Tom Jones Saves the World

by Herrick, Steven

I hold the letter

  for Tom’s Grandpa to sign

  with a very unsteady hand.

  He can’t talk.

  His top lip quivers.

  It scares me a little.

  I keep thinking he’s going to have

  a heart attack or something.

  When Tom told him of our plan

  I knew he understood

  by looking at his eyes.

  They sparkled, and he looked at me,

  and winked.

  It was a wink that said,

  “Good plan, Cleo.”

  Tom and I wave goodbye

  from the door,

  rush downstairs,

  and run

  as fast as we can

  to the post office.

  Thursday afternoon

  It cost five dollars to send.

  Tom’s about to place the parcel

  in the postbox

  when I hold up my hand to stop him.

  I lean forward

  and kiss the parcel—

  stupid I know,

  but I want to wish it good luck.

  Tom smiles

  and rubs his hand over the package.

  Tom’s magic spell.

  Then we place it

  in the postbox

  and walk home

  in the hopeful sunshine

  of Thursday afternoon.

  Cleo, and ladders

  The walls at Pacific Palms

  don’t seem so big any more.

  I think of Tom’s Grandpa

  trapped in bed

  by a body

  that doesn’t work so well.

  In a room

  smelling of antiseptic

  and detergent,

  Grandpa

  waits to find

  a key to unlock

  his words,

  an escape hatch

  for his body

  to squeeze through,

  a ladder

  to climb out of bed

  and join

  the world again.

  The parcel and the possiblilities

  When Dad arrives home

  and opens the parcel

  sitting on the kitchen bench

  he’ll

  • read the letter and rip it up,

  then tip all the bottle tops into the rubbish bin.

  • read the letter and rip it up,

  then take all the bottle tops to his collection room.

  • read the letter, call my name, and say,

  “Did you have anything to do with this, Thomas?”

  • read the letter,

  ring Grandpa Jones at Mercy Gardens

  go and visit him on Saturday

  become good friends with Grandpa

  ask Grandpa to come and live with us

  give up his Accountancy job

  and...

  • read the letter,

  and faint!

  Dead parent wish #9, or not?

  Dad arrives home,

  sees the parcel and says,

  “A gift perchance of substantial value

  awaits my perusal.”

  I say “Twaddle” in a loud voice

  and Dad says

  “Sorry Thomas, I hope there’s a gift inside!

  I’ll open it in my study.”

  Dad goes into his bottle top collection room

  and closes the door.

  I hang around the kitchen for ages,

  waiting.

  Mum thinks I want

  to help with dinner.

  She keeps giving me little jobs.

  I peel potatoes

  I cut carrots

  I grate cheese.

  I wait for a noise from Dad

  but Arnold is quiet

  dangerously quiet

  hopefully quiet

  achingly quiet.

  Cheating

  It’s been two hours.

  I can’t stand it much longer

  so

  I decide to cheat.

  I quietly ring Cleo

  from the upstairs phone

  and I ask for help.

  Straight away

  she comes up with a plan.

  Another plan!

  She’ll phone our house

  and in a deep lady-like voice

  ask for Arnold Jones, the Accountant.

  I hang up.

  Sure enough, Cleo rings back.

  I hear Mum answer the phone

  in the kitchen,

  then walk to Dad’s study.

  I rush downstairs,

  but it’s only Mum

  on the phone telling “Mrs Patra”

  that Dad is busy,

  could she phone again tomorrow?

  So much for cheating!

  Uncle Robert and Aunt Ruth at morning tea

  Robert: This is an excellent cake, my dear.

  Ruth: Thank you Robert. Don’t eat it all though,

  leave some for Cleo.

  Robert: She spends a lot of time at Tom’s, doesn’t she?

  Ruth: He’s her friend, dear.

  Robert: Yes, I know. But they seem to always be

  visiting Tom’s Grandpa.

  Ruth: That’s good. Don’t you think?

  Robert: Well, yes, I guess.

  But he’s as old as we are, Ruth.

  Ruth: Yes, but maybe he’s more interesting.

  Cleo says he tells them stories

  about the war, and his travels

  around the world.

  Robert: I went to Brisbane once.

  Ruth: Yes dear, I know, I was with you.

  Robert: I would have been in the war, if they’d let me.

  Ruth: Yes dear, it’s not your fault you’re

  short-sighted.

  Robert: I still could have done something for the

  Army. I could have been a cook!

  Ruth: Yes. But I think they wanted

  to win the war, dear.

  Like riding a bike

  “Hello, Tiger.”

  “Grandpa, you can talk!”

  “Yes.

  I learnt years ago.

  Some things you never forget.”

  “Like riding a bike.”

  “Yeah, Tiger, like riding a bike.”

  “Dad got your letter yesterday.

  He went to his study,

  closed the door,

  and stayed there.

  And today he’d left for work

  before I even got up.”

  “Your Dad, Tom.

  He needs time.”

  “But what if he just keeps

  the bottle tops and doesn’t

  say a word. It’ll be all for nothing.”

  “No, Tom.

  Not for nothing.

  Not by a long shot.”

  Murchison Creek

  Me and Cleo

  are sitting on the bank

  of Murchison Creek.

  We’ve come here after school,

  not to yabby,

  but to sit and talk.

  I tell Cleo about Grandpa

  and how he can talk,

  a little.

  And Dad,

  who still hasn’t said a word

  about the letter.

  My Dad

  who never shuts up

  doesn’t utter a sound

  when he should!

  And what if he never

  mentions the letter?

  Not now.

  Not in a week.

  Never!

  I can’t escape Pacific Palms

  through our hole in the wall forever

  to visit Grandpa.

  One day I’ll tell Dad.

  One day.

  Bu
lls, Hamburgers, and Dads

  I don’t know what to do.

  Tom and I sit here

  by Murchison Creek

  watching the bull opposite.

  I move closer to Tom

  and I put my arm

  around his shoulder.

  He shivers a little

  and I just hug him.

  I feel like a real goose

  but he’s my friend

  and I feel bad

  my plan hasn’t worked.

  Tom puts his arm around me

  and we sit

  close

  watching the bull

  for a very long time

  until I say,

  “That bull should have been a hamburger by now!”

  Tom laughs and pushes me over

  I push him back.

  We’re friends,

  whatever his stupid Dad does!

  The reason there are so many dead parents in books

  Today

  Ms Watkins tells us a story

  about a bird, an eagle,

  raised by a boy

  from a chick

  to a beautiful, powerful

  bird of prey

  with strong claws

  and massive wingspan.

  The eagle has grown too big

  for the boy’s cage

  and he knows he

  has to let the bird go

  so

  the boy and the eagle

  go into an open field

  and the boy

  gently takes the bird

  out of the cage,

  his arm wrapped in a towel

  so as to not get ripped

  by those powerful claws.

  The boy lets the eagle

  rest on his arm

  but the bird doesn’t fly away.

  The boy just stands there

  looking at his friend, the bird.

  Finally the bird flies

  with an applause of wings

  high into the sky

  where he hovers over the boy.

  The boy can’t move

  so proud of the bird

  and its flight.

  Then the eagle

  dives down

  and lands in a tree

  not far from the boy.

  The boy waves

  and the bird flies away

  into the forest.

  Simple as that.

  I look across at Cleo.

  She’s so involved in the story,

  she doesn’t notice me,

  and I decide

  that’s why I like books.

  They tell a story.

  Simple.

  A bird, a boy.

  And the right thing to do.

  I wonder as Ms Watkins

  closes the book

  whether anyone

  has ever bothered

  to write a story about

  someone with a Dad

  like Arnold.

  Maybe that’s why

  there are so many books

  with dead parents.

  It’s easier to have them die

  than to write about them!

  Almost caught

  “Thomas.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Son.”

  “Yeah, Dad.”

  “Do you know anything

  about the bottle tops?”

  “Yeah, Dad.

  You’ve got hundreds of them.”

  “No, no, no,

  I mean the bottle tops

  I recently acquired

  through a delivery arriving

  two days prior to today.”

  “Twaddle, Dad!”

  “Sorry, I mean I got

  some bottle tops in the mail

  two days ago.

  With a letter from your Grandfather.”

  “Really.

  That’s nice of Grandpa.”

  “The letter says

  you told him about my collection”

  “Yeah, I think I did, Dad.”

  “It puts me in a difficult position, Thomas.

  I guess I should thank him?”

  “That’d be a good idea.”

  “I could write him a letter?”

  “Or visit him?”

  “I could get Barbara to visit him?”

  “Or you could go yourself?”

  “Or you could go?”

  “I don’t know where Mercy Gardens is”

  (oh no!)

  “Mercy Gardens.

  That’s where Grandfather lives.

  But how do you know that, Thomas?”

  “I ... I ... think Grandpa must have told me.

  That’s it. He told me at the party after the funeral.”

  Two words for a moron

  Tom Jones.

  Chapter Eleven

  CLEO’S LAST AND ABSOLUTELY FINAL PLAN

  Tree

  Grandpa’s allowed to walk

  around the Gardens now.

  I hold his hand to steady him

  as we walk to our favourite seat

  under the huge old fir tree.

  Grandpa breathes heavily

  from the walk.

  “I used to climb trees, Tiger,

  when I was your age.

  I’d climb this big old gum tree

  in the school grounds

  and I’d sit up there, hidden,

  all lunchtime,

  and if it was a sunny day,

  I’d stay there all arvo.

  Bugger school, I’d say.”

  Grandpa laughs,

  and coughs.

  I reach for his hand.

  He’s quiet for a long time

  until his breathing steadies.

  “I’d lean back on the branch

  and dream.

  I’d hear my class

  reciting times-tables

  and think how lucky I was.

  I wouldn’t come down

  until everyone

  had gone home.

  I loved school, Tom.

  Loved it.

  Never learnt a thing,

  but geez, I loved it,

  sitting up there in the tree!”

  Skimming stones

  On the way home

  I skim stones

  over the surface of

  Murchison Creek.

  If I choose a

  perfectly smooth stone

  I can skim from

  one bank to the other.

  The afternoon train

  rattles over

  Taylors Bridge

  and I wave at

  the driver.

  He responds

  with one clear train whistle

  that bounces

  off the walls

  of Pacific Palms

  and

  echoes back

  even louder

  across the field.

  Maybe the walls

  have a use

  after all?

  What is Dad saying?

  “Thomas, I proceeded,

  at a slow pace, past Mercy Gardens...

  I mean I walked past

  Mercy Gardens yesterday.”

  “Yeah, Dad.”

  “And I was surprised to see

  some people walking around

  in the Gardens. They have very

  extensive gardens there,

  don’t they Thomas?”

  “I ... I ... don’t know, Dad.

  I’ve never been there.”

  “Really.

  Well, they have lots of old fir trees,

  and lovely wooden seats

  under the trees.

  Places where people can sit

  w
ith their parents, or grandparents,

  when they visit.

  Beautiful gardens, Thomas.”

  “That’s good, Dad.

  I’d better go, Dad,

  I’ve got to finish some homework.”

  “Beautiful gardens, Son.

  Splendid.

  Marvellous.

  Inspiring.”

  Cleo’s last and absolutely final plan

  Well,

  it’s not really a plan.

  I just thought that,

  seeing Tom’s Grandpa

  is feeling better,

  we should treat him

  to a day out.

  A picnic.

  Me and Tom, and Grandpa Jones

  at Murchison Creek.

  I’m sure Aunt Ruth

  will help me bake a “get well” cake,

  and Tom and I can catch yabbies.

  Grandpa would love that.

  Only this time

  I won’t leave Pacific Palms

  through the escape hole.

  I’ll ask Aunt Ruth and Uncle Robert.

  They’ll let me go.

  It’s a picnic.

  On Saturday,

  for Grandpa Jones.

  Perfect

  Cleo has done it again.

  Perfect.

  I can imagine Grandpa

  holding a piece of string

  sitting beside the creek

  saying

  “Come on, you snappy little fellow,

  take the meat,

  come on,

  I’m hungry already!”

  We’ll sit in the shade

  of the willow trees,

  the three of us,

  and treat Grandpa.

  I’ll tell Mum

  that it’s a special picnic

  for me and Cleo.