Nekomah Creek

by Linda Crew

  “Hang on!” Dad gave him the little oink-oink salute and turned back to Mrs. Perkins. “Actually, I never thought of that. Maybe next year we—”

  “Dad, look out!”

  Splash.

  “Lucy!”

  In a flash Dad scooped her from the tub. “For cryin’ out loud!” he said, standing her to drip on the wood floor.

  Lucy sputtered with surprise, then grinned to find herself the center of attention.

  “Lucy, Lucy, Lucy.” Dad shook his head like he didn’t know whether to laugh or be mad.

  Her polka-dot dress hung limp over her stiff petticoats and her stove-black nose was smeared. Wet strings of hair were plastered to her cheeks. Dad fished her Mouseketeer ears from the washtub, shook them out, and set them on her head.

  Everybody laughed. Even Mrs. Perkins.

  “Forevermore,” she said breathlessly. “I’m sure glad you pulled her out so fast.”

  “My reflexes are getting better all the time,” Dad said.

  Mom came hurrying up. “Oh, dear. I should have been watching her closer. I got talking to Inge …” She sighed. “Well, I’ll just have to take her home. I guess with Lucy I should always figure on spare clothes.”

  Then Mom noticed Mrs. Perkins.

  “Lucy gets into trouble like this all the time,” she said lightly, wrapping her jacket around her. “Don’t you?” She made a pretend fierce face at Lucy and kissed her forehead. Then she smiled at Mrs. Perkins. “I’m just amazed we’ve never had to go to the emergency room yet.”

  This was where Mrs. Perkins was supposed to laugh and say she understood and aren’t kids the darnedest and all that.

  Instead her eyebrows went up.

  Mom and Dad glanced at each other, some little message going between them.

  Maybe they were scared too. Maybe they were starting to catch on to how dangerous it could be to get on the bad side of someone like Mrs. Perkins. Someone who had more power over us than I ever realized.

  Suddenly I wanted to crawl under the punch table. I had the strangest urge to just sit there and read some Encyclopedia Brown. Why couldn’t I be like him? He’s smart and all he does is solve crimes. He never wastes time worrying about personal muddles.

  No wonder I like books better than real life.

  10

  Tough Times for a Failed Hero

  All the next morning I sat there in class, staring at Amber Hixon’s empty desk. Funny. Until she came out of Mrs. Van Gent’s office all red-faced that first time, I’d never thought much about her at all.

  Of course there’d been times over the past couple of years when you couldn’t help noticing her, like in first grade when she was the only one who came to school on Halloween without a costume. Our teacher took out some scarves and bracelets and helped her dress up like a Gypsy. But Amber just stood there, not even cracking the teensiest smile, never thanking Mrs. Murphy. “My mother made me a beautiful bride dress,” was all she said, “but it turned out too nice to wear to school.”

  In third grade she sat right in front of me. I spent a lot of time looking at the back of her head, wondering if she knew her hair was all snarled up. Why didn’t her mom make her comb it? Don’t get me wrong—personally, I hate to be nagged about that kind of stuff. It’d be weird, though, if my parents didn’t.

  Now Amber was gone, and I was thinking about her a lot more than I ever had before. What was happening at her house that made the counselor think she ought to live somewhere else?

  When I got home that afternoon, Dad said the kids’d had a rough day. At first he thought maybe they’d just gotten into too much Halloween candy, but now they had fevers and it looked like the flu. He’d already called Mom and told her she’d better come on home if she could.

  So we were all there when Freddie first got that stricken, cross-eyed look. Then he reared back and heaved all over Buddy Wabbit.

  Shocked silence.

  Mom was the first to spring into action. “Grape juice,” she said, picking up the bunny with two fingers. “You gave him grape juice.” She yanked a long strip of paper toweling out of the holder and started swabbing at everything, including Dad. “This’ll stain like crazy.”

  Holding Freddie, Dad wiped his dripping hand on a towel. “The clinic said liquids.”

  I came to Dad’s defense. “Freddie wanted it, Mom. Really. That’s all he’d take.”

  Mom looked at Freddie and her face softened. “You poor little guy. Don’t you worry. We’re going to get you all fixed up.”

  “Buddy!” Freddie noticed his bunny was splotched purple. He stretched his arms out and screamed. “Buddy Wabbit!”

  “Let me get him cleaned off, Honey,” Mom said, “and then you can have him back.”

  “Nooooo! Buddeeeeeee!”

  “Oh, let him have it,” Dad said. “If it’ll stop him crying.”

  But when Mom tried to hand it to him he got even more upset. “Buddy Wabbit! No Buddy Wabbit!” He wanted him but he was grossed out at the same time. Finally Dad carried Freddie off to the bathroom to clean him up.

  Lucy toddled in with the end of a roll of toilet paper and started mopping at everything, just like Mom.

  “Oh, no!” I said. “Look, Mom. The other end’s still attached in the bathroom! She’s undoing the whole roll!”

  “Fine. Whatever. I don’t care right now.” Mom was frantically working on Buddy. After a moment, she stopped and gave Lucy a quick smile. “You’re a good little helper, aren’t you, Honey?”

  “Helper,” Lucy said. Then she threw up.

  “Oh, no!” I shrieked, making for the bathroom. “Dad!”

  “For Pete’s sake, Robby. Yelling loud enough for the neighbors to hear doesn’t help. How about giving us a hand?”

  “I’m trying!” I protested. “But how’m I supposed to know what you want me to do?”

  Mom came in with Lucy and started peeling off her clothes.

  “Buddy!” Freddie screamed. “Buddy Wabbit!”

  “Go clean up Buddy Wabbit, why don’t you,” Dad said.

  “Me? But … Dad, he’s all … vomity.”

  “I know, ding-dong it! The whole house is.”

  “I’m not,” I offered, like maybe this fact would excuse me.

  “Go!”

  “All right, all right!” He didn’t have to be so mean about it.

  I picked Buddy Wabbit up by his cottontail and carried him to the kitchen, scrunching my nose sideways to keep out the stink. I set him on the counter and studied him.

  You’d hardly recognize him as the soft, fluffy fellow I’d picked out in the hospital gift shop the day Freddie and Lucy were born. Amazing, the difference between him and Lucy’s bunny, who still sat clean and unloved on the shelf. Mom worried that Lucy wasn’t very motherly, but maybe her bunny’d lucked out. Because Freddie being so super-fatherly had been pretty rough on old Buddy Wabbit. When a kid never lets go of a bunny, every possible thing gets spilled and smeared on him.

  “You’re gross,” I said. “You know that?”

  Now I knew better than to dunk that bunny in the sink. Dad tried that on a bear of mine once and he never did get dry inside. Poor old Bunky Bear. Rot City. No, this was definitely an outside job. I found this can of upholstery cleaner Mom uses, shook it up and let ’er rip. I laid a long blob of foam down his back and then, like the directions said, went at him with a damp rag.

  That stuff worked pretty well. When he was clean I took him into the bathroom and got out my mom’s blow dryer.

  “Good thinking, Honey,” Mom said.

  “Now we’re cooking with gas,” Dad said. “Sorry I yelled, Robby.”

  “It’s okay.” I understood. When babies yell, it makes everybody want to yell.

  Freddie hadn’t let up on wanting his Buddy, but now it was more like a steady whimper.

  “Buddy … Wabbit … Buddy … Wabbit … Buddy … Wabbit …”

  “Hang in there, Freddie,” I said as I blasted Buddy with hot air. “He’l
l be ready in just a minute.”

  Mom and Dad gave each other this look that means they’re feeling pleased with me. All right. The babies were cleaned up and the general hubbub had calmed down quite a bit. With me pitching in, things were under control.

  “Now Mom,” I said. “We’ve got to vacuum this guy. I read the directions. You’ve got to suck all the dried soap off. It’s strong stuff. Makes you cough. We don’t want the babies breathing it or eating it or anything.”

  “Okay. Whatever you say.”

  We all went out in the main room and she attached the hose to the vacuum.

  “Do you want me to do this part?” she said.

  “No! No, really.” Just look at Freddie there, watching me with those puppy dog eyes, counting on me, his big brother, to save the day. Was I going to let my mother have the final glory? No way!

  Freddie seemed doubtful when he got the idea something serious was going to happen between his Buddy and the vacuum cleaner. But I guess he had a lot of faith in me because all he did was pull his finger out of his mouth and say, “Buddy?”

  “Don’t worry,” I said in my most reassuring voice. “He’s going to be fine.”

  I sat with Buddy clamped between my knees. Mom pushed the power button.

  “Now be careful,” she said over the roar. “That has a lot of suction.”

  “Yeah!” I shouted. “Look what a great job it’s doing.” The suction was just fluffing that old matted fur out like nobody’s business.

  “Watch out for the ears,” Mom said.

  “What?”

  “I think one of the ears is loo—”

  Shloop.

  “Buddy!” Freddie screamed, horrified.

  “Oh, great,” Dad muttered.

  “I couldn’t help it!” I cried, staring at the one-eared bunny. “It happened so fast. I was just going along—”

  “Take it easy,” Dad said.

  “I never do anything right!”

  Mom shut off the vacuum.

  Freddie screamed and screamed. It was the same story all over again. He wanted his Buddy but not if he didn’t look right.

  I started to cry. I couldn’t help it. I’d come so close to being Freddie’s hero.

  Mom gave me a squeeze. “It’s okay, Honey.”

  “No, it’s not! Look at him.” Freddie was having an all-out fit.

  “He’s not feeling good, that’s all. We’ll fix his bunny somehow. He’ll cheer up.”

  But Freddie didn’t feel like cheering up. He felt like throwing up.

  All over Lucy.

  Well, I don’t even want to talk about the rest of that night. I just tried to keep out of the way. Long after I was in bed I could hear my parents snapping at each other. You know how it is. The words themselves weren’t so mean, but the way they said them was.

  “No, I haven’t taken his temperature again. Have you?”

  “I was just asking, okay?”

  And once when I looked down out of my loft, I saw them picking through the ripped-open vacuum cleaner bag, hunting for one dirty bunny ear.

  In the morning the babies were playing quietly for once, dropping blocks in their shape sorters as if the flu had taken all the spark out of them. Freddie had Buddy in tow, I noticed. Somehow, Mom had found that ear and stayed awake long enough to sew it back on.

  “Good job, Mom,” I offered as I sat down with her at the breakfast table. Anybody could see she needed some encouragement.

  She was still in her flannel nightgown with her elbows propped on the table. Her eyes were red and her hair … well, I’ll bet she never would have gotten it frizzed in the first place if she’d realized how it was going to look on mornings like this. She smiled at me in a tired way and took another sip of coffee.

  I sat there looking at my cold cereal, not really hungry, but grateful for the feeling of peace in the house.

  “Hey, you over there,” Mom said to Dad. “Father of this brood.”

  Dad lowered his newspaper. “Who, me?” His eyes were at half mast.

  “Yeah, you.” She squinted at him. “Guess what.” Her face slid into a slow, crooked smile. “I’ve been thinking and I’ve decided something.”

  Dad cocked his head my way. “Uh oh.”

  “I’ve decided I can’t think of anyone I’d rather be going through all this with than you.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Dad winked at me. “Gee, I can think of lots of guys I’d rather you were going through this with than me.”

  Mom drew back like he’d hit her.

  I cringed, too.

  “Joke!” Dad said quickly. “Joke!”

  They’d come so close. Almost back to talking nice again and Dad had to go blow it.

  “Oh, come on,” he said. “It was just a joke.”

  But she was already crying. “I’m too tired for jokes!” And then she staggered up the stairs.

  The babies stood up and stared after her. Then they burst into tears.

  I felt like crying, too.

  “Well, gee,” Dad said. “Looks like I’m in the doghouse now.”

  I nodded. This was the most upset Mom had been since Dad gave her a valentine with a big ugly pig on it last year. Dad and I picked it out together. I thought it was pretty funny, but I guess she was hoping for hearts or something.

  “I’ve got to get to school.” I stood up.

  Only I didn’t make it to school. I didn’t even make it to the door. But since I’m nine, I did make it to the bathroom.

  11

  Little Purple Fingerprints

  Only one thing looks sadder than a molding jack-o’-lantern sitting in the rain—face collapsed, insides black and gunky—and that’s twenty-two of them.

  I turned away from the window and fell back into a pile of newspapers on the sofa. I could hear Dad on the phone, telling Rose’s mother that everyone was sick and we wouldn’t be going to Powell’s Books after all.

  “I’m never going to get to go there,” I said when he’d hung up.

  “Yes, you will, Robby.”

  “No, I won’t.” I scowled so hard my eyebrows hurt from being jammed together.

  “Okay, you won’t.”

  I sat up. “I won’t?”

  “Oh, for crying out loud! Look, Robby, I’m really sorry everybody got sick but that’s just the way it goes.”

  You know those times when it’s about five o’clock on a rainy Sunday afternoon? People are cranky because they’re hungry but there’s no good smell of dinner coming from the oven? The games and toys are in a million pieces all over the floor, nothing seems fun, and the light from every window is a dreary gray? Well, that’s how it was all weekend long.

  Even Dad got sick. A couple of times he tried to perk people up with a snappy Zydeco record, but it just seemed like a bad joke with everybody lying around like a bunch of rag dolls.

  I kept thinking about those television ads for aspirin and cold medicine. They never say, Hey, kids, being sick is fun, but they do make it look cozy. Like when the kid comes in out of the rain and the mom tucks him in bed with nice clean sheets, brings food on a tray, and puts her hand on his forehead with this worried, lovey look.

  Maybe Mom likes those commercials too, because sometimes she acts that way. When people first get sick, she knocks her lights out being nice, trying to make them feel better. Her voice is as sweet and smooth as cough syrup—almost enough to make you glad you’re sick. Trouble is, this only lasts a couple of hours, three at most. Then she gets kind of crabby and starts acting like, Okay, you can get well now.

  This time, all the niceness got used up on the twins the very first night. What I got was, “Here’s a bucket to put by your bed in case you can’t make it to the bathroom in time.”

  Sunday night I was feeling better, sitting on the floor, sketch pad on the coffee table. The little guys were emptying a basket of magazines while Mom cleaned up the kitchen. Dad sprawled on the sofa, feet propped on the other end of the coffee table. He was finishing the Sunday papers,
keeping an eye on the TV news at the same time.

  On the screen, they were showing a mountainside where all the trees had been chopped down.

  “Look at that, Dad.”

  “Hmm?” He lowered his paper.

  “Even if loggers are just doing their job, I don’t see how we’re supposed to feel good about the forests all getting hacked down.”

  “Yeah, well …”

  “I mean, look at that! It’s ugly!”

  “Hey, you don’t have to convince me, Robby.”

  “Then how come you stick up for those guys?”

  Dad looked puzzled. “Do I?”

  “Yeah, it seems like it.”

  “Well, I don’t really mean to. Maybe it’s just that we don’t want you to get the idea that everybody in the timber industry’s some kind of villain, that’s all.”

  “Okay—name somebody who isn’t.”

  Dad thought. Then he smiled. “Ever hear of Stoney Halliday?”

  I cocked my head. “Is he Scotty Halliday’s Great Grampa or something?”

  “That’s right. And you’ve heard of Halliday Tree Farms? Well, Stoney started his own sawmill years ago. He bought up logged-over timber lands and replanted them. There’s thousands of acres right in this county growing strong young trees now thanks to Stoney Halliday.”

  “Gee.”

  “Nobody can tell me a man like that doesn’t love trees. Or care about people. Takes a lot of looking ahead and thinking about others to plant trees that won’t be big enough to cut in your own lifetime. He’s even got a scholarship fund set up. Do you realize that any kid in the Douglas Bay School District who gets accepted to Oregon State can get a full scholarship from the Hallidays?”

  “Really? Why’d he do that? Just to be nice?”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “He must be really rich.”

  “He is, but you’d never know it to see him around Douglas Bay. Drives a pickup older than ours!”

  Wow. That was a new one to me. I thought rich people were all like that guy who buys everything in New York so he can stick his name on it.

  I went back to sketching as the news droned on. It was going to rain, the weatherman said.

  So tell me something I don’t know …

  Then I heard the announcer say something about Children’s Services.