“Yeah,” Zack said, “she’s kind of new at it and all. But she’s not wicked or anything. Not like the stepmothers in Disney cartoons.”
“Well, that’s good,” Davy said. “Where’s your real mom?”
“Dead.”
“Sorry, pardner. I didn’t know. I just figured your folks got divorced or what have you.”
“She had cancer. Smoked too many cigarettes.”
“Dang coffin nails. Reckon you miss her, hunh?”
“I guess,” Zack said, but then he realized that maybe he could tell Davy the truth. “Well, actually, I don’t really miss her all that much.”
“Is that so?”
Zack shrugged. “My mother never really liked me.”
“I see.”
“She used to say I ruined her life.”
“Dang.”
“That’s why she always wanted to run away from home. Sometimes she would, too. She’d rent a room in a hotel and disappear for a couple days. And when she was home? She’d stay in bed until three or four in the afternoon. I’d come home from school and she’d still be sleeping. If I woke her up, she’d just tell me to leave her alone and light another cigarette because I was driving her crazy.”
“Sounds like a dern sad lady.”
“I guess. I didn’t mean to mess her up like I did.”
“Zack?”
“Yeah?”
“I ain’t no Seigfried Freud, but I don’t reckon you’re the one what messed her up.”
“No?”
“No, sir. I reckon she got that way long before you came along. You got enough nails there, pardner?”
“Yep.” Zack stuck a nail in his mouth and held it between his lips, just like he had seen a carpenter do on TV once. He was glad he’d told Davy the truth. It felt good to finally have a friend, somebody he could actually talk with.
“Ladder’s lookin’ galdern good,” Davy said.
“Unh-hunh.”
“I figure we oughta work our way up to that crook there,” Davy said, placing his hands on his hips and studying the tree. “Then we should start laying in some floorboards.”
“Unh-hunh,” Zack said, concentrating on his hammering. “We’ll need more wood.”
“My pops said we could take all we need from out behind the barn.”
“Cool!”
“Uh-oh,” Davy said. “Cheese it. Looks like we got company.”
Zack saw a big black Cadillac pull off the highway.
“It’s her!”
“Who?”
“The old lady!” Zack whispered. “The Wicked Witch I told you about.”
Zipper grumbled softly.
“Quick!” said Davy. “Over there! We can hide behind them sticker bushes and spy on her! We’ll be like Davy Crockett scoutin’ out the Injuns!”
“Okay,” Zack said.
Hanging out with Davy was fun.
Even when it was sort of scary, it was still fun.
Gerda Spratling had not seen her roadside memorial since the thunderstorm.
“Dear God in heaven!” She scrabbled up the path into the forest.
“Mr. Willoughby?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Call the police! Call them now!”
“The police, Miss Spratling?”
“Some vandal has chopped down my tree!”
“Is something wrong?” Judy came into the clearing near the stump. She had been in the backyard gardening when she heard an old lady screaming for the police. “Are you all right?”
“The tree!” Miss Spratling gasped. “What goes on here?”
“Lightning.”
“What?”
“The tree was hit by lightning.”
“Impossible.”
“No, not really. Sure, the odds are like a billion to one, but every now and then the lightning gets lucky.”
“What? How dare you make fun of my memorial!”
Judy realized who the woman had to be and felt terrible.
“Um—are you Gerda Spratling?”
Miss Spratling fell to her knees.
“I am so sorry,” said Judy.
The elderly lady stretched out her trembling arms and tried to wrap them around the stump.
“We just moved in last week and…”
The old woman wailed.
“We found the cross and flower bucket….”
She wailed louder.
“I was going to plant some flowers back here. Make a memorial garden.”
The wailing stopped.
“You were?” Miss Spratling sniffled back a tear.
“Yes.”
Of course Judy was lying, but she had to say something or the old lady kneeling in the dirt might give herself a heart attack, and one heart attack a week was enough for any backyard.
“I thought a small garden might make up for the terrible loss of your tree.”
The old lady’s face softened. Her head tilted down toward her shoulder.
“How very kind of you, dear.”
Judy knelt beside the stump and started digging a hole between two huge roots.
“A memorial garden will make Clint’s shrine even more glorious!” said Miss Spratling. “They ran him off the road, you know.”
“Really?” Judy scooped out more dirt.
“Oh, yes. June 21, 1958. I will never forget.” Miss Spratling stood and dusted leaf crumbs off her black dress. “You’re very kind to do this for Clint. What’s your name, dear?”
“Judy. Judy Magruder. Or you can call me Judy Jennings. I’m a newlywed.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, ma’am. I just married George Jennings. His father used to be the sheriff up here.”
Judy was too busy planting the flowers to see the old lady’s smile curl down into a frown.
“Really? My, my, my. Judy Jennings? What a lovely, lovely name.”
Zack, Davy, and Zipper tromped through the cornfield on the far side of the highway.
The sun had bleached the dead stalks to a watery shade of brown. As they slogged across the muddy field, Zack’s socks squished.
“How much farther?”
“Well, pardner, the lumber pile’s clear up yonder. Out behind the barn. Sure is a swell day for a hike, though, ain’t it?”
The air was thick, bugs were buzzing around his ankles and his eyes, the smell of rotten cornstalks baking in the sun was everywhere, and Zack couldn’t even see a barn.
Just swell.
“Don’t this dang meadow smell sweet?”
“I guess,” Zack said. He thought Davy had a funny way of talking.
Must come from growing up on a farm or coming from Kentucky.
But Zack didn’t mind. He liked Davy, even when he used weird words like “swell” and “keen.” Or when he called him “pardner” or “sport.” Sure beat being “Barbie.”
“Maybe we ought to skirt up there alongside the road. Stick to the shade under them trees.”
“Good idea,” said Zack, slapping at some kind of bug burrowing into his ear.
“I figure if we can lay in the tree house floor this afternoon, we’ll be off to a swell start,” said Davy as they trekked through the trees. “We’ll build us a regular crow’s nest. Just like a pack of pirates!”
“Yeah! We can make people walk the plank and stuff!”
“Sure. It’ll be swell!”
They stepped into a sunny spot.
A man blocked their path.
A businessman dressed in a brown suit with a white handkerchief tucked into the breast pocket. He was wearing a hat like Zack had seen in old movies. A fedora, they called it.
“Hey there, fellers!” The businessman leaned into the sunlight. “Off on a scavenger hunt?” There was a boxy sample case sitting on the ground near his shiny shoes. He carried a raincoat tucked under his arm—even though there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky.
“I heard you two are building a tree fort!” said the businessman. “Well, boys, I’m the top aluminum-siding salesman in these parts. Clarence W. Billings is my name and—”
“We don’t need no galdern aluminum siding,” said Davy.
“We’re just building a tree house,” added Zack.