Pop approached him the way he would a spooked animal, slowly and with quiet words. “It’s late, and you must be tired.” He pulled the suitcase closed, and Wayne neither resisted nor moved. “Why don’t you come in and tell us what brought you here?”
Wayne looked up at Pop, his face intent. “Did you know my mom?”
Diggy stilled. The words themselves meant one thing, but it sounded like the question meant something else. Diggy suddenly felt like he couldn’t get enough air.
“You know I did. Diggy and I saw you at her funeral,” Pop said.
Diggy wanted to run. Wayne’s mom had been Diggy’s third-grade teacher. He and Pop had gone to her funeral only three weeks ago, the day after school started. But now Wayne was asking if Pop knew her.
“We looked for a marrow donor, but it was too late.” Wayne added, “Her blood was type O.”
“Come inside.” Pop put a hand on Wayne’s shoulder.
Wayne jerked away. “My dad’s type A, and I’m B!” he shouted like an accusation. Diggy barely heard Wayne add, “He says you’re my dad, and I have to live here now.”
IT HAD NEVER SEEMED WEIRD TO DIGGY THAT EVERYONE IN TOWN CALLED POP “Pop” even though he was only thirty-five. Though he was mechanically inclined and had even become an engineer, he’d had a tough time learning a tractor’s clutch when his family first moved to Minnesota and bought a farm. Mowing grass was a teenager’s job, but it took on new meaning when there were twenty acres to cover. Rumors spread about Mark Lawson’s bucking-bronco routine, and plenty of locals took a ride out to see for themselves that, yep, the clutch was winning the fight. They told Mark over and over he had to “pop” it. It was a joke at first, calling a fourteen-year-old kid “Pop,” but after a while it had stuck.
When Diggy was old enough to understand the difference, he kind of liked that other people said “Pop” and meant one thing, while Diggy said “Pop” and meant another.
No one had ever doubted Diggy was Pop’s kid. Diggy had the same bright orange hair, brown eyes, and large jaw, though on his thirteen-year-old face, the jaw was too big and square. Pop was over six feet, but he wasn’t one of those long and skinny talls. He had broad shoulders and lots of muscle. The jaw fit him. Diggy couldn’t wait for the growth spurt that would make all his own parts fit right. It was bad enough being the youngest boy in class—he hated being the shortest, too.
Wayne Graf was not only the oldest but also the biggest boy in class. Diggy hadn’t messed with him because, for one, he never bothered Diggy, and two, he was a teacher’s kid.
But now Wayne was standing in their driveway, and he looked tall and big, just like Pop.
Pop looked the way Diggy felt—cracked wide open. When Diggy reached an arm out for balance, he got Wayne instead. Wayne shook him off, Diggy shook his head, and the ground was back where it was supposed to be.
The suitcase popped open again.
The three of them peered at the knotted jumble of clothes.
After a while, Pop said, “Oh, right.” He collected the clothes and carefully secured the suitcase. He began the long walk down the driveway. “We use the door around back.”
Diggy did not like the idea of letting Wayne Graf into the house, especially not with a full suitcase. It felt wrong but somehow inevitable, too, so he waited for Wayne to move—no way would he turn his back on the guy. Until Joker bawled, and Diggy remembered he had stranded the calf at a fence post. Wayne flinched from the sound like a pack of wolves was on the loose.
“It’s a baby cow, Wayne.” Jeez. Mrs. Graf had lived in town, but a couple of her sisters were in the country. They might not have animals, but Wayne had to have seen, heard, and smelled plenty of cows before. Town kid.
Joker raised the volume on his complaining. Diggy did his best to rush the calf back to the barn without making him stubborn. He settled Joker into his stall, put out a bit of hay, and turned for the house, vaguely surprised to see that Wayne had walked up to it, even if he hadn’t gone in yet. But then, where else could he go? The nearest buildings were a tilted-over farmhouse and a turkey hangar. Their neighbor, Kubat, was a mile over the rise, but Wayne would have to cut through the woods, and—at night, for a town kid?—that might as well be the dark side of the moon. Reaching anyone else the normal way, on roads, meant three miles of walking, and Wayne’s dad was even farther.
Diggy’s stomach clenched. The man who had dumped Wayne in the driveway was Wayne’s dad.
Diggy may have been dumped by his own mom, but he’d been a baby—he didn’t have any history with her. The idea of Pop changing his mind about Diggy and booting him out after all these years … Diggy could have puked, except that he wouldn’t in front of Wayne.
Oddly, it was the thought of booting and puking that helped Diggy pull himself together. Pop had always been Diggy’s dad and would never kick him out, even if he wanted to. Mr. Graf might have gone a little crazy tonight, but he’d be back tomorrow. Wayne was his son.
Diggy wouldn’t let himself think about the “even if he wanted to” part, or the other part—of Wayne’s being someone other than his dad’s son—and, anyway, Pop hadn’t actually said he’d known Mrs. Graf that way.
Diggy was almost calm when he walked into the house first, letting Wayne follow him in.
Inside, Wayne stood transfixed, staring wide-eyed at the walls.
The kitchen was fuchsia. Diggy hadn’t really noticed that in a long time. He and Pop had had to pull out the refrigerator last year to replace a hose, and the wall behind it was a pretty dark rose color, exactly something his grandma would have picked out. But the rest of the paint on the other, exposed walls hadn’t held up well. It had gone bright pink, like the color of someone’s stomach from the inside. Summers when his grandparents came up from Texas, Grandma spent half her time nagging them to repaint the room. He and Pop had avoided the task by covering the walls with scraps of whatever—assembly instructions and posters from some of Diggy’s model rockets, and advertising stuff Pop got at his agricultural-engineering conferences. It kind of worked but not really. Even with so much covering the walls, the color still engulfed the space.
“We keep meaning to paint it,” Pop said.
There was no reason the small lie should have made Diggy’s half-faked calm blow away like the wind had changed.
Two glasses stood upside down on a towel next to the sink. Pop filled them both to the top with milk, then set them on the kitchen table. “Go ahead and sit down.” He got a third glass from a cabinet and filled it with water from the tap.
Diggy was aware of Pop’s movements peripherally, but he kept his attention on Wayne, who stared back at him like he was supposed to do something. Diggy had no idea what Wayne expected, but he did know this was his house and Wayne wasn’t getting any special treatment just because his dad was a jerk. Mrs. Graf had been his mom. Diggy would give almost anything to have someone like her as a mom. She was funny and nice and still his favorite teacher, and that had been all the way back in the third grade. Except that she was dead.
By the time Pop moved matters along, Diggy was the one feeling like a jerk.
Pop nudged Diggy off balance and led him to a chair, holding it out in a way that meant sit or be sat. Pop sat, too, and waited, watching Wayne, until Wayne finally took a seat on the other side of the table. He stared at his glass for a long time, then picked it up and drank the milk all in one go. Diggy couldn’t help but be a little impressed.
After a while, Pop said again, “It’s late. Give us a few minutes to clear some space, then you can get some rest.”
The only “space” with a spare bed in it was the room where Diggy had moved all his model-rocket stuff after his grandparents’ last visit, and Wayne would only be here one night. “What’s wrong with the couch?”
Pop looked at Diggy like he was a wormy ear of corn.
“The couch is fine with me,” Wayne said.
His jaw jutted out, and Diggy couldn’t help it: he gasped at the familiar pr
ofile on this strange kid. Pushing away from the table so fast his chair almost tipped over, Diggy headed for the stairs, calling, “I’ll get a blanket and stuff.”
He heard Pop say the bed was more comfortable, and Diggy paused.
“I can go home tomorrow,” Wayne said. “It’s been rough, that’s all, since Mom died.”
Diggy had an idea that “rough” meant a lot more than it seemed, but he didn’t stop any longer to think about it. He rushed up the rest of the stairs, ducked into the rocket room, and grabbed a blanket and pillow from the closet. At the top of the stairs again, he threw the blanket and pillow down, not caring that Pop would be ticked at him. He meant to hide out in his room but was waylaid by the sight of Wayne’s profile in the doorway from the kitchen.
Wayne had a jaw just like Pop’s. And Diggy’s.
Wayne asked Pop again, “Did you know my mom?” This time Diggy understood what Wayne was really asking. Is it true? Are you my father?
Diggy didn’t need to see Pop to know that he nodded yes.
At night, the house was noisy in that way old houses get when the temperature drops too fast. It creaked and cracked, sometimes because of a wind, sometimes because of nothing. Diggy listened to it for a long time.
He had thought Pop might come talk to him, but after settling Wayne in the living room, Pop had gone back to the kitchen and stayed there.
Diggy told himself to go to sleep. He told himself Wayne would go home tomorrow and by Monday at school it would be like nothing had happened. He told himself the two people in the rooms below him were only Pop and a classmate stuck for the night—but they might as well have been nuclear warheads, for all the sleep Diggy was likely to get.
He stared out his bedroom window at the star-framed outline of the tree he had practically lived in once he was big enough to climb it by himself.
It was a great tree, so wide at the base that his arms stretched out all the way couldn’t reach even halfway around. The bark was thick and scratchy with lots of deep ridges for fingers to hook into. Six major branches arched out from the trunk and split so often, he could climb the tree every day for a month and never go the same way twice. It was old and tall and strong, so he could climb high enough to see over the roof of the house. If it was windy, he used to pretend he was in a rocket during liftoff, holding himself steady against gravity’s pull.
Once upon a time, he’d hidden his mom’s box in the tree.
It wasn’t really her box. Diggy had bought it ages ago, a red fireproof safe he’d saved up ten dollars to buy at Ole Jib’s Hardware. Inside were the three things his mother had left with him in that laundry basket. He had wasted a summer hiding the box in the tree, checking on it, bringing it in when it was supposed to rain. He didn’t know where it had ended up.
The tree had been like his best friend. Staring at the night-blackened branches, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d climbed into them.
He opened the window and clambered onto the ledge.
The branch that could support Diggy’s weight was about three feet away. Not far in footsteps but a lot farther when all there was beneath you was twenty feet of air. He had made the jump countless times—a long time ago. He was taller now, so that would help, but he was also heavier, and the branch might not be as strong as it once was. Diggy crouched on the sill, hands cupped under the window, and took the giant, twisting step he called his “leap of faith.”
His bare feet easily made the branch, but his hands caught at twigs that broke. He slipped back, hands reaching, and finally snagged a branch that held. He pulled himself in and wheezed in the smells of cold bark, dry leaves, and dirt.
“Are you crazy?” Wayne whisper-shouted from beneath the tree.
Diggy had been thinking the same thing, so it galled him that Wayne would say it. “What are you doing out here?” Diggy snapped. Quietly. He did not want Pop coming out. Pop was not likely to think Diggy’s current position a wise one. And Pop was still in the kitchen. “How did you get out here past Pop in the first place?”
“You’re barefoot in a tree in the middle of the night, and I’m the one who’s supposed to explain stuff?”
“How can you see that?”
“It’s not like I need night vision to see that you’re in a tree, especially when you threw yourself out a window to get there.”
“That I’m barefoot.” The safety light was on the other side of the house. “How long have you been out here?” It had to have been a while, since his eyes had adjusted to the dark, but the temperature had dropped. It made more sense to stay inside. Diggy didn’t linger on the fact that he wasn’t inside, either.
Wayne might have shrugged. He didn’t say anything, and Diggy wouldn’t look down.
The cold blew in unsteadily. Branches heaved away from the sudden bursts of wind with such dismay, Diggy had to concentrate to make sure his eyes and hands actually coordinated as he shuffled toward the center of the tree. The barefoot thing was already becoming a problem. As he made his way down, the cold made every scrape of bark feel like cracked glass beneath his soles. He considered that this had not been one of his better impulses, though not far beneath that rational interpretation of events was a jittery thrill for the deep night, the rustling branches, and the clean, arctic scent of the air.
“Why jump into a tree?”
Wayne said it in that way that was less about getting a response and more about doubting the intelligence of the person in question. Which ticked off Diggy. The guy had shown up at Diggy’s house, suggesting impossible things, and was, by the way, wandering around outside in the midnight dark, so … Pot. Kettle. Black. Diggy was not the one who needed to explain anything.
This was his home and his tree and his middle of the night. Wayne could muzzle it. Diggy was in the mood to make him.
He moved too fast and slid, scalding his heels, down the last deep vee and thudded against the trunk. From there, he flopped belly first onto a thick branch that dipped lower than the others, shimmying back until he could wrap his arms around it, then dangle and drop. He shook the sting from his feet.
“You must have the same IQ as that baby cow of yours.”
Diggy tucked his head and shouldered Wayne into the side of the house.
Wayne got hold to push Diggy away and ended up forcing half his sweatshirt against his throat.
Diggy twisted and fell to one knee, grabbing Wayne’s shirt. On the way down, Diggy managed to elbow Wayne in the gut before the guy landed on him.
Diggy bucked, slowing down Wayne’s scramble to get back to his feet.
A knee connected with a hip bone. An elbow caught an ear.
They finally got apart and stood puffing at each other.
Diggy braced for the next round but was distracted by a swooping flash of light. Pop would be ticked if he caught them fighting out here.
“You want more?” Wayne said.
Diggy gave the guy credit for mustering some nerve, but his face already had that sheen of worry about what would hurt next. Wayne might be big, but he was one of the class brains. This was probably his first fight.
A flash again—headlights in the driveway—then a truck zoomed straight for them.
THE TRUCK STOPPED IN A HARD SKID.
THE BOYS DUCKED BEHIND THE TREE. WHEN the dust cloud hit them, they held back coughs.
Nothing happened.
The safety light backlit the driver sitting hunched over the steering wheel, staring at the house. The shadows of cigarette smoke made the truck’s cab look like a water tank.
Wayne turned away, slumping against the tree.
Diggy stared harder. Wayne’s dad had come back now?
The front light flipped on, barely noticeable over the glare of the truck’s headlamps. Diggy dashed to the corner of the house and peered around.
Pop came out, and Mr. Graf screeched open his door.
“He’s going to wake Joker,” Diggy muttered. Hadn’t the man ever heard of WD-40?
“You’v
e got my boy.” Mr. Graf was way too loud for the silent night. “You can’t keep my boy.”
Disgruntled moos refuted the declaration.
Pop said something quietly, the way he’d spoken to Wayne earlier, as if to a spooked animal, only this one was riled up.
“I can’t hear what he’s saying,” Wayne said.
Diggy thumped him to shut up, straining to hear.
“Ha. There ain’t enough beer in the world to make me forget—”
Pop cut him off. His tone was sharp, though still low enough that his words weren’t clear.
“Wayne! Get your butt out here!” Mr. Graf shouted.
Wayne wavered, like he meant to take a step but forgot how to move his legs.
Diggy grabbed his shoulder. When Wayne looked at him, Diggy shook his head. The kid had to go home, but not like this. This was the kind of thing they needed to let Pop take care of.
“Wayne!” The yell was thick with threat, and Mr. Graf stepped into Pop.
Pop held the line, not letting Mr. Graf pass. When he swung at Pop, Pop stepped out of the way and let Mr. Graf’s momentum take himself down.
“I want my son back!” Mr. Graf howled. He was so loud, Kubat’s dogs took to howling, too, and Joker’s moos took on an edge of distress.
Pop said something, and Mr. Graf covered his face. His next words were only barely loud enough to hear. “I want my wife back.”
As loud as the night had become, it suddenly felt really quiet, too. The dogs still barked, and the steer still mooed, but the man who’d started it all lay bunched on the ground like discarded clothes.
Was this what it had been like for Wayne since his mom died? His dad throwing him out, then screaming for him to come back?
Diggy got mad at Pop sometimes, and Pop definitely got mad at him, but it was never like this seesaw of rage and agony in front of him now. His heart stuttered with a combination of fear and sadness that left him feeling like the starter’s pistol had only just fired but he was end-of-race worn out. This wasn’t Diggy’s normal. If it was Wayne’s, Diggy didn’t know how the guy could stand it.
Steering Toward Normal Page 2
