Squashed

by Joan Bauer

  “Is that all that’s important to you?” I shrieked. “He could be the pumpkin vandal, a serial killer! He’s disgusting and grotesque. He burps and hates animals. He—”

  “Bats .340,” Richard said.

  “How could someone so rotten at life in general be so good on a baseball field?” I hollered. Richard, the son of a praying Catholic woman, said, “It’s a mystery,” which for Catholics neatly covered life’s unexplained mess. I was Presbyterian and hadn’t been given as many answers. Richard said Dennis could not be the pumpkin vandal because Dennis wasn’t smart enough.

  “We’ll see,” I said.

  “There’s no way, Ellie.”

  “You don’t have to be a genius to steal pumpkins.”

  “But,” Richard said, “you have to have a plan. You have to think about it. You have to be motivated.”

  “I get your point.”

  Nobody gave pumpkin growers an inch. You could slave all season like poor Mannie Plummer and have your prize vegetable end up in some window next to a mannequin decked out for Halloween. Two years ago, Helen Bjork’s 294-pounder was stolen, and she swears she saw it in the window of a florist’s in Ebberton. Dad wouldn’t let me stay home for the next twenty days to guard Max, and since vegetable branding hadn’t been perfected yet, I needed a plan.

  It was 8:59. The phone rang. I raced inside. It was Grace. About time. I positioned myself to keep Max in sight. “Well,” she began, “I talked to him for a long time after you left.”

  “And?”

  “Well, he said he really liked the party and my friends.” This was not heart-stopping news, and Grace always needed to tell the whole story before she got to the good part.

  “Okay…” I said.

  “Then he said he was having some trouble with his truck and had been fixing it all day. He likes trucks and things.”

  “Great,” I said. He likes trucks. Does he like me?

  “Um, he said his dog was sick and he had to take him to the vet because he’d been coughing. He was worried about him, getting used to a new vet and all, the dog’s pretty old, and he wants to see your pumpkin.”

  “Say the last part again.”

  “He wants to see Max.”

  “At my house?” I was overcome.

  “Well, yeah, where else?”

  “Right,” I said. Grace had finished. “Anything else, Grace?” I asked, my heart pounding. “I mean, did he say anything about me, you know?”

  “Well, he said he liked Mom’s butter pecan cake and that he hoped you won at the Weigh-In.”

  “He said that?”

  Grace was jump-started now: “Yes, he did. And I could tell by his face, not that he said anything directly, you know, but his face said that he liked you. I could tell on account of we’re cousins and I know him pretty well.”

  “But he didn’t say anything about me personally.”

  “No, but I could tell.”

  “Maybe,” I said, “I should invite him over next weekend to see Max. No. That’s too forward and—”

  “Not a good idea.”

  “No,” I agreed.

  “He’s driving down to see his old girlfriend next weekend.”

  “But you said he liked me, that—”

  “Those roads are bad, Ellie. Potholes, slow traffic. She’s not that great.”

  “You’ve met her?”

  “No,” said Grace, “but I can tell.”

  Nana said she would guard Max from ten to two for the next few days while I was at school. I had rigged a jiggly fence around him with hanging bells that would ring if a pumpkin thief tried something sneaky. I painted a sign, BACK OFF, CREEPS, YOU’RE BEING WATCHED, and stuck it by the fence. Not state-of-the-art protection, but enough to get a robber to think twice. I hoped.

  Rock River High was decorated in orange and brown crepe paper in honor of the upcoming fair, when all schools closed and children ran free. Mrs. Zugoruk’s freshman art class had covered the bulletin boards with crepe paper cornucopias that looked like tornadoes. The great pumpkin-pie-baking contest was on as Marsha Mott collected cans of puréed pumpkin for her mother, who promised to someday deliver a 350-pound pie, the world’s largest, to the fair if it killed her. Marsha said it probably would, unless the family finished her off first.

  It was afternoon, and I hadn’t seen Wes yet. In study hall I boned up on corn. Tossing a few corn facts in Wes’s direction couldn’t hurt, especially since he was visiting the Other One this coming weekend.

  I was worried about Max because Nana couldn’t sit him for the next nineteen days. I needed more than bells and threats for peace of mind. Cyril was probably sleeping in his field with a cannon. With any luck, Cyril would fire the thing and blow up his foot, or better yet, Big Daddy. Richard suggested I get a guard dog to ward off vandals.

  “One with a loud bark,” Richard said, eating a school cafeteria meatball sandwich.

  “I don’t like dogs.”

  “They probably sense that,” said Richard. “A dog will respond to you just the way you respond to him.”

  “I don’t do dogs.”

  “It’s like medicine,” Richard explained. “You take it when you need it.”

  “Think of something else.”

  “There is nothing else, Ellie, that you can afford.”

  “A retired policeman—”

  “Would have to be paid and would not sit in your field.”

  “A burglar alarm system—”

  Richard looked at me with pity. “The wires could be cut, and if you try to skip school, Miss Moritz would have you arrested.”

  The last three years I had played fast and loose with my squashes, but Max was different, world-class. He was 450 pounds already, my biggest yet by 130 pounds, and still growing. “You think I need a guard dog,” I groaned.

  Richard ate a Ho-Ho. “Only for nineteen days.”

  The woman at the Rock River Dog Pound informed me that her dogs had been through enough, were absolutely not for rent, and that I should be ashamed of myself for asking. The woman at the pet store said only fish were refundable, and only if they died of natural causes within one week after purchase. A dog—she eyed me coldly—was forever. The woman at the office of Des Moines Adopt-a-Doggie said her dogs were sensitive and loving and only asked for a good home. Was that too much? If I wanted a “brash, unruly killer” I should call the police. The police said guard dogs were only used by trained professionals, and just what kind of business was I in anyway?

  I had not seen Wes at all, which was bad because he could forget me even though I was unforgettable two nights before. A chill was in the air bringing more bad news. Thieves had stormed the countryside pilfering two pumpkins across the Rock River border in Ebberton. Four down in thirty-six hours. Doom fell upon every grower.

  Richard showed up for dinner (split pea soup with sausage, biscuits, carrot salad, and sautéed cinnamon apples), dragging Spider, a large, bony mongrel in need of a bath.

  “He has no teeth,” I pointed out.

  “Doesn’t need them,” Richard said, nodding to Spider, who wheezed and lay down on my clean kitchen floor. Spider eyed the basket of biscuits longingly, and me like I was flea spray. “Give him a biscuit,” Richard directed.

  “I’m not wasting one of my biscuits on a—”

  Richard sighed, grabbed a biscuit, and placed it in my hand. “Give it to him, Ellie. Tell him he’s a good dog.” Spider glared at the biscuit in my hand, stood up, and started to growl. Spider was ugly but not stupid, and his look said to me that if he got the biscuit no one would get hurt. I threw it on the floor. He tossed it down, drooled, and crawled off to watch me by the back door.

  “There,” said Richard. “You’re on your way.”

  “To what?”

  “Peace of mind,” he said, ladling pea soup into a bowl.

  “Where is this dog from? What planet?” Spider was snoring now, insensitive to criticism.

  “The Ankers let me borrow him because Mr. Anke
r fell off his roof and needs lots of quiet for the next three weeks, which is impossible with Spider here.”

  “Why is it impossible?” Richard smiled and shrugged. “Is there something you should tell me?” I continued. “No. Don’t tell me. I’ll tell you. I can’t do this.”

  “Do you know why they call him Spider?” Richard asked.

  “I don’t want to know.”

  “You do want to know,” Richard said, beaming, “because he might not look like much—”

  “He looks like my worst nightmare.”

  “He’s a pumpkin thief’s worst nightmare,” Richard said. “Positively deadly.”

  I regarded the pumpkin thief’s worst nightmare: splotchy coat, tattered ears, sleeping death rattle. “He gums robbers to death?” I asked. “What if they bring biscuits?”

  “Robbers don’t bake,” said Richard, adding salt to my soup. Spider turned, old and battered, and snorted.

  “I don’t like this dog.”

  “You don’t like any dog, but for nineteen days, you can like this dog.”

  Spider was drooling, his tongue hanging from his mouth like a dead snake. “This dog,” I continued, “does not make me feel protected, you know? He’s lying there doing nothing. This is not the mighty guard dog who will protect Max against evil.”

  “He doesn’t have to do anything yet,” Richard explained.

  “This is a job interview, Richard. The dog so far has growled, eaten a biscuit—”

  “He likes your biscuits.”

  “—tracked filth and disease across my kitchen—”

  “When’s your father coming home?” Richard asked.

  “Any minute now. Why?” Dad’s car pulled in the driveway, and Richard grinned. Suddenly the dead heap that was Spider rose from its ashes. His eyes flashed hate and destruction, his bark took over great and full. I jumped up on the sink as Richard watched him like a proud father.

  “Hates noise,” Richard shouted happily over the barking. “Drives him crazy. Tell him he’s a good dog.” Spider had reeled into attack mode, snarling and spitting gloom. This did not seem like a good dog to me. Dad froze at the back door.

  “Tell him!” Richard yelled as Spider thrashed the screen door, trying to get to Dad, who was holding a rake to protect himself.

  “Ellie!” Dad shouted. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, sir!” Richard yelled back. “We’re fine!”

  I jumped from the sink and grabbed a biscuit. Spider turned toward me, growling and fierce. “Good dog,” I lied. He cocked his old head and looked at the biscuit. “Good dog,” I said, dropping the biscuit, which he devoured. “That’s a very good dog.”

  Spider licked his gums and lay down by the sink. “He wants you to scratch him,” Richard explained.

  “Never.”

  “Scratch,” ordered Richard. I did, behind his ears. He closed his eyes happily and rolled over, indicating his stomach.

  “Forget it, Spider. I don’t know where you’ve been.”

  Dad entered, holding a trash can lid like a shield. “What,” whispered Dad, “is that?”

  “Insurance,” said Richard, handing Dad a biscuit. “How was your day, Uncle Mitchell?”

  “Safe,” said Dad, eyeing Spider, who burped and nuzzled my arm. “Very safe.”

  “He can sleep in the shed outside,” said Richard. “He won’t leave the property. Hates noise, remember? Gotta go.”

  “Richard,” I snapped, “this is not a good thing for me. This does not make me happy.” Spider, however, was happy, gurgling at my feet. Richard backed away. I was doing fine, he said.

  “See you, Uncle Mitchell,” Richard said, and waved.

  “Young man,” shouted Dad, “you’re not seriously leaving this…this—”

  “Dog,” said Richard, almost out the door.

  “If you leave now,” I threatened him, “I will injure you. You will never play baseball again, I swear!”

  “Would someone,” cried Dad, “please explain to me what that thing is doing in my house?”

  “Ellie will,” said Richard, grabbing two biscuits and closing the screen door quietly. “It’s her dog.”

  “You’re a dead man, Richard!” I shrieked, smiling at Spider to not get him nervous. “Good dog,” I told him. “Nice dog.” I tore after Richard, down the back porch steps, into the cold, past Max and his bells and my BACK OFF, CREEPS sign. Richard, the rat, was gone. Spider stood in the doorway gumming a cookie Dad had thrown at him.

  “Spider,” I said, “this is Max.” Spider seemed to take that in stride. I pointed to the shed. “And this,” I chirped, “is your house.” Spider growled, lowered his tail, and slunk back into the kitchen. It was going to be a long evening.

  Dad, I, and the neighbors slept about seven minutes during Spider’s first night patrol. We got four angry calls about barking and two angrier calls mentioning rat poison, and I baked another batch of biscuits at 2:00 A.M. to silence Spider, who responded to a squeaky truck on Bud DeWitt Memorial Drive by reaching his full barking potential. Dad offered him a store-bought English muffin, which he spat out.

  Frost was in the air, putting Max in more danger. Most pumpkins can recover from a slight frost, but freezing meant the end. I gobbled six butterscotch cookies because of the stress, and covered Max with an electric blanket roped with extension cords that led up the back porch. By now his leaves were as big as elephant ears, his main vine as thick as Dad’s arm. I measured his circumference from stem to nose around his fattest area: 153 inches. He was an awesome 490 pounds according to my pumpkin estimated weight chart.

  Big feeders like Max took 120 days to mature, and I had timed it well; we had 12 days to go to the Weigh-In, and Max was bulging beyond my dreams. I felt the solid hardness of his shell, tucked the blanket tighter, and let the good warmth soak in.

  I’d been talking to Max like Wes said, but it made me feel stupid. As a loyal reader of Seventeen, I tried to be sophisticated whenever possible, because you never knew who was watching. I’d read Max an article about whether guys like girls with makeup to broaden his scope and take the pressure off always just growing. The article said if you be yourself you don’t have to worry about anything else. I told Max that he was a great champion and all he had to do was be himself, but under no circumstances was he to be any less than that. I thought it was tacky of Wes to tell Grace he wanted to see Max and then get sick, not even show up in school for three whole days, and leave me wondering about everything.

  “Max,” I said, pulling my coat tight and adjusting the blanket’s heat. Talking to an electric blanket made me feel dumber, and Spider was yelping at every chipmunk that scurried by. “There are times in life, Max, when we need to gather every ounce of strength and courage and move forward despite the odds.” I got this speech from Richard, who got it from Mr. Soboleski, who got it in part from Vince Lombardi, who probably got it from Winston Churchill.

  A cold wind whooshed from the north, and Max shivered. Normally I did not give orders to squashes and was known for giving my vegetables a lot of rope. But this cold was coming in quick even though the farm report had predicted a gentle, warm evening. Nana taught me not to rely on weather people because they don’t have the good sense to stand outside and see what’s happening.

  “You will,” I shouted, “not freeze, Max! You will think warm, think victory! You must be a man!”

  Spider shrieked as Mrs. Lemming took her nightly bag of trash across the street and put it in the Urices’ garbage can to fool the raccoon that had been driving her crazy for twenty years. Nana told her that raccoons don’t live that long, but Mrs. Lemming said hers did and had been sent to earth to torment her all her days. She’d tried leaving a light on, but that hadn’t worked. Neither had a radio. I turned up the heat for Max as Spider yelped through the quiet night.

  Morning came quickly and Max made it through, toasty and safe, a tribute to Sommerset Electric and Dad’s motivating powers. I grabbed Richard by the scruff of the neck wh
en he dared to show up for breakfast. “I will kill you,” I promised. Richard threw Spider a Snickers bar, which he devoured.

  “He’s got to go,” I said.

  “This,” said Richard, scratching behind Spider’s ears, “is the National Guard, Ellie.”

  “You left me alone with him.”

  “Your father was here, and Max,” Richard said, “is still here. Just in case you haven’t heard, another pumpkin bit the dust last night.”

  “Where?”

  “Somewhere in Circleville. That’s all I know.”

  The pumpkin thieves were everywhere now. Uncontrollable. I looked at Spider like the last woman on earth would look at the last man on earth even though he was Elmer Fudd. I adjusted.

  “He has a nice face,” I said as Richard and Spider nodded.

  But getting Old Abe to see the light was another story. Dad’s dark circles were deepening. I told Dad he could rise above adversity and attack one of his Important Life Goals: Beating Insomnia. Dad said Spider gave insomnia new meaning and had set a deadline: 6:00 P.M. No more Spider. The dog, sensing a biscuit-free future, licked my hand and curled up at my feet. He wasn’t fooling anybody; still this was the first animal who had shown an interest in me. Spider put his paw in my hand. Contact! I stroked it like Annie Sullivan breaking through to Helen Keller.

  “You are here to protect Max from bad people,” I instructed. Spider panted in response. “I will bake you biscuits if you obey. That’s the rule.” Spider took this in, not as happily, and snarled. I held a biscuit over his head.

  “Take it or leave it, pal.” He lay down in defeat. “Another thing,” I said. “You are making my father nervous. And he doesn’t need outside help, if you get my meaning.”

  Dad appeared, inching toward the back door, shielded with his trash can lid, whispering, “Good dog. That’s a good dog.” I decided to go for the direct approach.

  “I’ve got to keep him, Dad. I need you to understand.”

  “Ellie,” he whispered, “this animal is a terror. Good dog, Spider.”

  “It’s only for nineteen days—”

  “That,” Dad spat, “is interminable. Whole wars have been fought in less time.”