Mississippi River Blues

by Tony Abbott

  But he was fairly icky, so I didn’t.

  “What are they doing?” I whispered.

  “Shopping,” said Frankie. “But not for double-knit tops with three-quarter sleeves!”

  Huck nodded. “Doc steals bodies for his experiments. To learn about what makes people tick.”

  “Or what made them stop ticking,” Frankie added.

  “Hurry, you two!” the doctor barked in a low voice. “The moon might come out any moment. We don’t want to be seen by anyone. Dig. Dig!”

  For a long time there was no noise but the grating sound of the two shovels slicing into the dirt and the dirt sliding off the blades. Kroosh! Slup! Kroosh! Slup!

  Finally, one of the shovels struck the buried coffin with a dull sound.

  “We got it,” growled the deep voice of Stinky Joe.

  Within a couple of minutes, Muffy and the Stinkman had pulled the wooden box out of the ground, opened it, and dumped the body out on the ground.

  “He’ll do,” said the doctor. He wheeled the barrow over. The body was loaded into it, covered with a blanket and tied on with the rope. Muff Potter took out his knife and cut off the dangling end of the rope.

  “Bring it to my house, and be quick about it,” Doc Robinson said, but neither Potter nor Stinky Joe moved.

  “Five dollars more,” said Potter to the doctor.

  “Right,” said Joe, his stinkiness wafting over us. “And ten more dollars for me!” He clenched his fist above Doc as if he might pound him into the ground with it.

  I was afraid. A glance at Frankie told me she felt the same way. I knew it was just a book, but the scene made me shiver all over. None of the three guys was good, but Stinky Joe was very, very, very bad. I could tell.

  “Want more money, eh?” the doctor said. His eyes flitted around him once. Then he struck out suddenly with his fist.

  “Take that!” he grunted. Stunned, Joe fell back.

  “Don’t you hit Joe!” said Potter, and the next moment he himself was grappling with the doctor across the little clearing around the grave. Stinky Joe sprang over and snatched up Muff Potter’s knife and went creeping like a cat all around the tussling duo.

  All at once, the doctor flung himself free, seized the wooden grave marker, and slapped it hard over Potter’s head. Ouch! Potter collapsed to the ground groaning. That same instant, Joe leaped at the doctor, knife out. Then the doc fell silently across Potter, rolled off, breathed once or twice, then went completely still.

  Doc Robinson was dead.

  I nearly screamed and ran, but Frankie gripped my arm so tight, I couldn’t move.

  There was a rustling sound behind us and when Frankie and I looked around, Tom and Huck were turning away.

  “Hey!” I whispered. “You’re the main characters, you can’t run away!”

  “Try and stop us!” said Tom. He and Huck sped off into the dark, leaving Frankie and me alone.

  “Our turn!” she whispered.

  But then we heard a groan.

  “Ohhh!” groaned Muff Potter.

  I gulped a gulp that seemed to explode in my ears, but Stinky Joe didn’t hear it. He just stood over the body of the doctor and over Muff’s groaning hulk, considering. Then, taking the knife from his own hand, he slipped it into Muff’s hand.

  Three … four … five minutes passed before Potter began to stir more loudly. He found the knife in his hand, raised it, then let it fall with a shudder.

  “Wha-wha-what happened?” said Muff.

  “Something awful,” said Stinky. “The doc is dead. Why did you do it?”

  The moon went behind a cloud, but I couldn’t make myself move.

  “Me?” said Muff, quaking. “I never did it!”

  “I saw you kill the doctor,” said Joe. “I saw it!”

  Frankie grabbed me. “That is so not true!”

  “I know,” I whispered.

  “You two were scuffling,” the Stinkmeister said to Muff. “Then he hit you with the headboard. You fell, then up you came, staggering, and took the knife and did it. I saw you.”

  Muff Potter’s eyes were bulging with disbelief. “I … I … I didn’t know what I was doing, then. It was all the drinking I did, I guess. It made a crazy man of me. Please, Joe, don’t tell anyone what I did. Oh, it’s terrible. You won’t tell, will you, Joe?”

  Joe shook his head, helping the chubby guy up. “You’ve always been fair and square with me, Muff Potter. I won’t tell on you.”

  Potter began to cry, but the moonlight, coming out suddenly, struck Joe’s face and showed he had no feelings at all.

  I was totally creeped out to be so near the guy.

  Muff Potter wandered off, reeling down the cemetery hill. Joe stood for a moment over the doctor, then strode off in another direction.

  Frankie and I could hardly move. Shivering, I stared at the scene while Frankie stared at the book.

  A few minutes later, the murdered man, the corpse in the wheelbarrow, and the open grave had disappeared, because Frankie had turned the page and we were gone.

  Chapter 9

  We found ourselves racing back to the village, too scared to talk. When we caught up with Tom and Huck, they weren’t talking either. Their eyeballs were huge. Their skin was as pale as—as something really, really pale. They were stumbling and shaking.

  Finally, I said. “We have to tell somebody.”

  Huck gasped in horror. “Us? What are you talking about? Suppose Joe didn’t hang for the murder? He’d come after us like lightning. He’d end up killing us!”

  Tom nodded his head, breathing hard as we ran. “But can we keep quiet about it? I mean, can all of us?”

  We got to an old deserted building which looked scary enough, but was like the Happy Fun Place compared to the graveyard. All four of us tumbled in and fell exhausted into the shadows.

  “Tom, we got to keep quiet about this,” said Huck. “And to make sure we do, we’ll sign a pact in blood. All of us.”

  Even in the shadows I could tell that Frankie got all stiff at the mention of that red stuff.

  “Um … excuse me, but I’ve seen enough blood tonight. And I like keeping mine on the inside.”

  Tom nodded thoughtfully. “But a blood pact is the only way.”

  Frankie shook her head. “It’s so unsanitary!”

  Huck had already found stuff for Tom to write the oath with. On a loose shingle Tom scratched the following words:

  Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer (and Devin and

  Frankie) swear they will keep mum about this

  and they wish they may Drop down dead

  in their tracks if they ever tell, and Rot.

  “Good words,” said Huck, taking a pin to draw blood.

  “Yeah, great words,” said Frankie, “except for the ‘Devin and Frankie’ part. That part’s gotta go.” She crossed out our names, but Tom and Huck signed the bark with their blood.

  Frankie, not wanting to see any more blood, hid her face in the book and started to read. Before we knew it, it was noon the next day, and Frankie and I were standing in the center of the village, watching the streets fill up with people. Every single one who passed by was talking about the same thing.

  The body found in the graveyard.

  “I saw Muff Potter washing himself in the Mississippi River this morning!” one man boasted.

  “That’s funny,” someone added. “He never washes!”

  “My nose can verify that!” the first one said.

  “Washing is mighty suspicious after a murder,” said a third person.

  Frankie turned to me. “They’ve got it all wrong. I wish we could tell what we saw.”

  I nodded. “Me, too. But then—kkkk!—we’ll probably have a total story meltdown. We’d better keep mum.”

  Pretty soon we realized that everyone was actually heading to the graveyard. I didn’t want to go there, but that’s where the book was going, so we had to follow.

  It was creepy. The body of the doctor was still t
here, and now in the sunshine it looked even worse.

  Tom wormed his way through the crowd to us. Next came Huck, pinching our arms and standing behind us. He was about to say something when a voice called out.

  “It’s him! Muff Potter! Don’t let him get away!”

  As the crowd turned, we saw Muff staggering back to the graveyard, wet and still in the same clothes as the night before.

  Some men surrounded him before he could get away.

  “Murderer,” someone said.

  “But I didn’t do it, friends!” Muff sobbed. “Upon my honor, I never done it. Who accused me of this thing?”

  The crowd separated, and there was the tall figure of Stinky Joe, standing there all silent and creepy, his eyes cold, his heart all made of stone.

  “Oh, the rat!” Frankie growled under her breath.

  The guy’s steely eyes just stared at poor Muff. And he told the same lie he had told Muff.

  “I saw him do it,” said Joe. “He killed the doctor.”

  “We have to tell!” Frankie whispered to me.

  I felt sick inside. “I agree this is all wrong. But we can’t rewrite the book. We’ll just have to hope for something right to turn this around.”

  Frankie grumbled deeply. “I hope this Mark Twain guy knows how to write a book properly. Muff is innocent!”

  But no one else thought so. As soon as the doctor’s body was taken away, so was Muff.

  “It’s not fair,” Tom murmured.

  “The jail is a cold place for anybody,” said Huck.

  “So how about we get Muff some food and things?” Frankie asked.

  “Hey, stuff for Muff,” I said. “Let’s do it!”

  Together, we managed to get a few things to Muff, sneaking up and passing him stuff through the window.

  And just when Frankie and I hoped that something not so dark and murdery would come along, guess what?

  Tom Sawyer woke up to a brand-new problem.

  Chapter 10

  Becky Thatcher was sick.

  “She hasn’t been to school in five days!” said Tom, bolting up in bed one morning, his eyes full of panic. “What if she dies? I won’t be able to go on. I’ll probably die, too!”

  “Don’t go off the deep end, Tom,” I told him, as I crawled out from under his bed, where I’d been dozing.

  “Right,” said Frankie, sticking her thumb in the book. “If Becky dies, that would be two deaths in just a few pages. And a bunch of dead characters isn’t good for any classic.”

  But Tom was grumpy and sad all morning.

  Aunt Polly tried all kinds of painkilling medicines to cheer him up, but nothing worked.

  He just kept mumbling, “Poor me, poor me …”

  Finally, Aunt Polly booted him off to school to get better. As if school ever did that.

  It was while we were trailing after Tom on the dusty road to the schoolhouse that Frankie turned to me.

  “It’s okay that Tom is worried about Becky,” she said. “But I don’t like that we’re leaving the Muff story all hangy—and maybe Muff himself all hangy, too. You know what I mean?”

  “I do know what you mean.” I took the book from her and opened it to exactly where we were and read a few lines. “According to this, a few days have passed. It seems that Tom’s not so interested in the Stinky Joe business now. I guess maybe it’s sort of like gum. After a while the flavor fades and you need a new piece, you know?”

  Frankie gave me a look. “Sort of.”

  “And,” I said, “maybe we’re getting a bunch of different stories about Tom. To show us what he’s like. I mean, mostly, authors just give you one story and stick with it until it’s done.”

  “Wait—mostly?” said Frankie, cracking a grin. “Mostly authors do that? Devin, how many books have you actually ever read?”

  I counted on my fingers. “Including Timmy the Sailor? That would be … two.”

  “Case closed.”

  I jumped. “Case back open. Becky’s back!”

  It was Becky. She was playing outside the school-house as if she were fine and dandy and all better. Tom’s moans turned to sighs, then to grins as he watched her from the road.

  “Becky!” he whispered under his breath.

  “Ka-ching!” I said. “It’s appointment time for Dr. Love!”

  Frankie grunted and tore the book away from me. “Let Tom figure out his own love life.”

  “Are you sure? Because I can schedule Tom in.”

  “I’m sure.”

  So I let Tom go out there adviceless. As bad as he did when I helped him, he did worse on his own.

  There he was, pretending not to care that Becky had been sick or out of school or near death. He was doing the hard-to-get routine. And like him, it fell flat.

  Becky stood there while Tom made loud war-whooping noises and jumped all around, snatched kids’ caps and hurled them to the roof of the school-house, tackled a bunch of boys, knocking them all to the dust, and finally fell right under Becky’s nose, almost sending her crashing to the ground.

  The girl hopped out of the way, turned, and with her nose in the air, snarled, “Hmmf! Some people think they’re mighty smart, always showing off! If I had that dumb old wire gadget you gave me, I would throw it at you all over again, Tom Sawyer!”

  She stormed away, completely mad this time.

  “Ouch,” said Frankie. “That’s gotta hurt.”

  Tom’s cheeks burned. “Becky hates me!” he cried. “Everybody hates me! Aunt Polly hates me! Mr. Dobbin hates me! But mostly … Becky hates me!”

  Frankie turned to me. “He’s all with the gloomy.”

  “And the doomy,” I added. “Sort of embarrassing.”

  But Tom kept wailing. “Oh! Everybody’s going to be sorry when they find out what’s become of me! I’ll … I’ll … become a pirate! That’s right. I’ll join forces with Joe Harper and Huck Finn and I’ll live on an island! And I won’t be part of this dumb world anymore. And I’ll never, ever, never, ever come back!”

  “But, Tom,” I started.

  “Ever!” he growled.

  With that, he stormed away into the woods, just as the school bell rang.

  I turned to Frankie. “Well, that didn’t go so good.”

  “It could be worse than we think,” she said. “We still haven’t found the scribble page. And what if Tom bolts out of his own story? What if he doesn’t want to go on as a character? Where will that leave us?”

  “Stuck in the adventures of nobody?” I said.

  “Exactly!” she said. “We’ll be up the creek. It’ll be the worst thing that could happen. Worse than anything!”

  “Or even worse!” I said.

  “That’s what I said!”

  “Me, too!” I said.

  We both gulped at the same time.

  “We’d better find him!” I announced.

  “We’d better!” said Frankie.

  Together we ran into the woods. We hacked our way through that wilderness for what seemed like hours. Actually, it was hours. And along the way we managed to get lost three separate times. When we finally arrived at the spot described in the book, it was—as if you couldn’t guess—midnight. Again!

  The meeting spot, according to the book, was atop a small rocky bluff overlooking the wide, slow-moving river. It was quiet and peaceful there.

  I breathed in the night air. “So, this is the big Mississippi River, eh?”

  Frankie nodded. “The boys are planning to leave from here. I guess we’re early.”

  “Who goes there?” came a sudden growl from the woods. We jumped.

  “Um … just us,” I said. “Who goes there?”

  “Tom Sawyer, the Black Avenger of the Spanish Main!” said the first voice.

  “And Huck Finn, the Red-handed!” said a second.

  “Joe Harper, Terror of the Seas!” proclaimed a third.

  “Name your own names!” boomed Tom.

  “Frankie,” said Frankie.

&
nbsp; “Devin,” said I.

  There came a laugh from the woods, and the three boys broke through the bushes and stomped over to us.

  “No, no,” said Huck. “We’re pirates now. Pirates always take scary new names for their new lives!”

  Frankie chewed her lip for a while, then smiled. “Okay, for my pirate self … I’ll be Sea Princess.”

  Tom spit out a chunk of ham he’d been nibbling, then started laughing. “Sea Princess? Pah!”

  “Names must strike fear in others,” said Joe Harper.

  Frankie thought about that. “Okay, how about … Sea Princess of Death?”

  “Better,” said Tom. “Only change Sea to Creepy and Princess to Skeleton and I think you have something.”

  Frankie grinned. “Creepy Skeleton of Death? I like it!”

  It was my turn. “And I’ll be … the Horrible Doom of the Gloomy Night of Treachery’s Fearful Screaming Skull of Death … the First!”

  A rousing cheer went up. “We love it! Let’s set sail for our island!”

  “Wait a second, we’re actually going to an island?” I said. “I don’t like islands. Islands mean water. Water means wetness. I hate getting wet.”

  “But we got a ship!” said Huck. “Come on and see!”

  The three boys tramped down to the water’s edge.

  I turned to Frankie. “How big is this ship?”

  Frankie scanned the book. “It’s not exactly a ship.”

  “Boat, then. How big is the boat?”

  “It’s not a boat, either,” she said. “It’s more like a, well, a raft.”

  “A raft!” I gulped. “A raft is like a large cracker that you sit on and hope you can keep sitting on until you’re on dry land again! I don’t like rafts! I really don’t!”

  A few minutes later, we were all crouched on a badly leaking bunch of boards that Huck called “the ship.”

  They had snitched it from someone’s dock.

  “It looks like a matzo,” said Frankie. “Holes and all.”

  It sailed like one, too, with water splashing up through the planks and over the sides.