by Renée Riva
I am prayin’ that God will give me mercy over Ruby. I think He knows that it will tear my heart out if I have to give Ruby Jean away. At least it gives me someone besides Mama to talk Southern to. As I’m layin’ in bed tonight, Mama and Daddy are out on the porch swing, and I can hear every word they’re sayin’ through my open window.
“Sonny, tell me how that child of yours comes off speaking with a Southern accent. Why can’t she just speak a normal kid lingo, like Pig Latin?”
“Soph, A. J. may be a little on the quirky side, but she has a tender heart, and I don’t ever want to see her lose that. If a Southern accent is the worst thing to come out of that kid, then so be it.”
I wonder if Mama will decide not to take me to the pope in Rome since Daddy said that.
I keep secret diaries on almost everyone on this island. I love bein’ a journalist. I’m torn between bein’ a veterinarian or a newspaper journalist when I grow up. I find that people can sound very interesting on paper. Even the most boring of people can sound fascinating when I write about them in my journals. Take the relatives who come to visit our landlord, Mr. Mueller. He has some of the strangest relatives I could ever hope to meet. Whenever I even start to get bored, I go lookin’ for Mr. Mueller. I usually find him out watering his flowers.
I’ll say, “Good mornin’, Mr. Mueller. Awful fine day, isn’t it?”
“Umm-hmm,” he’ll mumble back.
“Nice garden you have there.”
“Umm-hmm.”
“Plannin’ on any visitors soon?”
Sometimes it’s just, “Nope.” But on a lucky day he’ll say, “E’spectin’ a few relatives this week.”
That’s all it takes for me to run home and dig out my diary entitled, “MR. MUELLER’S RELATIVES.” Then I keep my ears perked for a day or two, ’til I hear his old boat engine whining its way to the mainland to pick them up.
Mr. Mueller is a grumpy old man most of the time, but only because of a broken heart. The year before we started comin’ out here, he lived on this happy little island with his wife, Scarlett. It was just the two of ’em then. One day in winter, his wife was driving home from town with her groceries. It was snowin’ out, and there was ice on the roads. Mrs. Mueller crossed over a bridge and slid right into a potato truck comin’ the other way. There were potatoes rollin’ all over the road, and floatin’ down the river. Mr. Mueller lost his only true love that day.
So when Mr. Mueller acts grumpy to me, I just smile at him and try and cheer up his day. There’s little more you can do for someone with a broken heart. A smile can’t cheer up his whole life, but maybe a few minutes of his day. Every once in a while I will say somethin’ that will make him smile. That cheers up my day because I know that, for a split second, he forgot about his dead wife.
When I hear that boat motor whining back toward the island, I put my journal and good writing pen into my duffel bag and scoot to the other side of the island before they arrive. I get myself positioned on a bank just above the boat dock that they’re gonna pull up to. My heart always starts to beat faster just waitin’ to see who’s gonna climb off that boat. Here’s what I wrote about the bunch that came yesterday:
July 13, 1968
by Journalist, A. J. Degulio
Mr. Mueller’s relatives came today from, get this … OKLAHOMA. I feel like I’m in heaven up here on this bank, with that sweet Oklahoma chatter driftin’ up to me like incense (not the stinky kind Adriana burns). I wonder if they’ll be able to tell that I’m a fake Southerner. I’m watchin’ ’em all unload, and all I see is a swarm of fancy-lookin’ women with bright red nails and high-heeled sandals. I’m catchin’ a few names that I would trade my name for in a heartbeat—names like Aunt Rebecca and Auntie Charlotte.
I don’t see any men at all, but there’s a tribe of little kids. I see one older boy who looks about sixteen or seventeen, around Adriana’s age. Here we go again.
Well, gotta go now. I can’t wait to see these Okies close up, so I’m gonna wander down by the cabins and see if I can’t lay a Southern “howdy” on one or two of ’em.
Later, A. J.
Reporting live for Island News
I love journaling about island romances. Poor Adriana gets crushed every time. The boys she meets out here always leave with a chunk of her heart. Every time one leaves, we all get to watch her mope around until the next one comes along. Before ya know it, she’s over the old one and on to the next. She reminds me of one of those floozies who sit on the piano in the Western movies and wink at all the guys. I don’t think nice girls should act like that.
Adriana’s not allowed to kiss boys, but now that I’ve seen some of her diary pages, I’ve got the dirt on her. I was just gettin’ to the good part last night when Dino—the snitch—ran out to the dock yellin’, “Adriana, A. J.’s getting into your diaria.” Which to everyone else sounded like, “A. J.’s getting into your diarrhea.”
Everyone got a good laugh out of that except Adriana, who threatened to break my new Andy Williams record album if I get into her diary again. I’ve decided to take a different route with Adriana. I’m going to stalk her and record all the details of her island romances in my key-lock diary, and I’ll hide the key where she’ll never find it. By the time we’re off of this island, I should have enough material to write an entire novel. I am not above blackmail when it comes to my sister.
5
Juniper Beach
This morning I’m headed over to Mr. Mueller’s compound to check up on the newcomers. I never did get up the nerve to try my Southern accent out on any of those folks yesterday. Just as I’m comin’ around the bend on the trail, I nearly run right into a tall sandy-haired boy. He looks as surprised to see me as I am to see him. I’m so flustered, I just turn and run the other way. I can’t believe I did that. I will feel so stupid if I ever see him again.
I’m usually not shy unless someone is close to my own age, a boy, or very cute. This one is all three. I don’t remember seein’ him gettin’ off the boat. Couldn’t say for sure how old he is. Looks a little older than me. Maybe him and J. R. could become friends. J. R. gets tired of playin’ with Benji and Dino. He’ll be happy to know there’s someone here closer to his own age.
Me and J. R. hang out together when J. R. feels like bein’ around a girl. But sometimes I can tell he’d just like to have a guy to hang out with. The two younger ones are always off fishin’ together, but J. R.’s at that age where he’d rather fish by himself than put up with us.
He used to invite me to go along, but not anymore. He got real mad at me for lettin’ his fish go free after it took him all morning to catch it. There it was swimmin’ in a tiny bucket of water on our way back to the dock, soon to be turned into breakfast. I just couldn’t help myself from liftin’ that bucket over the back of the boat and pourin’ him back. It was quite a shock once we got back to the dock and J. R. peered inside that empty bucket. I’ll never forget the look on his face.… But I’ll never forget that fish swimmin’ off to freedom either.
I have a secret place to go when I feel like bein’ alone. The first summer we were here, I discovered a sandy cove where no one goes but me. It’s well hidden along the far side of the island, and you have to go through a tangle of blackberry sticker bushes to get to it. It is the only white sandy beach on the island. I can sit for hours in the sun and sift that white sand through my toes. It’s so soft and fine, it reminds me of coffee creamer. Makes me wonder if someone didn’t barge in a ton of coffee creamer and dump it right here on my beach. I love that stuff so much, I eat it straight from the jar with a spoon. I’m actually thinkin’ of plantin’ a palm tree along the shore someday. Maybe I could tie a little blanket around it every winter ’til we come back in the summer.
I have decided to name my cove Juniper Beach. I don’t really know what a juniper looks like, and that’s the part that bothers Mama.
“A. J.,” she says, “you can’t name a beach Juniper Beach if there are no junipers on
it. There are no junipers on this entire island for that matter.”
“Oh, Mama, I know, but I just really like the way it sounds. I guess I could change it to Coffee Creamer Shores.”
Mama raises one eyebrow and glances over at Daddy like she’s blamin’ him for oddball genes again. “Never mind,” Mama says. “Juniper Beach is the better choice. Stick with that one, kiddo.”
I love to go to my beach just to think, or pray, or dive for old bottles. I have found all kinds of little blue glass medicine bottles. I have a whole row of them on my windowsill above my bed. I’m half thinkin’ a doctor may have lived here at one time. Daddy thinks it was probably more like a band of pirates who got stranded on this island and were too drunk to swim to shore. My daddy should be a writer. He comes up with the greatest stories. I love to listen to the “Park Mysteries” he makes up about bein’ a park ranger at Indian Lake State Park. Mama says that’s who I get my crazy ideas from.
I love a good mystery, especially tryin’ to figure out “who done it.” Sometimes we’ll sit by the fire pit and Daddy will get us all goin’ on one of his stories, then make us guess who done it. We tell him how many clues we think we need and whoever guesses with the fewest clues wins. The reason I like this game so much is because I usually win. Me and Daddy think so much alike, I can pretty much guess which way he’s goin’ with his characters. Daddy acts so surprised every time I guess it right, and he tells everyone I was cheatin’ by readin’ his mind.
I used to fall for everything Daddy ever told us. My sister still makes fun of me for believin’ his story about Falling Rock. Bein’ raised on cowboys and Indians didn’t help either. Every time we drove up to the mountains, Daddy would point out the sign that said “Watch for Falling Rock.” He told us Falling Rock was a little Indian brave who wandered from his tribe when he was small and is still lost up in those mountains tryin’ to find his way home. I always hoped to see him pop up from behind one of those big boulders with a tomahawk and a head full of feathers. I would imagine myself as the little white girl who found him and brought him back to his tribe. Then they would capture me and make me part of their tribe. But I didn’t mind because me and Falling Rock were secretly in love, and I grew up to become his beautiful Indian princess. And I never had to see Adriana ever again.
Me and Sailor cut over to my secret blackberry sticker trail and make a run for the beach. It’s too hard to spy on folks when you’ve got a big hairy dog following you around. Sailor loves to swim after sticks. He’s carrying one in his mouth right now, just hopin’ we are on our way to play fetch in the water.
One thing that’s nice, the sun rises on my beach. If we get there real early, we can watch it come up, but today, it’s already up and on its way. It feels like it’s gonna be good and hot by noon. I start throwin’ sticks for Sailor, and he plunges in that cold water like it doesn’t faze him one bit. Our friends on the mainland have a dog named Wolfie who actually swims underwater and tries to catch fish all day long. I think he’s only caught one fish in his whole life, but he keeps tryin’. Wolfie is the only dog I’ve ever known who can hold its breath underwater. I’ve tried to teach Sailor to dive for things, but he likes to keep his head above water.
I’m lookin’ around, thinkin’ how proud I am of my beach, when the next thing I know, I’m staring right into two clear blue eyes. And they don’t belong to Sailor.
Just my luck, they belong to the boy I nearly bumped into earlier. I’m thinkin,’ Hey, what are you doin’ on my beach?
Then he smiles at me. “Howdy.”
My heart just skips a beat over the way he says “howdy,” with a true Oklahoma accent. Do I dare speak Southern back and risk makin’ a fool of myself? Or just say “hello,” and regret it for the rest of my life?
I can’t help blushin’. “Howdy yerself.”
He doesn’t flinch an inch over hearin’ my accent. He sits down on the log next to me, as though he owns the whole beach himself.
“You’re the one I saw on the trail earlier. Are you stayin’ out here on the island?” he asks.
“My family’s stayin’ over yonder in Papoose,” I reply, much bolder.
This time he laughs, like maybe he’s on to me bein’ a fake. “I have a brother, looks to be ’bout your age,” I quickly add. “How old are you?”
“Thirteen, almost fourteen.”
“My brother J. R. just turned fourteen. He’ll be happy to meet you. Maybe he can take you fishin’ with him sometime. You like fishin’?”
“Sure do. You tell your brother to come by in the mornin’ if he wants to go fishin’.”
“Which cabin are you stayin’ at?” I ask.
“Big Chief, with my grandpa and my brother. My mama and my aunts are stayin’ at Pocahontas with all the cousins.”
“Mr. Mueller’s yer grandpa then?” I wonder why I’ve never seen him on the island before.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I can’t believe he called me ma’am. Nobody’s ever called me ma’am. “What’s your name?” I ask.
“Danny. Danny Morgan. And yours?”
“Just call me A. J.”
“Okay, A. J.,” he says, real Southernly. That’s the first time I’ve ever heard my name said right, and I like the way it sounds.
“How long y’all stayin’ out here?” I ask, half hopin’ he’ll say all summer.”
“’Bout three weeks.”
“I don’t remember seein’ your family on the island before.”
“My family works the fields during summer in Oklahoma. We usually come to visit over Christmas. There’s not as much work to do on the farm when it’s cold and wet.”
“So, how’d you get to come this summer?”
“Well, my mama an’ her sisters all decided on havin’ some reunion, so they told my daddy she was goin’, with or without him. He told ’em all to go on ahead without him ’cause he didn’t want to be the only rooster stuck in the middle of some hen party. Then he told my mama she might as well take me an’ my brother, too, so we could rest up for all the hay bailin’ that’ll be waitin’ for us when we get back. Y’all come here every summer, A. J.?”
“Yes, sir.” I just had to try that out once myself. “My daddy’s the ranger at Indian Lake State Park. When school starts up in the fall, we head back to our house in town. Me and Daddy would love to live out here year-round, but my mama says she likes goin’ back and forth so she doesn’t have time to go crazy in either place.”
“I sure would like to live here myself. I can’t see ever gettin’ tired of this island. Oklahoma summers get so hot when we’re workin’ the fields. I’d give anything to just stay on with my grandpa. My brother plans to take on the farm one day, but me … I’m dreamin’ of somethin’ all together different.”
I want to ask him what he’s dreamin’ of, but I change my mind. If he were to ask me what I dream about, I’d feel way too embarrassed to tell him that it’s kissin’ Little Joe Cartwright. So I change the subject. “I think I saw your brother comin’ off the boat yesterday. I have a sister ’bout his age. Won’t take long for her to find him.”
“Well, if there’s a girl on this island anywhere near his age, I bet Jason’s already found her.”
We both laugh just thinkin’ about those two out there lookin’ for each other.
“Well, I guess I’d better be gettin’ back to see if Grandpa needs any help. Some of those women can be mighty demandin’ of him.” He gets up to leave. “Nice meetin’ you, A. J.” Then he looks over at Sailor. “You, too, boy.” He turns and walks down Juniper Beach toward the trail.
I sit on my beach with Sailor for a long time just thinkin’ things over. I’ve decided that Danny Morgan is the only boy I might ever be willin’ to share my beach with.
6
Saving Sailor
It’s the middle of the night, and I just woke up feelin’ like God tapped me on the shoulder. I’m lyin’ here in bed with the moonlight streamin’ through my window. There’s a soft b
reeze, and I have this feelin’ deep in my soul that Jesus is right here in this room with me, smilin’ down from my ceiling. I lie here just smilin’ back. Sometimes I think He must want somethin’ more than just my long list of prayers, like maybe He just wants to hang around with me.
This is one of those nights where I was so tired when I went to bed, I didn’t even say my prayers. I just said, “Ditto, Lord, from last night.” I can only get away with that every other night.
My prayers get longer and longer every night that I actually pray. First, I pray the Lord’s Prayer, then, “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.” I stop right there and skip the “if I should die before I wake.” That always gets me thinkin’ too much and creeps me out. Then, I pray for every family member, especially Adriana. I ask God to help her stop kissin’ all those boys and wait for the right one. Then, I ask Him to save us from burglars, fires, and earthquakes. Then, I get to my pet list and the souls of all my dead animals. This can take so long I sometimes fall asleep before I get to the end of my list.
Animals have always been a struggle for me. I’m no longer permitted to go into pet stores, dog pounds, or animal shelters of any kind. I’ve been banned from just about every animal establishment there is, with the exception of the zoo.
All of that came about because of a trip we took to the dog pound for Adriana’s sixteenth birthday last spring. My sister has always wanted a little peekapoo, probably because they are kind of prissy, like she is. Personally, I never much cared for poo dogs of any kind, especially poodles.
White french poodles are the worst. They’re all shaved up except for those big poofs on top of their heads that look like giant cream puffs. Then they wear those fake diamond collars around their necks like they’re somethin’ special. If they only knew how dumb they looked, they might not prance around actin’ so hoity-toity. They remind me of spoiled, snobby children, and why would you deliberately go out and look for one, let alone buy one?
