Blossom Promise (6 page)

The announcer said, “This bull has only been ridden two times in two and a half years, so you may be seeing rodeo history here this afternoon. Here they come!”

Vicki Blossom put her neckerchief over her eyes. Maggie was astonished. Her mom had never had to hide her eyes before, not even when her dad rode. She watched her mother intently and then turned with equal intensity to the man who had just come out on the brindle bull.

“Look’s like a good-un,” the announcer said. “No, looks like a great one! Yessir, this is rodeo history—a hundred-and-fifty-pound man mastering a twothousandpound bull. Cody won National Champion last year in Las Vegas, and it looks like he’s going to be a champion today.”

Maggie said, “It’s over, Mom.”

Vicki Blossom dropped her neckerchief into her lap. Without the neckerchief, her face looked unprotected.

The announcer said, “Let’s watch the scoreboard—there it is, folks. Ninety! You have seen rodeo history this afternoon right here in—”

Maggie didn’t hear the rest. Her mom was on her feet, beaming. She was clapping so hard it must have stung her hands.

Maggie let her Popsicle drop down between the floorboards. It plopped unnoticed onto the dust below.

Then, with a sigh, she began to wipe the ice cream that had melted down her fingers onto her Wrangler jeans.

“Don’t let go!”

“I won’t. Don’t you let go!”

These were terse commands yelled loudly, although Michael and Vern were only ten inches apart.

Then: “Watch it!”

“I am. You watch it!”

“I am!”

Michael and Vern had looped vines around two small trees on shore. They had gradually let the raft and themselves out into the creek. At present they were exactly six inches from land.

It seemed a lot farther to the boys. The water swept around the raft, giving the impression that they were in midstream. The way the current pulled at the raft gave both of them new respect for currents.

Both boys were in a crouch like surfers in the curl of a wave. Neither boy felt secure enough to stand erect, and they kept glancing uneasily over their shoulders. The creek at their backs now looked as wide as the Mississippi River.

“This was a rotten idea,” Michael said in a strained voice. His vines were twisted so tightly in his fingers that the circulation was being cut off.

“You didn’t think so this morning.”

“That was this morning.”

“And now?” Vern’s voice was strained too.

“How many times do I have to say it? This was a rotten idea.”

“All right, if you think it’s such a rotten idea, all you have to say is that you want to quit.”

Vern looked at Michael.

Michael hesitated. “I’m not a quitter,” he said.

“I didn’t say you were a quitter, but if you do want to quit, now’s the time to say so.”

“Do you want to?” Michael asked.

“If you do.”

“No, you have to say it.”

Vern’s vines were beginning to fray. The outside bark had rubbed off on the tree, and the green inside was showing. The circulation in his fingers was cut off too. He didn’t have any feeling in his fingertips.

“I’m ready to quit,” he said.

“Me too,” said Michael. “Let’s pull back to shore.”

“But pull gently. We don’t want too much pressure on these vines. Mine are starting to fray.”

“Mine too.”

“Are you pulling?”

“Yes, are you?”

“Yes.”

“Then why aren’t we moving?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s the current!”

“I know. Just don’t let go.”

“I won’t. Don’t you let go.”

Vern tried to get a better grip on his vines. One strand snapped. The sound was as loud in Vern’s ears as gunfire, and just as frightening.

Vern edged closer to the side of the raft. His toes curled over the log’s edge. He judged the distance.

“Maybe we better jump for it,” he gasped.

“And lose the raft?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll count so we go at the same time. Don’t jump till I do, all right?”

Michael nodded.

Vern said, “One—two—three—”

Vern did not get to say the word “Go.” On the count of three, the last of Vern’s vines snapped. Vern fell back onto the raft. The raft swung out into the creek. Michael, set to jump, was slung sideways. He fell too.

The raft rocked dangerously in the water as the boys scrambled to their knees. They both had one thing in mind—jumping for shore.

Jumping was impossible. They were already in mid-stream.

Michael and Vern looked at each other in horror. Then they glanced down at the cold, muddy water lapping at their knees. The sail flapped wildly over their heads.

“How good a swimmer are you?” Vern gasped.

“Not that good,” Michael answered.

With sinking hearts, they watched the familiar part of the shore pass from view—the white roof of Michael’s house, the weather vane on the barn, the pecan trees.

“Then paddle!” Vern said.

“We lost the paddles when we fell!”

“Use your hands!”

In a crouch they began to pull their hands through the water.

“This won’t work. Break off some deck! Quick!”

“Good idea! Deck!”

Vern pulled on a board. It snapped off easily. Michael’s did too. They began to sweep the boards through the water, aiming for the closest bank.

“I think it’s working. Paddle hard.”

“I am! You paddle hard.”

The raft moved around the bend, got caught in an eddy and turned sideways.

“Paddle on the other side!”

“Right.”

The boys were so intent on paddling that they did not look up and see the bridge.

The bridge was a wooden one that led to the Houston farm. Normally it was twelve feet higher than the level of the creek. Now it was at the exact height of Michael and Vern’s heads.

The raft was on a stretch of straight water. It picked up speed. The boys were bent over, paddling. Vern was yelling, “It’s working!” when they hit the bridge.

They struck with such force that both boys were thrown forward. Their faces plunged into the creek. They inhaled water and came up choking for air.

They were hanging off the back of the raft. They pulled themselves back and clung, gagging and coughing, to the slick boards.

“The bridge,” Vern gasped. “We hit the bridge.”

“My head,” Michael moaned.

“Mine too.” Vern didn’t dare let go to feel the damage. “Can you paddle?”

“I don’t think so.”

“We’ll be at my house before long,” Vern gasped. “Can you yell?”

Yelling was the one thing that appealed to Vern. He had wanted to do it the moment the voyage began.

“Yes,” Michael said.

“We better start now.”

They threw back their heads and screamed at the top of their lungs.

“Helllllp!”

“Helllllp!”

“Helllllp!”

Junior squinted into the dark crawl space. He had called Dump five times, and Dump still had not come.

Junior didn’t like to go under the house. It was too dark, too scary, and it smelled funny. He was not going to go one inch farther than he absolutely had to.

“Where are you, Dump?” he called.

He heard the sound of Dump’s tail brushing against the ground.

“I hear you but I don’t see you,” Junior said.

He pushed aside his paper bag.

“Nothing works for me today,” Junior grumbled, getting ready to start crawling. “Pap won’t come when I call him. Now you won’t either, Dump.”

Junior wiggled forward, pulling himself along with his elbows.

“Well, I can’t do anything about Pap, but I can do something about you. I’m going to make you come, Dump.”

At last Junior had something purposeful to do. “You’re coming with me, frogs or no frogs.”

He stopped crawling when he mentioned frogs and looked down. He didn’t want to mash one. He didn’t want one jumping up in his face.

He peered into the darkness. A lot of bushes grew around the house—and these bushes were seventy years old, so they were big and thick. No sunlight came through. No fresh air got in either.

“I should have brought matches,” Junior said.

He propped his head in his hands to let his eyes get used to the darkness. He didn’t want to move until he could see exactly what was ahead of him.

As his eyes adjusted, he caught sight of Dump. Even in the dark Dump was easy to see because he was white with brown spots. “He’s just like a Dalmatian,” was the way Junior described his dog to other people, “only his spots are brown and his hair’s long.”

“Dump! I see you! Get over here!”

Dump wagged his tail, sweeping some dried leaves back and forth in the loose dirt.

“Didn’t you hear me calling you? Come on.”

Dump hesitated.

“Come on, Dump, nice Dump. Good dog.”

Pap had told Junior he had to speak nicely to Dump because Dump had had a hard life. “This dog,” Pap had said, stroking him gently on his lap, “this dog’s been kicked, he’s been hit, he’s been starved, and he’s been thrown into a garbage Dumpster to die. Now, every time you call this dog, Junior, and he don’t come, you remember what he’s been through. He’ll get to trust you, but it’s going to take time.”

“I’m not going to hurt you, Dump, I just want you to go somewhere with me.”

Junior pulled himself forward on his elbows.

Dump’s tail stopped wagging.

“I said I wasn’t going to do anything to you,” Junior said. “Have I ever hurt you? No. Have I ever hit you? No. Even if you did something wrong, even if you bit me, Dump, would I hit you? No. You might not believe this, but I have never, ever hit one single person or one single animal in my entire life.”

Dump gave a feeble wag of his tail.

“That’s better. Now, remember this. I’m not going to hurt you. I like you. Actually, I love—”

Junior stopped. A strange, musty scent hung in the still air. Junior had smelled this only once before, but he had never forgotten it.

He had been in the garden with Pap, weeding, when Pap had stopped. He had lifted his head, leaning slightly on the handle of the hoe. It was a hot morning; there wasn’t enough of a breeze to rustle the corn stalks.

“Smell that?” Pap said.

At first Junior could smell only the newly turned earth, and so he took in a deeper breath. There it was—a sweet, musty smell, the smell of old, dark bread.

“What is it, Pap?”

“Snake,” Pap said.

Junior scrambled to his feet.

“Anytime you smell that, Junior, you know a snake’s nearby.”

Now here it was again. The same sweet musty smell. Junior was smelling it for the second time in his life, and a chill went up his spine.

His eyes darted around the dim crawl space. He didn’t see the snake, but he knew it was there. Nothing else smelled like that.

“Come on, Dump, come on! We got to get out of here.” The urgency in his voice made Dump’s tail stop wagging.

“Come on, will you? Come on?”

Junior reached out to beckon. Dump took one step backward. And in that unguarded moment the snake struck.

Dump screamed with pain. Junior didn’t even know dogs could make sounds like that. Junior screamed too.

Dump leapt into the air, striking his head on the floorboards of the house. He twisted in agony and then he rushed past Junior so fast Junior didn’t have a chance to grab him.

Dump’s sharp yelps of pain grew fainter as Dump ran into the woods. Junior peered into the shadows. There it was, the snake. It blended in perfectly with the dirt, the dead leaves, the old wood. It was not a black snake.

In the cabbages that day, leaning on his hoe, Pap had told Junior about snakes. “They can’t hear, but they feel vibrations, Junior. That snake knows you and me are standing here in the cabbages.”

Junior knew that at the moment his whole body was vibrating so hard every snake in the county knew his exact location.

The snake slithered around the chimney and out of sight. Junior backed out of the crawl space fast. He scrambled to his feet and ran down the hill to the creek.

When he got to the bank, he started screaming,

“Pap, Pap, Dump’s been snake-bit. Pap, Oh, Pap!”

“I’ll see you back at the stables,” Vicki Blossom said to Maggie.

Maggie had been pretending to watch the bull fighting, but actually she had been watching her mother out of the sides of her eyes.

“Where are you going, Mom? I want to go with you. I’m tired of watching this.”

“I just want to congratulate a friend, Maggie. I’ll see you later.”

“Why can’t I come?”

“Maggie, we aren’t Siamese twins. We can be apart for five minutes, can’t we?”

“Cody Gray?” Maggie asked. “Is that who you’re going to congratulate?”

“Yes! You got any objections?”

Maggie didn’t answer, and her mom didn’t wait for one.

Things were beginning to click together in Maggie’s mind. Ever since they got to Tucson, her mother had been going out at night. “With the girls,” she said, but every night she had come home late. Maggie wasn’t sure of the exact time, but every morning it was harder and harder to get her mother up.

And her mom had started dressing up a lot for these nights with the girls. She’d even started painting her eyelids to match her outfits.

Maggie sat alone, going over these things in her mind. The bull fighting had started, but Maggie wasn’t paying attention.

In the arena, the bull ignored the fighter and ran after one of the clowns. The clown ran for a barrel and dove inside.

Joe Nevada laughed. “That’s the fastest that clown ever ran. I had a dog used to run like that before we cured him of worms.”

The crowd laughed. Maggie didn’t.

Maggie was suddenly tired. The sun … the noise … the dust. She wished she hadn’t eaten so much popcorn.

“Excuse me,” Maggie said. She crawled over the knees of the woman beside her. The woman took Maggie’s arm to steady her.

The woman said, “I can’t believe you’re leaving during the bull fighting. This is the best event.”

“I ate too much popcorn,” Maggie said.

“You kids never learn.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say never. Sometimes we do,” Maggie answered.