just then Evalina came out onto the porch and said, “Mr. Fairweather, if I may be so bold as to make a suggestion—”
“Stop!” Banjo held up a hand. “Please, Miss Angel, call me Banjo. And you may be so bold as your heart desires.”
“I was thinking it’s probably time to call a mechanic,” Evalina said.
“Why, Evalina,” Banjo said. “I am a mechanic. Been working on engines since I was a mere boy. I could replace a fan belt before I could spit straight.”
“Suit yourself,” Evalina said and went back inside.
“Maybe you’ve lost your touch,” Posey said.
Banjo’s face turned red. “This truck is older than you are. I have oiled, polished, installed, and otherwise repaired every spark plug, gasket, and hose under this fair hood.” He patted the hood lovingly. “I’ll have this thing singing like a choirboy in no time.”
“If that truck’s so great,” Posey said, “how come you want to win that key grab competition so bad?”
“A fine and fair question,” Banjo said. “Trucks are like people. They don’t live forever. When your number’s up, it’s up. This truck here has lived a long and fruitful life, but I fear her number is almost up. I must be prepared.” He gave his truck another loving pat on the fender. “That is why I will win that new truck. Then this old vehicle can finally rest for all eternity in the junkyard of heaven.”
And so the afternoon drifted by. While Banjo tinkered with the truck, Posey read to Walter from Nuggets of Knowledge.
“Hey, check out this nugget,” she said. “The most words ever spoken by a parrot. Some dude swears he heard a parrot recite the entire Declaration of Independence. Can you believe that?”
She stabbed a finger onto a page.
“And get this,” she said. “I bet you didn’t know cows sweat.”
Walter didn’t really care that cows sweat. He couldn’t get his mind off that tidy bedroom that used to be Tank’s or those boxes piled up in the corner of the barn. That morning, he had stomped into the kitchen to ask his mother why she had done such a thing. But when he saw her droopy shoulders and those dark circles under her eyes while she sat forlornly at the kitchen table, he just couldn’t bring himself to do it.
So he had gobbled down his cereal and hurried out of the house to watch Banjo work on his truck.
“Aha!” Banjo hollered suddenly, making Walter jump and Porkchop let out a loud yip. He threw both arms up and said, “Distributor cap.”
“Is that bad?” Walter asked.
“No, son,” Banjo said, “that is good. Cheap and easy to fix. So now I will rely on my considerable charm to convince the angelic Evalina to drive me to the auto parts store, after which I will fix this truck and continue on my bodacious adventure.”
Walter jumped up. “Hey! I have an idea. Me and Posey can go, too, and Evalina can drop us off at the Chattahoochee bridge. It’s easy to walk along the river from there so we can look for your hot-air balloon.”
“Great idea,” Banjo said.
Then he and Walter looked expectantly at Posey.
She nodded. “I agree. Good idea.”
She turned to Banjo and said, “Go work your magic on No-Nonsense Evalina, Prince Charming.”
* * *
Walter, Posey, and Porkchop jumped out of the back seat of Evalina’s car and watched as she headed up the road toward town.
Banjo had been successful in using his considerable charm to convince Evalina to drive him to the auto parts store.
Walter had convinced her that he knew the way back home from the river.
And Posey had had the brilliant idea to bring her binoculars.
They walked along the path that ran beside the river, stopping every now and the
n so Posey could scan the water through the binoculars, but there was no sign of Banjo’s Starcatcher. When the noonday sun began to beat down hot and heavy, Walter sat on the riverbank and wiped the back of his neck.
“I hope that balloon didn’t sink in the river,” he said.
Posey scooped up Porkchop and sat on the mossy ground beside Walter. “It didn’t,” she said.
“How do you know?”
Posey shrugged. “Just a feeling.”
“What if the current carried it way on down yonder?” Walter nodded toward the river that snaked back and forth as far as they could see.
“We’ll find it,” Posey said.
Walter looked at Posey and couldn’t help but admire how she always seemed so sure about things.
“Yeah,” he said, trying to muster up his most confident voice. “We’ll find it.”
He sure hoped Posey was right. He had spent his whole life playing in the woods and exploring the riverbanks, but he had never found a hot-air balloon. He had also never seen one floating in the sky.
Wouldn’t that be something?
Starcatcher drifting along up there among the clouds?
Posey stood up and gave Porkchop a kiss on the nose. “Let’s go home,” she said.
* * *
When they got to Walter’s house, Posey went straight to the garden and turned on the hose. She took long gulps, letting the water splash mud onto her legs. Then she held the hose while Porkchop lapped at the water.
“What do you want to do now?” she asked.
Walter shrugged.
Suddenly Posey sat up and pointed to the barn. “Is that a hayloft up there?”
“Um, yeah.”
Posey nodded toward a large oak tree beside the barn. “Let’s make a rope swing in that tree! Then we can jump out of the hayloft on the swing.”
Before Walter had a chance to even blink, Posey and Porkchop were racing toward the barn.
Before he had a chance to yell, Wait! Posey had yanked the barn door open.
Then when Posey said, “Whoa!” Walter knew it was too late.
Posey had seen Tank’s truck.
FOURTEEN
By the time Walter got to the barn, Posey was walking around the truck.
She ran her hand along its shiny sides.
She stroked the gleaming silver hood ornament.
She traced the lightning bolt with a finger.
“Don’t touch that!” Walter hollered.
Posey jerked her hand away from the truck and stared at him, wide-eyed. A rosy pink flush worked its way from her neck to her cheeks.
“Why not?” she said.
Walter yanked a towel out of the peach basket and began frantically rubbing the side of truck. The hood ornament. The lightning bolt.
His face burned.
His hands shook.
His chin quivered.
Do not cry, he told himself.
Instead of crying, he yelled.
“Who said you could come in here and touch this truck?”
Posey looked down at the dusty barn floor and said in a tiny, un-Posey-like voice, “Sorry.”
Silence settled around them.
A shaft of sunlight from the window in the hayloft pierced the shadowy barn and danced on the hood of the shiny truck.
Walter could hear his own heart beating. Could feel the heat from his burning cheeks floating around him. He kept his eyes on the towel in his hand and said, “This is Tank’s truck.”
Posey shuffled her feet a little and said, “Oh.”
Walter took a deep breath. “I mean, this was Tank’s truck,” he said.
“Oh.”
For the first time ever, Walter said the words: “Tank died.”
Posey said, “Oh,” again, but then added, “Who’s Tank?”
“My brother.”
“Why’s he called Tank?”
“’Cause he was big,” Walter answered. “Built like a tank, everybody always said.”
Then Walter told Posey about his brother.
That he had been so good at football and all the girls had loved him except Racine Reese, who got so mad at him one time that she threw a soda can at him and chipped his front tooth.
That he had taught Walter how to crack his knuckles and once made jelly-bean sandwiches for them to eat in their fort.
That he could do a backflip off the Chattahoochee bridge and broke his collarbone riding a skateboard down the courthouse steps.
That he had loved this truck more than anything and made Walter promise to take care of it when he joined the army.
And that he had gone to war overseas and was never coming home.
Walter slowly lifted his eyes and looked at Posey. Her face was pale, making her heart-shaped birthmark look darker. In a very soft voice, she said, “That’s so sad.”
Walter balled his fists and squeezed his eyes shut and told himself not to cry.
But he did.
He felt the tears running down his cheeks and his face burning with shame. Now Posey would probably think he was a baby and she would join those kids at school who didn’t want to sit beside him in the cafeteria.
But then something unexpected happened. Posey put her hand on his arm and gave it a little pat.
Walter felt his heavy heart lift a little.
“Aren’t you glad I moved here?” Posey said.
Yes, Walter was glad Posey had moved here. She had shown up in the middle of the night with her three-legged dog and her Nuggets of Knowledge and made him forget about how lonely he’d been. She didn’t care about his pigeon toes or his lazy eye. And now here they were, the two of them, helping Banjo with his bodacious adventure.
Posey gave him a poke with her elbow. “I bet I can do a backflip off the Chattahoochee bridge,” she said. She gave him another poke and added, “I bet you can, too.”
Walter shrugged. “I doubt it.”
“Oh, good grief,” Posey said. “You gotta think positive. That’s rule number one in my second favorite book besides Nuggets of Knowledge. It’s called Caesar Romanoff’s Rules for Making Friends.”
Walter stood up a little straighter. “Rules for making friends?”
Posey nodded.
Walter felt his heart lift even higher and his whole body seemed lighter.
“I could probably use that book,” he told Posey.
“Oh, I know all the rules by heart. I’ll teach ’em to you and you can practice with me.”
“Okay.”
So what had started out so bad with Posey touching Tank’s truck and him crying right there in front of her had turned out pretty good with the promise of learning how to make some friends. Maybe even thwarting some bullies. Shoot, maybe even doing a backflip off the Chattahoochee bridge.
FIFTEEN
It had been nearly dark by the time Evalina and Banjo got back from town the day before, so Banjo had slept in the back of his truck again and planned to fix it the next day. Then he could drive along the river to look for the balloon. Walter had pushed aside his simmering feelings about Tank’s room and begged and pleaded with his mama to let him go with Banjo. She kept saying Banjo seemed kind of wacky to her. But she finally agreed when Walter told her Evalina was letting Posey go.
When Walter got to Posey’s that morning, Banjo was sitting on the porch, eating pancakes, and complaining to Posey.
“If I have to spend another night sleeping in that dang truck,” he said, “this old back of mine is liable to lock up and y’all can just leave me for dead.” He licked pancake syrup off his fingers. “Like this dern cast ain’t enough to turn me into a hobbling fool.” He scratched his arm. His neck. His leg. “And don’t even say the word mosquito.”
“Mosquito!” Posey hollered, and Walter couldn’t help but laugh.
Evalina stepped out onto the porch and poured Banjo another cup of coffee. “Hopefully, you’ll get your truck running today,” she said.
“Hopefully?” Banjo said. “Why, Miss Evalina, you mus
t trust me when I tell you that my truck will be purring like a kitten before the Georgia sun is straight up overhead and I am ready for my noontime nap.”
Evalina smiled but Posey made a face. “Only babies take naps,” she said.
“And old geezers like me,” Banjo said. “Naps are the elixir of beauty. How you think I got so pretty? Napping, missy, napping.”
Evalina roared with laughter. “Mr. Fairweather, you do have a way of brightening a day. I’ll give you that,” she said.
“Then my purpose in life has been achieved,” Banjo said, giving his mustache a dramatic twirl. “I can now die a happy man.”
* * *
All morning long, Walter and Posey played checkers while Banjo worked on the truck. Porkchop trotted around the yard, yipping at the chickens and sending the cats darting into the woods.
Just when Walter thought he couldn’t stand one more game of checkers, Banjo called out, “Done! Fixed! Good as new!”
Walter and Posey let out a cheer and ran down to the truck.
“Can we go look for the balloon now?” Walter asked.
“Let’s do it,” Banjo said.
The three of them climbed into the truck and Porkchop hopped onto Posey’s lap.
Banjo gave them a satisfied smirk when he turned the key and the engine started right up with a roar.
Walter’s stomach churned with excitement. Now that they could drive along the river, surely they would find that hot-air balloon.
But when Banjo put the truck in gear, something bad happened.
Instead of going forward, the truck began to roll backward.
Banjo stomped on the brake with his good foot and the brake pedal went right down to the floor.
The truck kept rolling.
Banjo stomped on the brake again.
The truck kept rolling.
Slowly at first.
Then a little faster.
And a little faster.
Walter yelled, “Whoa!”
Posey hollered, “Stop!”
Porkchop barked.
Banjo let a string of cusswords fly.
And then, bang.
Halfway to Harmony Page 4
