“It’s OK,” I call, swinging down before Pearl even stops all the way. “Nothing bad happened.”
“So what’s the commotion?”
I show him the Ring.
“A gum-machine Ring?” He takes it in his gnarled fingers. “You found it?”
“Um, a … friend of mine stole it.”
Mr. Flower gives me a sideways look. “You said nothing bad happened.”
“Well, see, it happened a time back.”
“You’re all-fired excited about something that happened a time back.”
“You see…” I tell him how my friend Maria snatched the Ring, and Marigold blamed Fat Tunie. And of course I had to keep Maria’s secret.
“Sounds kind of hard on Fat Tunie,” Mr. Flower remarks.
“But how about Maria!”
I tell how I just met Cliff, and the rest of the story. “I figure Marigold deserved to be stolen from, after fooling us all about her boyfriend!”
Mr. Flower chuckles. Then he frowns. He’s looking at me very sharply over the shining Ring. I’m not at all sure he believes the Maria story.
Finally he asks, “What are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I want to ask you.”
Pearl rests his chin on my shoulder. I pat his nose. Mr. Flower twirls the Ring in the sunlight, watching it glow.
“If it was me,” he says, “I’d leave this shiny thing on a bush for Marigold Stass to find.”
“I never thought of that!” It wouldn’t even have to be at school. She could find it on her way home, beside Hungry Hollow Road.
“And I’d keep quiet about the boyfriend business.”
“Keep quiet!” How can I keep quiet when I’m ready to burst! And why should I?
Mr. Flower nods and hands me the Ring back. “Folks get upset having their secrets told. Miss Marigold will forget about this here Ring someday. But she’d never never forget if you told the kids there wasn’t any boyfriend! Glory hallelujah, she’d hold that against you when she was ninety! She wouldn’t ask you to her ninety-fifth birthday party because of that! So if you want to get to be friends, ever, just keep it secret.”
I gulp. Mr. Flower grins at my disappointed face. “You might whisper just to Marigold, ‘All is discovered.’ That would set her down right!”
I shake my head. “Not far enough, Mr. Flower.”
“And what about friend Maria, and this famous Ring? Seems to me the score’s even.”
Mr. Flower twinkles at me. Then he says sternly, “Now brush Pearl down good, Janet. We want him tip-top shape for Arthur, Sunday.”
And I see the apple tree’s in bloom, all over blossoms as white as Pearl.
“I want you here Sunday,” Mr. Flower says. “Old Pearl’s a handful, and so is Arthur.”
Pearl breathes on me and rubs his forehead against my shoulder. I have helped make him warm and glossy and friendly, and Sunday he’ll go away. I don’t think I can stand Sunday.
27
Mr. Flower throws up his head. His beard and eyebrows twitch. Out on Main Road a car has turned onto Hungry Hollow Road.
Mr. Flower cries, “That’s Arthur!”
He hugs himself to hold in his excitement, but it gleams around him like a halo.
Under the blooming apple trees I stand between Pearl and Rosy, one hand on each warm, white neck. I prickle and blush. Rosy and Pearl perk ears and swish tails. We all watch nervously as the great, gleaming car dips around the bend and stops at the gate.
Mr. Flower squeaks, “Arthur!” and hobbles to the gate.
Stephen leaps out the driver’s side and strides to shake Mr. Flower’s hand. Stephen is dark, slender, elegant in a light suit and yellow tie. His wavy brown hair lifts on a breeze, his brown eyes smile.
Mrs. Flower unfolds herself gingerly from the car. Fair and slender, she wears a beige dress with a yellow scarf. Her high heels teeter in mud. When Mr. Flower hobbles to hug her, she steps quickly away.
The small white face in the backseat is Arthur.
This pale, skinny little kid creeps out into Mr. Flower’s bear hug and hangs there, limp. I thought Arthur the Great would wear a halo, but the halo is on Mr. Flower. I’ve heard of sorrow breaking hearts. If joy can break a heart, Mr. Flower’s heart is in danger of cracking.
Mrs. Flower advances slowly into the yard. She folds her arms and bites her lips, looking about her. Right away I know something about Mrs. Flower: She’s prickling.
She doesn’t want to be here. Winterfield is Stephen’s home ground, not hers. She doesn’t like Winterfield, she doesn’t like Mr. Flower, and she wishes she were someplace else, someplace she understands, like Castlebridge.
“Father Flower!” she calls shrilly. “That old apple tree will fall on you one of these days! I’ve told you before.”
Her prickly eye lights on me. I shrink back behind Pearl. Her eye lights on Pearl. “Father Flower!” she calls. “Why are you keeping a horse? The goat was bad enough!”
Mr. Flower says, “Arthur, look at this.” He swings Arthur around toward us. “See that bee-oo-tiful pony there?”
Arthur sees. Mr. Flower waits in vain for him to rejoice.
Mr. Flower declares, “Arthur. That wonderful pony is yours.”
Arthur goes paler than before. He tries to back off, but Mr. Flower grips him by the shoulders.
Mrs. Flower whirls. “Oh, Father Flower! This is too much! You know very well we can’t keep a pony in town! Stephen, explain to your father. It’s beyond me.”
She turns her back and stumps off to inspect the yard. Stab, stab, go her heels in the new-raked earth. She would just love to climb into that big shiny car and whoosh right back to civilized Castlebridge, which is her world.
Arthur hangs limply in Mr. Flower’s grip and stares at Pearl with horrified eyes. I know he feels just the same as Mrs. Flower.
Stephen sighs. “Father, our yard is ten feet square. There’s no shed—”
“Glory, you can rent a stall somewheres.”
“And you see, Father, there’s no time. Arthur’s got school and piano and figure skating and computer—”
“No time for a pony? Stephen! You remember LeDuc’s old donkey was your best friend? Violet, they called him. You remember how you dolled him up for the Fourth of July parade?”
Stephen blushes deep red down to his necktie. I bet he prickles, too.
“You want your son to doll up his best friend too, right?”
Stephen opens his mouth, but no words come out.
Mr. Flower turns back to Arthur. “Arthur,” he says firmly, “come here and meet your new pony. His name is Pearl.”
He drags Arthur under Pearl’s nose.
Mrs. Flower calls from the raspberry patch, “Stephen! That beast may bite!”
She’s right. Under my hand Pearl’s neck tenses. His ears fold back. His teeth gleam yellow. Arthur smells of fear. His fear frightens Pearl.
Mr. Flower is too excited to notice this. “Look, Arthur! When I was ten I’d have given all my teeth for a gorgeous pony like this! Your father would have, too. He always loved his pets.” Mr. Flower swings Arthur up on Pearl’s back.
Pearl jerks, shudders, and whisks his tail.
Arthur whines, “Grandpa, let me off!”
Mr. Flower beams at frightened Pearl and terrified Arthur. He just doesn’t see them as they really are. All he sees is his dream come true—his grandson on beautiful Pearl.
Mr. Flower doesn’t dream that Arthur is nothing like him. Arthur would much rather play Nintendo than ride Pearl. To Arthur, Pearl isn’t beautiful, he’s dangerous. And to Pearl, Arthur isn’t the world’s greatest kid, he’s a stranger who stinks of fear. And fear means that there is something to fear.
Arthur whimpers.
“It’s fine,” Mr. Flower assures him. “I’m holding the halter.” And he is, but loosely.
From the garden plot Mrs. Flower wails, “Stephen! Your father’s been spading again! He shouldn’t work like
this at his age. Tell him what we decided.”
Stephen mutters, “Not right now, dear.” Watching Arthur on Pearl, his brown eyes turn cloudy.
Mrs. Flower doesn’t hear, or doesn’t want to hear. She calls, “Stephen! Tell Father Flower what I told you!”
Stephen heaves a great sigh. Holy trout, I’m sorry for Stephen! He’s stuck in the middle between two people who really don’t like each other, and he likes them both. He wants to see both of them happy, and he can’t.
“Father,” he says, still watching Arthur on Pearl. “We want you to come live in Castlebridge.”
Mr. Flower looks at him. “With you and Arthur?”
“Around the corner, in the new senior citizen condominium.”
Mr. Flower turns back to Arthur. He says, “Show Pearl how much you like him. Relax. Pat his neck.”
Desperately, Stephen says, “Father, we’ve signed you up for a condo—”
Mr. Flower whirls on Stephen. He growls like Frankie Stass’s Thunder. A red tide of rage floods his face. He shakes, and spits when he talks.
Mr. Flower has turned into a werewolf! Or rather, he’s turned into the Mad Hermit of Winterfield kids talk of. I’ve never seen him like this, and neither has Pearl.
He shouts, “You dithering ninny! You slobbering wimp! This is my home, right here!”
“Father—”
“How dare you sign me up! You can’t sign me up for no condo, nor Paree France, nor heaven neither! I’m signed up here till I unsign—me, not you!”
Pearl shies. The halter rips from Mr. Flower’s hand. Mrs. Flower shrieks, “Stephen!”
Pearl takes off at a dead gallop.
Arthur hangs on for all he’s worth, yelling, “Ee! Ee! Ee!”
Rosy bounds up on her rock pile and watches the action from safe on high.
Mane and tail streaming, Pearl gallumphs past the raspberries, past the garden, behind the cabin.
Side by side, Mr. Flower and I watch Pearl stampede. There’s no way to stop him. I glance out the corner of my eye and see Mr. Flower’s shoulders collapsed in a stoop, his face crumpled, and, holy trout, a tear sliding down his cheek.
I’m sorry for Mr. Flower. The Stephen Flowers will never come back here after this!
I’m sorry for dumb Arthur, too. It’s not his fault he’s dumb. And I know so well how he feels! Pearl ran away with me once, and I was bigger than Arthur. My feet could almost touch the snow.
Pearl and Arthur gallop back into sight. “Ee! Ee! Ee!”
Mrs. Flower cries, “Stephen! Catch the beast!”
But this is an order Stephen can’t obey.
Mr. Flower steps forward, but not even he can control Pearl right now.
“Ee! Ee! Ee!”
Pearl has had about enough of this screeching, clinging load on his back. At the raspberry patch he pauses, whirls in a circle, dances on his hind legs. He comes down thump! on his front legs, tosses his croup in the air, and hurls Arthur high.
“Ee! Ee! Ee!”
Pearl shakes his mane and gallops off, rejoicing.
Falling takes Arthur’s breath away. Silent, he thuds into the raspberry thorns.
28
Monday morning I leave early for school. I’ve always gone later so as not to see Marigold Stass on the road. Today I’m out to catch her.
Low, dark smoke drifts out of Mr. Flower’s stovepipe and hangs in the yard like fog. Posy sits sadly in the shed window, dangling his limp tail down the wall. I look the other way and hurry on by.
I round the bend. Maybe Marigold’s gone already. Maybe she’s late. Maybe there’s someone with her for a change. Maybe—
There she goes, nose high, shoulder bag swinging. Her yellow curls bounce on her shoulders.
There goes Marigold Stass, who fooled everybody and made me look dumb and made me steal her stupid gum-machine ring and then have to worry about it.
Marigold doesn’t know it, but justice is finally trotting up behind her. Me. At last, disaster is finally going to hit the wonderful world of Marigold Stass. Me.
I take a deep, strong breath and shout, “Hey, you! You, Marigold Stass!”
She wheels. She sees me, but she doesn’t believe I shouted that. She looks around for somebody else, somebody more important. Poor Marigold is in for a real shock!
“It’s me,” I yell. “Me, Janet Stone. Wait up, Marigold Stass!”
Marigold’s mouth drops wide open. She waits. I trot up to her.
“Marigold, I want for you to be the first to know.”
“To know what?”
“I met somebody the other day on Old King’s Road. Red hair. Just turned nineteen. Thought I’d seen him somewhere before, and I had.”
Marigold looks at me the way Pearl used to. Suspicious. I say, “Friendly, isn’t he? You know who.”
Marigold looks the way Pearl used to when he thought about taking a good bite out of my hand.
“He mentioned you, Marigold. Called you a good kid. His exact words were, ‘The Stasses know how to raise good kids.’ And, ‘The Stasses do everything together.’ Hard to start up a romance with family all around. Right, Marigold?”
Marigold turns red. She turns white. She tosses her hair and stamps her foot, just like Pearl. She snarls, “OK, so I made up a good story.”
“Good story! You kept those poor kids holding their breath with that story!”
“What poor kids?”
“Fat Tunie! Tough Jessie! Cute Irene!”
Marigold steps in real close. She whispers in my face, “Janet Stone. You breathe one word to those kids about me and Cliff. Or anybody or anything. You breathe one word anywhere, anytime, anybody.” She pauses, panting. Her eyes glint like the red Ring in my pocket.
“And what’ll you do, Marigold Stass?”
“Why, I’ll tell them all about you!”
Holy trout! Does she know? Has she guessed? I step in real close. Anyone seeing us would think we were best friends telling secrets. I whisper, “What’ll you tell them about me?”
“Why, just everything. I know all about you, Janet Stone.”
“What do you know about me?”
“Everything. I’ll tell everybody. Nobody will ever speak to you again.”
Nose to nose, we glare at each other. I’m panting now, too, and I prickle and blush, but not from shyness. From rage.
Marigold doesn’t know. She can’t know. I thrust a hand into my pocket and grip the Ring down there at the bottom. Its hard edges strengthen me.
I whisper, “Nobody speaks to me now. You go right ahead, tell everybody everything. And I’ll tell Cute Irene and Tough Jessie and Fat Tunie all about you unless—”
“Unless what?”
“Unless you quit boasting! Marigold Stass, your boasting makes me sick! Next time you boast a word I’ll tell Tough Jessie—”
Marigold swings her shoulder bag hard against my arm. It hurts. She glares. I glare, and rub my arm. We back off.
I swing around and march off the wrong way, back toward home.
I swing around again.
Marigold points her nose to the sky and heads for school.
I follow, as I have followed her so many times along this road. But this time it’s OK.
It looks as if Marigold and I will never be friends, but for once she knows I’m somebody. My name is Janet Stone, and I’m here in Winterfield with her.
Holy trout, does she know it!
Till I can ditch this ring I’ll settle for that.
29
Monday evening when Jackie and I walk in his yard Mr. Flower is brushing Pearl. Pearl looks at us softly through his silky forelock and mutters. I hug his neck and he lays his head on my shoulder.
Jackie hands Mr. Flower the bunch of daffodils she picked by our front porch.
“Mr. Flower,” she says, “we’ve come to talk about Jannie’s job.”
Mr. Flower looks into the daffodils. He murmurs, “A host of golden daffodils,” from his school poem.
“Yes.
Your grandmother Cook planted these.”
“A poet could not but be gay,” Mr. Flower quotes again, “in such a jocund company!” He does not look gay. He looks bowed right down with sorrow.
Jackie tries again. “Mr. Flower, it’s about Jannie’s job.”
“Huh. Job? Well. You know I can’t keep my Pearl. No excuse to keep him. He was for Arthur.”
Jackie knows about the angry and final departure of Arthur and Family. She doesn’t believe it’s final. She insists they’ll be back when they’ve cooled off. But she didn’t see them leave. I did.
Mr. Flower looks across the flowers at Jackie and tries to smile. He asks, “What am I going to do now with this beautiful little pony?”
She says, “Mr. Flower, you love Pearl.”
“That’s darned true.”
“Jannie knows someone besides Arthur you can share him with.”
Mr. Flower turns sad eyes to me. “Who?”
“Mr. Flower,” I say, “it’s Frankie Stass.”
“Frankie Stass,” he repeats, as though he can’t think who that may be. Today Mr. Flower seems slower and thinner than he did on Sunday.
“Next door,” Jackie reminds him.
I say, “Pearl likes Frankie. And Frankie loves Pearl!”
Jackie says, “We figure Frankie can ride Pearl for you, and Jannie can still help with the other chores. And you can keep Pearl.”
“I’d sure like that.” Mr. Flower gazes into his daffodils. “But how do I … talk to this Frankie Stass?”
Jackie gives him a sharp look I’m glad he doesn’t see. She says, “You can go right next door right this minute.”
“Stass. Haven’t seen Stass in years and years. Not since my Rosy ate his mother’s tulips.”
“Mr. Flower,” I ask, “are you shy?”
He smiles at me through the daffodils. “You mightn’t think it,” he says, “but I’m shy as a deer!”
“That’s OK,” I tell him. “I’m shy, too.”
Jackie snorts and tosses her braid back. “OK,” she says, taking charge. “We’ll go next door with you, Mr. Flower. Right now,” she says, looking at me. “We’ll all three go next door right now, this minute.”
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