Luke, the master of pluckiness, keeps pestering, and soon, against my rumpled humor, we are on our way to Three Ponds.
From where we live on Ruby Place, a block north and a block west of the intersection of Figueroa Street and Meridian Street, it is quite a trek east to Three Ponds. Neither Luke nor I own a bicycle, so walking is our stock in trade. Hoofing it affords one great freedom to notice and appreciate detail, which in our case fosters a predictable amount of mischief. If we take the most direct route and do not dawdle along the way, we have at least a forty-five minute walk ahead of us.
I notice Luke concealing something in his right hand, and I snap to the task of running herd on him. He can get me into a pickle in the blink of an eye. “What’s in your hand?”
“If that darn Molly barks, I’m gonna throw this rock at her.”
Molly, a rather pretty but dumb Irish setter, belongs to Mrs. Roberson, who is not dumb. To the contrary, Mrs. Roberson is more than adept at investigating to her complete satisfaction the misdeeds of neighborhood kids and their pets. She is an outspoken critic of Mac, who manages to impregnate her Molly on a semi-regular basis. A female in heat within five miles turns Mac’s hind legs into powerful pogo sticks, and our six-foot high fence is useless to keep him in. Give him another decade and Mac will no doubt have descendants leaping fences and scratching fleas on all seven continents.
Molly, who is perpetually smitten with Mac, stirs when she sees him. She pulls against her tether and calls out to him with two passionate barks followed by a longing whine. I notice Mrs. Roberson spying out her kitchen window just in time to restrain Luke. Molly, not being in heat at the moment, warrants only the dregs of a halfhearted glance from Mac.
Only after we round the corner at the end of the block and Luke’s mind moves on to other things does he finally drop the rock. “Do you think Jake’s will be open?”
Luke has yet to develop a useful sense of time. Patience. “No—it’s way too early.”
Jake’s Barbershop sits across the street from Luther Burbank Junior High School. Jake the barber, no relation to Jakey Blume, is a fun guy, if not a great barber. Jake is a big man with a barrel chest and huge Dizzy Gillespie jowls that shake when he laughs or growls as he loves to do whenever we show up. Plainly speaking, Jake loves people, especially kids. He is an excellent storyteller and always has a funny yarn to share.
It is impossible to walk past his shop without stopping to say hello. “Hey you!” he’ll yell like thunder if you dare try to pass by without at least giving him a wave. Jake is the only barber who’s ever cut our hair. He used to be a friend of Earl’s. Recently, though, I suspect he’s angling on Lucinda. He sure asks a lot of questions about her since word of Earl’s absence has gotten around.
Luke and I have a passion of our own. We call it “sneaking,” which is code for sneaking in through Jake’s back door. We secrete ourselves in Jake’s supply room, peek through a curtained doorway, and wait for an opportune moment. Seeing our chance, we dash through the center of the barber shop and out the front door, whooping and hollering like a couple of cowboys letting loose on a Saturday night. I think sometimes we overdo it and frazzle him a little.
Still, if we manage to scoot past Jake without him grabbing us, he rewards us with a wad of Bazooka bubble gum. It is a gamely challenge. Jake is a big man, but he is sure of foot and lightning quick. Half the time he catches us, and when he does, he slings us up into the barber chair. In forty-five seconds or less, what little fuzz we’ve grown since the last time he caught us is on the floor ready for the sweeper. We may be poor, but we are never in need of haircuts. Thanks to Jake’s frequent army-style buzz jobs, Luke and I usually look like a couple of cue balls in search of a snooker table. Lucinda never pays for any haircuts, as far as I know.
We stop and look in the barber shop window. No Jake. Mac pads around the corner of the building, lifts his leg, and documents his visit.
“Darn dog,” Luke mutters.
Down the block from Jake’s is a pedestrian tunnel that burrows under Figueroa Street. It comes up on the other side of the street in front of our school, Garvanza Elementary. The tunnel has always intrigued me. I like the cool air, and the echo is fun.
Nothing exciting ever happens down there, but I always feel good in the tunnel. Something about being underground surrounded by the concrete walls makes me feel safe. I plan for Luke and I to hide out in the tunnel if the nuclear war Carl often rants about ever comes. I don’t know, maybe I am part mole or groundhog.
Today, however, we determine to take our chances aboveground. Our personal crossing guard, Mac, aggressively challenges the traffic to stop, and the happy wanderers skip across the street.
The school playground slows us down. Luke is still determined to throw something, and dirt clods fly over the fence at no apparent target. Mac and I stop and watch him. I figure it’s best to let him get it out of his system.
He throws one last dirt clod, ponders the sky for a moment, and then turns and looks at me. “Is Matthew in heaven?”
I never know what he is going to say or do next. Luke definitely has a way of keeping me on my toes. “I think so.”
“I wonder if Lucinda knows that.”
“Well, maybe. But she still wants Matthew to be here with us.”
He stares at me, and I can almost hear his brain whirring. “She seems sad or angry all of the time. And she hardly ever talks to me anymore. Is she mad at us?”
“Sometimes—I guess. Mostly I think she’s mad at God.”
“I wish Matthew never died.”
My heart hurts for him and I step closer. “I miss him a lot, too.”
“I don’t like it that Lucinda is sad all of the time. Yesterday I heard her crying in the bathroom. Wade?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you think God knows about us?”
“If He doesn’t yet, I think He will.”
“How?”
“I think Matthew will tell Him about us.”
His countenance takes on an almost angelic softness. “Matthew is pretty cool.”
“Yeah, he is.”
“You’re sort of cool, too, Wade.”
“I know. Are you done throwing dirt clods?”
“You know what’s weird?”
“What, Luke?”
“Remember when we used to go to Sunday school?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, one time, the teacher told us Jesus said, ’suffer the little children.’ What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
We move on toward Kory’s Market at the corner of York and Figueroa. At the intersection, I give a long look up York Boulevard to the north. The Highland Park police station is only a couple of blocks away. Is the Sergeant keeping tabs on us today? Kory’s has a big parking lot and four checkout stands. Lucinda calls Kory’s a “supermarket,” which always makes us chuckle because the “supermarket” is the best place to steal a free look at the latest Superman comic books.
Kory’s is a busy place, and sometimes we’re able to take advantage of the hubbub and slip unnoticed behind the magazine racks to catch up on our favorite two-dimensional hero. On good days, we get away with freeloading for ten or fifteen minutes before the store manager spots us and gives us the boot. The free peeks are getting harder to come by.
At Luke’s insistence, today we skip Kory’s and beat an expeditious path the rest of the way to Three Ponds—left off York Boulevard before the bridge, down the hill on San Pasqual Avenue, and straight ahead all the way to the overpass at San Pasqual Creek. Most days offer something more to ignite a digression or lead us on another tangent. But little do we know, this day is shaping up to be like no other.
A secret known only to a few privileged local kids, Three Ponds is a hidden wilderness overlooked by time and progress. A meandering stream towered over by giant eucalyptus trees provides a peaceful, restful setting. The stream sets the pace, never in a hurry to join the larger flow of the Arroyo Seco, whi
ch feeds the larger yet Los Angeles River.
Birds and small animals thrive here protected from encroaching civilization. Early morning and late afternoon, when the animals come to drink and play, are my favorite times. If you hide downwind and crouch very still, the experience is more fun than visiting the jailed species on display at the Griffith Park Zoo. Animal tracks disperse from the ponds like wheel spokes from a hub. Always fascinated, I study the print trails and picture the little creatures sleepily snuggling in their dens.
The birds are usually in a flurry overhead. I enjoy the constant aerobatics and chatter of the jays, robins, sparrows, and finches, all of them frequently visiting the water’s edge to sip, bathe, and preen.
Luke and I tend to visit during daylight hours, preferring the nonjungle terrain of Billy Goat Hill for our nighttime adventures, motorcycle gangs notwithstanding. Three Ponds is fertile ground for our hungry minds, and Luke and I are drawn here often.
The occasional appearance of an aggressive mockingbird usually disturbs the harmonious interaction of the other birds, and forever reminds me of my bad dream and Sergeant Cavendish’s story of Jakey Blume’s fatal fall from Eagle Rock.
A few days after the Eagle Rock incident, I decided to tell Luke about my dream of him being attacked like Jakey Blume was. He now monitors the sky like an obsessed astronomer. He’s become so shadow-shy and jumpy, reacting badly to every little motion overhead, I wish I had never told him about the mockingbird dream. Truth be told, I don’t like the mockingbirds any more than he does.
Today I am prepared to fulfill an oath I swore to myself to avenge the death of Jakey Blume. Armed with my slingshot, my pockets stocked with ball bearings, I am ready and able to shoot—if and when the enemy attacks. A ridiculous thought for a boy who avoids stepping on ants.
We while away the morning sitting with our pant legs rolled up, bare feet dangling in the stilling coolness of the middle pond. We examine the animal prints in the mud and trade speculations about what kinds of animals have preceded us this day. I tire of throwing sticks into the pond for Mac to retrieve, but keep it up because it’s the only way to keep him from barking, which he will continue to do until he is good and ready to quit.
“Darn dog. He thinks he’s some kind of bird dog.”
I smile inside, sensing an opportunity to rile Luke. “You’ll be wishing he’s a bird dog if those mockingbirds come to visit your head again.”
Luke looks at Mac. “Uh, well, you’re a good dog.” He reaches up and tugs on the visor of his Dodgers cap just to make sure it is there, and I am reminded of that rookie cop who nervously checked his gun the night of the hazing on Billy Goat Hill.
It was Luke who insisted I start packing my slingshot. Of late, heading deep into mockingbird territory requires special preparations. Two pocket loads of ball bearings are cached and ready, but it’s a special chore to haul them, requiring considerable work to keep my pants up. What I won’t do for Luke in the name of brotherly love. I fondle the bulging supply stuffing my pockets, and like that rookie cop, I double-check to see that the slingshot crammed into my back pocket is still there ready for action.
Mac finally tires of playing “Get the Stick” and ignores my last throw. This prank always rankles me. He can’t just go get the stick, return it politely, and say thanks for the game. Nope. He has to make me throw the stick one more time just so he can ignore it and thereby have the last word. If only I had the power to make myself invisible. Then he would run back to where I had been and stand there with the stick in his mouth not knowing what to do—and looking stupid.
Mac sits in the mud, his rump in two inches of turbid water, his tail like a thick black water snake swishing from side to side. He arrogantly stares at me, and I hold his gaze for a moment, then look away and spit into the water. “Chase that.”
He puts his head down, closes his eyes, and ignores me.
“Who do you think is better, Drysdale or Koufax?” Luke casually asks.
He is lying on his belly, creating an elaborate baseball diamond in the mud, using his finger like an artist. He’s been working on it for over an hour. It actually looks pretty impressive.
“Duke Snider is the best.” I know full well he is not talking about power-hitting center fielders. Already I catch a whiff of smoldering cordite.
“I’m talking pitchers, fire throwers, masters of the mound, you big dumb donkey!”
It isn’t easy, but I ignore his insult, as Mac ignored mine. “Okay. Who do you think is better?”
He looks up from his muddy handiwork. “I asked you first!”
Now my fuse is burning and I fire back louder. “I asked you second!”
We are angry pint-sized versions of Abbott and Costello. Who’s on First? Except rarely do we find humor in this non-comedic sibling ritual. Being the older brother, I try to be patient and take the high road with Luke. Admittedly though, now and then I make a wrong turn and get stuck in a quagmire on the low road.
He relishes ensnaring me with perplexing trick questions, black or white, hot or cold, up or down kinds of questions, so that no matter how I respond, he can automatically jump on the contrary side of the fence. He does it on purpose, of course he does, and the best I can do is attempt to throw off his rhythm and detour around the quagmire by echoing his question back to him. The tactic irritates him to no end, which is great fun for the big dumb donkey.
At first I decide not to antagonize him further, but then I change my mind. “Okay, Luke, Drysdale is the better of the two. But I’m glad we have Ron Perranoski in the pen.”
I say this not because I necessarily think Drysdale is better, but because I know he thinks Koufax is better.
Smart-alecky as can be, Luke looks up from the mud and glares at me. “No way! Sandy Koufax is an ace!”
“Oh yeah—well Don Drysdale is the king of diamonds!” I point angrily at the mud. “Including that mucky mess of a diamond you’re making with your stupid, dinky little fingers!”
Luke jumps to his feet and screams in my face. “Drysdale’s the king all right! He’s the king of the bean ball!”
Reacting to the rising tension, Mac starts churning the water with his tail, but he doesn’t open his eyes. He’s heard this a thousand times before.
“It wouldn’t take a Drysdale to brush you back from the plate, you little twerp!”
Quagmire!
I step in the mud right where he’s constructed his pitcher’s mound, mashing my foot down as hard as possible.
Luke gasps. “Hey! You big dumb donkey!”
He clamps onto my leg like a monkey to a vine and knocks me off balance. “Whoa!” I splutter, arms flailing.
I make one futile, spastic lurch to try to right myself before I land front down in two inches of fetid water, burying my face up to my ears in the mud. Luke jumps on my back, landing hard enough to force a loud Umph! from my lungs. He starts shoveling gobs of slimy goop onto the back of my head.
He’s knocked the wind out of me, and I can’t catch my breath—putrid, muddy scum filling my mouth and nose. Mac is now barking furiously at the rough-and-tumble action. Through my moss-clogged ears, his barking sounds like someone beating on a muffled gong.
Frantic for air, I thrust my back upward in a powerful bucking arch, propelling Luke skyward like an overmatched tenderfoot bull rider. Dazed and gagging, I stand up and wipe gunk away from my stinging eyes. I feel a wiggle in my throat and reflexively cough up a big black tadpole.
Yuck!
I open my eyes but cannot focus. I bend over at the waist and blink away pond scum clinging to the inside of my lids. Straining through burning slits, I look toward the pond and spot a vague blue dot moving on the lazy current. In seconds it disappears down a smooth rock flume on the way to the shallower pool of the lower pond.
Where’s Luke?
“Luke!”
I choke on a hard lump in my throat, a different kind of panic, and then dive into the water like Johnny Weissmuller rescuing Maureen O’Su
llivan from flesh-craving crocodiles.
The middle pond is about twelve feet deep at its center. I have touched the sandy bottom only once before, and that was with my foot. I kick my legs as hard as I can, grab arms full of verdant liquid, and descend faster than I think possible, until I realize it isn’t because of my powerful strokes.
I am sinking.
My ball bearing-laden pockets are pulling me down faster than a pair of concrete boots, and all I can think about is how I ignored Luke when he asked me to teach him how to swim.
Nearing the bottom, my ears begin to ache from the pressure. Then my feet touch down harder than I expect, startling me into action. Eyes open, I glance up through an emerald glow and strain to see the faint, rippling sheen of the water’s surface.
What a way to go, lying face up at the bottom of a huge vat of lime Jell-O!
Straight out in front of me, my arms wave uselessly, fading at the elbows into handless stubs swallowed up in a murky, greenish gloom. There is so much area to cover, too much, and not enough oxygen to feed the frenetic exertion of every muscle in my body.
I snatch something in my grip that feels like it might be an arm or a leg. My heart surges, and I tug the object to my face only to see a waterlogged piece of wood, part of a tree root, not part of Luke. Angry, I kick my legs and wildly swing my arms, searching the area around me, and I know I have started to cry.
Underwater tears.
Underwater sobbing.
Underwater doom.
On the verge of drowning myself, I turn and kick off the bottom and pump hard toward the light. The sinkers in my pockets hold me down like a baited hook and it takes forever, but at last I reach the surface. As my head comes out of the water, I hear myself screaming for help. I suck my lungs full of life and immediately sink back into the watery dungeon that holds Luke captive.
Again I search, scouring the bottom with my arms and legs until I must kick hard to make it up to the surface and furiously replenish my breath. Down I go again, but Luke is not to be found. I am powerless to do more, and I must have more air before resuming my hopeless search. Keeping my face above water, I desperately try to dig the ball bearings out of my pockets, but to no avail. The moment I stop paddling with my arms, I start to sink.
Billy Goat Hill Page 7
