Tom Sawyer and the Ghosts of Summer, page 8
"Then we'll wait a little longer."
They brought out their coins and spread them on Rob's shirt on the ground.
"Let's see…" Wally picked out three Liberty Head nickels. These aren't really valuable. I can spare them."
"That looks like a pretty good buffalo nickel," Matt said.
"That's the one we fooled Ray Collins with."
"Oh, yeah," Matt laughed. "You weren't in on that," he said to Rob who didn't collect coins, "but we found a 1937-D buffalo nickel and filed off the back leg of the buffalo. See…" he held it out. "There was a misstrike at the Denver mint that year on some nickels and one of the legs is missing. A pretty rare and valuable coin. We thought we'd fool Ray since he collects buffalo nickels. We fooled him all right and he wanted to buy it from us. We sold it to him for two dollars. None of us had ever seen a real one. The next week we all went to a coin show at the bank downtown and there was a real three-legged buffalo. And it was the front leg that was missing—not the back. Ray got mad 'cause we cheated him. Didn't believe we were gonna tell him the truth and give his two bucks back. He can't take a joke."
"What have you got to add?" Wally asked.
Matt selected four Indian Heads of common dates worth less than ten cents each, and four Lincoln cents. Wally threw in a Standing Liberty quarter with the date worn off.
"Too bad we don't have some real gold and jewels," Rob said.
"I'm thinking about saving up and ordering an 1878 $2.50 gold piece in uncirculated condition," Matt said. "Saw it in the Bebee catalogue. I'd like to have at least one gold coin in my collection."
"Even if we had some gold or diamonds, I don't know if we should risk burying them," Wally said. "We might be able to take those two little gold hooks off your false tooth," Wally said, pointing at Matt's mouth.
"Then I couldn't keep it in," Matt grinned. "I'd have to go around gap-toothed." He'd worn a bridge since he'd broken off a front tooth at age eight when he fell on an icy sidewalk at recess. A dentist had pulled the root and made an impression for a removable bridge. "Can't make a permanent bridge until his teeth stop growing," the dentist had told his parents.
"I have too much fun with this tooth," Matt said. "I can flip it out with my tongue. You oughta hear my sister holler when I take it out at the table and rinse it off in her milk."
Rob and Wally grinned.
"Just about everything's happened to that tooth," Matt continued. "I've lost it over a railroad viaduct when a train was coming; I once spit it over the porch railing into the bushes with a mouthful of gristly meat I couldn't chew. It was covered with red ants when I found it. I was rolling it around in my mouth one day when I was sitting on the toilet. It fell out and went down between my legs. Couldn't flush until I'd fished it out with my hand."
"Yuuck!" Wally grimaced.
"Having a false tooth that comes out easy is a real adventure," Matt said.
"Hope I don't have to find out."
"This'll make a good treasure chest." Matt reached for the tin Band Aid box on a board they'd nailed up for a shelf. The box constituted their entire first aid kit. He dumped out the six remaining band aids, then wrapped the coins in his own clean handkerchief and stuffed it into the tin box, snapping the lid closed. "Perfect."
They adjourned the meeting. Wally went home for a shovel and stole his older brother's sketch pad.
Matt went to his house to pick up his Army surplus compass with the snap-down lid Wally had given him the previous Christmas. Then the three boys set off for the creek and beyond.
The summer solstice was nearly upon them and they made good use of the long daylight hours to hike, explore, and bury their treasure box. The spot they finally selected lay five paces due south of the tallest pine on what they dubbed Pine Hill. This was a long hill that rose between the confluence of their creek and an unnamed branch creek. With due ceremony and oaths sworn to secrecy, the Band Aid box was buried a foot under the sod. Wally found a flat rock to mark the spot and to conceal any sign of their digging.
Then Matt sat down and drew a map of the area on the sketch pad. Using his compass to orient himself, he started by marking "Magnetic North" with an arrow. Then he created a key of various symbols representing wire fences, board fences, pine trees, blackberry thickets, erosion prevention ditches, dense woods, poor road, fire site, and saplings. The map itself contained labels written right side up, at angles, upside down and on the edges. The identifying names were "Open Gate", "Big Field With Weeds", "Tallest Pine", "Devil's Drop-off", "Our Creek", "Thorn Jungle", "Bridges", "Ford", "Pine Cove", "Dark Side", "Path" and numerous others. On the reverse, he wrote, "Map showing Pine Hill on which Thorn Jungle is situated. Lines marked with red show various routes to Pine Cove". A certain, secret symbol was used to designate the actual treasure location—a symbol no stranger picking up this map, would know the meaning of.
When he finished, they all agreed it was probably the cleverest, most detailed treasure map they'd ever seen. Neither Captain Kidd nor Blackbeard could have done better.
CHAPTER 8
It was lunchtime, Matt was famished and nobody was home. He'd fully recovered from his bout of illness brought on by the chewing tobacco a day and a half ago, and now his body was craving nourishment to make up for a couple of missed meals and all the energy he'd expended.
"You're old enough to fix your own lunch," his mother told him before she left this morning to help with an all-day church bazaar. "You always make your own breakfast, anyway. You know where everything is."
His Dad was at work and Beth was up the street shepherding their five-year old brother, Pat, and six-year old sister, Peggy, at the Moreau Heights School summer program.
Matt looked around the kitchen. Maybe a baloney sandwich with cheese. Naw. Heating up a can of soup had no appeal. He opened the fridge and stood surveying its contents. Not even any good leftovers from the night before.
His mother had been promising to make French fried potatoes but, as yet, she hadn't gotten around to it. That's it. He could make his own. How hard could it be? All he had to do was peel a couple of small potatoes, slice them to whatever thickness he wanted, then deep fry them for a few minutes in grease. He was feeling the thrill of experimentation.
He found the vegetable oil in the cupboard and emptied the bottle into a pot with a handle. Then he set the pan on the stove, turning the gas burner to high.
While the oil was heating, he peeled two potatoes, slicing off more potato than skin, and still missing the eyes. How'd his mother make this look so easy?
Just as he was slicing the potatoes into strips on the cutting board, the smoking oil burst into flame. He jumped back, eyes wide and heart racing. Where was the fire extinguisher? Or did they even have one? He couldn't call the fire department; he had to put this out himself. The leaping flame was contained within the circle of the deep pan. He got a grip on his panic. First thing to do—somehow get the pan outside where it couldn't do any damage. The door to the attached garage stood open. Snatching two hot pads from a wall hook, he cautiously approached the burning oil. Leaning far back, he wrapped the hot pads around the handle and lifted the flaming pot from the stove and backed toward the door. He bumped open the screen door with his back and, holding the pan level, stepped down the two steps into the empty garage and out toward the driveway. Maybe he'd better set it down on the level concrete floor just at the door of the garage. It might spill flaming liquid if he put it down on the sloping cement driveway.
He let out a deep breath. So far, so good. Now to put it out. He dashed back inside, turned off the gas stove, then snatched a pitcher and filled it at the kitchen sink. Back outside he stood back a few feet from the pan, and tossed the water on the flames.
WHOOSH!
He fell backward, feeling the blast of heat on his face. He'd enraged the fire gods for sure. A column of flame shot upward, scorching the white paint on the garage ceiling and the lintel of the doorway. Oil was spattered all around on the concrete. The flames hissed and sizzled, but died down. Matt swallowed a time or two and put a hand to his face to be sure he still had eyebrows and skin. He grabbed a shovel from a corner of the garage and scooped dirt and manure from the flowerbed to smother the flames. When he was a little boy, he'd wanted to be a fireman when he grew up. Not anymore.
What a mess! The white paint was blackened and blistered, the floor was spattered with oil, the pan was full of dirt. He had to clean up before anyone got home and saw this.
He was only half finished when his sister, Beth, arrived home with the siblings. When it was anything that might get him into trouble, she always pretended to be outraged, as if anything he did was her responsibility. The kitchen smelled like burning grease, he couldn't find the ladder to reach and scrub the garage ceiling, so he left it. He cleaned up the pan and made a half-hearted attempt at cleaning the concrete, but Beth made sure all the details were related to their parents later that day.
He could tell his mother was irritated, but said little as she finished cleaning up the kitchen and opened all the doors and windows to air out the smell.
"It was an accident," his father said, with uncharacteristic gentleness when Matt apologized. "I hope you learned your lesson; never put water on a grease fire."
Matt would never forget.
"Just don't be doing any cooking when nobody else is home. That could have been a disaster."
"Yessir." Matt thought his father's words were actually tinged with relief that the house was still standing.
Next morning, Matt resolved to get away somewhere for the day and let things settle down a little. He rode his bike down to Robbie's early. Rob had nothing planned for the day, so he borrowed his brother's bike and the two of them set off toward town.
Winchester '73 was still playing at the State Theater, but it was too nice a day to spend any of it indoors at a matinee. The show wouldn't open until after lunch, anyway.
They rode on down High Street, coasted down the hill past St. Peter's School and on out several more blocks until they began to run out of town along a road that followed the Missouri River. The peace of a country road, wind in their faces blowing their hair and fluttering their shirts, the quiet and freedom of the open road—it didn't get any better than this. The road narrowed to a two-lane blacktop with weedy fencerows. The day was warm and the air smelled fresh and clean. The lonely trill of a meadowlark emphasized their solitude.
Matt was alive to all the little details, hearing even the hum of his spinning wheels and his tires on the blacktop.
Rob rode up alongside. "Where are we?"
"Don't know. It's great to be out exploring new territory."
"Let's go!" Rob sped away ahead of him, leaning into a curve.
Matt was too relaxed for racing, but he pedaled to pick up speed and his tires hummed along as he gradually caught up. He began to sweat in the humid air but the cooling wind roared past his ears and dried his shirt and skin.
Rob slowed down and they rode side by side for a time, taking in the scenery. Now and then they caught a glimpse of the Missouri, still running full, shining between dips in the bluffs. Matt imagined himself as one of the Hardy Boys, riding his motorcycle along the shore road.
They must be at the backside of beyond by now, Matt thought, glancing over his shoulder toward the distant town. How many miles had they ridden? Five? Ten?
"Let's see what's down that road," he yelled at Rob, pointing at a dirt road that branched off just ahead.
They slowed and bumped off the pavement onto a one-lane dirt road. Apparently seldom used, it was only two parallel tracks with weeds growing up in the middle. The road wound through a field, and finally, a half-mile farther, went through an open gate into a farm yard.
Matt braked, wondering if the farmer would run them off. But there was no sign of life anywhere—no chickens, no dogs, no trucks, no tractors. A two-story, unpainted farmhouse showed signs of abandonment. Weeds grew up around a roofless front porch.
Rob stopped and they got off their bikes, putting down the kickstands. "Nobody home."
"Doesn't look like there's been anybody home for a long time."
"Let's explore."
They wandered around, not even checking to see if the front door was locked. Several outbuildings were scattered around. One—a doorless implement shed—held an old hay rake. A harrow sat rusting in the weeds, the mules that pulled it long gone.
"Abandoned," Rob said. "Reckon they got flooded out by the river?"
"Don't see any sign of flooding. Doubt if the river could get up this high. If so, it would've got them last month."
"Yeah," Rob agreed. "More'an likely, they went bust trying to farm."
"This place sure needs a paint job," Matt said. "I'm surprised those windows aren't all busted out." He surveyed the big house. "Reckon you could hit one of those windows way up yonder?" He pointed at a window on the second floor.
"Gimme a small enough rock and I could do it," Rob said. He started looking around on the ground and finally picked up a disc-shaped rock that could have been skipped across a pond. He placed his forefinger on the edge as a guide to spin it flat.
Uncoiling like a medieval catapult, he whipped the rock sidearm into a high trajectory. But his aim was off and the missile bounced off the window frame.
"My turn," Matt said, looking around for a rock of suitable size.
He fired an overhand shot, and missed. "That's harder than it looks."
Each boy tried twice more and missed.
"We're too close. Let's back up so we don't have to throw straight up."
They backed off another ten yards.
Matt's rock finally found its mark, smashing the pane. Shards of glass tinkled down onto the front stoop.
From then on, they kept score, and moved the firing line back ten feet every time they broke a window.
When they finished with the upstairs and the garret, they went for the downstairs windows. By now they had the knack and finished with eight windows completely shattered. Their arms grew weary and they were dripping sweat in the humid, windless air. "Let's knock off for a while," Matt said, wiping a sleeve across his brow. "I'm gonna take a look around."
"Wonder if you can see the river from here." Rob strode off around the house.
Matt spotted a small outhouse with the door hanging by one hinge. He pushed the door aside and went in. It was a two-holer, but there was no odor. Apparently, it hadn't been used for years. Something was stuffed down in one of the holes. Duck decoys. He pulled two of them out, their faded paint showing faintly under a layer of dirt and cobwebs. "Hey, Rob, look what I found." He stepped out of the privy, holding a decoy. "Somebody hid these in here. Musta been some duck hunters on the river slough."
Rob was standing still by the side of the big house, staring at a car that pulled in, blocking their way to the gate.
A man got out and surveyed the shattered glass in the windows. "What do you boys think you're doing? This is private property."
"Oh, no!" Matt's stomach fell down amongst his bowels. He tossed the decoy back inside the outhouse.
"I want your names and where you live." The man pulled out a ballpoint pen and small notebook.
Frozen with fear, Matt could see himself being sent to reform school at Boonville. Yet, even this vision didn't compel him to lie.
"Matthew, a man called me today about you," his father said, confronting him in the living room later that day. "I guess you know what it's about."
"Yeah," Matt answered, barely above a whisper.
"Frankly, I'm ashamed of you. Whatever made you do such a thing?"
"I dunno." He really had no explanation. Then his only defense popped into his head. "We thought the place was abandoned and falling down. We didn't think anybody would care."
"You might have known somebody owned it."
Matt was silent, eyes downcast.
His father seemed to be holding his anger in check, trying to find the right words.
"You don't go around damaging other people's property, even if it is abandoned. That's the same as stealing. As it happens, that farm hasn't been lived on for some time, but a realtor has it up for sale. He was the man who caught you there today." He paused, and Matt dreaded the sound of that silence. He stood there, mortified, and wished he could somehow disappear down that hole in the outhouse with those dusty duck decoys.
"You'll pay for those windows," his father continued, "with your allowance and whatever money you have in your bank upstairs. And if you don't have enough, you'll work it off."
Matt nodded that he understood. "How much?"
"The man said he'd let me know."
"I've got seven or eight dollars saved up." Maybe his father would forget he still had the $14 he'd found in the billfold on the sidewalk.
"Supper's ready," his mother said quietly from the doorway.
Matt felt relief rush over him at this interruption.
"We'll finish this talk later," his father said.
"Yessir."
Matt's stomach was in knots and, for the second time that week, he didn't feel like eating. It was a somber meal. Apparently sensing the tension, Beth and the two younger children were unusually quiet, glancing at Matt and at their father. Matt forced down one bite of each dish, then waited a decent amount of time and asked to be excused.
As he slunk away from the table, his father's parting shot was, "I told you last week to mow that grass and it still isn't done. I want it mowed tomorrow. Understand?"
Matt swallowed hard. "Yessir." He knew it was serious when his father got involved because he normally left the disciplining to Matt's mother. His father was a stern man and Matt, rightly or wrongly, always suspected that if his father ever lost his temper, he could do some serious damage to his oldest son.
Matt went upstairs and threw himself down on his bed, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling. It was hot, and the screeching of the locusts in the trees outside made it seem even hotter as the long summer afternoon wore on into evening and no breeze penetrated the screened windows. He thought of Rob and wondered what he was going through. Rob had no father at home to whip him, but maybe some other punishment was being enacted. There had been no mention of Rob having to pay for part of the damage.
