“What’s a logging road?” Posey asked.
“My daddy told me how the logging company used to take logs down to the river so they could put them on boats. They cut roads all through these woods. I bet I know every single one of them.”
Posey gave Walter a slap on the back and said, “Perfect.”
TWENTY-THREE
Walter and Posey burst out of the woods, followed by Porkchop, who was yipping joyfully. Banjo was sitting on the bumper of his truck, cleaning his fingernails with a pocketknife.
“Banjo!” Posey called.
“Sweet jumping Jupiter,” Banjo said, clutching his heart. “You ’bout made me cut my finger plumb off, missy.”
“Did you fix your truck?” Walter asked.
Banjo frowned. “Still waiting on the part I need,” he said. “But I had Curtis bring me back to check on things.”
“Well, guess what?” Posey said. “Starcatcher was washed away by the rain.”
Banjo’s face fell.
“But we found it again!” Walter said. “So we tied it up and camouflaged it so nobody will see it.”
“Well, I’ll be doggone!” Banjo’s eyes twinkled and his twirly mustache lifted with his grin. “I ought to hang my head in shame to admit that I didn’t have much faith in you two rescuing my beloved balloon. But instead, I’m going to shake your hands and demonstrate my overwhelming glee.”
He hobbled over to Walter and Posey and shook their hands. Then he did a funny-looking jig right there in Walter’s yard, sending the chickens scurrying and making Porkchop bark and snarl.
“Y’all have lifted me from the depths of despair right up to the very pinnacle of everlasting joy,” he said. “You have showered me with blessings the likes of which I most definitely do not deserve.”
“You need to get that balloon soon as you can,” Walter said. “We did a pretty good job of covering it up, but still, somebody might find it if it stays there much longer.”
“What if somebody takes it?” Posey asked.
“Don’t say them words!” Banjo snapped. “There ain’t nobody in this county wants to mess with Jubilation T. Fairweather. But I ain’t gonna worry about it. You wanna know why?”
“Why?” Walter and Posey said together.
“’Cause most of the stuff people worry about ain’t never gonna happen anyway. Now leave me be while I climb in the back of this truck and get some beauty rest.”
He climbed into his truck, fluffed up a couple of the old blankets back there, and in a blink, was snoring.
* * *
That evening at the supper table, Walter picked at his tuna casserole and tried to decide if he should tell his mom about finding Banjo’s balloon. What if she didn’t like him going so far down the river? What if she complained about Banjo being a nut, like she sometimes did?
But he decided to tell her. Maybe it would cheer her up.
He told her about how the balloon had been stuck in the cattails and then got carried away after the rain. He told her about how he and Posey found it again and tied it to a tree and camouflaged it so nobody could see it from the bridge.
“Wait’ll you see it,” he said. “It’s exactly the way Banjo described it. Every color of the rainbow with silver stars and golden moons. It’s ripped a little and kind of muddy, but I’m sure Banjo can fix it. The balloon is named Starcatcher.”
His mother put her fork down and blinked at Walter like she had just noticed he was there.
“Starcatcher?” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She leaned toward Walter. “You know, I guess I was thinking Banjo is so, um, eccentric, that that whole hot-air balloon story was liable to be a bunch of baloney.”
“No, it’s true!” Walter said.
It had been so long since he and his mother had talked like this that once he got started, he could hardly stop, while the anger he had had about Tank’s bedroom seemed to drift away.
He told his mother about the Macon County Key Grab and how Banjo was going to win a new truck.
“And just think about it, Mama,” he said. “Imagine Starcatcher floating along in the sky with a bunch of other balloons.”
Mrs. Tipple looked out the window and smiled.
A real smile.
Like she used to.
“That sounds real nice, Walter,” she said.
She reached across the table and patted his hand.
Just the kind of pat he’d been needing.
* * *
After supper, Walter headed next door. Porkchop hop-trotted over to greet him with a yip.
“He’s telling whoppers again,” Posey said, jerking a thumb toward Banjo, who was sitting on the porch swing beside Evalina.
Walter smiled. Banjo was pretty good at telling whoppers.
Like how his cousin Big Ed lost fifty pounds by eating nothing but pork rinds and beets for six months.
How when Banjo was ten, he ate a live garter snake ’cause his brother Caleb offered him $3 to do it.
And that his granddaddy invented the Hula-Hoop.
Now he was telling Evalina about the time he tried to shoot a squirrel with a BB gun.
“That BB ricocheted off a telephone pole and hit the left front tire of a big black limousine coming down the highway.” He leaned closer to Evalina. “And I can assure you that I like to died when the back door of that limo opened and who should step out but Dolly Parton!”
“No way!” Evalina said.
Banjo held up a hand. “May the good Lord strike me dead if that ain’t the truth.”
“Yeah, right,” Posey said.
“Why you think I got this tattoo?” Banjo rolled up the sleeve of his shirt to show them the tattoo on his skinny arm. A big red heart with Dolly Parton’s face smack-dab in the middle of it.
Evalina laughed and Walter said, “Wow!” But Posey seemed determined to stay unimpressed.
“Evalina,” Posey said. “Tell Banjo about that time we went to Dollywood and you got sick on that tiny roller coaster.”
Evalina blushed. “Posey,” she said. “I don’t think he wants to hear that.”
“Wait here,” Posey said. She jumped up and ran inside the house and came back with a shoebox full of photographs. She riffled through them, then held one up.
“Here we are in Pigeon Forge,” she said.
Banjo took the photo from her. “Well, would you look at that?” he said. “Y’all could be sisters.”
Evalina smiled. “Hardly,” she said.
“And check this out.” Posey held up another photograph. “This is me and Evalina building a little wooden car for the Pinewood Derby.” She looked over at Evalina. “Remember that?”
“I sure do.”
“And get this,” Posey continued. “When we showed up at the Elks Club to race my car, they told us girls couldn’t enter. But ol’ Evalina here just put ’em in their place, right, Evalina?”
Evalina nodded.
“And guess what?” Posey said. “I came in second place.”
“Now that,” Banjo said, “is a story of true grit and fortitude.”
Posey grinned. “True grit and fortitude,” she said. “That’s me and Evalina in a nutshell.”
Before long the lightning bugs began to twinkle out in the yard, and Curtis’s car came chugging up the gravel road.
Banjo said good night with a dramatic bow and climbed in.
Walter watched the car disappear from sight, then said good night and headed for home.
TWENTY-FOUR
The next morning, Walter dashed outside while the dew was still on the grass and the chickens were just beginning to stir. It was almost August and the Georgia heat settled still and heavy in the air by the time the sun was barely up. Not even a hint of a breeze. The garden was beginning to look tired. The zucchini grew large and fat on yellowing vines. The pole beans drooped lazily from a lattice made of string. The few heads of lettuce still left had long since gone to seed, sending up shoots of tiny white flow
ers.
Walter was surprised to see Banjo leaning over the open hood of his truck.
“Hey, Banjo,” he said.
Banjo stood up straight and wiped his hands on a greasy towel. “Hey, there, young man.”
“Whatcha doing?”
“Oh, just checking spark plugs and such so that when I finally get that gol-dern master cylinder rebuilt, she’ll be in tip-top shape to fetch my beloved Starcatcher.”
Walter smiled. He was pretty sure Banjo had come back to see Evalina.
Just then Posey ran out of her house and down the steps, with Porkchop hop-trotting along beside her. “Hey, y’all!” she called. She handed a grocery bag to Banjo, who was now sitting on the edge of the truck bed. “Evalina said you can have these tomatoes.”
“Evalina. Evalina,” Banjo said dreamily. He took the bag from Posey and closed his eyes. “Just the sound of that glorious name is like heavenly music wafting in this pure, sweet Georgia air that I breathe.” He took a big, dramatic breath.
“Oh, brother,” Posey said. Then she climbed up onto the back of the truck to sit beside Banjo. “When did Americans first eat tomatoes?”
“I’m sure you’ll enlighten us,” Banjo said, winking at Walter.
“Well, an Italian painter brought them to Salem, Massachusetts, in 1802, but people thought they were poisonous and wouldn’t eat them.” She scratched at mosquito bites on her legs. “It was almost another forty years before folks figured out they could eat them.” She leaned toward Banjo. “That’s from Nuggets of Knowledge. The French called them love apples. So weird, huh?”
“Love apples,” Banjo whispered. He took a tomato out of the bag and bit into it, sending juice running down his chin. “That dear, dear Evalina is giving me a glimmer of hope. A token of her affection. A sly, sly symbol of the very depth of her heart.” He looked at Posey. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
Posey jumped off the side of the truck and landed with a thud. “Sorry to burst your bubble, Jubilation, but I would not.”
Banjo climbed down from the truck, grunting and wheezing, and tossed a piece of tomato to Porkchop, who gobbled it up.
He poked a finger at Posey. “Why you wanna rain on my love parade? Now if y’all will excuse me, I’m going inside to call the auto parts store.”
Then he clomped across the yard toward Posey’s.
When he was gone, Walter turned to Posey and asked, “Think we’ll get that balloon before something happens to it?”
Posey shrugged. “I guess. But something tells me that Banjo isn’t exactly Mr. Lucky.”
Walter was going to remind Posey about Caesar Romanoff’s rule number one, think positive, but then a string of angry words came roaring through the screen door of Posey’s house.
“Uh-oh,” Walter said.
“See what I mean?” Posey said.
Banjo came hobbling across the yard, kicking at gravel with his good foot and punching the air with his fists. Then he went on a rather long and curse-filled tirade about the auto parts store and those brainless babies who worked there.
When he finally stopped, Walter said, “So, I guess the truck part didn’t come.”
Banjo glared around the yard. “Hold me back, young man, for I am liable to choke a chicken with my bare hands.”
Walter grabbed the back of Banjo’s overalls, and Posey said, “Oh, good grief, calm down.”
Banjo’s face was still red and he was huffing and puffing, but he leaned back against the truck and muttered under his breath about his dern bad luck.
“What about Starcatcher?” Walter asked.
“Without a truck, I am helpless to rescue my beloved balloon to fulfill my dream of a bodacious adventure,” Banjo said. “Helpless, I tell you.”
Posey nodded. “Helpless.”
Walter looked wide-eyed from Banjo to Posey and back to Banjo again.
“So, you’re just going to sit here and do nothing while someone might be taking that balloon this very minute?” he said.
“What else can I do?” Banjo said. “Here lies my good-for-nothing truck, unable to move. Without a truck, I fear I cannot rescue my beloved Starcatcher.”
And then something very surprising happened.
Walter said something he had never expected to say.
Never in a million years.
The words just slipped out without the slightest hesitation.
“I have a truck,” he said.
TWENTY-FIVE
Posey stared at Walter, her mouth open in surprise.
Banjo looked confused.
Walter stood there in disbelief.
Had he really said those words?
I have a truck.
Yes, he had said them.
The words danced around in his head.
Then two more words worked their way into his head.
The two words were never and mind.
He should say Never mind.
But he didn’t have a chance because Posey was already skipping in circles and saying, “Yes! Now we’re talking!”
And Banjo was saying, “Well, I’ll be derned, boy. Why didn’t you say something before now? Our problem is solved!”
Walter glanced over at the barn. “But nobody can drive it but me,” he mumbled.
Posey and Banjo grew quiet.
Walter’s mind raced.
What in the world was he thinking?
He couldn’t drive that truck.
Could he?
Sure, he had cruised around in plowed-up bean fields with Tank beside him, but this was different.
He wouldn’t take that truck down to the river.
Would he?
What if he scratched it?
Or worse?
And what about Mama? There was no way she’d let him drive Tank’s truck.
Posey tapped her chin and looked up at the sky. “We need a plan,” she said.
“A plan?” Banjo said. “Oh, for criminey’s sake. What’s there to plan? We drive the truck to the river and load up Starcatcher. Over and done.”
“Slow down, Jubilation,” Posey said. “Tell him about the truck, Walter.”
Walter looked down at the patchy grass under his feet.
Over at the chickens, strutting around the yard.
At a couple of cats, sunning on the porch with twitching tails.
Then he sat down, stared at his sneakers, and told Banjo about Tank.
How he was captain of the high school football team and spent two years in the eighth grade.
How he taught Walter how to spit from the porch into a pickle jar.
How he once drove a motorbike right through the front doors of church.
How he won a hot-dog-eating contest three years in a row and sometimes skipped school.
“One time,” Walter said, “me and Tank went way out County Road 19 and then down a bunch of dirt roads till we got to a plowed-up bean field.” Walter couldn’t help but smile at the memory. “Tank drove out slap-dab into the middle of the field and let me drive. He taught me how to speed up and then yank the steering wheel to make his truck spin around and around. Red dust and pebbles were flying out every which way and you should’ve heard Tank whooping it up.”
Walter would never forget that feeling.
The two of them swallowed up in a cloud of dust, leaving tire tracks in giant circles all over that field.
Then Walter had to tell Banjo the hard part.
How Tank had joined the army and was never coming back.
And how he, Walter Tipple, had promised to take care of his truck.
“I’m taking real good care of it,” Walter said. “So that’s why nobody can drive it but me.”
Banjo plopped down on the ground beside him with a grunt. “I haven’t had many true disappointments in my life, but, son,” he said. “I am truly disappointed that I never got to meet that brother of yours.”
Walter nodded, his chin quivering.
Banjo slapped him on the knee and added, “I always did adm
ire a man who could spit into a pickle jar.”
Walter’s chin stopped quivering and he smiled.
A little smile.
But still, a smile.
Then Posey piped up and said, “Now, let’s talk about our obstacles.”
Banjo looked up at her. “Obstacles? And what might those be?”
Posey sat down facing Banjo and Walter and rattled off the obstacles.
Evalina and Walter’s mother, for one.
A ten-year-old boy driving a truck, for another.
Actually getting the truck to the riverbank where the balloon was, for another.
When she was finished, Banjo leaned forward and said, “Let me give you some advice, missy. Life is simpler when you plow around the stumps.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Means them so-called obstacles of yours are merely stumps.” He clapped Walter on the back and said, “And we shall plow around them.”
* * *
While Porkchop barked at cats in the garden, Walter, Posey, and Banjo sat in the back of Banjo’s truck playing cards.
Well, not really playing cards.
Pretending to play cards.
That had been Posey’s idea.
“Okay, so we’ve got to figure out how to plow around those so-called stumps,” she had said, giving Banjo one of her famous eye rolls. “And if we just sit out here talking, it will look suspicious. I’ll be right back.”
She had run home and come back with a deck of cards.
So now they were pretend-playing and talking about how to plow around the stumps.
“The way I see it,” Posey said, “the biggest stump, well, actually, the biggest two stumps, are Evalina and Mrs. Tipple. There’s no way they’re going to let us take that truck to the river. Especially with Walter driving.”
Walter nodded. “Agreed.”
Banjo nodded. “Agreed.”
“But I, of course, have a brilliant idea,” Posey said.
Walter and Banjo leaned forward, holding their cards.
Posey went on. “I happened to use my stealthy eavesdropping skills to learn two vital pieces of information.”
Halfway to Harmony Page 7
