Waiting for Augusta

by Jessica Lawson

  “You’ve got a poor sense of timing, you know that?”

  She eyed the fence, then fixed me with a doubtful stare. “You gonna jump that?”

  “Do I look like I’ve got springs for feet? I’m climbing it. Quit talking and get out of here before you wake someone up. I’ve got a plan, okay? Now, go.”

  She stood her ground, studying me. “What’s over that fence?”

  “Please?” I tried. “If you’ve gotta know, it’s a chicken guarding my traveling money.”

  She blinked in the moonlight, a goofy smirk fluttering at the edges of her lips, like she wasn’t sure if I was joking or just crazy. “Our traveling money. We’re partners,” she said, smacking my arm. “Shake on it.”

  “Who’s that?” Daddy asked.

  “Shh, not now,” I told him.

  “Yes, now,” Noni said, thinking I was talking to her. “I’ll be down by the creek. Quarter mile, dark sheet. Can’t miss it. I’ll get outta your way, but you got to shake first, so I don’t go waiting for nothing.”

  “Keep your voice down!” I whisper-shouted. “Just wait a minute. I never said you could come.”

  “Sure you did.”

  “Oh? When’s that?”

  “When you confided in me about our traveling money just now.”

  “It’s not our money, it’s my money.”

  “Since you’re about to hop a fence to get it and you’re shushing me like an old lady, I’m guessing it’s not your money at all. But I’m offering to share the guilt you’re gonna feel about stealing it by saying it’s ours. I’d say that’s pretty generous of me.”

  Good Lord, she was trouble. “And remind me what I get out of this partnership?”

  “I don’t know. A friend.” She waited with her bottom lip sucked into her mouth. Her arms wrapped around her waist, the same way May Talbot’s had done back by the hog shed. “And all those things I told you before—knot tying and stuff.”

  The girl’s arm bruise was clearly visible, and I saw that it circled her elbow the whole way around. It looked bluish purple in the moonlight. I wanted to know where that bruise came from. It looked like it had to hurt, but she wasn’t complaining. She’d told me she was tough. I already knew she was stubborn. Tough and stubborn were the sorts of things that might come in handy when trying to do something impossible.

  And she seemed to really want to come with me.

  It felt good to have someone want that.

  Well, shoot. She’d worn me down. I shook her hand, then watched until she disappeared into the trees along the streambed.

  “Who was that?” Daddy asked.

  “That was our running away partner. Now, keep quiet or you’ll distract me.”

  Daddy snorted. “You sound like me on the golf course.”

  I smiled at that. A soft light was on in the upper bedroom, but I didn’t see any movement. Taking a deep breath, I wedged my shoes between the fence boards and shimmied up to the top. Heaving my body over the side wasn’t too difficult, except for the last part. The falling part.

  I slipped down the splintered fence, catching on a stray nail. Its edge scratched against my chest, ripping my shirt from waist to armpit before I smacked into dirt dust and sprigs of Alabama crabgrass. I shut my lips tight so I wouldn’t cry out and lay there for a few seconds to catch my breath. Then I sat up and got to my feet.

  A sign above the henhouse said MRS. CLUCKSY’S PALACE, and it was the goofiest thing I’d ever seen for a pet. More like a garden shed, the wooden structure stood five feet high and eight feet wide. The door was just big enough for me to squeeze through. Twinkly light strands and plastic ears of corn, all with evidence of heavy-duty pecking, were stapled around the entrance. One more check toward Pastor Frank’s house, then I poked my head in the chicken palace and heard the familiar snoring that’s particular to birds.

  “You sure it’s under her?” I said to Daddy.

  “Heck, yes. There were only a couple of us left one night and someone was talking about security guards at a hunting store in Mobile. Frank started bragging about his security system and how Mrs. Clucksy guards the night’s take by sitting on it after she’s done with her shift. He even said he puts it in a big plastic egg, so she feels motherly.”

  I didn’t see how Mrs. Clucksy could ever be the motherly type. She spent her nights wearing a cape and strutting along the bar, taking pecks at bowls of corn nuts and sips of the patrons’ beer. The new town preacher spoke a whole sermon about her one Sunday, saying how the minions of Satan come in all shapes and sizes, and that beer-drinking chickens were an abomination and were certain to carry disease.

  “Okay, Daddy. You stay here.” Taking off the pack, I tickled my fingers in the air to loosen up the joints and leaned my entire torso inside Mrs. Clucksy’s home. It was cave dark in there, so I backed out, yanked on a strand of twinkly lights, and brought it in with me.

  Sweet Sally, “palace” was no understatement. This was a royal castle for chickens. Lengths of red velvet hung like wallpaper, and several shiny bowls were secured by a metal rack that ran the length of one side. Mrs. Clucksy had her pick of corn, wheat, seeds, and what appeared to be bran cereal. Water and an amber liquid were the beverage options, the pee-colored stuff smelling suspiciously like beer.

  “Hey! What’s going on in there?” Daddy whispered.

  I ignored him, advancing on my knees to the throne at the back. Mrs. Clucksy looked to be as out cold as Mama, and I was hoping for a quick steal and getaway. Barely registering the line of rooster pictures posted near her bed, I paused beside the feather pillow nest and gave her the tiniest of pokes.

  Nothing.

  Mrs. Clucksy’s premises and breath reeked. I held my breath while slipping a hand under her chicken bottom. It was there—a smooth shape that had to be the money. Quickly and gently, I reached my other hand out, lifted her body, and pulled on the egg. Sweaty and grinning with excitement, I set her down, backed out, and put on the pack. “Got it.”

  “She didn’t even make a peep. Good work, son!”

  And that’s when Mrs. Clucksy woke up.

  If a bird could scream, Mrs. Clucksy would be the queen yeller of any horror film. The high-pitched squealing was part chicken cluck, part about-to-be-butchered pig, and part angry-female-having-her-baby-stolen. The second she started cackling, another light flickered in the room above the bar. I tucked the egg into my waistband, ran to the fence, and was halfway up when Frank stormed out the back door, yelling, “Mrs. Clucksy? What the heck is going on, sweetheart?”

  That chicken was charging down the welcome plank like a crazed, half-drunk animal (which, in all fairness, she was), and she headed straight for me.

  “Hold on tight, Daddy.” I scrambled over and started running like the wind. Frank must’ve caught sight of my backside because he gave a holler and scooted for my section of the fence.

  “Thief! Stop right there, you weasel!”

  Metal clanked as Frank shoved the kegs away from the gate. I dumped the money in my backpack and tossed the empty cash egg aside while I ran into brush cover. Looking over my shoulder to make sure Frank wasn’t heading our way, I swear that egg looked like a big version of a golf ball that somebody had hit way off course.

  I threaded through bushes down to the creek bed and stopped to catch my breath. “Hey, Daddy, you didn’t put this ball in my throat, did you?”

  He didn’t answer. I waited a few minutes, then dug in my bag for the flashlight and pointed it at him, half expecting him to jerk away from the light like I was shining it in his eyes, not his urn. “Hey, Daddy . . .”

  The only answer was a soft sound, like a muffled hog pen, and something ached right in my chest, because it was a sound that I truly didn’t know I’d missed until it hit my ears. Daddy was snoring just like Mrs. Clucksy had a couple minutes ago.

  “This is the craziest thing that’s ever happened to me,” I told him.

  It’s not crazy, the urn’s clasp said back. It’s a miracle.
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  HOLE 7

  A Watercolor for May Talbot

  Aquarter mile down the stream, something hit me on the back. When I turned and traced the blow, I noticed a raggedy sheet on the opposite bank, hanging over a low willow branch to create a makeshift tent. Noni’s arm poked out of it.

  “Stop,” I told her. “Quit throwing stuff.”

  “What’s the password?” the center of the sheet called. Noni crawled out of the tent and stood. “Oh, never mind. Anyone follow you?”

  “No. How am I supposed to get over there?”

  “Try stepping in the water. Isn’t any deeper’n your knees right there.” She pointed.

  I followed her fingers and found the low section, wading fifteen feet to the other bank. Long stream grass and bushes near the willow did a nice job of hiding a tiny clearing. She’d used rocks to hold down the sheet at angles, and the willow branch was the perfect height to create a hideaway. I stepped closer to get a better look, but she jammed a hand in my face before I got far.

  “Empty the provision bag,” Noni ordered. “Let’s see what we got.”

  I did like she said and emptied the bag. Without Daddy giving me instruction, it was like this Noni girl had some sort of power over me. Her hair was lit up under the starlight, a few tiny strands broken off on top, waving free and rhythmic in the night breeze. I had the sudden urge to hear her sing. Her eyes drifted over the supplies approvingly until she inhaled quickly and slapped at my thigh.

  “Ow! What’d you do that for?”

  “Bug.” She picked up the pork container and opened it. “You’re welcome.” Without asking, she took a pinch of meat, dipping it into the corner that I’d filled with sauce. “I’ll take an even half of our food. Don’t be taking extra ’cause you’re a boy. We’re splitsies on everything, got it?” She chewed quickly and swallowed. “Say, what’s this?” Reaching behind my ear with her clean hand, she pulled her wrist back and waggled a coin.

  I snatched Daddy’s ball-marking quarter from her fingers. “Very funny.”

  “Thanks. Told you I did magic.” She winked. “Got more where that came from. Where’s your kit?”

  Confused, I pointed to my art box, only to see Noni’s scowl from the day before.

  “No, your outdoors stuff. Matches, fishing line, stuff like that. How’re we gonna make a fire to cook stuff? Come to think on it, what’re we gonna eat after we run outta that pig if we can’t fish?”

  “Use your magic if you’re so good. My daddy taught me to butcher a whole hog better than anyone in Hilltop, and I can fish, too. Just didn’t bring a pig or a pole.”

  She was right, of course. I should’ve brought stuff like the things she’d mentioned. Daddy would have. He probably didn’t say anything because he thought it was common sense. Not to me, though. I’d brought paintbrushes, a lucky quarter, a golf book, and clean underwear.

  “You didn’t bring anything useful? What kind of kid are you, anyway?” She saw my face and softened. “Now, I didn’t mean anything, don’t be a lemon wedge. You are who you are. Call it lucky that I am who I am. We’ll be fine.” She stuck a hand in her pocket and came out with a small red pocketknife. “At least I’ve got this. My daddy gave it to me. Not much on it except a blade, a toothpick, and tweezers. The blade’s dull, but it’s something.”

  I took it and pulled out the tweezers, holding them up in a shaft of moonlight. “I’m a lucky boy, all right. This’ll keep us good and safe from splinters.”

  “Was that a joke?” She lifted one side of her upper lip, sneering like a mean Elvis. “Not a very good one. Leave the jokes to me, crazy. That knife’s better than nothing. Can’t gut a fish with a paintbrush.”

  “And you can’t catch a fish with a dull two-inch knife and a toothpick.”

  “Maybe I could.” She eyed the urn. “What’s that?”

  I tapped the urn, hoping for a few words, but Daddy didn’t say anything. He’d stopped snoring, too. “This is my daddy. I got to scatter his ashes. We’re going to Georgia.”

  She took another pinch of pulled pork. “Fair enough. That who you’ve been talking to?”

  “Maybe.”

  “He talk back to you?”

  I stared at her, considering. Worst that could happen, she’d pick her prickly self up and leave and I’d be out somebody who seemed more pork-eating porcupine than girl. “Would you believe me if I said that my dead daddy’s stuck and he won’t get any peace until he’s scattered on a golf course?”

  Her big eyes got bigger. She dipped her finger in the sauce and licked it clean, then plucked a rib from the container and shut it tight. She looked down at the cover of Daddy’s Augusta National book. “A golf course. That’s a little loony, isn’t it?” After a time, she nodded, her lips flicking around, then settling into a straight line. “I accept the terms of partnership.”

  “You believe me?”

  Noni shrugged and gnawed at the rib. “Some things are true whether other people believe you or not.” She let her head fall back until she was looking at the stars through a thick cobweb of willow branches. “My daddy used to say that people meet up with their life on the road they take to run away from it. But I’m not real sure what that means, even though I’ve thought on it now and then.” Without moving her head, she reached out and flicked my knee. “So what are you running from?”

  I touched the golf ball in my throat. “Don’t know. What are you running from?” My eyes drifted to her arm bruise. “Are your parents mean or something?”

  “I don’t have parents anymore. But no, they weren’t mean.” She tossed the clean rib bone into a bush, her eyes fixed on the place it disappeared. “Mama died when I was a baby, and I lost Daddy on the day I turned eleven.”

  “So he died and you just ran off forever?” I was impressed.

  She shrugged. “There wasn’t anything left for me, so I started following the tracks. Now I’m wandering. That’s my story. Part of it, anyway.” She picked up a twig and started using it as a toothpick. “How much money we got?”

  I dug through the bag and started counting. It didn’t take long at all. I counted again, thinking I must have missed some bills, but nope. “Forty-one dollars and twenty-three cents.” With the safety net of his blindness, I felt fine shooting a dirty look at Daddy. “Must have been a real slow night at Pastor Frank’s.”

  “We’ll make it work.” Noni didn’t sound worried. Maybe she was better at making things work for herself than I was.

  “How long have you been on your own?” I asked, tucking the money into the bottom of the pack. “You don’t look much older than eight.” She was about the same size as me, just with a bigger mouth.

  She kicked her shoe against mine. “Neither do you. I haven’t been wandering long.” She drummed the twig along her teeth. “And I’m eleven, not eight.”

  “I’ll be twelve on Saturday.”

  She did her fancy one-eyebrow raise again, adding a click-click with her mouth, like she was telling a horse to get going. “You don’t say. Looks like we’re the same age, at least for a few more days. Well, happy early birthday to you. We’re going to Augusta, right? That’s what you said in the kitchen when you were talking to yourself.”

  “Yep. And I wasn’t talking to myself.”

  “That’s right, you were talking to ashes, which makes much more sense.” She traced one of the Marlboro patches on the backpack. “Never been to Georgia. Have to get us a bag of Georgia peaches. We’ve got forty dollars, you said? Okay, here’s where you get glad that we’re in this together. I’m good with organizing things.”

  And by that, the willow winked, she means taking over.

  “We’ll take a bus close as we can,” she said, “and then camp to save money for food. Where’s the nearest bus station where no one’ll know you?” She looked excited, like it was her daddy and her mission, not mine.

  “Seven miles. Town called Heart.”

  Noni rubbed her hands together. “Okay, listen up, crazy. We better get
the earliest ride out of town. We might as well sleep for a couple hours first.” She patted the ground. “I’ll wake us up at four or so.” She disappeared into the sheet tent. “You sleep outside.” She didn’t have a watch, but for some reason I didn’t doubt that at four o’clock I’d be shaken awake.

  Noni’s head popped out again. “Hey, Benjamin Putter? Did you bring a lot of paint and paper?”

  “Enough. Why? And how’d you know my name?”

  “Heard your mama call you Benjamin and saw your last name on the sign by the back door. And I thought maybe I’d try painting something later on, that’s why. Now leave me alone. I’m trying to sleep. Gotta big day tomorrow—first day’s when they look the hardest, so we got to make a good break from the Heart station. Could be tricky. Don’t want to get caught.” She yawned loudly. “Us needing to save your dead daddy’s everlasting soul and all.”

  Instead of rolling into a heap like she appeared to be doing, I stepped over to the stream where a little moonlight held. Got out my paint box, crouched by the stream, and dipped a brush in. The first painting was simple.

  May Talbot always loved the way skipped stones on the water let off circles that ended up touching one another and overlapping. I’d spent hours learning to get the watercolors to do that, starting with the biggest circles, keeping the outside faint, and going inside each one until I got to the smallest. I added a lily pad. I’d told May that I loved painting them. I told her I liked to picture frogs and dragonflies resting there, because sometimes they probably got tired and the lily pads helped them be right where they wanted to be without sinking. May hadn’t laughed when I’d said that. She could have, but she didn’t.

  When the painting was finished, I put a rock on the corner of the paper so it wouldn’t blow away and cleaned the brushes in the current, not seeing the color leak out but knowing it was leaving just the same.

  A rustling came from the sheet. “I hear you moving around out there like some kind of garbage-eating raccoon. Can’t sleep if I think someone’s gonna steal that extra pork. What are you doing?”