by Tom Birdseye
Tucker broke into a big grin. “Help!” he yelled just quiet enough not to be heard by the bus driver. “I’m being attacked by a tuna fish sandwich. I told you it was dangerous.” He picked up his own sack to fight back. Livi’s smiling face appeared over the back of the bus seat just as he was about to swing at Joe Allen’s head. He stopped in an instant. I promised Dad I’d try to be nice.
“Hi,” he said, his voice forced.
“Why, howdy-ho to you, too, Tucker,” Livi said, her smile expanding from ear to ear. “You boys starting off the school year with a little bus ruckus?”
Joe Allen twisted around in his seat to get a better look.
“You must be Joe Allen Vickstrom,” Livi said.
Joe Allen looked over at Tucker. “How did she know that?”
I promised Dad I’d try to be nice. When a member of The Tribe makes a promise, he is honor-bound to keep that promise no matter—
“I’ve got ears the size of rhinoceros wings, that’s how,” Livi said, turning her head and pointing at one ear with her finger. “You’d be amazed at what I know and can do.”
Joe Allen’s red eyebrows rose. He scrunched up his nose. “Your ears look normal to me. You must be Olivia, huh?”
She leaned a bit closer. “Livi. And I can burp on command.”
Joe Allen laughed. He looked at Tucker.
Tucker shrugged. Try to be nice.
Joe Allen looked back at Livi. “Oh, yeah?”
She nodded and opened her mouth in the shape of an O. “I keep my mouth ready to burp. See?”
Joe Allen nodded. “So do it, then.”
A loud burp rolled out of Livi’s open mouth. Two high-school girls across the bus aisle stopped talking and looked over.
Livi smiled at them as if her burping were a private joke.
Joe Allen nudged Tucker with his elbow. “You didn’t tell me your sister was so talented.”
Tucker shrugged again. I am honor-bound to keep my promise to Dad.
Turning all the way around in his seat, Joe Allen faced Livi, who still sat with her mouth in the shape of an O. “Listen to this,” he said, and let out an even louder burp.
One of the high-school girls leaned over and tapped Joe Allen on the shoulder. “That’s disgusting,” she said down her nose at him. He looked back at Livi with a twinkle in his eye. “That girl says that we’re disgusting, Olivia.”
Tucker turned away from Joe Allen and his sister and looked out the bus window. He likes her! Joe Allen is a member of The Tribe and he likes her! I can’t believe it. Mr. Eldridge’s pond came into view as the bus rounded a corner. But I am a warrior of The Tribe. I will keep my promise, no matter how I feel. A flock of Canadian geese paddled on the still water of the pond. Tucker put his finger on the bus window glass and counted. There were fourteen.
Livi leaned close to Joe Allen’s ear. A very small burp came out of her O-shaped mouth. “Call me Livi, not Olivia,” she said. “And that burp was only half as loud, so I guess it was only half as disgusting, right?”
Joe Allen laughed, rubbing his hands together. Then he burped softly—twice.
Livi’s mouth went immediately into the shape of an O again. She burped three times in a row, quickly drawing in her throat muscles to catch air each time.
Four burps came back at her from Joe Allen. His ears started to turn red.
Livi responded with six, then took a deep breath and did three more without pausing for additional air.
Joe Allen elbowed Tucker. “Are you counting?”
A doe and her spotted fawn crossed the road in front of the bus and jumped a fence. Tucker shrugged off Joe Allen’s question and kept his eyes glued to the window.
“She did nine!” Joe Allen exclaimed. “But listen to this!” A string of burps rocketed out of his mouth, each getting louder as they came.
The high-school girls looked at each other. “Disgusting,” they said at the same time, then rolled their eyes and laughed.
“Yep!” Joe Allen agreed with a burp and a smile.
“A regular bus ruckus!” Livi whooped. “How disgusting!”
Tucker looked at Joe Allen, Olivia, then back out the school bus window. “Yeah, it’s disgusting all right,” he whispered to the glass.
7
Tucker dropped to his belly and rested the side of his face on the forest floor. He squinted, closing one eye and then the other, staring hard at a spot only inches away. Gently, he reached out and ran his fingers over it—a slight depression on a patch of bare soil. A smile spread across his mouth. That’s it! That’s the next track. I thought I’d lost that buck’s trail in all of those leaves, but that’s his next footprint right there!
Careful not to disturb even one leaf or twig, Tucker crept forward, feeling ahead with his fingers, scanning with his eyes. The next one should be right … there! He put his finger down in another track, this one in softer soil. I can feel the two points of the split hoof! He let his fingers roam. And there’s the front hoof! It’s right over from the back print, just like Dad showed me last spring. So the next set should be … He reached forward again.
“Yahoo!” Tucker shouted joyfully into the trees as he found the next print. “I’m tracking a deer! I, Tucker J. Renfro, am tracking a real live deer through the woods!” I will be a hunter for The Tribe.
He moved forward again, and again, and again, placing his fingers into the small rounded tracks—sets of two, front and rear, diagonally laid in a zigzag pattern. This is easy! Tucker stood and looked through the trees. There’s the trail! It goes right around the meadow and our house, just like a freeway bypass for deer! How many times have I crossed it and not noticed?
Tucker moved quickly, following the path. It bordered the meadow, then dropped down into a shallow gully and along the barbed-wire fence that marked the family property line. He could plainly see a worn spot in the weeds on the other side where the deer had jumped over. There were even a few tufts of deer hair caught in one of the barbs on the top strand. The trail then went up the gully toward Tamarack Road. Tucker smiled. Now I know why I see so many deer crossing the road right here. Next thing you know, they’ll be putting in a crosswalk like at school, right here by my house!
His house. The thought of it pushed the smile from Tucker’s face in an instant. He peered over the edge of the gully, through the trees. Only parts of the brown siding were visible, the afternoon sun glaring off the tin roof here and there, the garage in back, the turkey pen to the side. But he could see all of Olivia. She sat on the porch. She’d been there over an hour now, bent over her notebook—writing. Probably a letter to Kentucky. She got another one today from Mom. Held it out for me to read. “Mom asked about you, Tucker,” she said. “She wanted to know how you are doing.” I saw Mom’s handwriting on the envelope—so perfect, just like on the ones I keep in my sock drawer. Mom writes as pretty as she looks in the picture she sent two years ago.
Tucker squinted, as if doing so would give him telescopic vision, allowing him to read what Olivia was writing. I’ll bet she’s not telling Mom how I’m doing. She doesn’t even know how I’m doing. She’s probably telling her how Dad didn’t get the job with the school district. How he was sitting on the porch with a bottle of whiskey when we got home from school. She’s probably writing all about how he was still dressed in the sport coat, white shirt, and tie he had worn to the job interview. How he stumbled when he stood and walked out to meet us. How he said he didn’t want that tutoring job anyway, he’d just get another odd job to keep us going. Then how he almost fell down.
Dad gets drunk sometimes. So what? He’s just too smart for most jobs. He’s got two college degrees. He could be a professor if he wanted to. And he apologized to us for being drunk, didn’t he? He poured the rest of the bottle out and went inside, didn’t he? He said he’d try again somewhere else tomorrow. He will if he said he will. I know it.
Olivia looked up as if thinking what to write next, then bent over her paper again.
Why does she have to get Dad’s hopes up? Why does she have to write Mom every day? Mom was never satisfied with the way he was. She’s probably still perfect, just like her handwriting. He’s my dad. That’s enough for me. Don’t write about me, or Dad, or anything, Olivia! We are better off on our own.
Olivia continued to write, Tucker to watch.
Better off without you here, that’s for sure. It seems like every time I turn around you’re grinning up at me like I should pet you or something, like you can make everything perfect just by smiling at it. You smiled at Dad that way today and then helped him inside and fixed him some coffee. I was going to do that. What do you think you’re doing? Taking over? And MY friend Joe Allen actually likes you because you can burp a bunch of times in a row. Why do you have to write all of those letters? Why do you have to be here?
Tucker looked away from his house, back at the deer tracks. Well, this is my deer, Olivia. MY deer, not yours. I can track him. I can shoot him with my bow and arrow—one shot to the chest. Dad said he’ll help me, and he will. I WILL be a hunter for The Tribe.
He left then, crossing the fence, the county road, and walking into the woods. Following the tracks of the deer, Tucker’s eyes not once lifted from the ground until his house was completely out of sight.
8
Tucker crept out of the brush, soft-tipped spear in hand. Joe Allen was sitting in the doorway of the tipi, writing furiously in Winter Count. Tucker moved forward. Joe Allen deserves to get speared—both for being easy to sneak up on, and for being so friendly to Olivia. He raised the spear to throw.
“Twenty-eight times, Tucker!” Joe Allen blurted out without looking up.
Tucker frowned and lowered his spear. “You heard me coming. How did you hear me? I was being quiet.”
Joe Allen looked up, a scowl on his freckled face. “Twenty-eight times that sister of yours burped without stopping! I almost passed out from lack of oxygen at number nineteen. How am I ever going to play the clarinet if a fourth-grade girl can beat me in a burping contest?”
A smile crept onto Tucker’s face. Good! Joe Allen found out fast what a pain Olivia can be. He leaned his spear against the big cedar. “Since when are you interested in playing the clarinet?”
Joe Allen’s frown curled up into a smile. “Since Jessica Wagner is going to play clarinet in the sixth-grade band.”
Tucker sat down. “What are you talking about?”
The smile on Joe Allen’s face widened. He put Winter Count down. “Tucker, haven’t you noticed how good-looking Jessica Wagner got over the summer? It’s like she ate beauty pills or something. Now she’s smart and pretty.” The grin faded. “But she’s in Mr. Hanna’s room. I’ll never get to sit by her unless I play the clarinet in the band.”
Tucker picked up Winter Count. “Is that what you were writing about? Clarinets and Jessica Wagner?”
The scowl pushed back onto Joe Allen’s face again. “No, I was writing about that sister of yours.”
Tucker stiffened. Winter Count is the journal of The Tribe. Olivia is NOT part of The Tribe. I crossed her out. Can’t he see that?
“Twenty-eight burps!” Joe Allen repeated. “Can you believe it? To get beat by a fourth-grade girl is a terrible thing.”
Tucker let his shoulders drop. At least Joe Allen doesn’t think Olivia is so great anymore. “Just ignore her,” he said. “That’s what I do.”
Joe Allen wasn’t through. “And now she says we should have a ruler-balancing contest—you know, on the end of your finger. I’ll bet I have fingers that don’t work any better than my burps!”
Tucker opened Winter Count and looked at Joe Allen’s entry. It was so scrawled he couldn’t read it. “Just ignore my sister,” he said. “We should be getting ready for the hunt. Deer season opens just one week from this coming Saturday. We have to finish our bows and the arrows, test them, and then practice a lot, too.”
“A girl!” Joe Allen said, shaking his head. “If I can’t beat a girl, I’ll never be able to play the clarinet. Then I’ll never be able to sit next to Jessica Wagner.”
Tucker went on: “I was reading last night about how some of the Indian tribes prepared for important events. Sometimes the braves stayed in skin huts filled with steam to purify themselves.”
Joe Allen shrugged, then wrinkled his nose. “Hey, Tucker, did I show you my dirty-word list?”
“And a tribe called the Mandans had a ritual for becoming a brave,” Tucker said. “They stuck hooks through the muscles on their chests and got strung up on ropes till the hooks tore out. It was a test of bravery, or worthiness, I guess. Can you believe they did that? Wow!”
Joe Allen pulled a piece of paper from the back pocket of his jeans and unfolded it. “I’ve got twenty-one, no … twenty-three dirty words on my list. Want to hear them?”
Tucker kept right on talking. “This book I was reading even had drawings done by the first white man ever to see the Mandan ritual,” he said. “His name was George Catlin.”
“Number sixteen is one of my favorite dirty words of all time,” Joe Allen continued. “You want to hear number sixteen?”
“That must have been something,” Tucker mused, “to be the first white man to see those braves hanging from their hooks in their chests.”
Joe Allen held his list up in front of Tucker’s face. “Which dirty word do you like best?”
Tucker ignored the paper, looking up instead at the bright blue September sky. “We should do something to prove our worthiness, too. We would be known for our bravery throughout The Tribe. I’d be called Deer Tracker. Joe Allen, you’d be called—”
“C’mon, pick one,” Joe Allen insisted.
“What?” Tucker turned toward Joe Allen as he spoke.
“Which dirty word on my list do you like best?”
Tucker’s face went red. “We’re talking about getting ready for the hunt, not your dirty-word list!”
Joe Allen shook the paper in front of Tucker’s face. “You’ve got to have a favorite. Which one?”
Anger rose in Tucker’s voice. “This is the place of The Tribe, not the bathroom at school. We’re supposed to keep a clear mind when we come here, remember? Deer season starts two weeks from this coming Saturday. We’ve got to get ready!”
Joe Allen wouldn’t quit. “Timothy Potts gave me a great one. Look at number twenty on my list.”
“Joe Allen!” Tucker pushed the paper away. Joe Allen narrowed his eyes and pushed it back. A quick round of push and shove erupted. Winter Count fell to the dirt.
“Now look what you’ve done!” Tucker yelled, jumping up.
Joe Allen’s eyes went wide. “ME?” he shouted, getting quickly to his feet.
Tucker picked up the journal and brushed it off. “Yes, YOU! You don’t care about the hunt. You don’t care about The Tribe. All you’re interested in is clarinets, Jessica Wagner, burps, and dirty words!”
Joe Allen quickly looked down and scanned the list that was still in his hand. “Snollygoster!” he yelled into Tucker’s face.
Tucker took a step forward. “What did you call me?”
“Snollygoster,” Joe Allen repeated defiantly. “I called you a snollygoster.”
Tucker balled up his fists and raised them. Joe Allen did the same. Both looked angrily into each other’s eyes. There was a moment of silence in the clearing. Each waited for the other to take the first swing.
“And just what is a snollygoster?” Tucker finally asked.
Joe Allen’s fists lowered a bit. He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t know.”
The giggle that came out of Tucker’s mouth escaped on its own. He tried to continue looking angry, but a smile fought its way onto his lips. “You don’t know what the word means?”
Joe Allen shrugged. “Ask Timothy Potts. He gave it to me. He said it was a great dirty word.”
They both smiled at the same time.
“Timothy Potts?” Tucker said. “You can’t believe anything that he says. He probably just
saw the word somewhere in the dictionary. Snollygoster is probably just the name of some African animal or something.”
Joe Allen snickered. “Or an auto part.”
“Or Jessica Wagner’s middle name,” Tucker added with a laugh. “Jessica Snollygoster Wagner.”
Joe Allen’s fists went back up, but this time they were accompanied by a smile. Tucker’s did also.
“Snollygoster!” Joe Allen yelled.
“Snollygoster to you, too!” Tucker came right back at him.
They play-boxed around the clearing, jabbing and blocking, laughing and yelling at each other, full of the last little bit of summer.
9
“Tucker, I’ve got a small job over at the Eldridges today helping them roof their new barn,” Duane Renfro said from across the kitchen table.
Tucker looked up from his Saturday breakfast. The circles under his father’s eyes seemed especially dark in the overhead kitchen light. Duane had been up almost all night again, searching newspaper want ads for job openings, copying down phone numbers, writing letters, then writing them over and over again.
Duane ran his hand over the stubble of his beard, then took another sip of coffee. “I want you to keep Livi company today—”
“Aw, Dad!” Tucker was out of his chair in an instant. He moved quickly around to where his father sat. “I’ve got plans with Joe Allen. And Olivia’s such a …” He hesitated. “Well, I’ve got plans.”
The hurt came quickly into his father’s eyes, just as Tucker had seen it every day that week when Olivia sealed an envelope and took a Kentucky-bound letter out to the mailbox. And especially last night when the phone call came. Duane had just finished lighting a small fire in the wood stove to take the chill out of the evening. He whistled as he closed the stove door and opened the damper. Then he walked over to the stereo and put on one of his jazz tapes. They seemed to fill him, and soon he was pretending to play the saxophone along with the music, rocking back and forth, fingers running all over imaginary keys, cheeks puffing in and out as if he were blowing high notes for a huge crowd of fans. Livi quickly jumped up and began singing—nonsense lyrics about a dinosaur that liked to eat school principals for snacks. Tucker came in to see what the commotion was. The phone rang. Duane boogied right over and answered with a laugh: “Good evening! Renfro Jazz Band at your service. Bookings available. We play, you pay!”
