Nekomah Creek

by Linda Crew

  “You would?”

  “Of course! And believe me, Robby, I’ve seen a lot of dads. They don’t come any better than yours.”

  My throat got tight. Good thing it was dark and Mom couldn’t see my face. Sure, deep down I thought Dad was the greatest. But who cared about my opinion? Not Mrs. Van Gent, not Mrs. Perkins, not the government.

  I stared at the zaps of rain shooting straight at the windshield through the headlights.

  Up Nekomah Creek Road, we passed the Downards’ place. All dark. Probably they were at the hospital.

  Then we turned between the two big fir trees and there was our house. Usually I loved the way it looked on a rainy night, lit from inside, each window a rectangle of gold. Best of all were the colored jewels in the stained-glass half-circle over my loft. But tonight it almost made me feel bad somehow. I stepped down into the crunchy gravel, taking in the smell of wood smoke, the faint sound of Zydeco music blasting away inside. In the window, the faces of two happy little werewolves pressed against the glass, waiting for us.

  Our home on the banks of Nekomah Creek. Orin ruining my model of it was bad enough, but that was nothing compared to worrying about losing the real thing.

  18

  A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

  When I got home from school the next day, I dropped my backpack on the kitchen floor and stared at Dad. “You’re going to what?”

  “Shh! The kids are still asleep.”

  “Oh, sorry, but—”

  “I said I’m taking the Downards a casserole.”

  “But why?”

  “Because we heard they brought Elvis home from the hospital this morning and it’s the neighborly thing to do.”

  “Dad! The Downards are our enemies!”

  “Robby, we don’t want enemies. We didn’t move up here to fight with people. We wanted to live in a small community where neighbors still helped each other like in the old days.”

  “But you don’t like them,” I accused him. “Don’t you remember after those hearings you went to? You said Elvis Downard’s ancestors were probably the ones who first started killing off all the buffalo and that their family hadn’t changed since. You said Douglas Mountain would be nothing but stumps if they had their way.”

  Dad sighed. “I know I said that, Robby. And I still think it’s probably true. But the Downards are in trouble, and trouble has a way of putting things in perspective.”

  I frowned. “What’s that mean?”

  “Well, in your drawings you make something that’s farther away smaller, right? It’s like that. It’s seeing which things are big and important and up close and which things ought to be smaller and in the background. Right now I’m putting Elvis Downard’s broken bones up closer than his politics.”

  “Okay, but even forgetting politics, it’s only been twenty-four hours since Orin tossed my diorama in the creek. At school he teased me about it all day long. And now you’re going to reward his family by being nice?”

  “It’s not a reward. It’s got nothing to do with anything they’ve done or not done.” He put foil over the casserole and tucked it into a grocery bag. “I just wouldn’t feel right, that’s all, pretending we hadn’t heard about his father’s accident.”

  “Okay,” I said, “but do you have to take”—I made a face—“food?”

  “What’s wrong with food? When people are in trouble, they sometimes don’t have time to cook. Or they forget to. But they need to eat to keep up their strength.”

  “Yeah, but … Dad? I didn’t want to tell you this, but … well, their whole family thinks it’s weird that you cook.”

  Dad smiled. “Oh, do they?”

  “Yes, and it’s not funny! Orin says it’s disgusting and not normal that you stay home and Mom goes to work. He’s always saying his dad can pound you.”

  “Oh. So that’s it.”

  I nodded.

  “Well, even if he feels that way, Robby, the man is completely laid up. He’s in no condition to … to pound me.”

  “Okay, so he’s probably not going to punch you out over a casserole. But what if they laugh?”

  “Laugh?”

  “Yeah! What if they laugh at you?”

  “Then I’ll laugh too, and we’ll all have a good yuk. Hey, should I take my kazoo? That might cheer him up!” He pulled a kazoo out of his shirt pocket, stuck it in his mouth, and started humming Mr. Rogers’s “Won’t You Be My Neighbor” song.

  I blew a slow stream of air up at my forehead. How could I tell him I was just plain tired of people thinking of me as the son of a nut?

  “Dad, could you be serious for once?”

  He stopped. He tossed the kazoo on the counter and sighed. “Okay, Robby. Here’s how it is. I don’t like the idea of going over there any better than you do. Actually, I dread it. I will be extremely glad to have it over with. I know how they feel about us. But you can’t always take the easy route. That saying—‘a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do’—it isn’t just a joke. You have to do what you know is right whether you like it or not, that’s all. And who knows? Maybe something good’ll come out of it.”

  “Huh. Like what?”

  “I don’t know, Robby, but if I don’t do this, it’s going to keep bugging me that I should have.” He pulled on his stocking hat.

  “But, Dad!” I was so glad I thought of this. “The babies! You can’t go off and leave them alone!”

  “Nice try,” Dad said, “but Mom’s working in her studio with the intercom turned on. She’ll hear them when they wake up. Now, are you coming with me or not?”

  Well, I couldn’t let him do it alone, could I?

  A light mist was falling as we walked out over our plank bridge. Dad carried the casserole and I hugged a loaf of homemade bread to my chest like it was a teddy bear I needed for courage.

  As we passed our mailbox Dad turned to me. “Now what were you telling me about the Thanksgiving money?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I’d come home with big news but forgot all about it when I found Dad packing food for the Downards. “Well,” I began again, “somebody stole the money we collected right out of Mrs. Perkins’s desk.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Yeah. Just think of all those pop cans we collected.”

  “And they don’t have any idea who did it?”

  “Guess not. I thought maybe it was Orin, but then Mrs. Perkins said it was taken right after school yesterday, and that’s when he was down by the bridge, wrecking my diorama.”

  “Even Orin can’t be everywhere, doing every bad thing at once, huh?”

  “Right.” I shifted the bread. “I tried to find out some other evidence, like if anything else was missing from her desk, but Mrs. Perkins just goes, ‘Robby, this is not an Encyclopedia Brown case. If you know anything about it, tell us. Otherwise, it’s none of your business.’ ” I scowled. “I don’t like her very much.”

  “I get that idea.”

  “And she doesn’t like me either.” I waited for him to deny this.

  “Well, that’s the way it goes sometimes.”

  I blinked, surprised.

  “You’re not going to hit it off with every teacher the way you did with Mrs. Kassel last year.”

  Real comforting. Well, at least he was honest.

  We had reached the Downards’ mailbox now. Over it hung a shingle that said “Dressmaking.” It seemed strange, walking right up the driveway I’d hurried past so many times before. When the dogs spotted us they started barking and jerking against their chains.

  I looked at Dad. Maybe he’d decide to turn back?

  But he gave the dogs a few pats and they calmed down, sniffing us in a friendly way as we went up the front steps.

  Dad knocked on the door.

  I heard some yelling inside, then the door swung back.

  Orin. His eyes got as big as beady little groundhog eyes can get. He looked nervous. Maybe he thought I’d brought Dad over to get him in trouble about the dior
ama.

  “Hi, Orin,” Dad said. “We thought we’d look in on your dad. Is he up for visitors?”

  Orin checked out Dad’s brown bag covered casserole. “What’s that?” he said, like he thought maybe we were delivering a bomb.

  “This,” Dad said, “is chicken a la Hummer.”

  Orin’s mom appeared behind him. “Orin, if we have company, don’t make them—” Then she saw us. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, hello.”

  I’d seen Mrs. Downard at school programs. She always seemed too thin and delicate to be Orin’s mom. Today she looked pretty tired.

  “We were sorry to hear about your husband’s accident,” Dad said. “We just brought a couple of things to help out with your meals.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s real nice.” The lines between her eyebrows smoothed out. “Come on in. Elvis is just watching some TV.”

  I glanced at Dad, hoping we could drop the food and go, but he walked right in like he always visited the homes of people who hated him.

  Off to the left I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Downard’s sewing room—fabric piled everywhere, a couple of frilly dresses hanging on a rack. Sometimes at night we’d be driving by and we’d see her working in here, framed in the lit-up window, bent over her sewing machine.

  “Now don’t be looking in there,” she said, hurrying to close the door. “Such a mess.” We followed her into the living room.

  Was it stuffy in here or was it me? I couldn’t breathe. I stood with my arms tight to my sides so I wouldn’t knock off any of the little figurines that were on every shelf and table. And the walls! I’d never seen so many pictures before. Orin’s mom really had their place decorated fancy.

  Elvis sprawled on the sofa with his eyes closed, his broken arm in a sling, his leg cast propped on a coffee table made out of a thick disk of tree trunk, sanded and varnished. A game of checkers was on the table too.

  “Elvis, Honey? Bill Hummer and his boy are here.”

  Elvis grunted. It wasn’t friendly. On the other hand, I could see he wasn’t about to jump up and slug Dad, either. He glanced at us and nodded. He ran a hand through his messy hair and turned back to the giant-screen TV.

  “He’s not himself,” Mrs. Downard whispered. “Still having a lot of pain.”

  Not himself was right. He looked so different from the way he had in class the other day. His face was kind of gray and creased. He seemed smaller.

  “They brought a nice casserole and some homemade bread,” Mrs. Downard said. “Wasn’t that thoughtful?”

  Elvis grunted again, one point higher on a scale from mean to friendly.

  Dad started the small talk—how we’d heard about the accident. How we were real sorry about it but were glad it wasn’t worse and all that. How we’d be glad to help them out any way we could.

  I noticed a bunch of get-well cards on the mantel. One was one of my mother’s designs! After the first surprise, my muscles loosened a little. Funny—just knowing that a friend of the Downards liked my mom’s artwork made me feel better about the Downards themselves.

  Orin watched us, head hunched into his shoulders. He looked different today too. Almost timid. His little sister Peggy came down the hall, dragging her hand along the wall. She sidled over and tucked her head under her mother’s arm.

  I had the feeling Elvis just wished we’d leave. He never even turned the TV down the whole time Dad tried to make conversation.

  Finally, without taking his eyes off the screen, he said, “Sherilyn?”

  “Yes, Elvis?” Orin’s mom hurried over to him.

  “How ’bout another one of them pills?”

  “Oh, dear. Hurtin’ pretty bad, is it?” She glanced at their cuckoo clock. “Still another hour before the next one. The doctor said—”

  “Forget the doctor!” Elvis’s good arm jerked like he wanted to hit the guy in charge of the pills. “Just gimme one.”

  She jumped to get it.

  Boy, my dad would never talk to my mom that way, no matter what kind of shape he was in. And if he did my mom would probably just go, “What’s with you today, Buster?”

  “Well,” Dad said. “We didn’t mean to tire you out.” He turned to Mrs. Downard. “That’s a big pile of rounds you’ve got out there. Could I split some of that up for you? I’ve got some time here before I need to get dinner on.”

  She glanced at Elvis. “Gee, that’d be—”

  “Naw! I’ll do it,” Elvis said.

  Dad tried to kid him about it. “Come on, now, Elvis. It’s going to be a while before you’re up to that.”

  Elvis grunted, partly like he had to agree, partly like he was hurting.

  Well, I never thought I’d be saying this about Elvis Downard, but I felt sorry for him. Being big and strong is great, but big and strong can be gone as fast as a Doug fir can crack the wrong way.

  “Well, thanks then,” Elvis said. “I guess I’ll have to owe you.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Dad said.

  Orin’s mom looked pleased. I think she hadn’t liked Dad before, but now she did.

  “Get your jacket on, Orin,” she said. “You two kids can help him stack it.”

  “But Mo-om …”

  “Git!” Elvis snapped, his good arm jerking again.

  The air outside felt cool and soft on my face. We had gone in there and we had survived.

  Orin came down the steps, pulling on his parka. He glanced at me, then looked away.

  Together we watched my dad take his jacket off and roll up the sleeves of his flannel shirt. He made a big show of spitting on his palms, then rubbing them together. He winked at me. Then he spread his legs, hoisted the ax, and started splitting those logs.

  Now I have some favorite sounds, like the sound of the babies giggling. That’s a tough one to beat. But there’s not much that’s nicer than the ring of an ax in the stillness as a pile of firewood’s getting split.

  Right then, standing there with Orin, both of us watching my dad swinging that ax, I felt kind of proud. Who cared what anyone else thought? I thought my dad was one heck of a guy.

  I looked at Orin and hoped he knew what I was thinking. I was thinking, yeah, that’s right, that’s my dad. He can chop wood and he can make a casserole.

  19

  A Kid’s Gotta Do What a Kid’s Gotta Do

  As soon as we started home, I thought Dad would say, “There. Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  But he didn’t say anything. He just turned up his jacket collar against the mist and began whistling.

  I fell in step beside him and wondered: Did I feel better now because we’d done the right thing? Or did I just feel better because the visit was over?

  “Hey, Robby!”

  I turned around. It was Orin, standing at the end of his driveway.

  “Can I talk to you?” he called.

  I looked at Dad to see what I should do, but he just shrugged. Then he checked his watch. “I’ve got to get dinner going.”

  I looked at Orin again. “Okay,” I told Dad. “I’ll be home in a minute.”

  Dad headed up the road. I turned and slowly walked back toward Orin.

  He picked up a pebble and threw it into the ditch. Then he threw another one. Finally he said, “I know who stole the Thanksgiving money.”

  “You do? Who?”

  “Nathan Steckler.”

  “Oh.” I believed it. Nathan was mean enough. Then I remembered something. “Wait a minute—isn’t Nathan’s dad one of the guys laid off at the mill? That’s who the money was supposed to help in the first place.”

  Orin shrugged.

  Weird. Well, maybe this was what Mrs. Van Gent meant when she talked about stress in families where the dad’s unemployed.

  “The thing is,” Orin went on, “the teachers think I did it.”

  “You couldn’t of,” I said. “You were … you weren’t at the school when it happened.”

  “Yeah.” Orin’s face went pink. He couldn’t look me in the eye, remembering ab
out my diorama. “But they caught me with this water pistol, see. It was in Mrs. Perkins’s desk and Nathan must’ve swiped it along with the money. Then he gave it to me.”

  “But Cody knows you weren’t at the school.”

  “Huh. Cody’s on Nathan’s side. He told them Nathan was at the bridge with him.”

  “But that’s a lie!”

  Orin snorted. “Great pals, huh?” He threw another rock. “Looks like you’re the only one who knows I was at the bridge.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So will you tell them?”

  I frowned. “It would just be my word against Cody’s.”

  “Yeah, but Robby …” Orin looked at me. “Your word …” He shook his head. “I mean, the teachers would believe you.”

  I blinked. Would they?

  Orin looked at his feet. “ ’Course I couldn’t blame you for not sticking up for me. Not after what I did …”

  His words hung there. I waited for him to come out with it, say he was sorry about my diorama. Then it hit me—this was as close to an apology as Orin knew how to give.

  “The thing is, if they call my dad in and tell him I took that money …” He sucked in his breath and opened his eyes real wide, like he needed to blink off tears. “He’ll whip my butt.”

  I thought about that. Orin deserved it, maybe not for this, but for every other crummy thing he’d done. I’d been wanting to whip him myself, right? But somehow … well, when I pictured his dad actually doing it, I just got this sick feeling in my stomach.

  “So could you—Come on, Robby, will you tell them the truth?” He looked right at me. “Please?”

  Funny, for a moment there he reminded me of Freddie when he was watching me fix his Buddy Wabbit. So hopeful, so kind of desperate, like he was really depending on me.

  I glanced back up the road. Dad had disappeared around the bend. I still didn’t trust Orin any farther than I could throw him. I’m not stupid. I could get him out of this pickle and he might be making my life miserable again the very next day.

  But maybe that didn’t matter. The truth was the truth. Like Dad says, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.

  I guess a kid does too.