Bigfoot, Tobin & Me

by Melissa Savage

  Check all messages.

  Write all messages on pad marked messages.

  Call back any messages.

  Don’t touch the yellow legal pad! You are not

  authorized at that level of security clearance.

  One hot garage plus zero messages and a Bigfoot mystery that’s already been solved with an ordinary man equals the most perfectly boring day in cryptozoological history. Luckily for me, Charlie brought home another new book for me to read: Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great.

  The green phone rings and I grab the index card next to the message pad, just in case it’s Tobin calling to test me.

  ‘Good morning . . .’ I read. ‘And thank you for calling Bigfoot Detectives Inc., serving Willow Creek since 1974. This is Lemonade Liberty Witt, Assistant Bigfoot Detective. How may we help you with your Bigfoot needs today?’

  ‘Lem, it’s Charlie.’

  ‘Hi, Charlie.’ I toss the card to the side.

  ‘Just checking up on you. How’s business?’

  ‘Boring. But I’m on chapter eight already of my new book.’

  ‘Ah,’ he says. ‘How is it?’

  ‘It’s a really good one.’

  ‘Glad you like it. Say, I’m wondering if you want to come up to the shop for lunch. I can call Diesel’s for some sandwiches.’

  My stomach moans just hearing about an egg salad on sourdough.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Egg salad on sourdough, hold the tomatoes?’

  I smile into the receiver.

  ‘Thanks, Charlie.’

  ‘See you in a few minutes,’ he says, and hangs up.

  I push the folding chair back from the desk and notice that the top left drawer is open a crack. I grab the handle and pull it all the way open. Inside is the yellow legal pad.

  And on the very first page it says,

  PRIVATE – KEEP OUT!!

  This means you, Lemonade Liberty Witt!!

  I ignore the warning and reach down and peel back the page. On the next sheet is a scribble of a smiling Bigfoot and the corporate logo. I skip to a section in the middle of the pad.

  2 June, 1975

  Dear Dad,

  I got my first employee today. Her name is Lemonade Liberty Witt. She’s from the city and kind of weird but I made her my assistant anyway. I think maybe we might even get to be friends.

  I wish you were here, Dad. It’s hard to be here without you.

  Forever Your Son,

  Tobin Sky

  I turn another page to the next entry, on 3 June, 1975.

  Dear Dad,

  Where are you? There are so many things I have to tell you. There are so many things I have to ask you. When are you coming back home? I—

  The green phone jingles.

  I jump out of my skin and throw the pad inside the drawer, slamming it closed. I know this time for sure it’s Tobin checking up on me.

  ‘I didn’t see anything!’ I ramble into the receiver.

  ‘Uh, hello?’ says a man’s voice.

  ‘Oh–ah.’ I fumble to grab the note card. ‘Um, hello . . . ah, Good morning . . .’ I read. ‘And thank you for calling Bigfoot Detectives Inc., serving Willow Creek since 1974. This is Lemonade Liberty Witt, Assistant Bigfoot Detective. How may we help you with your Bigfoot needs today?’

  ‘Hello, Lemonade. It’s Mr Harold.’

  ‘Hi, Mr Harold.’ I sit back down at the desk. ‘Did you hear about Tobin’s dad?’

  ‘I certainly did hear it,’ he says. ‘It’s all anyone could talk about this morning at the doughnut shop. Nothing short of a miracle.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I agree. ‘I hope he gets well soon. Charlie says he has PMS.’

  ‘Ah . . .’ He chuckles. ‘I think maybe he said CSR.’

  ‘Oh, right, yeah, that was it. I knew it was a whole load of letters.’

  ‘Actually, Lemonade, I didn’t call to talk about Scotty.’

  ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why are you calling, then?’

  ‘I’m calling because . . . I saw him again.’

  ‘The man?’ I ask.

  ‘No, not the man.’

  ‘Who, then?’

  He’s quiet for a long while.

  ‘Who, Mr Harold?’ I ask. ‘Who did you see?’

  He clears his throat.

  ‘The Bigfoot,’ he says.

  50. Operation: Solo Investigation

  ‘But Mr Harold,’ I say, after swallowing an icy sip of cola on the top step of his porch after lunch with Charlie, ‘the mystery was solved. It wasn’t a Bigfoot at all. It was Tobin’s dad the whole time. He told the doctors he’s been living in the woods for a year.’

  Mr Harold takes a deep breath and wipes the back of his neck with his red bandana.

  ‘I know it,’ he says. ‘But that doesn’t explain what I saw out in the woods before, or what I saw again today.’

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘Well, I was tending to another part of the fence in the pasture. And there was that smell, you know, that same skunk smell . . . strong, too. And just when I was thinking maybe it wasn’t a skunk, that’s when the first rock hit me in the back.’

  ‘Just like before?’

  ‘Yep. Then another one.’

  ‘Another one?’ I say, and take a long drink.

  ‘That’s when I stood up and turned around,’ he tells me. ‘And I saw them.’

  The cola goes down the wrong pipe, and I choke. My eyes fill up, and I cough and sputter and spray cola everywhere. Mr Harold smacks my back a couple of times until I stop coughing.

  ‘Them?’ I gasp for air. ‘What do you mean, them?’

  ‘I mean there were two of them. A big one and a little one.’

  ‘Just like the footprints we found in Bluff Creek!’

  ‘The two of them were hiding behind tree trunks in the woods just past the fence, so I couldn’t exactly see them clearly. Maybe there were more, but I can tell you I saw two Bigfoot-type shapes.’

  ‘Then what happened?’ I ask, kicking myself for not bringing a notepad to write down the details. I’m never going to hear the end of that one.

  ‘The bigger one growled that same growl where the ground shook underneath me, and then threw one more stone that missed me, and then the two of them ran off. I could see that reddish-brown fur for a while, but they dodged through the trees so fast, it wasn’t but a minute until I couldn’t see them any more.’

  ‘This is unbelievable!’ I say.

  He nods in agreement.

  ‘I guess I thought the mystery had been solved.’

  ‘I mean, yeah . . . you’re probably right. Of course you’re right. Maybe it was just a grizzly and a cub,’ Mr Harold says, already talking himself out of it. ‘Or maybe another war veteran with battle fatigue . . . or another guy down on his luck living out in the forest here.’

  ‘Or,’ I say, ‘maybe it wasn’t any of those.’

  At least I remembered the Polaroid. And a Twinkie, ’cause Bigfoot hunting is hungry work. It was already squished, with the filling smeared on the plastic, but I’ve learnt to live with a squished Twinkie now and again.

  I catch a ride out to the pasture behind Mr Harold on Cimarron’s back. Mr Harold steers the horse right to the part of the fence where he saw the two Bigfoot this morning.

  ‘I talked to Charlie earlier and he said he’d be on his way as soon as he closed up shop. Sure you don’t want to wait?’ Mr Harold asks, helping me down.

  ‘Mr Harold, I’m a professional,’ I assure him, puffing out my chest to show him my official badge with the clumped-up glue.

  ‘Ah, well, yes, of course. Whatever or whoever it was is gone now. But there must be some evidence left out there somewhere. If you need anything, I’ll be right here working on the fence. You just holler. And don’t go too far, either.’

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘I won’t.’

  ‘And how about a whooop now and again, just so I know everything is OK?’ he asks.r />
  ‘Sure.’ I smile. ‘I’ll whooop you every five minutes.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He stands up really straight then and salutes me. ‘Good luck, Bigfoot hunter.’

  I salute him back and take another deep breath before I climb over the fence.

  Over the fence and on my way to my very first solo Bigfoot investigation. I adjust the neck strap on the camera and then take one more look back at Mr Harold. He’s watching me.

  ‘It’ll be OK,’ I assure him again. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

  He smiles. ‘Oh . . . yeah . . . I know it,’ he calls after me. ‘I’ll give you a shout once Charlie’s here. Just remember the whooop until then.’

  ‘I will,’ I say.

  Then I begin my journey.

  A journey to find a Bigfoot.

  51. Skunk Stink and Ten Crooked Toenails

  ‘Whooop!’

  That was number thirteen. And thirteen whooops times every five minutes is exactly one hour and five minutes that I’ve been searching, with nothing to show for it.

  I hear Mr Harold’s muffled whooop back through the trees. I sigh. I miss Tobin. Tobin and his endless Bigfoot details and his eye-rolling and his aversion to Twinkies. Being a solo expeditioner isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

  When I get hot and feel like a rest, I crawl under the shade of a large pine. The trunk is fatter than me with both arms straight out at my sides, and the bottom row of needles is nearly three feet from the ground. I sit down cross-legged and dig the Twinkie out of my pocket.

  It’s pancake-squished now, after being in my shorts for so long. I carefully peel the plastic off the cake, listening to the sounds of the forest.

  It’s kind of like the city, except not at all. Instead of honking horns, birds sing. Instead of bustling feet, crickets chirp. Instead of Miss Kay practising for the opera, mosquitoes buzz. And instead of smelling like Mr Chin’s glorious crispy fried egg rolls, it smells like pine and moss and dirt and grass and . . .

  Skunk.

  Actually, wet skunk.

  Wait . . . skunk?

  I stop chewing and hold my breath. Birds sing. Crickets chirp. Mosquitoes buzz.

  And a twig snaps. And branches swing. And footsteps stomp.

  And there’s skunk stink. Strong skunk stink that’s getting worse and worse by the second. I hold my nose and breathe out of my mouth.

  Maybe it’s Mr Harold again, coming to search for me. Maybe I forgot to whooop enough.

  That’s it . . . it’s got to be Mr Harold. He was so worried about me going alone.

  ‘Whooop!’ I call between cupped hands.

  ‘Whooop!’ I hear from way back at the fence post.

  Uh-oh.

  Then I hear that howl. The same one we heard in the tent the night we stayed out in Mr Harold’s garden.

  Whoooooooooooo!

  The sound makes me jump so high, I almost drop my Twinkie in the dirt. I sit frozen.

  Waiting.

  Watching.

  Worrying.

  Wishing Tobin was sitting here next to me.

  And that’s when I see feet. Reddish-brown feet.

  Furry feet.

  Just past the cover of the bottom bough of the thick pine.

  Great big bare feet with actual toes and black crooked toenails.

  All ten toes stop in front of me, and the rest of whatever belongs to the feet crouches down and peers at me under the pine branch. This time it’s not Mr Harold. It’s not a man, either.

  It’s not even human.

  52. Twinkie

  This can’t be happening. It has to be a dream. Tobin is going to wake me up any minute now, banging on my window to tell me I’m late for work again. That he’s going to have to put the report in my employee file.

  But there is no bang, bang, bang on my window telling me Mrs Dickerson called with a fresh tray of cookies or a new sighting.

  I squeeze my eyes shut really tightly and then open them again. It’s real. It’s not a dream. I stare at the creature standing in front of me.

  A Bigfoot.

  My heart isn’t beating.

  My eyes aren’t blinking.

  And my legs have gone completely numb.

  I’m sure it’s a stroke this time.

  A real live Bigfoot, peering in at me, ducked under the pine. A reddish-brown creature holding up the bottom bough of the pine tree, sniffing at me. He wrinkles his nose and sniffs me again. I hope I don’t smell like a veggie burger with all the trimmings.

  He snuffs at me then, like I smell more like boiled Brussels sprouts than a juicy burger, which makes me feel a little better. Then I wonder if the Bigfoot thinks I smell as bad as I think he smells. Even though I took a bath with the blue washcloth and Charlie’s bar of Irish Spring. It may not be Mr Bubble, but it does the trick.

  He snuffs at me again. I’m as still as a statue. Unable to move.

  And even if my brain did remember what I’m supposed to holler, my voice wouldn’t remember how to make the sound come out of my throat. And my fingers certainly don’t remember how to aim the Polaroid, or that it’s even around my neck.

  I stare at him, and he stares at me. He wrinkles his nose again and then sniffs again, and then sneezes.

  ‘Bless you,’ I whisper slowly.

  He wrinkles his nose again and cocks his head to the right. He’s not nine feet. He’s smaller. About my size. Except it’s hard to tell for sure, since I’m still ducked under the pine and he’s still on his feet and bent down peeking in at me.

  I wonder how old he is. Maybe almost eleven, like me, since he’s almost the same size.

  He smells me again, leaning a bit closer to get an even better whiff. He’s probably wondering what I’m doing out here. The same thing occurs to me at this very second.

  The Bigfoot examines me, looking at every part of me, and I do the same. His hair is scraggly, just like Charlie described. It’s long, too, and hangs down from the arms. The hands are well past his knees, like an ape’s. He’s bipedal and has black fingernails and brown eyes, and when he opens his mouth, I can see a bright red tongue inside.

  I don’t know what makes me do it, but I slowly reach my hand out towards the creature.

  He backs away, letting go of the branch.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say.

  He snorts in and snuffs out, then takes a step forward again. I bring my arm up higher, until it’s stretched out as far towards him as it will reach. Just past the very tips of the needles on the lowest branch of the pine.

  On my palm, the pancake-flat golden Twinkie.

  An offering of peace.

  Of friendship.

  Of love.

  Because the Bigfoot is part of my new family, and my new life, and he’s another reason why Mama led me to this very special place called Willow Creek.

  My new home.

  I’m here to protect the animals. Just like she would. I’m here to have a family. And to make new memories.

  The Bigfoot breathes in and out, snorting and snuffing as he moves closer to my hand.

  ‘It’s good,’ I say, smiling hesitantly. ‘Sweet. With just the perfect cake-to-filling ratio. I know you probably don’t understand that, but believe me, it’s really important. You can try it, if you want to. Tobin says you won’t eat them, but I know you’ll like it.’

  A hairy reddish-brown arm slowly reaches towards me. I remember what Charlie said about that time he saw the Bigfoot in his headlights. He told me the creature looked more scared of him than he was of it. I don’t think it’s exactly the same for me, since my heart is beating a million beats a second and the whole stroke thing is happening, but he certainly looks just as scared as me.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I tell the creature. ‘I won’t ever hurt you. Mama sent me here to help you.’

  Fingers reach towards me. Real live Bigfoot fingers with wrinkles on the knuckles, and opposable thumbs with dermal ridges on them.

  Just when they touch my hand, a loud whooop soars through the air
from right back near the fence post. Mr Harold checking up on me. The Bigfoot jumps and then quickly pulls away like he touched a flame.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say again, taking a deep breath. ‘It’s OK . . . really, it is.’

  He takes another big snort in my direction and then snuffs out loudly through his mouth this time, spitting at me. Reddish-brown hairy knuckles reach towards me again.

  Slower this time.

  Reaching gently until they wrap around the Twinkie, his eyes never once leaving mine.

  I watch him hold the Twinkie up to his nose and give it a big long sniff.

  No snuff.

  Then the bright red tongue slips from his mouth and tastes the sweet cream filling. And when I blink again, the Twinkie is gone. In one giant gulp, the entire thing is gone. And the creature stands there staring at me, chewing the golden snack cake.

  I knew it!

  Chewing.

  Staring.

  Snuffing.

  That’s when I hear more footsteps crunching in the woods. Cracking sticks and swaying branches. I know he hears it too, because he stops chewing. He wrinkles his nose up in the air and sniffs in the direction of the noise. He gives me one last look and then disappears through the trees with silent, lightning-fast grace.

  He’s gone.

  And from under the pine, I see Mr Harold’s cowboy boots and Charlie’s hiking boots with knee-high socks walk by me.

  ‘Mr Harold! Charlie!’ I call out to them, scrambling out from under the branch.

  They stop, and Mr Harold bends down to give me his hand.

  ‘Oh, Lemonade.’ He breathes a sigh. ‘I didn’t hear a whooop back. I got worried and called Charlie. Everything OK?’

  ‘You seem to be in one piece,’ Charlie says, leaning down to brush the dirt from my knees.

  ‘He took it!’ I tell them.

  ‘Who?’ Mr Harold asks.

  ‘He . . . he took it!’ I say again, pointing towards where the creature ran off through the woods. ‘Right from my hand.’ I hold my hand out to show them.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Charlie asks.

  ‘My Twinkie.’

  They stare at me and then at my empty hand.

  ‘Who did?’ Mr Harold asks again.

  I take a giant swallow and lean towards them.