Bigfoot, Tobin & Me

by Melissa Savage

  ‘Let’s not get crazy,’ I tell him.

  ‘Comeback King?’ Mrs Dickerson pronounces each word very carefully, like she’s speaking Swahili for the first time, which makes Tobin and me laugh even harder.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I tell her. ‘Tobin said you think you’ve found a nest out the back.’

  ‘Oh, my, yes!’ Mrs Dickerson takes the cloth napkin that she keeps tucked in her lap and dabs the corners of the bright pink lipstick that never seems to want to stay where it’s supposed to. Then she leans forward on her elbows. ‘I’m sure it’s a Bigfoot nest – sure as I’m sitting here, that’s what it is.’

  ‘Roofed, right?’ Tobin blurts out, spitting corn kernels on the yellow tablecloth.

  ‘Yes, definitely roofed . . . and inside it . . .’ She leans even farther forward and raises her eyebrows. ‘A soft pile of leaves on top of pine needles and branches.’

  ‘You mean like a bed?’ I ask.

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ Mrs Dickerson says. ‘Not only that, but in the corner there are piles of vegetables straight from my garden. Mind you, I only saw it from a distance.’

  ‘So how can you tell they’re yours?’ I ask her.

  Mrs Dickerson looks me straight in the eye.

  ‘A gardener knows, dear.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say.

  ‘I’ve been missing vegetables for some time now, but of course I just figured it was the rabbits, you know. From time to time, I’m chasing those pesky little guys away with my cane. But today . . . today’ – she points her finger in the air – ‘was different.’

  ‘Why?’ Tobin asks.

  ‘Because today I found an entire pumpkin gone.’

  ‘An entire pumpkin?’ I repeat.

  ‘That’s right. And not just any pumpkin, one that was at least fifteen pounds. Much too big for a rabbit . . . or any other critter in the forest, for that matter. I was waiting to see just how big it would grow before Halloween rolled around. I thought I could carve a nice jack-o’-lantern out of it, you know, to put on the front porch when trick-or-treaters come—’

  ‘How big was it?’ Tobin asks.

  ‘Well, I suppose enough to freeze a couple of pies for Thanksgiving and a few trays of roasted seeds for snacking.’

  ‘No, Mrs Dickerson . . .’ Tobin says. ‘The nest. How big is the nest?’

  ‘Oh, yes, well, it’s big enough.’

  ‘Big enough for what?’ I ask.

  ‘Big enough for more than one of them,’ she says.

  ‘Well, I can see why the Bigfoot is stealing your vegetables, Mrs Dickerson,’ I tell her, looking down at the gnawed corncobs on my plate.

  ‘Oh, my Lemonade, aren’t you a sweet girl!’ she exclaims, putting her hands on her cheeks. ‘The spitting image of your mother, I’m telling you! Just the spitting image.’

  Elizabeth Lilly Witt.

  Except this time when I hear about Mama and say her name inside my head, there’s no lump to swallow down.

  I smile instead.

  No volcano bubbling up.

  No quicksand sucking me in.

  Not that I don’t still wish that Mama was here having dinner at Mrs Dickerson’s with us right this minute. Or that I could tell her all the things I’ve been doing in Willow Creek. Or that I could see her and Charlie make things right between them. Or even that I could smell her strawberry shampoo.

  But for the first time since she’s been gone, I don’t feel like I’m drowning or bubbling lava, or holding something way too heavy for me to carry. Here, in Willow Creek . . . I feel found.

  Found by a new kind of family.

  And I know it’s Mama who got me here.

  44. Operation: Mrs Dickerson’s Garden

  Mrs Dickerson’s backyard is small, with a heavy forest of pines lined right up against the end of her gardens. She has two gardens out the back, one that’s all vegetables and one that’s all flowers.

  On our way out of the kitchen door to investigate the mystery of the missing pumpkin, Tobin pulls the two cameras and two torches from his case.

  ‘Here.’ He hands me one of the torches and the Polaroid.

  I slip the camera strap over my head.

  ‘Remember, picture first, always picture—’

  ‘I know, I know,’ I say.

  Tobin slips the movie camera’s strap around his neck and double-checks the chin strap on his safari hat.

  ‘Ready?’ he asks. ‘Torches . . . check.’

  ‘Check,’ I tell him, flipping my switch.

  ‘Check.’ He flips his.

  ‘Cameras ready . . . check.’

  ‘Check,’ I say.

  ‘Check,’ he says.

  ‘Let’s examine the garden first,’ Tobin says then. ‘It’s nineteen hundred hours already, and Charlie said to leave Mrs Dickerson’s by nineteen thirty.’

  ‘Right,’ I say.

  We investigate up and down all the rows between the pumpkin vines, carrot tops, tomato plants and carefully lined-up herbs, all labelled with tiny handwritten signs.

  ROSEMARY.

  CARROTS.

  TOMATOES.

  GREEN BEANS.

  ‘There are so many dents in the dirt, it’s hard to tell who’s been in here,’ he says.

  ‘Here’s where the pumpkin must have been,’ I say, crouching down near an empty green vine. I hold it up for him to see.

  ‘But you know what?’ I look at it closer. ‘It looks like it’s been cut . . . like with a knife, not gnawed with teeth.’

  Tobin steps over Mrs Dickerson’s carefully planted rows of greens and reaches down to grab it. He examines it close, running a finger over the clean cut. He checks his watch again.

  ‘Take a picture,’ he says.

  I aim the Polaroid in the direction of the vine and snap a shot.

  ‘Let’s head to the tree line to see if we can find the structure,’ he says. ‘We’re running out of time. We can always come back and examine this more tomorrow. I want to see that nest.’

  I follow him. Inside the woods, it’s already dark, even though the sun isn’t quite down yet. The pines reach towards the sky, hiding their deepest secrets. We turn on our torches and step over small bushes and push past long pine arms, just beyond the tree line.

  ‘There it is!’ Tobin hollers, shining his light on some twigs tied together into some kind of hut.

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Yeah, right there.’ He points. ‘See it? See the weaving of the tree branches? It’s spectacular!’

  When we reach it, I examine the outside, taking Polaroids to document the find. It’s a tall structure with a doorway, and broken twigs are wound together like plaits to make walls and a roof. Pine branches cover the top of it, which almost makes it invisible in the woods, unless you’re actually looking for it.

  We stop at the doorway and look at each other.

  ‘You go first,’ I tell him.

  He takes a deep breath. He peeks around the edge of the doorway, shining light inside.

  ‘All clear,’ he calls back.

  I peek around the corner too and shine my light inside.

  ‘The pumpkin!’ I exclaim, pointing to it in the corner of the nest.

  ‘Look over here.’ Tobin shines his torch next to a bed made out of pine needles. ‘A pile of newspapers.’

  ‘Newspapers?’ I say, peering over his shoulder. ‘Don’t even try to tell me the Bigfoot reads the Two Rivers Tribune.’

  ‘Look at this, too . . . clothes.’ Tobin grabs a camouflage sweatshirt off the ground.

  ‘What’s that?’ I aim my light towards a small wooden box stuffed between the pine-needle bed and the stack of newspapers.

  Tobin takes a step closer and reaches down to pull it out. It’s got curling vines carved all over it. On the top, bottom and sides, too.

  ‘Open it,’ I tell him.

  Tobin lifts the lid and peers inside.

  ‘Well?’ I ask. ‘What’s in there?’

  Tobin doesn’t
say anything.

  I peek over the lid myself. ‘Is that a picture?’ I ask, shining my light on it.

  ‘Yeah,’ Tobin says.

  ‘A picture of what?’

  ‘It–it’s . . . a . . . it’s a, um—’ Tobin stammers, staring down at it.

  ‘It’s a what?’

  Tobin peers over his wire-rims at me but doesn’t say a word. Not one single word.

  I reach over the lid and grab the photo from the box.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, sucking in my breath and swallowing hard. ‘Tobin,’ I whisper. ‘It’s you.’

  45. Secrets in the Pines

  ‘I–I must have dropped it,’ he stammers, starting to pace the length of the nest. ‘That day we were out here dusting for prints. Or you did, maybe. That’s got to be it.’

  ‘It’s the same one, right? The one in your case? Is yours missing?’

  ‘I–I don’t know. It must be.’

  ‘Go and check,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, OK. You come with me.’

  That’s when we hear the footsteps.

  Running footsteps.

  ‘Turn your light out,’ Tobin whispers. ‘Turn it off! Hurry up!’

  While I fumble with the switch, he grabs my arm and pulls me low to the ground, near the pile of old newspapers. The footsteps are coming closer, pounding the dirt, cracking sticks and grinding rocks into the earth.

  Hard.

  Fast.

  A large body smashing through leafy branches.

  Tobin’s breathing is heavy, and his face is close to mine. His breath smells like Mrs Dickerson’s hot buttered corn. My heart is beating so loudly, I’m sure he can hear it banging against my chest.

  The footsteps get louder and louder, until we can hear the snapping of twigs and the swaying of branches right outside the nest.

  Then they stop. And he fills the doorway, with heavy breath and darting eyes.

  But it’s not a Bigfoot.

  It’s a man. Just a man. A wild man with long, matted reddish-brown hair.

  At first he doesn’t see us, but when he does, he almost drops the eggs he’s holding tight in his fists.

  ‘What–what are you doing in here?’ he demands. Sweat is soaking his temples and his brown T-shirt. ‘Where—’

  My hands are shaking while I fumble to turn my torch back on. I shine it in his direction, and then he does drop the eggs while he tries to cover his face with his arms. Like we’re grizzly bears lying in wait, ready to eat him for dinner.

  ‘No – please!’ he begs.

  He’s dirty and he stinks something awful. Like he hasn’t seen a Mr Bubble bath or a bar of Irish Spring in a long time. His reddish-brown hair is scraggly, with a matching beard hanging down to his chest all tied up in knots. He’s wearing camouflage trousers, and his shirt is ripped across one shoulder, and there are holes in the front. He peers out at us from behind his arms, eyes darting like he’s a wild deer ready to run from a hunter.

  Tobin aims his light on the man now too.

  ‘Please state your name and business here, sir,’ Tobin demands, his voice shaking.

  ‘I–I–’ the man starts. ‘Tobin, please! I can’t—’

  That’s when I hear Tobin make the same weird sound in his throat he made that day at the shop when the boys came in to hassle him. He slowly lowers the torch to his side.

  ‘What did you say?’ he asks.

  ‘Please . . . just leave me be. You need to leave here—’

  ‘Do you know me?’ Tobin asks him. ‘Did you take this?’ He holds out the picture. ‘Because this is mine . . . did you steal this from me?’

  ‘Let’s just go.’ I grab Tobin’s arm and start to pull. ‘He wants us to leave.’

  ‘It’s not yours,’ the man says then.

  ‘What do you mean, it’s not mine? It is mine. It’s me and it’s my dad. This is mine. Not yours. How dare you steal it from me? How dare you . . .?’

  And then Tobin stops. He doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t breathe or move or anything. He just stands frozen, like the wooden Bigfoot statue in the centre of town.

  Except for one part of him. The picture in his hand starts to shake.

  ‘Tobin,’ I say again. ‘Please, let’s just go.’

  ‘Wait,’ Tobin says, raising the torch one more time towards the man and then looking at the picture in his hand.

  ‘He told us to go, let’s just go,’ I say.

  ‘But I think . . . I think I know who it is,’ he whispers.

  Tobin takes a step forward.

  ‘You do?’ I ask.

  ‘Is it . . . is it you?’ he asks the wild man. His voice comes out all high and garbled.

  The man hesitates. He turns, his eyes skimming the forest behind him, wondering where to run. Where to hide. Then he slowly lowers his arms, and then his head, and then his shoulders, like he’s surrendering to the hunters who have cornered him.

  Defeated.

  ‘Tobin,’ I demand. ‘Who is that?’

  He doesn’t take his eyes off the man.

  We all three just stand in silence. The picture in Tobin’s hand is still shaking.

  ‘Tobin?’ I finally say again. ‘Who—’

  ‘Lemonade.’ He turns to me and whispers, ‘I think . . . it’s my dad.’

  ‘Kids!’

  It’s Mrs Dickerson calling us from her back door.

  ‘It’s getting too dark now! Come on back!’

  ‘Your dad?’ I breathe.

  Tobin nods, his eyes glued on the man.

  ‘What are you doing out here?’ Tobin asks him.

  ‘Son,’ the man says, swallowing hard. ‘I can’t believe it . . . you’re standing right here . . . right in front of me.’

  ‘Right here?’ Tobin says. ‘I’ve been here the whole time. Where have you been? We’ve been waiting for you to come home. Me and Mom. We thought you were dead.’

  The man takes a deep breath.

  ‘I’ve been here. But I couldn’t . . .’ he starts. ‘I can’t . . .’

  ‘How did you know it was me?’

  ‘I’ve been watching you . . . your mom, from the woods. I couldn’t—’

  ‘Watching us? What do you mean? Did you forget where the house is or something?’

  ‘Kids!’

  The man jumps, and his eyes scan the darkness.

  ‘Are you there?’ Mrs Dickerson’s voice is closer now.

  ‘You can’t tell her!’ the man whispers at us, moving back and forth in the doorway like a caged animal.

  Then he lunges forward into the nest and huddles in a ball on the corner of the pine bed, peeking out between the woven branches. Scanning the forest.

  ‘Yeah, Mrs Dickerson,’ I call back. ‘We’re coming!’

  ‘Well, hurry now, it’s just too dark to be running in the woods. You need to get back to Charlie’s. He’s already called twice.’

  ‘Mrs Dickerson—’ Tobin starts.

  ‘Don’t!’ the man pleads. ‘Please . . . please don’t say anything . . . I can’t go back . . . I just can’t—’

  ‘Why not?’ Tobin demands. ‘I don’t get it. Why didn’t you just come home? We went to pick you up, you know . . . at the airport. We waited for you. For a long time, we waited. We thought you were . . . we thought . . . What on earth are you doing out here in the woods all alone?’

  ‘I–I can’t leave the woods . . . the forest . . . it’s my protection. My home. I can’t leave it.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Tobin goes on with his hands on his hips. ‘Your home is at the house with us! With Mom and with me.’

  ‘You don’t understand—’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Tobin says flatly, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

  The man’s eyes dart again, like he wants to escape but can’t remember how to move.

  ‘Mrs Dickerson!’ Tobin hollers.

  ‘Please!’ the man begs again.

  ‘Yes, what is it?’ Mrs Dickerson calls from the garden, somewhere real
ly near the tree line.

  Tobin hesitates and then shouts, ‘Call Charlie back! We need him to come right away! And tell him to see if my mom’s home from the hospital yet!’

  ‘Why did you do that?’ the man asks, tears starting to make muddy rivers down his face. He wraps his arms around his legs and starts to rock.

  ‘Because you need help,’ Tobin tells him. ‘And we need you.’

  ‘I can’t—’ the man starts.

  ‘Well, we’re not leaving you out here all alone,’ Tobin says.

  The man wipes at his eyes.

  ‘Charlie is on his way!’ Mrs Dickerson’s voice announces a minute later. ‘Is everything all right?’

  46. Reunited

  ‘Lemonade!’

  That’s Charlie.

  His heavy boots pounding the dirt and crunching the leaves and pine needles outside the nest.

  ‘Tobin!’ he calls out. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Here, Charlie!’ I call back. ‘We’re here! In the nest.’

  More pounding and swatting of branches and crunching ground as Charlie’s footsteps get closer and closer. When he appears in the doorway of the nest, he’s all out of breath. And he’s so tall he has to duck his head to get inside.

  ‘Lem . . . Tob . . .’ he huffs, sounding relieved. ‘What is . . . where are . . . who . . .’ He chokes and sputters, looking down at Scotty still in a ball in the corner.

  ‘Tobin!’ It’s Debbie coming up behind Charlie, grabbing his arm and squeezing her head into the doorway. ‘Lemonade . . .’

  She still has her white nurse’s uniform on, her hair still twisted up in a knot under her nurse’s cap. Her normally spotless shoes are covered with mud.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ She pushes her way in past Charlie and rushes to Tobin’s side.

  She turns him all around in every direction, looking him over top to bottom to make sure he’s all in one piece, and then grabs my hand and pulls me close to her like she’s guarding us from a wild animal.

  ‘Who is that?’ she asks. ‘Who are you?’ she demands.

  ‘Mom . . .’ Tobin whispers. ‘It’s Dad.’

  Debbie’s mouth falls open and she stares hard at Scotty.

  ‘What did you say?’