Wanted . . . Mud Blossom

by Betsy Byars

  He ducked under the bathroom pipes, but paused to let them scratch his back, just above the tail on the spot that always needed scratching. Then he proceeded toward the steps.

  He was moving into the sunlight when there was a sudden lunge in his direction. It was Junior.

  Mud didn’t pause to question why Junior was jumping at him, why Junior was twisting his fingers in his bandanna, why Junior was screaming, “Dirty rotten murderer. Now I got you, you filthy double-dirty rotten murderer.”

  With one deft twist, Mud was out of his bandanna and out of Junior’s grasp. He went back behind the apple crate, in a crouch. He stood looking back at Junior for a moment, trying to puzzle it out.

  Maggie said, “Junior, if you get your eyes all swollen up, Mom’s going to be mad. She’s not going to want the horse detective to see you with swollen eyes.”

  “I’m going to get that dog if it takes the rest of my life. You’ll have to come out sometime, Mud, and when you do, you’re going to get it!”

  Mud watched Junior a moment more. Then he circled twice and dropped down in the dust, with his head resting on his paws, to wait for a more advantageous moment.

  CHAPTER 13

  The Scariest Thing in the World

  Mary lay without moving. The bed beneath her was hard, but it was not the good hard of the stone ledge in her cave. The air she breathed was cool, but it was not the natural cool of a cave. It was chemically cooled.

  Her mind drifted from one unhappy comparison to another.

  The noises were not the beautiful ones of nature—the rustling of a vulture’s wings, the calls of forest birds, the faint rustle of a black snake in the corner of her cave. These noises were manmade, metallic, unpleasant.

  In the midst of these thoughts, something Junior had once said drifted into her mind.

  “You know what the scariest thing in the whole world is?” he had asked.

  “Well, I imagine that would vary,” she had answered in a conversational tone. “Some folks are scared of one thing; some folks of another.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “For example, some people would be scared to spend the night in a cave, Junior, and I do that every night of my life. Some people would be scared of vultures, and they’re my good friends.”

  “Mine too, but I’m talking about the scariest thing that can happen to anybody! Anybody! You! Me! The President of the United States! Anybody!”

  “What’s that, Junior?”

  Junior had put so much feeling into his words that he had to swallow before he could speak.

  “The scariest thing in the whole world,” he went on, “is waking up and not knowing where you are.”

  He paused to let the truth of his words sink in. Then he added, “It’s happened to me two times.”

  He held up two dirty fingers for emphasis. “So I know.”

  “It never has happened to me, but I can see how it would be scary.”

  Even though Mad Mary was at least sixty years older than Junior, she sometimes felt they were the same age.

  “Very scary.”

  “You want to tell me about it, Junior?”

  Junior nodded. “I wouldn’t mind.”

  “Well, one time I was right here in your cave.”

  Junior and Mad Mary were in the cave at the time of this conversation, so Junior pointed to the very spot—the ledge.

  “You took me out of the coyote cage and brought me here while I was asleep. You put me right there and I woke up and it was so dark I thought I’d gone blind. I felt all around me and I felt stones and blankets and I didn’t recognize those stones and blankets and I got up and I started crying and my crying didn’t even sound like my crying. I got scareder and scareder and I started across the cave and I fell and I bit my lip and I tasted blood. I screamed and screamed and I would have kept on screaming but I felt your shoe … you probably don’t remember this.”

  “Oh, yes. I remember.”

  “You do?”

  “You’re the only person that was ever in my cave. I’m not likely to forget anything about your visits.”

  “Really?”

  Junior appeared to be distracted by the compliment, so Mary said, “Go on, go on.”

  “You know the rest.”

  “I’d like to hear your side of it.”

  “I felt your shoe and I thought it was Pap’s; you wear the same kind of shoes.”

  “Brogans.”

  Junior nodded. “It was so, so dark, and then you struck a match and I looked up and saw—”

  Junior broke off. Mary had seen that he was reluctant to describe what he had seen. Her face wasn’t a pretty sight under the best conditions, and lit up by a match in a strange cave—well, children didn’t call her a witch for nothing.

  She remembered that Junior’s eyes had rolled up into his head and he had fainted, which was probably the best thing that could have happened to him.

  To change the subject, she said, “There was another time you woke up and didn’t know where you were?”

  “Oh, yes. Well, the other time it happened—waking up and not knowing where I was—you know where I was?”

  “No.”

  “In the hospital!”

  “Was that when you fell off the barn and broke both your legs?”

  “Yes! And I was just lying there with my eyes shut and, Mary, when I was little I used to be able to see through my eyelids. I really could do it. Nobody believes me but I could. One time our teacher told us to close our eyes so we could pretend something and I closed mine and through my eyelids I saw her adjust her brassiere. That really happened.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Anyway, this time I couldn’t see through my eyelids and all I knew was that I was somewhere I really and truly didn’t want to be!”

  “I imagine that was scary.”

  “I told you.” Junior nodded wisely. “It’s the scariest thing in the whole world.”

  As Mary relived that conversation, she knew a deep kinship with Junior. Tears squeezed through her closed eyelids.

  As usual, Junior had spoken the truth that day. Waking up and not knowing where you are is the scariest thing that can happen to a person. She knew it for a fact, because now it had happened to her.

  She knew three things about this place even without opening her eyes. It was somewhere she had never been before in her life. It was somewhere she had never wanted to be. It was somewhere she wanted to get out of.

  She tried to raise her hand to her face. She felt so strange—all the strange sounds, strange smells, strange surroundings made her want to feel her features and make sure they were the same.

  Her hands wouldn’t raise. They were tied. She was tied down! Wherever she was, someone had tied her down so she couldn’t get out.

  Mad Mary couldn’t put it off any longer. Mad

  Mary decided to open her eyes.

  “I’ll never give it up. Never! Never Never!”

  Pap said gently, “Can’t you forgive the dog, Junior?”

  Junior shook his head.

  “Will you do it for me? For Pap?”

  Again Junior shook his head.

  “We don’t know that he did it,” Pap argued gently. “We’ll probably never know for sure.”

  “We could cut him open with a butcher knife,” Junior suggested.

  Junior was still on his knees, glaring into the depths under the house. He had Mud’s bandanna wrapped around his wrist.

  “Junior, if we get another hamster that looks exactly like Scooty, will you forgive Mud?” Maggie asked from the steps.

  Junior shook his head. “No.”

  “Do you really honestly believe Mud killed Scooty?” Maggie asked.

  Junior nodded.

  “What about you, Pap?”

  “Well, it don’t look good for the dog—I admit that. But on the other hand, I ain’t never known Mud to kill anything. If I point to a hole in the ground and say, ‘Possum!’ he’ll dig, but he never caught one. H
e’ll chase a squirrel until he’s so tired he can’t run another step, but he never caught one. When we catch fish I put them in the bucket and let him catch them, and he takes them in his mouth so gently there ain’t a tooth mark on them. Still … it don’t look good for him now.”

  Maggie got up. She threw her braid behind her back in a purposeful way. “In cases like this, there’s really only one thing to do.”

  “Yes!” Junior agreed. “Cut him open with a butcher knife.”

  “And what if Scooty’s not inside?” Maggie said.

  “What are we going to do then—sew him back up and say, ‘Sorry about that, Mud.’”

  “I don’t want any more talk about cutting my dog open,” Pap said in a stern voice.

  There was a pause while Junior stared sullenly under the house, and Pap stared disapprovingly at his back.

  Pap turned his worried face to Maggie. “Go ahead, Maggie, what’s your idea.”

  “Mud,” Maggie said firmly, “has got to stand trial for murder.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Ralphie’s Luck

  Ralphie listened to Junior’s “I’ll never give it up” speech from the back porch of the Blossoms’ house.

  Apparently Mud had eaten a hamster, which was considered an act of murder. Ralphie couldn’t have been more pleased. It took something like an act of murder to distract the Blossom family.

  It was the Ralphie luck, he thought. The only time in his whole life that the Ralphie luck had deserted him was the time he had the accident on the riding lawn mower.

  So now, with the family properly distracted, he could slip up the steps and into Maggie’s bedroom—he knew which one it was because she often called out the window to him. “I’ll be right down. Don’t go away.” As if he would.

  Even with the Ralphie luck, Ralphie didn’t take chances. He slunk down the hallway, close to the wall. He paused with his foot on the first step. He listened.

  Maggie, Junior, and Pap were in the front yard. He could hear their voices. Vern and Michael were at the side of the house—in the bushes. Ralphie had almost run into them, but they were laughing at some secret joke and never even saw him.

  Ralphie’s better judgment told him not to continue, but then his better judgment was always doing that. Ralphie started up the steps. He kept to the wall because he had read that was how thieves got up steps without being heard. Not one creaking board betrayed him.

  In the upstairs hall, Ralphie paused.

  Maggie’s bedroom was on the right side of the stairs. As he crossed noiselessly to her room, his heart began to beat faster. He paused in the doorway to breathe the air in Maggie’s room.

  This air was different from any air Ralphie had ever breathed before. He felt that if he breathed enough of this splendid air, he would become intoxicated.

  He had intended to go directly to the dresser and check for the flower, but the richness of the room overwhelmed him.

  He stepped inside.

  There were hundreds of pictures on the wall, and Ralphie moved around the room respectfully. He kept his hands behind his back as if he were in a museum.

  Here was a snapshot of Maggie as a baby—coming home from the hospital. Ralphie leaned closer. She had on tiny cowboy boots instead of booties, and Mrs. Blossom, holding her, looked like a girl with a turned-up nose instead of a middle-aged woman.

  Here was a birth announcement—Cotton and Vicki Blossom’s baby girl, Maggie, has come out of the chute weighing seven pounds, two ounces. … Ralphie moved down the wall.

  Here was a picture of her on a horse with a laughing man, her father. And here she was two years old maybe, holding a baby that had to be Vern. And here she and Vern were—maybe a year later—in cowboy outfits and hats.

  And here she and Vern were holding Junior. It had to be Junior because Junior hadn’t changed that much—same round face, round eyes. …

  Ralphie heard a burst of anguish from Junior. Junior was now suggesting they cut Mud open with a butcher knife. Ralphie brought himself back to earth immediately.

  Now. Where was the flower? He crossed to the dresser. In his mind the flower had been right there on top of the jewelry box, but there was no jewelry box.

  Ralphie divided girls into two categories—girls (in little letters) and MAGGIE (in capitals). Girls would have jewelry boxes—MAGGIE would have what?

  Where would a girl put a flower if she didn’t have a jewelry box? Ralphie didn’t have any sisters, and for the first time he regretted this.

  The flower had to be here somewhere. He bent to look in the trash can. It wasn’t there. That was good news.

  Where did a MAGGIE keep things that had special meaning? Valuables, jewels, stuff like that.

  There was a large basket full of barrettes and hair clips and ribbons. Ralphie stirred the contents with one finger to see if the flower could be concealed.

  The more Ralphie stirred, the more fascinated Ralphie became with all these barrettes and hair things. There must be fifty, maybe a hundred, barrettes in this basket, barrettes from when Maggie was a baby. Here was a tiny little barrette shaped like a crayola, and here was a lady bug, cowboy boots, strawberries, and here was a rubber hair thing with marbles on the ends.

  Ralphie stretched the elastic to see how it worked. He put it on his finger for a ring. Ralphie had never worn a ring before. The things they make to go in girls’ hair, he thought, wondering at it.

  Ralphie finished admiring his ring and looked down at the drawers. He wanted to open them but, of course, that would be prying.

  He turned away. The nightstand. He crossed to Maggie’s bed. No flower … no flower …

  Ralphie heard a burst of laughter and moved to the side window. Vern and Michael were still down there, now holding their sides.

  “Stop laughing!” Vern was saying.

  “I can’t. You’re making me laugh.”

  “No, I’m not. You’re making me laugh.”

  “Well, we can’t go around the house until we stop laughing.”

  “I know but … but …”

  Vern and Michael started laughing again. They made an effort to get themselves under control.

  They did this by looking down at their shoes.

  Finally Vern said, “Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure you’re not going to laugh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  But before they could get around the corner of the house, they had started laughing again. “You did it that time,” Vern accused when he was at last able to speak.

  “I couldn’t help it.”

  “Well, we have to help it.”

  “I know.”

  Vern wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt. “Maybe if we think of something sad.”

  There was a pause.

  Michael said, “I just thought of something sad.”

  “What?”

  “Junior.”

  This one word caused them to collapse on the ground in such a fit of mirth Ralphie thought they were going to injure themselves. Finally they lay on their backs, too weak to move.

  Ralphie turned away. Well, he had to face the fact that the flower was not here. He would just tidy up the dresser and go downstairs. He had spilled some of the barrettes.

  On the porch below, Junior said, “Maggie’s right.”

  Ralphie paused with barrettes in one hand to hear what Maggie had been right about.

  “About what?” Pap asked for him.

  “About putting Mud on trial for murder.”

  “Junior, what good will that do?”

  “It’s what happens to murderers. Did you hear that, Mud! You’re going on trial for murder!”

  Suddenly a prickly sense of unease came over Ralphie, as if an icy hand had touched him on the back of his neck. Before he could turn, a voice spoke from the doorway.

  “And just what do you think you’re
doing?”

  Ralphie lifted his eyes and met Maggie’s in the mirror. Her eyes were as green and hard as mints.

  He turned.

  Maggie was standing in the doorway with her arms folded. The first thing Ralphie noticed was that she was no longer an ogrette. Maggie had graduated with honors. Maggie was now a full-blown, adult-sized ogress.

  For the second time in his life, the Ralphie luck had run out.

  CHAPTER 15

  T-H-E Place

  When Mad Mary opened her eyes, she found she was in the exact place she had feared she was. She was in a bed.

  Mad Mary had not been in a bed in twelve years. She hadn’t been under sheets either, or in a nightgown, or lit up by electric lights, or among strange people. She was all of those things now.

  She knew where she was, but she didn’t know how she had come to be here.

  One moment she had been walking along between the woods and the road. She had a possum in her bag, her crook in her hand, and peace in her heart.

  The next moment—anyway that was how it seemed—the next moment she was in a hospital bed with her hands tied to the railings.

  “Oh, Junior.” She sighed.

  “She spoke!” a brisk voice announced. “She’s awake. Her eyes are open. I know you’re awake. Can you hear me?”

  Mad Mary closed her eyes.

  Vern and Michael were now making their sixth attempt to go around the corner of the house. The first five tries had ended unsuccessfully with Vern and Michael, helpless with laughter, flopping around on the grass like fish just pulled from the creek.

  “Now really and truly,” Vern said, giving Michael a serious look. “Really and truly let’s don’t laugh this time.”

  “I won’t if you won’t.”

  “Wait, I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” Michael said. “We’ll go around and if we do laugh and they ask why, we’ll say we can’t tell because it might embarrass someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Let me finish. If they make us tell, we’ll say, ‘Maggie and Ralphie up in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.’”

  They laughed a little—it was like the hiccups now. The recovery of their backpacks had filled them with high spirits.