The Secrets of Tree Taylor

by Dandi Daley Mackall

  “You know, if you have to write about people’s misery, Tree, why don’t you tackle Gary Lynch?” His voice was even but tight. “I just got back from seeing him. That boy never leaves his room, his bed, his dragons. Dozens of dragons—dragon bedspread, stuffed dragons, dragon knickknacks. That’s his entire world. Lots of misery there, Tree. Or you could write about the soldiers dying every day in Vietnam.” His eyes narrowed, like he was trying to see through me. “Did you ever say two words to Mrs. Kinney before this happened?”

  Guilt shot through me like a fiery arrow. “I know. I’m sorry. I should have.”

  “Is there anything else, Tree? Because if not, I have patients waiting.”

  I turned to go. Only I couldn’t. I just couldn’t go back home like this, with my secret dragging behind me, sprawled between my dad and me. “Dad?” He was writing on the growth chart. “I saw her holding that rifle.”

  His head snapped around so fast that I took a step back. “What did you say?”

  I swallowed. “I saw Mrs. Kinney … holding the gun.” There was no backing down now. “That morning. Before you took the gun away from her, I—”

  “What?”

  My heart was pounding so hard, my ears hurt. “I stayed back, like you told me to. Only then I saw her carrying that gun, and I got so scared—scared for you—I didn’t know what I was doing. Honest, Dad. It was like my bare feet ran on gravel without me.”

  His face turned the color of red licorice. I saw veins throbbing in his neck. “And where did your bare feet run?”

  “To the cottonwood beside the Kinney house.”

  “You were spying on me?”

  “I was scared for you! She had that rifle, Dad. I was afraid she’d shoot you.”

  He took three deep breaths and turned his back on me.

  I braced myself for a nuclear explosion. I waited. “Dad?”

  Nothing.

  I couldn’t stand it. Anything was better than this silence. “Dad, I didn’t mean—”

  “Go home, Tree.” His back was still to me.

  I started to say something. “I—” Then I gave up.

  I had to wipe away tears with the back of my hand to see my way out. Shutting that office door felt like closing something huge. Something life-changing. Something I could never get back.

  I climbed on my bike and rode fast, but not home.

  What had just happened? And how could my dad be so mad about it? So what if I’d followed him when he told me not to? Big deal! Was it my fault I saw a crazy old woman holding a rifle? And yeah—reporters do write about misery, when it’s news.

  Dad wasn’t being fair. I wasn’t his little obedient kid.

  Not anymore.

  I was going to write my article with or without him.

  16

  Progress

  I rode back the same way I’d come. As I coasted past the Hamiltonian office, I heard loud voices. Randy and his dad were shouting at each other. I dragged one foot and came to a stop just outside. I wasn’t sure why I’d stopped—not for any quotes Randy had saved for me. Maybe I wanted to hear someone else’s dad yell for a change.

  Just stepping inside the newspaper office did me good. No place on earth smelled like the Hamiltonian office, with its mix of fresh ink and sweat and old newspaper. Every time a teacher assigned a career report, I interviewed Randy or his father or Carol, who’d worked there almost as long as Mr. Ridings. I’d even tried to get on as paperboy, although the once-a-week job didn’t pay much. But the job went to Randy’s nephew Larry, even though Larry had rotten aim. Our paper always ended up in the bushes.

  Nobody was manning the front desk. And the shouting continued. “Dad, you shouldn’t even be here.” Randy’s voice sounded like too tight fence wire.

  “I’ve been coming here since before you were on the earth, Randy. And I’m not stopping until I know my paper won’t be run into the ground by slander and unsavory—”

  “Slander? I quoted the man word for word! He shouldn’t make speeches if he doesn’t want people to read what he says.”

  “And I’ve been on the phone half the morning with him, smoothing his ruffled feathers so he won’t pull his advertising.”

  “That can’t be our problem. I’m going to print the truth, Dad. People deserve to know what—”

  “Balderdash! People don’t want to read about ugly things.”

  I agreed with Randy. I thought I’d always want the truth, no matter what.

  “Everybody take a deep breath.” The woman’s voice had to be Carol’s.

  Carol must have succeeded in calming the men because their voices got too low for me to hear.

  That gave me time to think. Dad didn’t understand why I wanted to write about the Kinneys any more than Randy’s dad understood why he had to write the truth. Suddenly, I wanted to talk to Randy. He’d understand. He wouldn’t think I was stupid for wanting to know what had really happened at the Kinneys’.

  I checked the bulletin board, which was filled with little notes. Paper littered the office—folders piled on every surface, newspapers stacked in all corners. The whole town would go up in smoke if old Mr. Ridings’s cigar ever dropped an ash in there.

  Finally, Randy stormed out of the back office and walked straight to his desk. He flung his suit jacket over the back of his chair, and I saw that his white shirt had sweat marks under the arms. Randy was only a few years older than Jack, but already he had to smooth his straight black hair over a growing bald spot. He picked up a stack of reports and sprawled into his desk chair. “Tree? Didn’t see you there. Can you come back later? I don’t know where I put those quotes.” He looked down at the papers in his hands, shuffled them.

  “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something else.”

  “Pretty busy right now.” He didn’t look up. “Steam engines are cutting-edge news around here. Never mind that the mayor wants to move the voting age to fifty. Never mind we’ve had a shooting in town.”

  “Mr. Kinney’s?” Like there was any other shooting in Hamilton.

  Randy looked up then. “Sorry, Tree. And I’m sorry for any ranting and raving you overheard. Nothing but war between the generations.”

  “There’s a lot of that going around.”

  He raised his eyebrows but didn’t ask. After a moment he sighed and said, “So, what’s on your mind? And don’t tell me it’s steam engines or I’ll toss you out on your ear.”

  “Nope. It’s about Mr. and Mrs. Kinney.”

  “I’m listening.” It was hard to believe he was listening because he kept flipping through pages that looked like write-ups on tractors.

  “Well, I thought I’d write about it—the shooting—for the Blue and Gold.”

  “Didn’t know you’d made staff. Congratulations, Tree.”

  “I haven’t. Not yet, anyway. I thought if I wrote something good …”

  Randy finished for me. “You’d earn your spot.”

  “Yeah. Something like that.”

  “Not a bad plan.” He scribbled on what looked like a picture of an old car.

  “My dad doesn’t agree.”

  “Ah. Dads again.” Randy leaned back in his chair. It squeaked. “And your dad’s the one with all the answers about the Kinneys, right?”

  I shrugged.

  “I haven’t been able to get a word out of your dad, either,” Randy admitted. “Not that my dad would want me to print anything about the shooting. After all, what kind of a person wants to read about blood and guns? They’d much rather read about tractors and steam engines.” He stopped talking, then looked me square in the eye. “Tree, go for it. You want to be in the newspaper business? You go for the news.”

  “I want to, but—”

  “You’re too young for buts. Get that story. Get it any way you can.”

  Carol stuck her head out of the back office. “Randy, we need you on this. I’ve got three steam engine owners, and they all want front row at the fairgrounds.”

  Randy got t
o his feet. “I’ve got to go. I can’t think past the steam engine show. We do extra inserts and two papers that week.” He let out a one-note laugh that had zero funny in it. “My dad’s right about one thing. Around here, there is no bigger story than the steam engine show.”

  “Thanks for listening, Randy.”

  He lowered his voice. “I wasn’t kidding about going for the news, Tree. Something about the Kinneys doesn’t smell right. Never has. The sheriff stonewalled me when I tried to talk to him. And your dad won’t even talk to me.” He looked back to where Carol had disappeared and where his dad must have been waiting. “Tell you what. You get that story, and you write it up for me.”

  “For you?” I couldn’t believe it. Was Randy giving me an assignment?

  “No promises. You get what you can, and we’ll see.” Randy Ridings was giving me a chance to write something for the Hamiltonian. “Let me get this blasted steam engine show behind me. Then bring me what you’ve got … preferably when my father isn’t around.” He paused, like he was thinking of something. “Dad’s leaving town right after the steam engine show. He won’t be back for three months. Perfect timing for your deadline, Tree.”

  “I’ll do it. You’ll see.”

  He grabbed his stack of papers off the desk. “Good. Things are going to change around here. Might as well start now.”

  “You’ll have it on July Fourth!” I called after him. That was the day of the steam engine show.

  Randy turned back and grinned. “That just may be the only thing I’ll be looking forward to that day.”

  “Randy!” Carol shouted.

  “Coming.”

  * * *

  I didn’t say a word to Eileen when I got home. I was on a mission. I was going to give Randy Ridings the best feature he’d ever seen: “The Truth about the Kinney Shooting.” Hamilton deserved to know the truth, even if a generation of fathers disagreed.

  17

  Tree, Girl Reporter

  I changed into clean jeans and a button-down blouse. I wasn’t going to wait another minute to research my article for Randy.

  Next to my dad—and Mrs. Kinney—Sheriff Robinson had more firsthand information than anybody. Randy hadn’t been able to get anything out of him, but I thought I might have better luck. I’d seen things even the sheriff hadn’t seen. I looked up the number and dialed.

  Someone picked up on the first ring. “Hello. This is Bev.”

  “Is this the sheriff’s office?” I asked.

  “Yessiree. Can I help you?”

  “This is Tree Taylor, and—”

  Bev didn’t let me finish. “Tree? This is Mrs. Berger, honey. How the heck are ya?”

  “Fine, Mrs. Berger. How are you?”

  Mrs. Berger had been my dad’s teacher when he was in grade school.

  “Truth be told, my arthritis is acting up. I’ll have to get in to see your daddy one of these days. Whaddya need, sugar?”

  “I was hoping I could talk to Sheriff Robinson.”

  “Didn’t you hear? Leo’s quit policing. For good this time, or so he says.”

  “But I just saw him the other day.”

  “Well, he’s not going anywheres, sweet thing. And he didn’t quit exactly. He retired.”

  A million questions popped into my head. Had he planned to retire? Or was he retiring because of the Kinney shooting? “Could I at least talk to him, Mrs. Berger?”

  “Sorry, honey. He’s home packing his rod and reel. Going up north on some fishing trip. No phone.”

  “So we’re not going to have a sheriff in Hamilton?” First the shoe factory. Then the picture show. And now the sheriff? There wouldn’t be anybody left in town by the time I graduated.

  “Now, I didn’t say that,” Mrs. Berger said. “We’re getting us a new sheriff. Comes in tomorrow. A young feller. Officer Duper.”

  “Officer Duper? Not Sheriff Duper?”

  “That’s exactly what I asked. Told him we’d always had us a sheriff. But he said he preferred to be called Officer Duper of the Hamilton Police Department.”

  The police department of one.

  She lowered her voice. “I’m supposed to answer the phone that way. ‘Officer Duper’s office, Hamilton Police Department.’ Time I get all that out, the poor soul on the other end of the line’s bound to hang up.”

  I couldn’t think of anything else to ask her. “Well, thanks for the information. Could I call back tomorrow? Maybe Sheriff—I mean, Officer—Duper will talk to me.”

  “Sure thing. I hope nothing’s wrong at your place.” She waited to see if I’d fill her in.

  “No. We’re fine. I’m writing an article and wanted to ask some questions.”

  “You call back anytime, Tree. Nice talking to you, honey. Tell your mama and Doc hey for me.”

  I hung up, feeling like I’d struck out. But it wasn’t going to stop me. I was just getting started.

  I dialed Sarah’s number, and she answered the phone. “Tree? Is the pool open again?”

  “No—at least, not that I know of. Any chance you could hitch a ride to town and go with me to talk to Mrs. Kinney?”

  “About time you went. And no. Mom is nuts. All of a sudden, she’s having a giant yard sale this weekend. She’s got me making signs and clearing out the basement and the attic.” I heard her mom shouting in the background. “Sorry. Gotta run. Call me if the pool reopens.”

  No problem. Walter Cronkite never had a sidekick when he was interviewing someone.

  I checked myself in the mirror and forced my thick, wild waves into a ponytail. Immediately, strands of hair tugged at my forehead. Eileen warned me that wearing my hair up would make me go bald. Tough. I wouldn’t have minded losing some of my too thick hair. Dad’s hair.

  The air smelled like clean earth, and the temperature must have dropped twenty degrees. A bobwhite called from the thicket across the street: bob-bob-white. One lone bird. The others stayed in hiding, which meant it would likely rain again.

  As I got closer to the Kinney house, my feet slowed. I should have written up questions for Mrs. Kinney in advance. Or asked Randy how to do interviews.

  I glanced across the street and spotted the DeShon boys digging in the mud with their bare hands. I stopped a safe distance from them and watched as they piled mud into a sloppy mound. They had identical eyes, hollow, small, set too deep into their heads, like somebody had shot BBs into their bony faces and called them eyeballs.

  The boys would be heading to kindergarten and first grade in the fall. I pitied their teachers.

  Eileen used to babysit the DeShon boys. Once, she asked me to stand in for her because she had a date with Butch. I got Sarah to help. Eileen promised us the boys would go to bed early, and we’d get paid for watching TV. Ha! Those boys never went to bed, and I doubted they slept—ever. One of them—I thought it was Larry, but I couldn’t tell them apart—slugged me with a baseball bat when I tried to make his brother stop coloring the kitchen cabinets purple.

  “Whatcha making?” I asked.

  The one I thought was Larry answered, “Mud pies.” He glared up at me like I’d threatened to steal his baked goods.

  Their mother hollered out, “Tree? Come in a minute.”

  I wanted to tell her I didn’t have time, that I had an assignment. I glanced at the Kinney house, then had a thought. Maybe I could get more background information before talking to Mrs. Kinney.

  A crooked screen hung on the house’s peeling doorframe. The screen was too big, and somebody had tried to staple it to the frame, creating a big screen bubble.

  Peering through the tiny wire squares of the screen, I got familiar glimpses of the DeShon home—an overflowing laundry basket, an overturned tricycle, a pile of diapers, toys scattered as if rained there, and a tiny, loud television. Canned laughter filled the house. I felt like I should knock, even though Mrs. DeShon was the one asking me in. I knocked.

  Footsteps, bare feet, squeaked on the wood floor. A baby cried. Somebody swore—the “d�
�� word for the structure that keeps water back. I’d forgotten they had a new baby. Dad had gotten the call in the middle of the night. I asked Mom once why babies were always born at night. She said they weren’t, although she agreed it did seem like it. Then she added, “Besides, that way your dad can deliver the baby at home. People around here don’t like hospitals, and they hate hospital bills.”

  If somebody couldn’t pay Dad, he didn’t make them. Instead, patients kept us supplied with jams, jellies, fruits, veggies, and whatever else they had. We didn’t have the money for a new roof, but we always had plenty of pies, deer meat, and pickles. And we didn’t have to worry about Midge getting sick because the vet would take care of her for free. Dad had delivered both of Doc Snyder’s kids.

  Finally, Mrs. DeShon stumbled to the door, her baby hoisted on her hip. Glancing past my shoulder, she must have caught sight of her boys. “You stay out of that mud, hear? Don’t you go getting dirty! We got to go to town.”

  The boys didn’t make a move to stop baking.

  Their mother looked back to me with the same deep-set eyes as her boys’. Strands of two-color hair, brown roots, blond otherwise, stuck to her head. “Is your dad home?”

  So that was why she wanted me? “He’s at the office.”

  “Dang.” She started to walk away.

  “Wait! Mrs. DeShon? Could I talk to you for a minute? I’m … I’m writing an article about what happened at the Kinney house.” I waited for her to ask who’d want me to write an article.

  But she didn’t. She cracked open the screen door and signaled for me to follow her inside. “That was a bad business. We heard the shot, of course. Woke the baby. Scared the boys.” She shoved clothes and toys off the couch and sat down. “We was the ones—Robby was—to call the sheriff.”

  “That must have been pretty scary.”

  She shook her head. “Nah. We’re used to it.” She might have read confusion on my face because she nodded, like she was agreeing with herself. “Them two wake us up all the time. We can hear them fighting over the TV.”