by Ruth
Irby got up. “Pa!” he said loudly. “Tough Enough’s back here. He hid and he’s here. You goin’ to take him back to the farm?”
Beanie gulped. He dug his fingernails into his palms, pressed them in so hard they hurt. He was angry with Irby. Would Pa do what Irby wanted?
Pa Tatum just laughed. He shouted, “That little ole triflin’, flea-bit’, feisty, no-account, ornery, eatin’est, into-everything hound! But we’ve come a mite too far—we can’t go back now.”
Pa’s words stopped for a moment, then Pa went on: “That dog’ll make a watchdog, maybe. We need a watchdog. And he’s so small, I reckon your great-grandma and your great-grandpa won’t be bothered none.”
Beanie smiled his biggest smile. He gave Tough Enough a hug.
Irby turned and yelled at Beanie, “My dog Whizz would have been a real watchdog on this trip. Call that dog of yours a watch-dog? Why, he’s not much bigger than a rat. Not even a squirrel’s afeared of him. He’s nothing but a jumpety flibbety-jibbet.”
“He is not a jumpety flibbety-jibbet,” said Beanie.
“He is, too,” said Irby.
“No he’s not,” said Beanie.
“He IS!” said Irby.
“He’s NOT!” said Beanie.
And there the argument ended. Beanie and Irby had seen something ahead, something that seemed even more important than whether or not Tough Enough was a jumpety flibbety-jibbet. They were looking at a roadside sign that was coming nearer and nearer. It said: STOP AT THE ZOO OF ZOOS. SEE RATTLESNAKES MILKED FOR VENOM. SEE THE HORROR IN THE DEN OF DEATH!
“Hey, Pa,” cried Beanie, “let’s stop! I want to see a rattlesnake milked.”
“I want to see the Horror,” Irby said loudly.
“No,” yelled Pa Tatum, “we just got to keep a-rollin’. Seein’ them rattlesnakes milked and them Horrors costs money.”
On and on and on Mrs. Wigglesworth rattled and chugged and wheezed. Past thick dark woods, past shining meadows, past comfortable cows, past corn stirring under a breeze, past neat rows of young tobacco plants.
The truck passed a woodpulp mill sending out great clouds of bad-smelling smoke. Tough Enough whined unhappily. He worked and he worked his nose.
Buck said, “That smell we’re a-smellin’ is a paper-makin’ smell. It comes from makin’ paper out of logs. Takes a heap of strength. The smell’s hooked up with the strength.”
Ahead, a roadside stand was coming closer and closer. A big sign above it said: ICE-COLD DRINKS! FOOT-LONG HOT DOGS!
Beanie called out, “Oh, Pa! I want a bottle of pop. I want a foot-long hot dog.”
“I do too,” said Irby.
“So do I,” said Annie Mae.
Buck didn’t say a thing. He was old enough to know it wouldn’t be any use.
“Pa, can’t we stop?” Beanie begged.
“I reckon not,” Pa’s hearty voice came back. Pa was good at saying no without making you stop liking him. “We got a little money, but no foolish money, son. The thing that’s eatin’ on my mind is whether ole Mrs. Wigglesworth can git us to the coast. We got to save every cent to fix her if she breaks down on us.”
Beanie said to himself, “Seems like breakfast was a week ago.”
He looked at the old icebox standing in the truck, lashed to the framework that held the canvas cover in place. He was wondering what his mother had put in there for the trip. How he wished he could see right through its wooden walls….
The Tatums drew near a city. Its highest buildings stood up before them like cliffs. Beanie’s eyes opened wide. His breath came fast. He felt a sharp excitement. “Are those tall houses full of folks?” he asked.
Buck nodded. He said, “Folks in that city live just as close together as kernels on a corncob. No good air left to breathe—it’s been breathed up and smoked up and gasolined up. No woods or creeks for huntin’ and fishin’ and berryin’ and traip-sin’ and all.”
The Tatums were soon in the city. Beanie turned his head this way and that. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven,” he began. He was counting as fast as he could. As he went on, his voice rose higher. He was trying to count all the cars he could see. They seemed to be all around him, moving every which way.
But pretty soon he stopped counting. There were just too many. Too many cars. Too many people. People, people, people. Crowding the sidewalks, getting in the way of cars. Policemen were blowing their whistles.
“They’re the only folks havin’ any fun,” said Beanie. He had a shut-in feeling, as though walls were pressing down on him.
He was glad when at last the truck was out again in quiet sunshine with the gay green of the country all around.
Mrs. Wiggles worth chugged across a broad plateau and then through a mountain gap. Down, down, down she crept along the twisting spiraling highway. A mountain stream close by was tumbling over rocks, in a hurry to get to the sea.
Pa Tatum called out from his place at the wheel, “It’s eatin’ time. Let’s look for a settin’ place.”
The Tatums found just the spot, on the shore of a lake. Beanie opened the icebox for his mother. He peeked in at pink ham, fried chicken, eggs, sausage meat, and milk that Tatum cows had given. He wanted to eat everything in sight, but his mother took out only the ham and the milk. She cut squares of golden cornbread.
Beanie shared his lunch with Tough Enough. Then he and Irby and Annie Mae went wading.
The lake felt much warmer than the high mountain creek they were used to. Smooth mud squeezed up between their toes. They looked for small stones and sent the flat ones skipping along the surface and threw the round ones plimp, plonk, plunk into the lake.
Tough Enough jumped in and made a great splashing show of going after each stone. Then he raced back and forth along the bank, barking and barking, stopping only to shake himself and send drops of water flying.
Suddenly his ears stood up straight. He gave a yip, then he turned and ran off. He vanished into some bushes by the road.
When Beanie saw him again, Tough Enough was coming back slowly. He had something in his mouth. He laid it gently at Beanie’s feet. It was a scrawny half-starved kitten. Beanie picked it up. The Tatums looked at it. It made a faint pitiful meow.
Pa said, “Most likely it belongs to the lady who runs that roadside stand over yonder.”
Beanie turned toward the stand. There was pottery for sale and cider and bright bedspreads and hooked rugs. Beanie carried the kitten to the woman in charge. He held it out to her.
She shook her head. “It’s not my kitten. Maybe somebody just came along and stopped and left it, wantin’ to get rid of it. You can have it.”
Beanie smoothed it gently. He stroked the tiny lynxlike tufts at the points of its ears. When it began to purr he could feel little quivers in its chest. It was so small. It seemed so helpless. He held it close.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said.
He carried the kitten back to the truck and told his mother and father what the woman had said to him. Then he spoke more slowly: “Can Tough and I keep the kitty for our very own? Can we? If we don’t, I reckon it’ll starve to death.”
Pa looked at Ma. Ma looked at Pa. Beanie waited. He was wriggling a little.
Pa said to him, “If we was a-goin’ right back to the farm, I’d say yes straight off. Now your great-grandma and your great-grandpa like pets, but they didn’t ask us to bring our pets along. We already got one critter I didn’t figger on—Tough Enough. We just can’t keep the kitten. But we’ll take it along and find a home for it somewheres, somehow.”
Beanie smiled. “We’re goin’ to take you along!” he said to the kitten.
His mother told him he had better give it some milk. Pretty soon its head was deep inside a drinking cup. Its tongue, like a tiny pink shell, was scooping and scooping, lapping up the milk. Its purring was louder.
Tough Enough stood close to it. He was looking and listening earnestly, just as if he owned it. Now and then he would stick out his tongue in
a licking way.
WHEN the Tatums started off once more along the highway, Buck and Irby and Beanie and the kitten and Tough Enough were sitting up in front with Pa. Ma and Annie Mae and Serena were in the back.
Now Mrs. Wigglesworth had left the high cool mountains behind her. Down here the air was warm and drowsy. Pretty soon all the Tatums in the rear were taking naps, lying on quilts spread out on the floor of the truck.
Beanie, too, felt drowsy. He was trying to count all the spots on the kitten. There were many many spots, but some ran into others and that made counting hard. It was sleepy work.
The road straightened. It leveled off. Quite far ahead, on the paved surface, shimmering heat waves looked exactly like a pool of water. But the Tatums knew that phantom moisture—“witch water,” they called it—would disappear as soon as the truck got closer. And vanish it did.
Mile after mile slid under Mrs. Wigglesworth’s turning wheels. Forests and farms went spreading and sweeping up the hills and down the valleys of the Piedmont Plateau.
“Oh, Pa,” Beanie asked, “are we at Great-grandma’s and Great-grandpa’s now, pretty near?”
“Nowheres near it, son,” said Pa Tatum.
Beanie was tired of sitting. He wondered what he could do next, or what he could be. And in a minute he knew. He would be a fly tickling the back of Irby’s neck.
Slowly, very slowly, his hand went reaching. He put out a finger and stroked lightly. At the very first tickle Irby swept his hand back and grabbed. He got hold of Beanie’s wrist. “Hey, you quit that!” he said.
So Beanie wasn’t a fly any more.
He and Irby began to pass the time counting the cars of an almost endless freight train, seeing who could count the most. Then they counted bicycles, then horses. It all pushed the minutes along.
Beanie was almost asleep when he felt Mrs. Wigglesworth slow down. She stopped.
“Cotton field,” said Pa. He jumped out as if his long legs couldn’t wait.
Beanie put the kitten down on the seat and hopped out. Irby and Buck jumped out, too. So did Tough Enough. Pa squatted at the edge of the field. Buck walked over to him and stood by him.
“Cotton,” said Pa. “I seen a heap o’ pictures of it but I never seen it a-growin’. It’s a new thing to me, plumb new.”
He took a leaf in his hands. He looked and looked at it, as closely as if he were studying words on it. Then he dug his hard fingers into the dry red earth. He crumbled the soil and let it sift through his fingers.
“Just look at Pa,” Beanie said to himself. “Look at him hunkerin’ down with those weedy ole leaves and that ole dirt.”
Beanie thought how hard it was to understand big folks. If Pa had stopped the truck for a reason like swinging on a grape vine or climbing a tree or jumping a ditch, that would have been a reason. Big folks missed all the fun, it did seem like.
Beanie was looking at a good wide ditch just made for jumping over. He ran to it. He leaped across.
“I can jump farther than you can,” he yelled at Irby.
“No you can’t,” said Irby. And he jumped.
“Can too,” said Beanie. And he jumped again.
“You can’t,” said Irby, jumping.
“CAN!” said Beanie.
“CAN’T!” said Irby.
They jumped and they jumped and they argued and they argued. Beanie could jump as far as Irby, even though his legs were shorter.
Beanie heard his mother’s voice. She had put her head out of the back of the truck and was calling to him. “Beanie! Seein’ as how you got so much git-up-and-git, how about takin’ the kitty over to that farmhouse yonder and askin’ the folks do they want it?”
“Aw, Ma,” Beanie protested, “it’s a kind of a special kitty. It’s got long hairs on the ends of its ears like a bobcat and an extra-short tail and spots like a bobcat. I’ve named it Bobcat Bob—”
His mother broke in briskly, “Fine! Tell the farm folks here’s their chance to git a real special bobcat cat, then give it to ’em quick afore they change their mind.”
“But, Ma,” said Beanie, “do we have to get rid of it so quick?”
His mother nodded. “The sooner the better,” she said firmly, but her eyes were soft.
Beanie looked at Irby and Annie Mae. Annie Mae had joined Irby and the two were leaping across the ditch. Beanie wanted to jump a whole lot more, but he started off along the narrow road to the farmhouse. He had the kitten in his arms. Tough Enough trotted along beside him, looking up. It seemed to Beanie that he was asking, “Where are we goin’ to, with my cat?”
Beanie felt sad. Most of his sadness had gone to the bottom of his stomach. He had a cold and heavy feeling there.
He was trying to forget about the kitten. But he wanted to take a last look at its pink nose, its clear yellow eyes, the tiny clean-white teeth it showed as it looked up and mewed.
When it sneezed delicately he smiled. “That was a pretty sneeze,” he said.
He was near enough to the farmhouse now to see an old man sitting on the porch. Beanie’s feet felt more and more unwilling; the closer to the porch he got, the slower they moved.
The old man had a gray beard streaked with brown. His pale blue eyes looked sharp. “Howdy!” he said and grinned.
Beanie felt shy but he made himself talk. “Howdy, Mister. My dog found this kitty. It hasn’t got a home but we can’t keep it. My ma told me to give it to you. You don’t want it, do you, Mister?”
The old man didn’t answer Beanie’s question. Instead, he asked Beanie what his name was, what his pa’s name was, what his pa did for a living, where his folks lived, where his folks were now, where they were bound for and why. Beanie answered every question.
After all that the old man said, “Mighty fine thing you’re doin’, tryin’ to find a home for that homeless critter. Me, I got to find a home for a critter, too. Come along, son, and I’ll show him to you.”
He reached for a cane propped against the chair. He got up. He hobbled and scraped and thumped across the porch and down the steps and across the yard to a shed. Beanie and Tough Enough followed him.
Tough Enough lifted his head. His ears went up. His damp nose wobbled as it sniffed. The hair on his back and his neck stood straight. He growled.
“Hush your mouth, Tough!” said Beanie. He caught hold of the dog’s collar and tried to make him sit down. Tough Enough whined anxiously.
The old man opened the door of the shed. An animal ran out and climbed up to his shoulder and sat there. It looked at Beanie and Tough Enough out of bright cunning eyes. It had a face with a black band across it like a mask.
Tough Enough barked loudly. Beanie patted him and quieted him and held him close. He stared at the animal on the old man’s shoulder. “It’s a raccoon!” he said.
“That’s him,” said the old man. “Raised and gentled him myself. He’s a young-un, full o’ sass. Name’s Fat Stuff.”
Beanie laughed. “Fat Stuff.”
The old man nodded several times; each nod made his beard waggle. “Best coon in Rutherford County. The smartest and git-aroundest.”
Now Fat Stuff was going through one of the old man’s pockets. As he poked and searched he made churr-churring sounds like a string of chuckles. He pulled out a crumpled piece of newspaper and held it in a front paw. He studied it earnestly, then he jumped to the ground and started to play with it, batting it back and forth like a frolicsome cat.
Beanie watched him. He was smiling.
The old man was peering at Beanie’s face. “Ain’t Fat Stuff a dilly?” he asked. He jerked his head forward; his beard quivered. When he spoke again his voice was sad. “But that coon’s just too much of a handful for me to take care of now. My daughter I’m livin’ with won’t let me keep him no more. She don’t want to bother with critters if they don’t do no farm work. My dog’s workin’ his head off right now, takin’ care o’ the sheep. My cats is slavin’ away, killin’ rats in the barn and the corncrib. But Fat Stuff, he
don’t do nothin’, so I got to turn him loose. But I reckon he won’t last a day.”
“You mean,” Beanie gasped, “he’s goin’ to … die?”
“Reckon so,” the old man said easily. “Coon meat’s good eatin’. I got hungry neighbors with coon dogs. Their young-uns want coonskin caps. Won’t be long afore Fat Stuff’s in a pot, skinned and bubblin’ away, lessen you find a home for him.”
“Me … find a home?” said Beanie. A lump in his throat made his words slow and thick. “But … but—”
The old man cut in: “You’ll be stoppin’ here and there on your way to the coast, but I don’t git to go nowheres. You’ll be findin’ a home for that kitten. So it won’t be a speck o’ trouble to git a home for the coon, too.”
Beanie gazed at Fat Stuff. His eyes were bright. “I sure will try,” he said, “but I reckon my Pa and my Ma—”
The old man broke in briskly: “Fat Stuff he’ll eat ’most anything—just feed him table scraps. And don’t forgit he likes to wash his vittles, ’specially if they’re kind o’ dry, afore he eats ’em. Give him a pan o’ water to wash ’em in.”
The old man hobbled to a near-by barrel and took out a handful of small apples. He said, “These will help you coax Fat Stuff to go along with you.”
Beanie stopped holding Tough Enough. “Now you keep quiet-like,” he said to him. He put the kitten just inside the top of his overalls; tiny claws came out and hooked into the stout cloth. Then he filled his pockets with the apples, all but the biggest one.
The old man took down a chain hanging from a nail on the door of the shed. He snapped one end of it to a collar round the raccoon’s neck and handed the other end to Beanie.
“Mighty fine thing you’re doin’,” he said, “findin’ good homes for poor helpless critters.”
