Otherwise Known as Possum Read online

  Muskrats, like so many of God’s creatures, never look up. Long as the wind was with us, we could sometimes sit so long and quiet as to catch a pair in an afternoon, enough to feed both our families.

  It was like that being with Tully, as comfortable and calm as muskrat trapping.

  I followed the creek like usual, so when I rounded the last tree, I came to a full-on stop and nearly fell in. I couldn’t believe what my eyes were seeing.

  Behind the tree was an embankment, if you knew where to look. The tall oak with the swing had no lower branches, which made it perfect for keeping out busybodies. In the tree was our swing, which we kept tucked in the crook when not in use. Daddy made it for us from a smooth, sanded board and two thick ropes that filled our hands with little twiney splinters till Momma discovered what Daddy had done and gave us rags to cover the rope where you put your hands.

  When you swung out over the embankment and the creek was full, like it was then, it felt like you were flying above treetops and oceans and the whole world. When I pumped my legs as hard as I could, that swing gave me a glorious feeling of flying, of freedom, of being able to go anywhere and do anything.

  But on that day, I felt like the board had fallen away beneath me and dropped me cold into the creek. For as I approached what I saw was Tully sitting below our tree, staring up moon-eyed. And when I followed his gaze, what I found at the other end was that Mary Grace Newcomb, whose piggy legs were sticking out from my swing!

  This was at least a double-triple betrayal.

  I reached for my flip but didn’t have it. Since I couldn’t bean either one of them, and seemed struck dumb to boot, I sat and just stared.

  Next thing I knew, a friendly breeze helped me hear some of what they were saying. Some folks might consider that eavesdropping, excepting as it was my secret place and my best friend and my swing, I figured it was my right to hear any words that might drift about in these here vicinities.

  Plain as her face, Mary Grace was talking dirt about me throwing a snakeskin at her ma.

  Tully smiled all big like and asked her didn’t she think it was fine.

  I saw Mary Grace’s face twitch like a billy goat’s.

  “Did—” She put her foot to the ground to stop the swing’s sway, and I was pleased to notice her shoes were muddied up to her socks. “Did you have something to do with that … thing, Tully Spencer?”

  Tully grinned like a brass band. “You don’t get hold of a fine skin like that every day,” he said proudly. “So ya liked it? Really truly?”

  Mary Grace sputtered up a cough. “It sure is … differ’nt.”

  I could’ve given her credit for being slippery, but I didn’t.

  “I could pro’ly get you another, if you wanted,” Tully said.

  I wondered how he planned to do that. Maybe off Mary Grace’s own backside. The snake.

  “No!” Mary Grace shouted. Then quieter, “No, thank you, Tully Spencer. I do believe one present from you is just about the right number.” She smiled at him like a sick calf. She fluffed her black curls. She blinked at him like she had dirt in those scum-green eyes of hers.

  And Tully looked like pulled taffy.

  I don’t know why I’d thought Tully would see through that shabby pantomime—maybe he’d been bit by a wild dog.

  Then he did the unthinkable, the unforgivable. He pushed her on the swing, and—I almost fell over—he commenced to singing. “I’ve told every little star / Just how sweet I think you are / Why haven’t you I told you? / Da-dumb, da-da-da-da-da-da-dum, da-dum-dum, dummy—”

  Actually, he sounded more like a bull moose in rutting season. And I was pretty sure he had most of the words—and notes—wrong.

  I hightailed it, scheming the whole while for something fitting to get back at Mary Grace, but nothing seemed terrible enough compared to stealing a person’s best friend and their swing and their Secret Spot, all in one rain-soaked afternoon.

  I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Tully had given everything away. Showed how little he thought of me. I felt like dirt on a worm belly, only worse.

  Were all boys and men so shallow and gullible? It occurred to me then, out of the blue, only the day was gray, that Jump Justice being a mature age fourteen would never treat a person like Tully was treating me or like Daddy was treating the memory of Momma. I was sure of it.

  Suddenly, I knew just where I wanted to be. I’d ask Jump for advice. He’d taught me how to tie a horsefly once. Maybe he could help now, especially with Tully, who seemed an equally knotty mystery. I swayed my hips and patted my hair pretending I had piggy curls as I watched my reflection in the creek. Was there something Momma hadn’t told me? Hips bouncing and giggle-simpering. But Momma had never done such silly nonsense. Still, I wondered what it was all about. Persons with common sense, the like of Daddy and Tully, turning all to mushy rotted potatoes over such silly lady stuff as bobbed hairs and lacey dresses.

  Next thing I knew, I found myself coming up on the Justices’ place. And wouldn’t you know, like if wishing could make it so, that once I had it in my head that I was looking for Jump, that’s when I ran into him. I mean, smack-crash into him, though he looked no worse for it.

  “Jarvis, you maggot milker!” he barked at me.

  I was flat on my back in the mud. When I sat up, I saw stars, and Jump saw me.

  “Possum Porter? You ain’t Jarvis. You awright?” He reached out a strong, tan hand and took mine, easily pulling me from the mud, which released me with a thwuck.

  “ ’Course I’m all right,” I said, mentally checking for broken bones. “You?”

  “ ’Course I am,” he said. “ ’S’you I was worried ’bout.”

  “Worried, really?” I looked at him looking at me and suddenly remembered to take back my hand, which I quickly wiped uselessly on my now muddy coveralls.

  “Not worried-worried, I mean—What the cock-a-doodle you runnin’ from anyway?”

  That bristled me. “Why you think I’m running from a thing, Jumper Justice? I ain’t afeared a nuthin’.” I pulled myself to my full height, despite sinking a little into the mud.

  Jump scowled. “Then how’d my milk get to be a mud shake?”

  I looked at the ground. Sure enough, a battered tin pail lay at my feet, traces of white bubbling into fresh wet tracks. “Oh!” I bent to pick up the pail. So did Jump.

  Crack!

  We straightened, each rubbing a forehead. I could feel a knot building.

  “Cricket spit, Possum. You okay?”

  “I said I was, didn’t I?” I summoned what dignity I could. “If you could just tell me where I could find June May … ”

  Jump grinned and pointed to the house. “Reckon you can make it without hurtin’ yourself?”

  My face felt hot with pique, and I spun on my heel. That was when I tripped on the pail and fell face-first into the mud.

  When I got up, Jump was nowhere to be seen. At least he had that much sense.

  I RAN INTO THE MUD ROOM off the kitchen and saw June May with her nose near the table, doing some sort of figuring. I let my teeth, which were beginning to chatter, announce me. Near right away the eyes in the back of her head told Miz Justice to turn from the counter, and she saw me dripping there.

  “Possum,” said June May, looking up. “How come you’re all muddy?”

  Without a word to me, Miz Justice sent the twins for well water. Then she took me by the shoulders toward the stove. “Peel off those clothes before you catch your death.”

  “Possum, Possum.” June May was singing my name and skipping around and around the table.

  I recalled one time those twins—Jessup and Jarvis—got sick real bad. GrandNam took over the home remedy and didn’t leave till the boys were safe and well. Miz Justice said GrandNam was an Angel of Mercy.

  That’s what I thought of when Miz Justice held up the big crazy quilt for me to wash behind. A definite snap hung in the air. I wrapped myself in the quilt, and Miz Justice gave me a q
uick hug. I felt her hard belly up against me and remembered Momma doing that same thing. I coughed out the sob building in my throat.

  “Possum, Possum,” June May sang again, settling into her chair like a wild bird that might take off again any moment.

  “Hush, girl,” Miz Justice said to her, and to me, “Hot drink now.”

  While the kettle spit, it shook quietly. When it whistled, Miz Justice gave me hot water with honeycomb to take out the chill, and while I sipped, she took a rag to my face and hands to get off some of the worst mud.

  June May had simmered down and settled deep into whatever she was working on, which she was being real secret about. Miz Justice shooed out the boys, who’d come back in to goggle, and let me set awhile before she asked, “You all right, Possum?”

  I didn’t know what to say, because I didn’t feel all right. Church-truth, I felt all wrong.

  Like she could read my mind, Miz Justice scooped me up and squeezed me until I thought I wouldn’t ever breathe again. “Lordy,” she said, “if Noralee could see you now,” and though it sounded like she was laughing, when she let me be, she looked weepy-eyed. She must have been chopping onions, only I didn’t see any around. Then she went out to rinse my coveralls.

  I sat by the warming stove thinking June May had forgotten me when she raised her nose an inch from her schoolwork, scratching on a bit of wooden tablet Daddy had given her from his own shop.

  “Possum,” she said suddenly, “what kind of candy you think would that Miz President Rosebelt like?”

  I was relieved this odd question had nothing to do with my mud bath. “Why would you ask a thing like that, June May?”

  June May thought an awful lot about candy. When Scottie had the store, me and June May would sometimes go and look at the rainbow-colored jars behind the counter. Well, I looked; June May studied. She even moved her lips like Conrad Harris did when he was reading.

  On paydays, when Mister Justice settled his store account, Scottie would give him a sack of candy and say, “You keep them boys as sweet as June May now, y’hear?”

  Once, June May told me that if she ever had a nickel for a whole sack of candy, she would get string licorice. I personally prefer caramels because they last so long.

  “Why licorice?” I asked. “It’s not even your favorite.”

  Those well-deep June May eyes turned onto me. “Licorice fits the most in a bag,” she whispered. “Caramels have those paper tails on either side that take up room in the sack, but they don’t even have any candy in that part.” That was June May’s way. Now she said, “Because if she came to call, Miz Rosebelt, I’d want to know what kind of candy to serve.”

  I shook from my ears any mud that might be left. I’d nearly forgotten my own question.

  But by then she’d tucked back into her schoolwork.

  In the all-but-scratching quiet, I almost felt like falling asleep. As I shifted on the little stool under the quilt, I smelled myself drying and caught what I thought was a whiff of sawdust and sweat, the scent of Daddy coming in after a day spent in his workshop. I felt my stomach wrench to think on him.

  “Possum,” she asked after a few minutes. “What’s a pre-dator?”

  “How’s that, June May?”

  “This word. P-r-e-d-a-t-o-r.”

  I thought a minute. “Oh, predator. That’s something that goes after something weaker than itself, like a fox is a predator to a hare. Some predators,” I added, “when they ain’t real hungry are just plain mean, like that nasty barn cat of yours. I seen him corner a mouse, let it go, then corner it again. Poor mouse don’t know he’s good as dead.” That got my mind to swirlin’. Was Tully the cat or the mouse when it came to Mary Grace? My thoughts smacked up against each other; Mary Grace sure could be nasty as that barn cat. Maybe she was just toyin’ with Tully? Or maybe I was the mouse and they were all toyin’ with me.

  And suddenly everything came spilling out, about Tully and Mary Grace and the snakeskin and Jump.

  “Ooh, I could just smack him!” I fumed, recalling it all.

  “Which one?” asked June May. “Tully or Jump? Or Mary Grace?”

  “Both!” I said. “All three, maybe!”

  I heard what I thought was a chuckle and noticed Miz Justice had come in, but it seemed she was only coughing.

  June May shook her head solemnly. “I got enough brothers,” she said, “I reckon I know good as anybody how boys are plain funny.”

  I reminded her we’d never seen any of those brothers—not even Jump in the mud just now—act loony as an outhouse mouse, as Tully seemed to be.

  “Maybe Tully’s sick,” June May suggested. “Could he’ve been bit by a wild dog?”

  I told her I thought we’d’ve heard. “I don’t understand what’s going on,” I continued as Miz Justice added hot water to my cup. “Tully’s gone funny. Daddy’s being contrary. Now even Jump’s gone moony-loony asking a person if they’re all right all the time? And I can’t control any of ’em like I used to. What’s happenin’ to everybody?”

  Miz Justice sat at the table by us. She looked a little sad but real pretty in the kitchen light. I realized how much of the time she was worried, because right then, for a minute, her face was smooth as river rocks. “Did you girls know that you can’t know what a fella is thinkin’, or feelin’, by what he says or even by what he does?” she asked.

  I snorted. “What’s the use in that?” I figured I could talk honest to her, since she was Momma’s best friend.

  Miz Justice looked thoughtful, turning from me to June May and back. “You girls know how, if a dog gets too close to the nest, the momma quail will go limping off, tricking the dog away to keep the babies safe?”

  “Sure.” I nodded. I’d seen it myself once when Trav burst into a thick hedgerow and scared out a fat quail. She flew off before he could get too close, but not before she’d led him down and around away from that nest.

  “Well,” said Miz Justice, “sometimes boys are like quail. They pretend one thing but are really feeling something else.”

  “I don’t understand,” said June May. “Does Jump have a secret nest?”

  “I don’t want Tully’s eggs,” I added.

  Miz Justice laughed and rubbed my damp head. “I shore wish Noralee was here,” she said. “I bet you do too, huh, Possum?”

  She combed out my tangles, and it didn’t even hurt, just like how Momma knew how to do it. “For now, let’s say this. If you girls see any boys acting funny, ask yourself, is there any kind of fox nearby they might be acting funny on account of? Because when a fella’s sweet on a girl, sometimes he does foolish things.”

  Even while I slept I knew rain drummed on the house like fingers waiting for something to happen. And the day loomed like me—steely gray and cloudy. Like I was stuck in a tangle of blackberry canes, every way I turned thorny thoughts dug deeper … Boys and daddies talkin’ stupid or not talkin’ at all. I knew for one thing certain I did not want to face Daddy … I had already decided to skip breakfast, but I didn’t have to worry because as I woke he was leaving to help fill sandbags in case the river rose more. Four years ago, Miss Eulah’s porch ended up in a field near six miles from town.

  I knew for a second thing certain that I didn’t want to run into any people whose initials were T. S. or M. G. N. (meaning Tully Spencer or Mary Grace Newcomb), so I lit out like home from church—fast and light—more to keep from thinking than to beat the rain. When I got to the main road, I took one of my secret paths, planning to scoot over Hefty Rock and shimmy down into the yard behind the schoolhouse.

  I had to drop the last four feet, but I knew the ground would be soft from all the rain. Sure as shooting, halfway to school the rain began again, bringing up a smell of earth to fool you into thinking it was a thawing spring day—only this rain was made of drops little and sharp, not the fat, lazy ones of spring. I moved into a trot.

  At the rock, I bent my knees and dropped, rolling when I hit with a squelch. My flip flew out
of the bib of my coveralls.

  When I looked up, wasn’t I looking—again—into the face of Jump Justice?

  Jump grinned at me; upside down it looked like a sad-clown mouth. “You flat on your back in mud again, Possum Porter?” he asked. Then he disappeared from my line of sight. This was getting to be a habit. And a bad one at that.

  As I got my wind, I felt the seat of my pants soak through and sat up. My head felt light and my heart thumpy.

  That’s when I saw Jump waving my flip above his head. I held out my hand for it, but he flaunted it like a trophy, so I could not reach it for leaping. Jump grinned while he played keep-away.

  “Come on ’n’ get your old flip,” he drawled at me.

  Before I knew it, Jump had led me to the side of the schoolhouse, where we startled ourselves by startling two other people.

  My brain barely had space to register them. Mary Grace Newcomb and June May Justice? What could Mary Grace be doing to get her rooster spurs into June May? I gave her an evil-eye curse that GrandNam learned once from a real Gypsy.

  At the same time, Jump yelled to June May, “Git along now afore I git you along.”

  Why, they hadn’t even done anything wrong, at least, not yet, far as I could see.

  Still, both girls skedaddled.

  I was tempted to follow, but I needed my flip before I could take care of Mary Grace or see to June May.

  And at that moment, Jump was leaning against the schoolhouse, grinning and waving my flip around above his cowlick.

  Next off, everything happened so I wasn’t sure of it, even later.

  Time slowed as Jump leaned down toward me. He smelled sweet, like fresh hay and sunshine, in spite of the sputtering rain.

  And then, well, he kissed me on the cheek. Toad’s truth!