Ruby Holler

  “I’m just glad you were there, Florida,” Sairy had said, before she hurried down the hall with the doctor. “I’m so eternally grateful for that. But I’m also sorry you were there, sorry you had to be so scared.”

  Florida tucked her chin inside the blanket to try to stop its quivering.

  “How come we have to wait so long?” Dallas asked. “When are they going to tell us if Tiller will make it?”

  Z sat up straighter. The boy is asking me a question. The boy is relying on me. “I’ll go ask at the desk,” Z said, trying to sound as if he knew what he was doing.

  Dallas inched closer to Florida. “It’ll be okay, I know it. Don’t be worrying, Florida. Nothing can happen to Tiller.”

  Florida’s chin dipped lower into the blanket. She hadn’t known she could worry so much about someone other than Dallas. She wanted to run down the hall and bang on all the doors until she found Tiller, and then she wanted to make him better and hear him talk again in his grumpy way and see his grin when he made a joke and watch him flip pancakes and talk about secret recipes.

  Z returned, awkwardly shuffling his feet, his hands hanging helplessly by his sides. “They don’t know much yet,” he said. Z stuffed his hands in his pockets and then pulled them out again. “Hospitals make me a little crazy. I’m gonna go find us some doughnuts.” And with that, he hurried from the room.

  “Kind of a strange guy, that Z,” Dallas said.

  Florida, spotting Sairy coming toward them, leaped up and raced toward her. She buried her head against Sairy, wrapping her arms tightly around her. “Maggoty river,” she said.

  “It’s okay,” Sairy said, stroking Florida’s hair. “I think our Tiller’s going to make it.”

  CHAPTER 58

  PREPARATIONS

  Z and Dallas and Florida were in the kitchen with Sairy. Bowls and measuring cups and ingredients covered the counters; flour and sugar dusted their clothes.

  “Sairy, you should see the gop we got,” Florida said. “Tell her, Dallas. Tell her about all our gunk.”

  “We’ve got mousetraps and lizards and worms and thumbtacks and nettles and—”

  Florida jumped in. “—and poison ivy and mashed blackberries and a dead mouse. Found the dead putrid mouse by the barn.”

  “Soon as we do our digging,” Sairy said, “I’ll go on back to the hospital. Tiller will be sorry he missed this, though.”

  “His heart attack is over, though, right?” Florida said. “It was only a little one, right?”

  “He’ll be fine,” Sairy said. “He’s already grumbling, so I know he’ll be just fine. We might be able to bring him home today.”

  Z sniffed the air. “What’re you cooking?”

  “Be-nice-to-orphans brownies,” Sairy said. “Might not work, but what the heck. Worth a try.”

  Outside, they dug beneath the marked stones and inserted the brownies in one hole, and the mousetraps and lizards and worms and thumbtacks and nettles and poison ivy and mashed blackberries and dead mouse in the other holes.

  “Now, for the final one,” Z said. “Picked these up at Vinnie’s Variety, just like Dallas suggested.” He held a bag out to show them.

  The previous night, after Z had left Ruby Holler, he drove into Boxton. In the alley, he saw Mr. Trepid scooting back and forth, peering out into the black night.

  Z passed him a folded piece of paper. “Took longer than I expected,” Z said. “Lot of territory up there. Lot of stones.”

  Mr. Trepid hurriedly unfolded the paper and aimed a flashlight at it. “Ah,” he said, and “So,” and “My, my.” He studied the paper. “Still seems like a lot of sites—”

  “Like I said, there’s a lot of stones up there. I tried to narrow it down, like you said.” Z leaned against the shack and gazed out into the dark night. “So, what’s next?”

  Mr. Trepid flicked off the flashlight. “I’ll take care of it from here on. Your work is done.”

  “What about the additional salary?” Z asked.

  “Like I said, if this produces results, you’ll get your bonus.”

  “And when are you likely to know if there’s any results?”

  “When did you say they’re coming back?” Trepid asked.

  “About a week, as far as I can gather,” Z lied.

  “I’d better get busy then,” Trepid said. “I should know the results before they get back.”

  “If you’re going up there, I’d say Sunday would be best, just to be on the safe side.”

  “Fine, fine,” Trepid said, motioning Z away. “Off with you then. I’ve got things to do. Things to do!”

  Later, alone in the shack, Mr. Trepid studied the map. A treasure map. He could hardly contain himself. Leaning against the table was a shovel, and on the table was a trowel and a sturdy empty sack. Mr. Trepid rubbed his hands together. A treasure map for Ruby Holler.

  CHAPTER 59

  INVESTMENTS

  Mrs. Trepid was furious. “What do you mean, you’ll be away all day?” she asked her husband. “What am I supposed to do with all those kids once they get back from Sunday School? You know Morgan’s off this morning. I can’t manage all these rowdy kids by myself.”

  Mr. Trepid rummaged in the closet until he found his old boots. “I told you, this is important,” he said. “It concerns the … the investments.”

  “Where would you be going dressed like that, in that old bowling shirt and those dirty boots? That doesn’t look like investment-checking clothing to me.”

  Mr. Trepid scurried past her to a chair, where he sat and stuffed his feet into the boots.

  “Do that outside,” Mrs. Trepid said. “You’re getting dried-up old mud on the carpet. Just like the kids.”

  He ignored her, lacing his boots and scooting over to the closet again.

  “You didn’t answer me,” Mrs. Trepid said. “How am I supposed to manage all these kids on my own, and where are you going dressed like that?”

  He turned and smiled sweetly at her. “I am sure you can manage one day on your own, and as for where I’m going, you needn’t worry your pretty little head about that,” he said.

  Mrs. Trepid hated whenever he referred to her pretty little head. It made her feel like a stupid little doll thing. “My pretty little head,” she said icily, “would just like to know where you are going. My pretty little head does not think that is too much to ask her husband.”

  There was one thing about his wife that Mr. Trepid particularly disliked. When she wanted to know something, she would hammer him to death with questions until he answered her.

  “I am checking on some land investments,” he said. “So I need to go look at the land. The land is out in the country. If these investments come through, we will not have to clean up after these kids anymore. We will go to an island in the deep blue sea. There! Is your pretty little head satisfied?”

  Mrs. Trepid didn’t answer him. She was looking at herself in the mirror, remembering the pale blue silk dress with the pink flowers and the gold necklace with rubies and opals.

  CHAPTER 60

  HOSPITAL TALK

  Sairy was seated in a chair beside Tiller’s hospital bed.

  “I want to get out of here,” Tiller grumbled. “Feel fine. Don’t like being cooped up like this. I want my creaky swing and lopsided porch. Don’t want anybody poking around in here”—he tapped at his chest—“cutting me open and messing around with things.”

  “You sure are grumpy,” Sairy said. “The doctor said you don’t need that bypass operation after all. With a little rest and watching your diet, you’ll feel like a new man in no time.”

  “Bypass! Makes me sound like a road. And I don’t want to be a new man. I want to be the old me.”

  “The old, crotchety boot I know so well?” Sairy asked.

  “The handsome old, crotchety boot.”

  They’d been talking most of the afternoon, full up to the top of their heads with things to say, and what they had to say wasn’t about each other or about
their trips or even about heart attacks or bypass operations. It was about the Hoppers and Cranbeps and Burgertons and Dreeps and Trepids and the Boxton Creek Home.

  “We can’t let Dallas and Florida go back to that place,” Sairy said.

  “I know it,” Tiller said.

  “Those Trepid people shouldn’t be running a home for kids.”

  “I know it.”

  “Tiller? I love those two kids. I love them to pieces, like they’re our own kids.”

  “I know it.”

  “Z said there are about a dozen kids in that Home,” Sairy said. “Poor things. It’s a crime. You think they’re all feeling as jittery as Dallas and Florida were when they first came here? Remember? How they thought we were going to make them sleep in a hog pen?”

  “Or was it a snake pit?”

  “I just can’t hardly bear to part with those two,” Sairy said.

  “I know it.”

  “And Tiller? I love the holler, too. I just want you to know that.”

  “I know it.”

  “And Tiller? Without you, I’m just a sock without a boot.”

  “I know it.” He gazed at Sairy. “Do you want me to say all those nice things back to you?”

  “No,” she said, tapping his chest. “I know it all.”

  “Good.”

  “So,” Sairy said, “you got any ideas? Can you think of any way to keep Dallas and Florida in the holler?”

  “I’ll sleep on it,” he said. “I’ll sleep on it real good.” Tiller leaned back, closed his eyes, and quickly opened them again. “Hey,” he said. “I just remembered something. When Z was in here, he said he had something he wanted to discuss with me after I get home. What do you think that’s about?”

  Sairy yawned. “Oh, probably nothing important. You know what he asked me? If I remembered what year his wife left! I told him I hadn’t the foggiest recollection. Now take a nap while we wait for the doctor to set you free. You need to rest up. Buddy and Lucy are arriving on Monday.”

  “Aw, they don’t need to come all the way down here,” Tiller said. “That makes me nervous, kids gathering around like I’m going to kick the bucket.”

  “And we’ve got that little Trepid adventure tomorrow, don’t forget.”

  “Trepid? That putrid—” Tiller pushed the covers aside and swung his feet over the side of the bed. “No time for napping. Where are my clothes? Where’s that doctor? Get me out of here.”

  CHAPTER 61

  MR. TREPID’S ADVENTURE

  On Sunday, Mr. Trepid turned off the main highway and drove down a narrower side road and then onto a bumpy dirt road which led into Ruby Holler. He didn’t see how anyone could live out here. Bumpy roads and no signs, no stores, no gas stations. What did a person do if he ran out of gas? What if he got hungry?

  As his car clunked and bumped along, Mr. Trepid thought about the red Cadillac convertible. He imagined himself driving along on a day such as this, with the top down, his arm along the door, the wind breezing by. He glanced over at where his wife would be sitting, her head leaning back against the seat, the wind blowing her hair. She wouldn’t be peppering him with questions. No, she’d be smiling to herself, happy to be riding along in a red Cadillac convertible with her husband.

  That old couple who lived up in the holler, what did they need so much money for? If they were stupid enough to bury it in a hole, he thought, then they’re practically begging for someone to find it and take it. If a person like himself was just out digging on a hillside and happened to find something, it was his, right? Finders keepers.

  When he reached the end of the dirt road, Mr. Trepid got out of the car and retrieved his shovel, trowel, and sack from the trunk. He patted his shirt pocket to be sure the map was still there and set off down the path.

  When he found the cabin, he studied the map, paced twenty feet away from the cabin, and spotted the first pile of stones. Quickly, he moved the rocks aside and plunged the trowel into the dirt.

  In the barn loft, Dallas aimed his binoculars at Mr. Trepid, Florida aimed a camera, and Sairy and Tiller kneeled behind them. Z was perched in a tree near the bear bush.

  Two hours later, Mr. Trepid was spitting mad. Dotted across the hillside were the remains of his digging efforts: stones and dirt cast aside in sloppy heaps. It looked as if a crowd of moles had engaged in a burrowing frenzy.

  He had not yet found the piles of money he was looking for, but he had unearthed some strange things. One was a packet of brownies. He’d tentatively tasted one. Not bad, he thought, but why are they burying food? Are they crazy? In one hole, he’d found only a tangle of leaves and berries, and in another, a mousetrap, which snapped on his thumb. He’d plunged his hand into a pile of stinging nettles in one hole, and into a clump of mashed blackberries wrapped deceptively in a leather pouch in another hole. He was nursing a dozen tiny thumbtack-pricks and a peculiar rash creeping up his arm.

  When Mr. Trepid had lifted one of the more promising-looking stones, three lizards raced across his boots, and one darted up his pant leg. Without thinking, he smashed the shovel against his leg. The lizard fell out, stunned, but now his leg was sore and bruised. That was pretty much the last straw for Mr. Trepid.

  Those conniving people, he thought. They have purposely put this stuff here to mislead anyone who might come looking. He studied the map. He’d investigated all but one of the holes and wondered if he should just give up and go home. Who knew what might be under that last pile of stones. Maybe a poisonous snake? Maybe something worse?

  Mr. Trepid made his way to the last stone marked on the map, kicking dirt clogs ahead of him, and smashing his shovel into tree trunks. When he reached the stone, he knelt down. This one had black swirly lines on it. Maybe a code? He tapped at the stone with his shovel, debating whether to move the stone and dig underneath. Oh well, he thought, it’s the last one. Might as well try. I have got to find that money. I can’t go home empty-handed.

  The shovel snagged what appeared to be a length of cord. He snatched at it, releasing a pouch from the dirt. Here we go again. Probably some stupid food. Nudging the sack with the toe of his boot, he felt something hard inside. He nudged again. Many hard little things. Marbles? Pebbles?

  He probed at the opening of the pouch with a stick, loosening it. Carefully, he took hold of the bottom of the pouch and tipped its contents out onto the ground.

  Yes! he thought. Payday! He could hardly believe his eyes.

  CHAPTER 62

  JEWELS

  Mr. and Mrs. Trepid sat on the edge of their bed, staring at the contents of the pouch, which Mr. Trepid had emptied on the bedspread.

  “Look at that,” Mr. Trepid said, scratching fiercely at the rash spreading up his arms. “Look at all those jewels!”

  Mrs. Trepid reached out tentatively, touching one of the red stones. “Rubies?” she said.

  Mr. Trepid gathered a handful of stones and let them fall back on the bedspread, where they scattered like colorful raindrops. “Rubies and emeralds and diamonds!”

  “But are you sure?” she said.

  Mr. Trepid laughed, dizzy with excitement. “What else could they be?”

  “But I thought you said … wasn’t it a land investment you mentioned?”

  “Look what I found in the land,” he said. “We’re rich. We’re bazillionaires!” He scratched at his neck. “This stupid rash.”

  Mrs. Trepid felt faint. She picked up one of the rubies, turning it around in her hand. “It’s so smooth,” she said.

  A knock at their door was followed by Morgan’s saying, “Ma’am? It’s me, Chief Gopher.”

  “Quick,” Mr. Trepid said, pulling the covers over the jewels. “Hide these.”

  “Ma’am?” Morgan called. “The baby is dressed. What do you want me to do with her?”

  Mrs. Trepid went to the door and opened it a crack. “Just take care of her, Morgan. We have some important business to do.” She closed the door and said to her husband, “Well? What now? How
do you turn those jewels into money?”

  Mr. Trepid had been thinking about that. He’d go to the jeweler’s, to the place where he’d looked at that nine-thousand-dollar watch. He’d take a few of the gems and see if the jeweler could give him an estimate of their worth. Won’t he be surprised? Mr. Trepid thought. Wait until he sees what we have!

  To his wife, Mr. Trepid said, “I’ll be taking these in for appraisal.”

  “Do you think … might I … may I keep one of those?” she asked.

  Mr. Trepid beamed. “But of course,” he said generously. He selected a ruby and placed it in her hand. “For you: a ruby.” He gathered up two more stones and dropped them one by one into her open palm. “And an emerald and a diamond.”

  The three gems sparkled in her hand. A ruby. An emerald. A diamond.

  “Where’d those brownies come from?” she asked.

  “Oh. Stopped at a bake sale on the way home,” he lied. “They’re not bad. Try one.”

  As Mrs. Trepid nibbled at a brownie, she heard shouting and the sounds of many feet tramping down the hallway. “And that island you mentioned?” she said to Mr. Trepid. “How soon do you think—?”

  “As soon as possible,” Mr. Trepid said. “I can smell the sea breeze already.” He rubbed furiously at his cheek. “Got any lotion? I must’ve picked up something out there in the country. It’s driving me crazy.”

  CHAPTER 63

  MISSION-ACCOMPLISHED CAKE

  Tiller, Sairy, Dallas, Florida, and Z were in the cabin kitchen, all tossing ingredients into a big red bowl.

  “This is our mission-accomplished cake,” Sairy said.

  “Needs lots of good stuff in it,” Tiller said. “You see anything you want to add, dump it in.”

  Florida added chocolate syrup. “Boy, that Mr. Trepid was hopping mad when those lizards got him.”

  Dallas drizzled some honey into the bowl. “And what about when that mousetrap snapped? Man, I could hear him swearing all the way up in the barn.”