He could hardly believe he was really doing this.
Driving Tank’s truck through the woods.
He was certain Tank would’ve been proud.
Would’ve slapped him on the back and said, “Way to go, little man!”
Every now and then, the side of the truck would scrape against scrub pines or overgrown shrubs tangled with vines and Walter nearly went crazy with worry about scratching his brother’s beloved truck.
Finally, they rounded a curve and there in the distance was the river.
Posey bounced up and down on the seat, Porkchop barked gleefully, and Banjo did a little drumroll on the dashboard with his fingers.
Walter drove slowly, trying to dodge overhanging limbs, until they reached a fork in the road.
“The bridge is that way,” he said. “I’m thinking Starcatcher is not much farther up the side of the river.”
A short distance later, he stopped the truck.
“I think Starcatcher is somewhere in that direction.” He pointed at a clearing in the woods where they could see the river flowing lazily along.
Posey pulled her map out of the pocket of her shorts and opened it up. “I think you’re right!” she said. “Let’s go!”
They scrambled out of the truck and hurried toward the river, with Porkchop racing ahead of them in that three-legged hopping way of his.
At least, Walter and Posey hurried.
Banjo, of course, hobbled after them, calling, “Gol-dern it! Wait up!”
Walter’s heart raced as he stood by the river’s edge.
“There it is!” he hollered, hurrying up the riverbank until he reached the spot where he and Posey had secured the balloon to the trees and shrubs. Porkchop was already there, barking excitedly.
Posey raced after them, letting out a few loud cheers that echoed across the water.
Finally, Banjo reached them, huffing and puffing and brushing dirt off his toes sticking out of the cast.
The three of them looked at one another, grinning.
They had done it!
Plowed around the stumps.
At least most of the stumps.
They still had two big stumps left to plow around.
Two very big stumps.
They had to get the balloon to Banjo’s house.
Then they had to get Tank’s truck safely back in the barn before Mama and Evalina got home.
TWENTY-NINE
Getting the balloon into the back of Tank’s truck was harder than they thought it would be.
Banjo was practically useless. He stood on the riverbank reminding Walter and Posey that he couldn’t get his cast wet.
It was up to them to untie the balloon from the shrubs and the basket from the tree and then figure out what to do next.
“Let’s fold this end over there,” Walter said.
Posey shook her head. “No, it’d be better if we unhooked the basket and then—”
“But if we unhook the basket, we’ll have to tie it to the tree again ’cause the river will—”
Back and forth they went, each one having a different idea while Banjo barked orders at them.
“Naw, you two, not like that!”
“For criminey’s sake, untie the other end!”
“Walter! Walter! Walter! Stop a minute!”
And so it went.
A bit of chaos.
Porkchop raced back and forth in the shallow water at the edge of the river, splashing Banjo with muddy water and making him holler, “Stop that, you flea-bitten mutt!”
Walter was getting more and more frustrated and then Posey went and made things worse by reminding him about those friend-making rules of Caesar Romanoff’s.
“Have you forgotten rule number five?” she said. “Quit your griping.”
Walter shot her a dirty look.
“And I went in that nasty, snake-infested water to pull that basket out,” Posey told him. “You could try remembering rule number eight and thank me, you know.”
“We never got to rule number eight,” Walter snapped.
They both grunted and panted and pushed and pulled until, finally, they had done it.
The wet, muddy fabric of the balloon was folded into a large, messy rectangle and the wicker basket was well out of the water and resting on its side on the riverbank.
Posey plopped down on the ground, then flopped back against the rocky slope and draped her arm over her eyes. “Okay, Jubilation,” she said loudly. “Now you’ve got to help us get this thing in the truck. Need I remind you that this is your balloon?”
“Need I remind you,” Banjo said, “that I am an injured man. Disabled by the weight of this cast and infused with the pain that surges from these bruised and battered toes of mine clear up through my gullet to my head, leaving me with a throbbing headache the likes of which I would not wish upon even the mortalest of my enemies. Not even that good-for-nothing Kudzu.”
“Okay, look, y’all,” Walter said. “We’ve got to hurry. Mama and Evalina will be coming back from town and we still have to get the balloon to Banjo’s and get Tank’s truck home.”
Banjo helped Walter and Posey take a part of the folded-up balloon fabric, drag it to the truck, and heave it into the back. Then they returned for the basket, which proved harder to drag and harder still to get into the truck.
But they did it.
Then they climbed in and Walter drove slowly along the logging road to the Chattahoochee bridge.
When he got to the main road, he stopped.
His stomach did a flip when he realized a car was coming up the road toward them.
And there he sat, an almost-eleven-year-old boy driving a pickup truck.
His heart began to pound.
His hands began to shake.
He put the gear in park and took a few deep breaths.
Suddenly Banjo was pushing the back of his head.
“Get down!” he hollered. “Pretend like you’re looking for something on the floor.”
Walter ducked down and stared at his wet sneaker on the brake.
The mud and rocks on the floorboard.
Posey’s dirty rubber boots.
What had he done?
Here he was driving Tank’s truck, probably about to get taken to jail any minute.
And the sight of the mud and rocks on the floor of the truck made him feel sick. He could only imagine what the rest of the truck looked like.
He let out a groan.
“Keep quiet and stay down,” Banjo said.
“There’s another car coming,” Posey said.
Walter groaned again and closed his eyes.
Finally, after what felt like forever, Banjo tapped him on the shoulder.
“Coast is clear,” he said.
Walter sat up, blinking. “Now what?”
“Now give her some gas and head straight for that field over yonder,” Banjo said.
That meant driving across the highway.
Walter put the gear in drive.
He closed his eyes and listened to his thumping heart.
He couldn’t do it.
But he had to do it.
They had come this far.
He couldn’t give up now.
He opened his eyes and looked both ways.
Then looked both ways again.
No cars in either direction.
He held his breath and stomped on the gas.
The truck shot across the road and into the field on the other side.
He stopped and clamped a hand on his heart. “I did it!”
“Don’t stop now, you nimrod!” Banjo yelled. “Go, go, go!” He waved his hands wildly toward the field in front of them.
Walter drove the truck through the field that looked like it had once been farmland but was now only wildflowers, milkweed, and scrub pines.
He drove and drove, the truck bouncing and bumping through the field, that horseshoe necklace swinging wildly, until suddenly, Banjo pointed and yelled, “Stop! Go that way!”
> Walter drove in that direction and before long the field became red dirt and there in front of them was a ramshackle house. Beside the ramshackle house was a sun-faded, leaning barn.
“There it is!” Banjo said. “Casa de Jubilation. Château de Fairweather. My humble and welcoming abode.”
“What do we do now?” Walter asked.
“We put my beloved balloon in the barn and then we will have successfully driven around one monster of a stump,” Banjo said.
So that’s what they did.
The three of them pulled and pushed and panted and grunted until the folded fabric and the wicker basket were safely inside Banjo’s barn.
They slapped high fives and Posey said, “Mission accomplished!”
“Mission accomplished!” Banjo said.
But Walter’s smile faded.
“Not quite,” he said. “We still have to get Tank’s truck back home.”
THIRTY
Walter gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead.
He had done this before.
He would do it again.
He would drive the truck over the bumpy field.
Across the highway.
Through the maze of dirt logging roads.
Along the narrow pathway to the barn.
Around the barn and then, hallelujah, safely into the barn.
He would close the barn doors and breathe a sigh of relief.
But for now, he gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead.
He was barely aware of Posey and Banjo cheering him on.
“Way to go, Walter!”
“Attaboy, Walter!”
Even Porkchop wagged his tail as he sat on Posey’s lap.
Walter was so completely exhausted it was all he could do to keep from getting out of the truck and dropping to the ground to sleep forever.
He felt Posey poking him in the leg.
He shook his head and looked at her.
“Let’s go!” she said. “We’ve gotta beat Evalina and your mama, remember?”
Walter blinked at her. “Right.”
He took a deep breath and stepped on the gas.
The truck bounced along back through the field until it came to the highway by the bridge.
All three of them looked both ways.
No cars.
“Let’s get ’er done!” Banjo hollered.
Off they went, across the highway toward the river.
Then Walter turned onto the logging road and began to make his way back home. But a short time later, Posey sat up ramrod straight and said, “Wait! Stop! This isn’t right.” She took out her map and squinted down at it. “I think we need to go that way,” she said.
Walter wasn’t so sure, but he remembered that geography was one of Posey’s specialties.
He turned the truck around, which was not so easy to do on the narrow road and required Banjo to get out of the truck and direct him. Grumbling, of course.
But eventually they came to the wide path that led to the back of Walter’s barn.
As he turned onto the path, Walter’s stomach finally began to settle down and he realized that he was actually smiling.
When the back of the barn came into view, he stopped the truck.
“Now,” he said, “mission accomplished!”
They grinned and fist-bumped, and Banjo said, “This is one fine and glorious day.”
Then Walter drove slowly along the side of the barn.
But when he turned the corner, there in front of them was a terrible sight.
Walter’s father’s car was parked in the driveway beside the barn.
THIRTY-ONE
Walter slammed on the brakes so hard that Posey and Banjo were thrown forward with a jolt.
Posey whipped her head sideways to look at Walter, her eyes narrowed, her face red, and her mouth ready to give him what-for. But when she saw his face, she froze. She looked over at the car in the driveway, then back at Walter.
“Whose car is that?” she asked.
But Walter couldn’t speak.
He couldn’t move.
He couldn’t even think.
He just sat there feeling queasy, his hands gripping the steering wheel and his heart pounding.
“What in tarnation is going on?” Banjo asked.
Then the back door of Walter’s house opened and out stepped a man.
A man with an angry face.
A very angry face.
“Hello, Walter,” he said.
Somehow Walter managed to get himself to move. He put the truck in park and took his foot off the brake. He turned the ignition off and dropped his hands to his lap. He rolled down the window.
His shoulders slumped.
His eyes looked down.
“Hey, Daddy,” he mumbled.
Mr. Tipple walked over to the truck and leaned in through the open driver’s-side window.
“Wanna introduce me to your friends?” he said.
“Um, Posey and Banjo,” Walter answered, still looking down.
“Look at me,” Mr. Tipple said.
Walter did.
It was hard, but he did.
His face was burning.
His hands were trembling.
“Why don’t y’all get out of that truck and tell me what’s going on?” Mr. Tipple said.
Walter and Posey and Banjo and Porkchop got out of the truck and everyone started telling Mr. Tipple what was going on. But Mr. Tipple held up a hand and said, “Whoa, now. One at a time.”
Banjo went first, telling Mr. Tipple about his bodacious adventure in that grand and dramatic way of his. He ended by proclaiming Walter one of the finest young men that ever walked the beloved red-dirt ground of the great state of Georgia and beyond.
Posey went next, starting at the part where she and Walter had thought they had found a dead man in the woods and how good Walter was at Caesar Romanoff’s Rules for Making Friends.
Porkchop sat by the truck, his tail going swish, swish, swish in the dirt.
Banjo and Posey and Mr. Tipple looked at Walter.
Walter cleared his throat.
He looked his father square in the eyes and told him everything.
How Posey had moved in next door with Evalina a week and a half ago.
How Banjo had fallen out of the sky and broken his ankle and wanted to win a new truck in the hot-air balloon key-grab competition over in Macon County.
How he and Posey had found the balloon in the river.
How Banjo’s truck had broken down and they had to get the balloon before something happened to it.
And then, the hardest part of all—how he had gotten the idea to drive Tank’s truck to the river to get the balloon.
And then Walter surprised himself.
He started telling his father things he had never said out loud before.
“I been missing Tank a lot, Daddy,” he said. “Sometimes I can practically hear him talking to me.” He swallowed hard, trying to clear the lump in his throat. “When I decided to take his truck to the river, I was really scared, but I wanted to be like Tank, even if just for one day. I swear I heard Tank say, ‘You got this, little man. You can do it.’”
He looked up at his father. “And I did it! I drove Tank’s truck to the river to get Banjo’s balloon.”
Walter felt blanketed in silence except for the sound of his beating heart.
Then he felt his father’s warm hand on his shoulder and a heavy weight lifted up off him because that warm hand told him that maybe everything was going to be okay.
THIRTY-TWO
Walter sat on the couch and stared down at his shoes while his mother and father told him how disappointed in him they were.
They had been so surprised he would do such a foolish thing.
What was he thinking?
Did he have any idea how serious this was? A ten-year-old boy driving a truck? And with two passengers?
He could have hurt someone.
Or worse
.
And what about the truck?
Had he even thought about the fact that he could have damaged the truck?
Walter said yessir and no, ma’am in all the right places.
Every now and then, his mother mumbled words like outrageous and ridiculous. A few times she snapped something about that nut Banjo and how she never should’ve left Walter home with him.
As Walter listened, a little bubble of anger began to form inside him.
It grew and grew until it burst and the next thing Walter knew he was yelling.
At his parents!
He never yelled at his parents.
But now loud, angry words came spilling out.
He couldn’t stop them.
He told his parents all the things that had been eating him up inside ever since Tank died.
How his father just went on back to work like nothing had happened, leaving him and Mama home in this silent house.
How Mama was so sad and grumpy most of the time and made macaroni and cheese from a box.
Didn’t she even care that he, Walter Tipple, loved her homemade macaroni and cheese as much as Tank had?
And she never laughed anymore. Sure, he wasn’t as funny as Tank had been, but still, maybe she could smile once in a while.
Then he got to the icing on the cake.
He stood in front of his mother and said, “And then you cleaned all of Tank’s stuff out of his bedroom and put it out in the barn like those things are just nothing.” He said it a little louder than he probably should have. “The football trophies and the fake leather jacket and everything,” he continued. “And now it’s like Tank never lived here and y’all don’t even care.”
His eyes burned with tears and he added, “So I guess y’all don’t even care about me, either.”
When he finally stopped talking, he took a good look at his mother’s face and felt a wave of guilt.
She looked shocked and sad and hurt all rolled into one.
Silence fell over the room.
His father cleared his throat.
His mother twisted a tissue around a finger and looked in the direction of Tank’s room.
She stood up and put her arm around Walter.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I care about you more than you could ever know. I guess I’ve been missing Tank so much I wasn’t thinking about anything else.”
Halfway to Harmony Page 9
