Scumble

by Ingrid Law

  Chapter 7

  “NO, NO, NO, NO!” I WHISPERED as my savvy continued to tear the barn apart. Mom and Dad—and even Fedora—stayed by me. I could feel everyone else looking from me to the clanking, clunking, collapsing barn. I could hear people murmuring to each other as the smell of sawdust filled the air.

  “Stop, Ledge! Stop!” Mom said the words over and over. But words alone couldn’t make me stop, and she couldn’t find a way to smile. I kept my head down, trying to stop. Wishing I knew how.

  “Ledger, look at me!” Dad kept saying. “Just take a breath and look at me.” I couldn’t meet Dad’s eyes—not while I was destroying everything around me. I knew I was a disappointment to him in every possible way. I’d never get to run the half marathon now. One false step and I’d topple water tables and dismantle guard rails. I’d deconstruct the marathon clocks into split-second parts and pieces. Or worse, bust the bolts out of a row of port-a-potties in the smelliest cataclysm ever.

  Hearing a loud pop! I looked up in time to see two thick cables crash down into the garden, sparking and snapping like electric eels caught on dry land.

  “Watch the power cables!” someone shouted. “No one go near them!”

  “I suppose y’want me to do something with those?” I heard Rocket say.

  “If you’d be so kind,” Autry answered, his voice quick and tight as he shepherded kids and old people farther away from the mounting wreckage.

  “Happy belated birthday, Ledge,” Rocket growled as he moved past me toward the garden, picking his way carefully toward the fallen electrical lines.

  “Rocket!” Fe called out, making him turn. “Avoid the worst! Put safety first!”

  “No worries, little cousin!” he called back with a smile lit by the fitful flashes coming from the downed lines. “Just don’t try this at home!” As Rocket’s gaze fell across me, his smile vanished. The look that replaced it was sharp enough to make me suck in my breath.

  Rocket moved into the garden, stopping at the place where the cables twitched and seized among the radishes, igniting the air with lethal-looking volts.

  My mouth went dry as I watched my cousin pick up the fallen electrical lines like they were as harmless as a pair of green garden hoses. Pulling the two cables together in one hand, he clamped his other hand down over the sparking ends and held on tight. Electric currents shot up his arm and danced around his neck and chest.

  After draining the cables, Rocket moved back in my direction. Lit up and crackling, he came to a halt ten feet away, at what I hoped was a good, safe distance between an electric man and a demolitions boy. His shoulders rose and fell with every breath. The air around him seethed and shimmered.

  I tried to swallow. But couldn’t. My heart thumped so hard I thought it might explode. Instead, with a crack like thunder, the last beams of the barn’s roof fell in at once. Creaking and groaning, the walls followed, sending shards of wood flying in every direction.

  There was a sudden cry and all heads turned.

  “You’re hurt!” Mellie’s voice was soft as she tenderly touched Fish’s cheek. In the pale wash of blue light coming from Rocket, everyone could see the drops of blood that marred the front of Mellie’s wedding dress. My cousin wasn’t badly hurt, but his cheek was bleeding, gouged by something sharp and airborne—a nail or a splintered piece of wood. I knew Fish’s injury could have been much worse and was glad I was already on my knees. It made saying a prayer of thanks that much easier.

  Bitsy pushed her wet nose under my mom’s arm, trying to give me big, sloppy, reassuring dog kisses. The savvy monster inside me had worn itself out. The barn was like a straw hat sat on by an elephant; it couldn’t get any flatter. The awful prickling sensation was beginning to ebb. My hands no longer itched.

  “Why’s it always my face?” Fish asked as Mellie pressed a kerchief to his cheek. A mizzling smatter of raindrops licked the gravel around us, triggered by the pain in Fish’s cheek. But he could scumble his savvy, no problem, and the paltry rainfall ended as quick as it began.

  As soon as Rocket saw that Fish and Mellie were all right, he charged toward me, stomping so close I could feel every hair on my head and arms stand up.

  “You’ve got to be more careful, Ledger!” Rocket shouted. “You’d better learn that quick!”

  “Back off, son.” My dad was on his feet, stepping between me and Rocket.

  I opened my mouth to say something.

  Anything.

  Sorry, maybe.

  But before I could form a single word, a siren chirped in the distance and Rocket turned sharply. There was a collective gasp from the assembled crowd. No one could mistake the sight or sound of the sheriff’s vehicle rumbling down the gravel road toward us.

  Rocket took off in a blur, headed for the hills. Of all the things that would be difficult to explain to the sheriff, Rocket’s bright blue glow just might top the list. But as the truck drew nearer I couldn’t help notice the dark gap where the driver’s door should’ve been, and I knew I might have some explaining of my own to do.

  At that moment, if Grandpa Bomba had had the strength to make the earth open wide and swallow me whole, I would have let him do it.

  Chapter 8

  WE ALL WATCHED THE SHERIFF PARK his truck and climb out of the hole where a door should have been. The last of the dust from the barn settled, revealing the dented silver yowl of the moon, and the basin of the ranch became a patchwork quilt of moonlight and moving shadows.

  Built like a pro wrestler long past prime, with muscles gone the way of beer and Jell-O, the sheriff strode forward, his gait a cautious saunter. As he pulled out a flashlight and aimed the beam in our direction, Uncle Autry moved to intercept him.

  “Sheriff Brown—Jonas—what a surprise.” Autry offered his hand to the officer, greeting him like an old friend.

  “What in blazes happened here, Autry? Your barn, it . . .” The sheriff trailed off, removing his hat and pointing it at the rubble.

  “It fell down.” Uncle Autry nodded, appraising the wreckage alongside the sheriff. My uncle crossed his arms and clucked his tongue once with a shake of his head, as if to say: They sure don’t build barns the way they used to.

  “I knew you were having a party tonight,” the sheriff continued. “But you’re supposed to raise the roof, not knock it in.” He panned the beam of his flashlight up the river toward the Bug House. “At least your spare’s still standing. Is everyone okay?” The flashlight’s beam came back around, moving between the wreckage and the scattered family members, some of whom were already leaving, shy of too much unwanted attention.

  “Dolly’s jars—all gone!” I could hear Great-aunt Jules bemoaning the loss of her sister’s savvy life’s work as she snuck toward her car. “Her wedding jar too! What a tragedy!”

  When the light from the sheriff’s flashlight caught the still-bleeding gash in Fish’s face and the drops of red staining Mellie’s dress, he let the beam linger and fumbled for his two-way, preparing to call for help.

  “Don’t tell me we were the only ones who felt that earthquake, young man!” Grandpa Bomba’s voice surprised everyone as it rose, quavering, from the overstuffed armchair that now sat in the middle of the drive.

  Sheriff Brown smiled at Grandpa, raising one eyebrow.

  “Earthquake? No need to worry about one of those, sir. There haven’t been more than two earthquakes worth paying any mind to in Crook County in the last hundred years.”

  “You’re probably right about that, Officer. You’re probably right.” Grandpa nodded and wobbled his head, but there was mischief in the old man’s eye. Grandpa sat straighter now, as if he suddenly remembered what it felt like to be twenty years younger and ten times stronger, and the ground under Jonas Brown poppled and surged, nearly knocking the officer off his feet. And whether it was the moonlight playing tricks on me, or something real, I thought I caught a glimpse of Samson Beaumont, now tall at sixteen, standing with his hand on Grandpa Bomba’s shoulder, as thin a
s a slip of shadow and just as transparent. But the moment I blinked, the vision was gone.

  “You’ve got to watch out for them aftershocks,” Grandpa said, giving me a wink that made me wonder if he was talking to me or Sheriff Brown.

  “That’s enough, Dad,” Mom told Grandpa, getting up from where she’d been crouched over me. Everyone sucked in their breath as Mom turned toward the unsuspecting sheriff. Slowly, Mom advanced on the officer, savvy smile drawn and ready.

  Dad pulled me up off the ground by my collar. “Here she goes,” he said under his breath.

  “Sheriff,” Mom said, “why don’t you tell us what brought you here tonight so that you can continue on your way. You can see that there’s nothing here for you to be concerned about.” Her smile grew wider. “You can forget about the barn now.”

  “Yes, yes . . .” Brown’s speech grew muddled. “Nothing here to worry about, nothing at all. I just came looking for a lost girl.” Forgetting about the fallen barn as Mom instructed, the sheriff turned back to my uncle. “Cabot’s girl has run off again, Autry. I’m sure she’ll turn up when she’s done chasing stories. But I’ve been making the rounds, in case anyone’s seen her.”

  “Sarah Jane?” A deep frown creased Autry’s brow. “Sorry, Jonas. I haven’t seen her. How long has she been gone?”

  Brown snorted his reply. “Just since this morning, but you know Noble Cabot. He’s got me out combing the hills. Sarah Jane slipped past the housekeeper before breakfast.”

  “What makes you think she might have come this way?”

  Brown scratched head. “Willie said she was in his shop earlier today making copies of those tomfool papers of hers.” He smiled. “That one about Bigfoot staying at the bed-and-breakfast really had me going—I almost dropped by to take a look. That girl writes whoppers and steel traps where other folks write words and sentences.” Finding himself chuckling, Brown stopped and straightened his belt.

  “Apparently, Sarah Jane took off at the same time as a couple of other kids who were in his shop today: a young girl wearing a football helmet and an older boy—brother and sister maybe. Willie said the girl mentioned your ranch and the wedding here tonight. So I thought I’d give it a shot.

  “I was also hoping the kids might’ve seen what happened here,” he added, pointing his flashlight toward the large hole in his vehicle. “My truck got busted up about the same time the kids were in Willie’s shop—my truck and one of Gus Neary’s motorcycles, which fared a heap worse. The entire thing’s in pieces. Looks like someone took the whole bike apart quicker than grass through a goose.”

  I held my breath as everyone but the sheriff looked from the truck . . . to the barn . . . to me.

  Sheriff Brown, and maybe seven-year-old Tucker Beaumont, who stood picking his nose by his poppa, were the only ones who didn’t understand immediately that I was responsible for the destruction. All the destruction. Both here and in town.

  Autry raised his eyebrows. Dad cleared his throat and pulled me behind him quickly. Mom, Mibs, and Aunt Jenny all moved to block the sheriff’s view of Fedora where she knelt, picking up scattered jar lids the same way she’d scrabbled for her fallen change inside the five-and-dime. Having removed her helmet, she now filled it with as many loose lids as she could, like it was the pot of gold at the end of the disaster.

  The sheriff didn’t notice. He had other concerns.

  “I thought Willie was going to have a stroke worrying that he’ll be sent to the top of Cabot’s list just for letting Sarah Jane step foot inside his store,” Brown went on. “Like everyone else in these parts, Willie owes Cabot his pound of flesh—and more than a few mortgage payments. Listen, Autry . . .” The sheriff stepped closer to my uncle, lowering his voice. “The last thing you need right now is Noble Cabot thinking Sarah Jane’s been hanging round up here. It doesn’t take much for any of us to become a spindle in Cabot’s fire, and there’s enough trouble between you and him already.”

  “Nothing I can’t handle, Jonas.” Autry brushed aside the sheriff’s warning, but his hands clenched into fists. Marisol and Mesquite moved forward to stand closer to their dad.

  “Look, Autry,” the sheriff continued, “every time that girl takes off, old Noble gets cranky. And a cranky Noble Cabot is bad for Sundance. A cranky Cabot is bad for us all.”

  “Sarah Jane hasn’t been here, Jonas,” Autry assured the other man. I closed my eyes, feeling the low-down shame of knowing different.

  “What about the kids from Willie’s shop? Do you know anything about—”

  “It’s time for you to go now, Sheriff,” Mom cut in, smiling.

  Brown paused, checking his watch in the glow from his flashlight.

  “Time for me to go,” he echoed mechanically, moving back in the direction of his truck. “Let me know if you see hide or hair of Sarah Jane.”

  Watching the sheriff go, I began to shake.

  “ You all right, Ledge?” Autry asked, coming to stand next to me. I nodded, saying nothing, trying not to flinch as the snaps on my uncle’s shirt began to pop off one by one and ping into the gravel.

  Autry looked down at his missing snaps and shook his head. I wondered if this would be the final straw. The thing that tipped the scales and triggered a total meltdown tongue-lashing from my uncle. But to a guy who’d give you the shirt off his back, apparently a couple of snaps—and an entire barn—were nothing.

  When Autry looked up, he was grinning.

  “Dude, you are a bulldozer.” He shook his head again. “What a powerhouse. Imagine what you’ll be able to do once you finesse that a little.”

  I couldn’t imagine. I’d wrecked everything. The barn. The wedding. Dad’s dreams. Not to mention my hopes of ever having any kind of normal life. Where was the finesse in that? I’d even robbed Grandpa of the perfect comfort in his final days; all of Grandma’s jars were smashed to smithereens.

  All but one.

  And I’d let that one get away.

  While Sarah Jane Cabot may not have known what it meant to have a savvy, she’d seen enough to start asking all the wrong questions. Now, with Grandma’s last surviving jar, she had what every good reporter wants most: proof.

  As the lights of Jonas Brown’s truck disappeared over the south ridge, I prayed again. Prayed that this would be the last time I’d ever see the Crook County sheriff. Prayed that Mom and Dad wouldn’t go back to Indiana without me. Prayed that they wouldn’t leave me on the misfit ranch with the twins—with Rocket—just another three-legged dog, like Bitsy.

  But even as I prayed, I knew my prospects didn’t look too good.

  Chapter 9

  “YOUR MOM AND DAD SURE LEFT in a hurry yesterday.” Mesquite jostled my elbow at breakfast Monday morning, making the muffin on its way to my mouth bounce and roll to the end of the picnic table, where we sat at a safe distance from the O’Connells’ house. While the sun worked hard to warm the day, I worked harder to keep my cool. Gypsy’s puff of curly hair bobbed as she grabbed too late for the runaway muffin. Between Gypsy and Fedora there was a gap just big enough for Samson. Though, if he was sitting between the two girls, I couldn’t tell. Rumor was, Gypsy could see her spectral brother all the time. But she was the only one. I just did my best not to stick my hand through him accidentally.

  “Yeah, Sledgehammer,” Marisol chortled as she branded me with a new nickname. “Your folks ditched you and Fe pretty fast.” Marisol stopped my muffin before it hit the dirt, levitating it back up to hover over the table.

  “They both have jobs.” I bit off my words, trying to keep my temper in check. Snatching my muffin out of the air, I stuffed half of it into my mouth, unable to say anything more. Mom had told me to try to get along.

  Rocket was working in the garden and Autry was in the drive, signing for a package that had come overnight-delivery.

  It had been Autry who suggested that Fedora and I both stay. Mom had worried about leaving us. From the start she and Dad had planned a quick trip. Dad’s company was maki
ng cuts and he couldn’t risk losing his job by asking for time off. Mom would’ve quit her job in an instant, risking the mortgage and the car payment, if Autry and Dad hadn’t convinced her that a summer in Wyoming might be good for me—and for Fedora too.

  “Relax, Dinah. The kids will be fine,” Autry had assured Mom as she and Dad prepared to leave. “How many summers did we spend here as kids? Remember when the Beachams were here with us? We all ran wild—including you.” Autry grinned. “This place never did us any harm.”

  “You broke your leg here, Autry,” Mom stated flatly. “Your collarbone, too. You also fell in the river and nearly drowned before Cam Beacham fished you out. The two of you weren’t even dry before you wrestled him into a cactus patch and got nearly a thousand stickers in your—”

  “What?” Autry quickly cut Mom off. Then he’d winked at me and Fedora. “I don’t remember any of that. Besides, we’ll have Fe here to keep us safe.” My uncle gave Fedora’s new brain bucket a thump. Marisol and Mesquite had found an old motorcycle helmet in the attic for my sister after she gave her football helmet to Grandpa Bomba. Red and orange flames blazed across its scuffed white dome, making Fe as happy as a clam with a showy new shell. She’d been more proud yet when she learned that she, at eight years old, was old enough to stay at the ranch, while Tucker, at seven, was not.

  Mom sighed and Dad grabbed her hand, stopping her before she could reach out to comb my hair flat with her fingers.

  “Ledge will never learn to control this thing if you’re always doing it for him, Dinah.” He punched my arm with his free hand as if to say: Right, Ledge? I mustered a reluctant shrug, wishing I could crawl under a rock.

  “A boy’s got to fall a few times so he can learn to pick himself up and put himself back together,” Grandpa Bomba wheezed from his armchair on the porch. Stretched at his feet, Bitsy snuffled at Dad’s old football helmet. The helmet wobbled next to Grandpa’s chair, still packed full of jar lids, reminding me of all the memories of Grandma Dollop I’d destroyed the night before. Seeing Grandpa fumble through a football helmet full of useless lids was like watching someone eat crackers and call it cake.