Blossom Promise (3 page)

“Pleeeeeeease!” Junior yelled louder.

Dump lifted his head. He had just seen something. Something in the distance, in the shadows around the chimney, had moved. Tail up, Dump got to his feet.

For a long moment he watched. He didn’t even seem to be breathing. Then slowly he began to move toward the chimney.

He took three steps. He went into a hunter’s crouch. His front legs trembled with excitement.

He was close enough now to smell the creature, and it did not smell like frog. He took three more steps. He stopped beside an old faded wooden crate.

Dump’s ears were pulled together in puzzlement. He had never seen anything like this before. He had never smelled anything like this either. He sat down tensely on his haunches to watch.

It was not a frog. It was long and coiled, and it watched Dump with bright, slitted eyes that never blinked.

In a crouch, Dump left the apple crate and moved forward. He was five feet away from his target now.

He pawed the ground again. Dump had long colt-like legs, and his movements were often more like a horse than a dog.

Still the long, coiled thing did not move. Dump went one step closer. He pawed the earth again. The long, coiled thing watched him with unwavering eyes.

Above him, on the porch, Junior yelled, “Pulleeease!” one last anguished time, but Dump was too intent on this thing under the porch to hear.

“Michael, where are you going?”

Michael and Vern stopped in their tracks. They were at the kitchen door of Michael’s house. Vern had been reaching for the doorknob. His mudstained hand froze in the air. Beside him, Michael swallowed aloud.

“Nowhere, Mom,” he said.

“Michael …”

“Mom, we were just going outside.”

“What’s that behind your back?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t like that kind of answer.”

Vern did not look at Michael’s mother. Vern did what he always did around Mrs. McMann. He watched the floor. He was familiar with all the floors in Michael’s house. He could not remember the color of any of the walls or the furniture, but he knew the floors. This was the artificial brick Congoleum.

Even though he was watching the floor, Vern knew, from the cold silence that followed, exactly what Mrs. McMann’s expression would be—disapproving. Nobody could say, “I don’t like that answer,” better than Michael’s mom. She turned it into a double accusation—she made Michael feel bad for giving the answer and Vern for somehow inspiring it.

“Michael,” his mother prompted.

She took off her glasses. This was even more ominous. Vern felt she could see directly into their minds without the protective tinted glass.

Slowly Michael brought the paddle out from behind his back.

“That’s the paddle to your father’s pontoon boat, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“What were you planning to do with it?”

Both of the boys were watching the floor now. Michael did not answer.

“Look at me, Michael.”

Vern was glad he didn’t have to look at her. Even if she had demanded that he do so, he wasn’t sure he could.

“You boys were not planning to put your father’s boat in the creek, were you?” There was genuine horror in her voice now.

“No, ma’am!” Michael said emphatically. He met his mother’s look with equal horror. His voice rose with shock and relief. “Dad told us never to use the boat without him.”

“Yes, but—”

“I would never take the boat without permission. I promise. I only wanted the paddle. Mom, that’s the truth. I would never—”

“I believe you, Michael.”

There was another silence. Vern waited, shoulders hunched tensely for the next question. It would be, “Then what were you going to do with the paddle?”

When Michael answered it—and Michael didn’t lie to his mother—then the trip down the river would be over. Michael would not be allowed to go, and neither would he.

Michael’s mother often said, “Now, Vern, your mother would not want you to do that.” Vern had stopped saying, “She doesn’t care what I do, Mrs. McMann! Honest!” because that answer seemed especially displeasing.

“Vern,” Michael’s mother said.

Vern shut his eyes. His shoulders got ready to take a hard blow.

“What have you got behind your back?”

“Me?”

He looked up, as surprised by his question as Michael had been.

“Yes.”

Vern brought out a can of Mello Yellow. He had instinctively hidden it because he and Michael were going to use it to christen the raft. Vern knew Michael’s mother would somehow sense that this was not just a normal can of pop, that it was going to be used for something she would not approve of.

To his surprise, Michael’s mother actually smiled.

“Can we go now?” Michael asked quickly, seizing the opportunity of a lifetime—that was how it seemed to Vern anyway.

“Yes, you can go.”

Both boys turned to the door. Vern’s muddy fingers curled around the doorknob.

“Only, Michael—”

Both boys stopped.

“Put the paddle back where you got it.”

“Yes’m.”

“I’ll wait outside,” Vern said quickly. He rushed out of the house. He stood in the middle of the yard, gulping in the clean, fresh air like a man just out of prison.

Vern was still standing there, breathing through his mouth, when Michael joined him. “Anyway,” Michael said, “we can get along without the paddle. All we really needed it for was to make sure we ended up on your side of the creek. Boards will do. I mean, we don’t have to paddle our way down the creek or anything. That’s what floods are for.”

Vern turned to Michael, and he used an old expression of Pap’s. “I thought we were goners,” he said.

“Mud, now that’s what I call a flood,” Pap said.

Pap was standing at the edge of Snake Creek, watching the water sweep around the grove of willow trees.

“Right over there is where you and me sit and fish.” He shook his head. “Only our rock is five feet under water. No telling what the fish think about all this.”

Pap turned to look down the creek. Again he shook his head.

Beyond the willow trees, the creek left its banks entirely and took a shortcut through the Edwards’ field. The whole pasture was under water. Only the tips of the fence posts stuck up, and the barbwire between was strung with trash. The Angus cows had been moved to higher ground.

“You’re never going to see more water than this in your whole life, Mud. The valley’s more water now than it is land.”

Pap’s old eyes shone. From the time he was a boy, Pap had had a fascination with water. He’d almost drowned four times before he reached the age of ten.

He had just finished telling Mud about the first time—he was one year old and he fell into the toilet which his family had just gotten installed. It was the first indoor toilet in the history of the Blossom family, so naturally it was a fascinating thing to all of them.

If his mother hadn’t heard the splash and come in saying, “Alec, if you’re playing in the toilet again, I’m going to wear you out,” well, he wouldn’t be here today.

Now, as he and Mud started around the flooded pasture, he began telling about his second near-drowning. Mud broke away to take a shortcut. He ran through the shallow water, his long legs glistening in the sunlight.

Pap kept walking slowly, taking the long way around, the way that favored bad knees.

“Mud, I had a brother Jess that was a lot like Junior,” Pap said, even though Mud was too far away to hear him now. “Jess would make things, only he wouldn’t test them himself the way Junior does. He had better sense. He’d get us, his little brothers, to test them. I was the water man. If it had anything to do with water, then Jess would offer it to me.”

Mud ran back. He leaped nimbly over a fallen tree. Pap climbed over, holding on with both hands.

He sat for a moment on the wet wood, giving his knees a rest.

“One time it was floating shoes. Jess swore I could walk clear across the pond and not even get wet if I’d put them on.”

Mud circled back around the clearing with his nose to the ground, on the scent of something. Pap got up slowly and started walking.

“I put up a little struggle, but I ended up letting him tie the fool things on my feet. They was inner-tubes folded in half with my feet tied in the middle.

“Well, I went out on the dock where we fished. The floating shoes was big clumsy things, but I knew they’d float because they were blowed up tight.”

Mud paused at the foot of a large tree. He looked up intently into the dripping branches. His look sharpened. His ears flopped back. In a bound he put his paws on the trunk and let out a piercing bark.

“What is it Mud? Possum?”

That was Mud’s attack word. Whenever Pap used it—whether he was pointing to a hole in the ground with his boot or a cat in a tree, Mud knew what was expected of him.

Now he began leaping excitedly up the trunk of the tree. His high, shrill barks rang through the afternoon air, above the roar of the creek.

Pap looked up the tree. “Well, it is a possum for once, Mud.”

Pap watched the possum. It was a miserable ball of wet fur curled in the shelter of a forked limb.

“He probably got flooded out of his home. We won’t give him any more misery than he’s already got. Let’s let him be, Mud.”

Mud did not obey immediately. Pap had to say “Let him be” one more time before it had the desired effect.

Mud got down reluctantly. “Good dog,” Pap said. As they started around the field, side by side now, Pap took up his story.

“Well, Mud, I went out there on the dock, waddling like a duck. I was just going to take a few steps with my brothers holding me, but soon as I got my feet on the water, they let go.”

The memory caused Pap to pause for a moment, drawn back in time. He put out his arms the way he had that July Sunday, then he shook his head.

“Oh, them shoes floated all right, Mud. Jess was right about that. They floated. Only I didn’t. I was turned upside down in two seconds flat.

“My brothers never were ones to do the smart thing. They went running to the house, yelling ‘Mama, Alec’s drowning!’ If they knowed I was drowning—which I was—why didn’t they jump in?

“I couldn’t hear none of this. I was too busy holding my breath. Well, my mother dove in wearing her Sunday dress and an apron. It was the first time she was ever known to go in water willingly. My brothers dove in too—and then the hired man came up and saw everybody jumping in and he jumped in too. Between the five of them they turned me right side up or I’d not be walking along the creek today.”

Pap paused again to watch the creek. “This is the worst flood in the history of the state. If the rain had gone on, let’s see”—he paused to figure it out—“twenty-two more days, it would have been as bad as the flood in the Bible.

“Everywhere you look, Mud”—he turned his head to take it all in—“there’s fine old fields covered with water, chickens floating away on pieces of chicken houses, trees that I’ve leaned on for years looking like they could use my help now.

“I tell you, Mud, if this creek don’t stop rising soon, there ain’t going to be no more valley.”

There was only one contestant left in the saddle bronc riding event, but the announcer was reminding the crowd, “It ain’t over till it’s over, folks, and here in chute number eight is Spitfire.

“Folks,” he went on, “this horse does everything right except that his clutch slips. Here he comes! It’s a snappy ride. It’s a good one! … That’s a sixty-seven score for Scooter. Let’s pay them all off, folks.”

There was applause for all the bronc riders. The applause grew louder as the winner came in and raised his hat to the crowd.

Maggie was waiting at the south end of the arena, behind the gate, with the other Wrangler Riders. The winner of the bronc riding event went back to the chutes.

Then the gate opened, and Maggie’s heart stopped beating. Beyond the other Wrangler Riders she could see the arena … the crowd …

“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” Joe Nevada said, “the Sixty-first Annual Tucson Rodeo is proud to present the Wrangler Riders. This is a thank you from Wrangler to all of their many customers over the years.”

The band began to play. The music was so fast, so furious, Maggie couldn’t even tell what the song was. The first Wrangler Rider—B.B.—kicked her horse, let out a war whoop, and rode into the arena.

B.B.’s specialty was Indian riding. She went around the arena as fast as the music. As she passed the grandstand, she dropped under her horse, came up on the other side. On her second pass she hit the ground and vaulted back on her horse. The crowd burst into cheers.

“And now, folks,” the announcer said, “here’s Sadie the Lady Williams.”

Sadie came into the arena riding two horses; both of them were black. She rode gladiator style, with one foot on one horse, one on the other. As she passed the grandstand, she stepped onto one horse and raised her hat. On her second pass she jumped nimbly back and forth. The roar from the crowd filled the air again.

“We’re proud to have Vicki Blossom back with us today. We’ve missed her. Here she comes, folks. Let’s give her a rodeo welcome home.”

Vicki Blossom did a headstand on her first pass. Maggie watched her from the gate.

Maggie’s heart had moved up and lodged in her throat. She couldn’t swallow. She tried to wet her lips and tasted dust. The blood was pumping so hard in her neck she could hear it above the roar of the crowd.

Her mother was back at the gate. Her horse reared. “Come on, shug,” she said to Maggie. Maggie dug her heels into Sandy Boy.

In a daze she heard the words of the announcer.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we got a three-generation cowgirl with the Wranglers this afternoon—Maggie Blossom. Her granddad was Alec Blossom, the best rope twirler I’ve ever seen, her dad was Cotton Blossom, a world champion, and that’s her proud mom, Vicki Blossom, on the yellow horse.”

Maggie and her mom went around the arena, side by side. On their first pass, they hooked their knees over the saddle horn and dropped off the side of the horses. On the second pass, they did shoulder stands.