“I guess the garden grew back,” Peter commented absentmindedly. Only after the words were out did he realize maybe that wasn’t the best subject to bring up.
“What did that little vandal tell you?” Grandfather snapped.
“Uhhhhh, he said there was an accident. But it looks like everything’s fine now,” Peter added with forced cheerfulness.
“Stay out of that garden, boy,” Grandfather commanded.
What a relief. Unhappy visions of himself toiling and sweating in the midday sun, picking peas and cucumbers, completely disappeared.
“Are you the only one who works out there?” Peter asked warily.
“No one works out there. It’s not our garden. Stay out of it.”
Peter looked back in confusion. Beyond the garden, the vast meadow was empty except for a jumble of stones that looked tiny in the distance.
“Is it Dill’s family’s?”
“It’s no one’s. Leave it alone, and DON’T GO INTO THAT GARDEN. And don’t go down to the ocean, either.”
“What?!” Peter gasped. “That’s the ocean down there?”
“At the edge of the meadow is a giant cliff,” Grandfather warned, “with a hundred foot drop to the rocks below. Stay away. And don’t get within ten feet of that blasted garden, do you hear me?”
Grandfather stomped out of the room.
Peter looked back out the window and down at the garden.
If it didn’t belong to anyone…then who had replanted it after Dill burned it down?
5
They spent an hour dragging in all their suitcases and boxes from the Honda up to the third floor. Grandfather untied Peter’s bike from the roof of the car and stowed it away in an old, wooden garage back behind the house. Peter looked around inside at the ancient Ford truck, the dust-covered tools on the walls, and the stacks of bug-eaten newspapers lying everywhere until Grandfather chased him out.
After that, the old man disappeared down a hallway on the first floor and Mom went to fix something to eat.
Dinner was not in the giant room Peter had seen by the main hall but at a cozy little table in the kitchen, which ran along the back of the house. Unfortunately, the food wasn’t very good: canned peas, canned sauerkraut, canned beets. Beth was having fun, though, smashing everything flat like pancakes and then licking it off her palms. Grandfather was nowhere to be seen.
Mom watched him scrape at his plate. “I’ll get better food tomorrow, Pete, when I go into town. It’s all I could find in the pantry.”
“Why isn’t he here to eat this stuff?” Peter grumbled.
Mom sighed. “That’s just Grandfather. He’s probably in his study, reading away.”
“Mom, this place is weird.”
She smiled sadly. “Yeah, I know. I’d forgotten a lot.”
“What’s in all the locked rooms?”
Shrug. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? You lived here all your life and you don’t know?”
“One thing you’ll find out, Peter, is that when your grandfather tells you not to do something, it’s best if you don’t even think about doing it.” She turned to Beth and forced a spoon into her fingers. “Honey, don’t eat with your hands.”
“What about the garden?”
Mom’s eyes got big. She acted scared but broke into a smile as she talked. “Ohhhh, don’t go in the garden! Whatever you do, don’t go in the garden.”
She stared off into the distance. “I think I was…five or six, maybe, and I went and picked some tomatoes for my mom? Put ‘em in my dress and held it out like this.”
Even though she was wearing jeans, Mom pantomimed holding out a dress by the corners to form a basket of sorts.
“When I brought the tomatoes in, my dad – Grandfather – he got so mad, he spanked me till I couldn’t sit down for hours. I cried and I cried…”
Mom snapped out of the daydream. Her face grew slightly angry, and she stabbed at her beets with a fork. “And I never went in that garden again.”
“Why aren’t we supposed to go in the garden?”
“I don’t know, Peter. Your grandfather said it doesn’t belong to us. He said not to go past the rose bushes, because none of it belongs to us, and they might think we’re trespassing.”
“Well, who does it belong to?”
Mom’s face clouded over a bit. “I’m not sure, but I think there’s a bunch of hobos who eat the food.”
“Hobos?”
Mom caught herself and smiled. “Homeless people, honey. I’m sorry, hobo isn’t the accepted word these days. But ‘hobo’ was what we called them back then…they used to ride the trains all around the country and live on the really poor side of life. I think Grandfather kept the garden for them, I’m not sure.”
“Did you see the hobos?”
Mom cocked her head, as though trying to remember. “Only once…it was night, and I saw somebody…or something in the garden. I didn’t go find out what it was because I was scared. But there’s no need to worry, I lived here eighteen years until I left for college and nobody ever bothered us. Hobos are harmless, kid. Just don’t go in the garden, and don’t make any problems with Grandfather, okay?”
Peter nodded. “Okay, Mom,” and he meant it.
Whatever it took to avoid Grandfather’s anger, that’s what Peter was going to do.
6
Mom finished putting Beth to bed at 8:30. After that, she and Peter read in the den. Read, because there was no TV.
“He doesn’t have a TV?!”
“Don’t make a fuss, Peter. Once I find a job maybe I can talk him into letting me buy one.”
Peter grumbled as he looked around the room for something to read.
All he could find was a wicker basket full of National Geographics. But not anything recent – in fact, not a single one had pictures. They were all from the 1940’s and just full of writing.
Peter groaned and went upstairs to get some comic books of his own. After he returned, they both read quietly until Grandfather lumbered in.
“Time for bed,” he announced as he pointed at Peter.
Peter glanced at the huge wooden clock on the fireplace mantel: 9:45. He was supposed to meet Dill at 10 o’clock.
“But – ”
“Time for bed!” Grandfather repeated angrily.
“Dad…” Mom sighed. “Peter’s used to going to bed a little later than this – ”
“I’ll not be questioned in my own house, Melissa,” Grandfather warned.
Mom stared at Grandfather. He stared back.
“Go get ready for bed, Peter,” she said in a dull, flat voice.
“But Mom – ”
“Peter, just do it.”
Jeez.
Peter trudged up the stairs. He could hear angry muttering and whispering back in the den, but he couldn’t make any of it out.
There was a bathroom next to his bedroom. As he brushed his teeth he mentally tallied all the reasons he hated moving here from California.
Boring…stupid…all my friends are gone…a psycho for a grandfather…who hates the one kid who lives anywhere near me…NO TV…gotta go to bed like a three year-old…can’t even walk out in the flippin’ back yard…can’t even go to the ocean…
He pulled off his clothes and climbed into bed under the musty sheets. It smelled like old people.
Peter fluffed his pillow and coughed. He was glad the lights were off; he didn’t want to see the dust that was probably in the air.
Gross.
The one good thing was that he had a perfect view out the window. Lying there in the dark room, he watched the sliver of a moon far over the trees and wished he could be in California right now, under a California sky.
Where it’s two weeks away till school, he added angrily to his list.
And now Dill is going to hate me, he thought. He’ll think I stood him up for sure. The one friend I could’ve made is going to totally –
“Yo, dude,” somebody whispered
outside his window.
Peter bolted upright, his heart thudding in his chest.
“Dill?” he whispered back.
There was a familiar buzzcut silhouette perched right outside the window. It waved.
Peter jumped out of bed and climbed up on the cushioned ledge. Sure enough, there was Dill, seated precariously on the windowsill outside.
Peter searched around for a second, found and unlatched a lock on the left side of the glass panes, and pulled. The window swung open towards him like a door.
“How’d you get up here?” Peter asked, amazed.
“The tree, man. I can climb like a monkey. Hoo hoo, haw haw!” Dill scratched his underarms and poked out his lips like a chimpanzee.
“Sorry I can’t come. They made me go to bed,” Peter said morosely.
“I figured when I saw the lights go on in this room and then go out. Lucky thing you’re by the tree, I didn’t wanna have to go far on this roof. Well, come on, get dressed and let’s go.”
Peter looked at him, dumbfounded. “Go?”
“Yeah, let’s boogie.”
“I can’t leave! I’m supposed to be in bed!”
Dill groaned. “Don’t tell me you’re a teacher’s pet.”
“No…”
“You’re probably a straight A student, aren’t you? You probably go to dance class, don’t you?” Dill stuck out his arms and flicked his fingers across an imaginary keyboard. “‘Hi, my name is Peter,’” he said in a high, nasally muppet voice. “I play the piano and I practice every day!’”
“I do not!” Peter almost shouted, then looked around uneasily in case someone had heard.
“Then get dressed and let’s go. Unless you’re a weenie,” Dill said. “A wussy, wussy weenie.”
“No…” Peter said defensively. “I’m just…I’m kind of scared of heights.”
“Don’t look down.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“Dude, I’ll go first. All you gotta do is go about three feet on the roof and then bam, you’re at the tree, and it’s easy from there. Just do what I do. Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall. Come on!”
Peter looked back at his closed bedroom door. If Mom or Grandfather came in, he was busted for sure.
Dill must’ve known what he was thinking. “Lock the door, dude, and let’s rock and roll.”
“I could get in a LOT of trouble for this.”
Dill shrugged. “It wouldn’t be worth it, otherwise.”
Peter took a big breath.
Peas, beets, and sauerkraut…bedtime at 9:45…and not being able to go anywhere or do anything.
Forget that.
Peter pulled on his pants, shirt and shoes, and locked the bedroom door.
Dill grinned and gave him a thumbs up. “You da man.”
7
The climb out on the roof was terrifying. Thirty feet down, the grass seemed to spin slightly in the moonlight. Peter started to get dizzy, but Dill held onto his arm the whole time. “Don’t look down, just grab the branch.”
Once he reached the limb, Peter hung on for dear life. Dill shimmied his way down like an expert until he reached the tree trunk, then hopped from branch to branch until he dangled only four feet off the ground. He let go, dropped, and rolled.
Peter took considerably longer, but he finally made it. His ankles and heels stung a little when he landed, but he was safely on the ground.
Dill slapped him on the shoulder. “I take it all back, you’re no wussy weenie.”
“How do we get back up there?”
Dill rolled his eyes and pointed to a hole in the tree that made a perfect foothold. “Don’t be such a granny, I got you covered.”
They kept to the shadows as much as possible, then bolted for the rose bushes and raced to the other side.
The air was perfumed with the smell of flowers and a touch of salt from the ocean. There was no breeze, though, and Peter couldn’t hear a single wave – only the chirping of crickets all around.
They walked about halfway between the rose bushes and the garden before Dill stopped him.
“Okay, this is far enough,” Dill whispered and sat down.
“But the garden’s still like fifty feet away,” Peter said.
“Trust me, man. If there’s something in there, we wanna get a good head start. Gummy bear?”
Dill produced a crinkled package. Peter took a couple of pieces and popped them in his mouth.
“Thas’ good,” he smacked. “I had beets for dinner.”
“Ugh. So was I right? Is he crazy, or what?”
“You were right. He told me never to come out here, ON PAIN OF DEATH,” Peter said, imitating his grandfather’s booming voice. Then he squinted. “Or was that the door under the stairs?”
“Yeah, well, he was maaaa-AAAAD when I blew up the watermelons. Jeez, you would think he could spare a couple.”
“The weird thing is, he doesn’t eat any of it.”
“What?!”
“Yeah. My mom told me she got in trouble when she was a kid for picking some tomatoes. She said she thinks that a bunch of hobos keep the garden and eat it all up.”
“Hobos?”
“Homeless guys who ride trains.”
“Oh, bums,” Dill nodded. “I don’t know, man. I guess the stuff I saw could’ve been a hobo, but…it was a messed-up hobo, then.”
“So you don’t see it all the time?”
“Naw…only once in awhile, mostly in the summer and the fall…weird shapes out here at night, and plants moving around ‘n stuff.”
“That’s why you lit the fire?”
“Actually, it really was an accident,” Dill admitted. “It was the fall, everything in the garden was dry and kind of dead, but the watermelons weren’t all gone yet. I couldn’t find a flashlight, so I took my dad’s zippo lighter and I was out there lookin’ around when somethin’, I don’t know what, scared the bejeezus out of me. I dropped the lighter and ran, and the next thing I know, the watermelons are exploding and the fire trucks are all racin’ up the street. Your grandfather about screamed his head off outside of my house. A cop came and talked to my parents, and I told him what had happened, and then he yelled at me and then he left. I thought my dad was going to whip me good, but he just laughed and told me anything that made that old fart mad made him happy, and nothing else happened to me. I just can’t let your granddad see me out here, that’s all.” Dill scoffed. “Getting’ mad at me…he’s a big hippo crib.”
Peter cocked his head to the side. “A what?”
Grandfather looked far more like a scarecrow than a hippopotamus, and Peter had no idea where the baby bed part came from.
“A hippo crib. A guy who says ‘No, you’re bad for starting a fire,’ and then he goes and starts a fire himself.”
“A hypocrite,” Peter suggested.
“Yeah, that’s what I said. The very next night he’s out with his truck and he rolls some big thing off the back onto the ground and lights it on fire till it’s all burned up. Hippo crib,” Dill muttered bitterly.
“I wonder why he did – ”
“Hey, shhh – did you see that?”
Peter peered out into the darkness, into the green stalks and vines barely visible in the starlight. “I don’t see anything.”
“Wait.”
There was a rustling somewhere out in the middle part of the garden, maybe fifty feet inside the corn. The leaves shook a little.
Peter gulped. “It was the wind.”
Dill licked his finger and held it up. “There isn’t any wind.”
Some vines shuddered and the movement continued to the right. There was the sound of leaves shaking and twigs snapping underfoot.
“What should we do?” Peter whispered.
“Let’s go take a look,” Dill answered.
“What, and burn down the garden again?”
“Dude, I came prepared this time.”
Dill pulled out two small, keychain-sized flashligh
ts from his shorts pocket.
Peter looked at the offered flashlight, then out at the garden. The rustling started again, then stopped.
“I don’t know…my grandfather said not to come out here.”
Dill smirked. “You do everything your grandfather tells you to?”
“Well – ”
“You’re down here, aren’t you? So no, you don’t do everything he tells you to. Come on, don’t wuss out now. It’s probably a raccoon. Raccoons are cool.”
“What if it’s a hobo?”
“You and me, we can take him.”
“I thought you said we could only beat up a sixteen year-old.”
Dill thought for a second. “All we have to do is kick him, then we’ll run away.”
“What makes you so brave? Last time you got scared to death and burned down the garden, right?”
Dill slapped Peter on the shoulder. “Yeah, but now I got you to go with me.”
Peter hesitated.
Beets and peas. 9:45 bedtimes. Two weeks of lost vacation.
He relented and grabbed the flashlight. “All right.”
“Yeaaaaaaahhhh.” Dill grinned and headed into the garden.
8
Peter snapped on the tiny little flashlight, which gave off a beam that was barely any better for seeing than the moon. He sighed and followed Dill into the garden.
The dirt was soft and gave way beneath Peter’s feet. Low-lying plants – cucumbers? Zucchinis? – brushed against his legs as the boys moved through the rows. Coming up were the tomato plants, which twirled high above Peter on six-foot stakes.
Up ahead, Dill crouched over and disappeared into the tangle of vines. His flashlight bobbed behind the tomato plants like a glowing fairy from a storybook.
Peter looked over his shoulder, back to the safety of the giant house with its dim lights showing through the windows. Then he peered forward into the darkness and twisted ropes of green.
He took a deep breath and plunged on through.
It was a jungle in there. A fresh, green, pungent smell filled his nose. The plants crinkled against his body, occasionally tugging against his jeans or shirt. The little flashlight illuminated only the closest vines to him, no more than a foot or two away.
In less than a minute he had reached the corn stalks. He paused and whispered, “Dill?”
Bottle Full Of Scorpions Page 17
