Franny Parker (3 page)

Of course there were stories that came with this saddle, and Mama had told me each one over the years. Every nick or scratch in the leather was a memory. “This,” Mama said proudly, “is from the time Shadow bolted through the woods on a narrow trail. I think a bobcat spooked him. And this”—she pointed to a dent—“is from the time Shadow slipped on Turtle Creek, and we skidded down the bank into the river rocks.” I'd never met Shadow, but I could see him in my head like a red flame, him and eight-year-old Mama racing through the forest, setting the branches ablaze. Her best stories involved
near danger and horses, and so it was real hard for me to follow her Parker Pony Rules of Safety after listening to them. I always felt like I was missing out on something.

We brushed Snort quickly, concentrating on his sleek brown back.

“Is that him?” Pearl asked, gazing out the barn door.

“Who?”

Across the way, Lucas Dunn stood on a ladder, his back to us and a paintbrush in his hand. One side of the cabin was coated in fresh white. He worked quickly, the muscles of his back flickering with each stroke.

“What's he like?” Pearl breathed, a flush of red creeping up her cheeks. I touched my own.

“I don't know,” I lied. But I did know. In just the three days since Lucas Dunn had arrived, I knew a lot. I knew that Lucas liked to listen to the peepers at night, that he stayed up well after his mom had gone to sleep, and wandered by the low riverbed. I knew that he liked to peel the skin off an apple with his Swiss Army knife before sinking his teeth into the firm flesh. And that he preferred walking barefoot in the grass. Ever since he had arrived, it seemed Lucas Dunn loomed outside my window, in my backyard, as plain as the yellow moon in the sky. Wherever I turned was evidence of his being.

He waved, looking suddenly over his shoulder. “Hey, Francesca!”

Pearl stiffened beside me, a goofy smile plastered on her face. “Wow.” She sighed.

“Come on,” I said, dragging her away. “Snort's waiting.”

M
ama says the ways of our family put a bee in Grandma Rae's bonnet. Especially our way with animals. The beginning of July marked Aubree Library's annual tag sale, a weeklong event where townspeople donated all their old stuff to the cause. Sidda claimed she had no interest, but Ben and I loved to pore over the tables of discarded treasures. Last year I'd discovered a book on Norwegian ponies, and Ben found himself a one-eyed stuffed monkey. So on Tuesday morning we headed off to the sale, our saved allowances in hand, and bought ourselves a yellow cat. The cat wasn't actually for sale, but it was the most exciting thing we could find amid the droopy boxes of attic clutter. Ben spotted it first, crouched behind a box of old books, probably waiting for a mouse. It was a fine cat, a bit raggedy about the ears. You could tell all it needed was a good supper.

“We'll take him!” Ben told the two old librarians, Miss Thorn and Mrs. Tibble.

“Oh, honey, I don't believe that cat is for sale,” Miss Thorn said politely. “He's just a stray.”

But Mrs. Tibble recognized a hungry buyer when she saw one, and she could tell Ben wasn't about to leave without the cat.

“Fifty cents!” she barked. “He's half price.”

“Sold!” yelled Ben, who thought we'd gotten ourselves quite a bargain.

Grandma Rae and Mama were shelling beans on the porch as we marched home with that cat in our arms. Ben was proud as ever, and he would've skipped the whole way except the cat didn't seem too pleased about the skipping part. We had to share the carrying as it was; four arms help to distribute the scratches. When we finally reached the porch stairs, we held out that tabby like we'd won the state lotto.

Mama looked up first. “And how long does that tabby plan to visit?” I could tell she wasn't pleased, but Mama never turns away a stray.

As soon as Grandma Rae's eyes lit on the cat, she leaped up and the beans went flying. “What in heaven's name are you doing carting that filthy animal around town?” She spun around and faced Mama. “Honestly, Celia, you let those kids drag home all kinds of garbage.”

Ben and I hung our heads, but we exchanged a sideways peek. We knew better than to leave when the good stuff was just getting started. Mama wouldn't let us down.

“Now, Rae, I don't see the harm. The children will be responsible for the cat, and I can't see what kind of lesson it would be to turn away
one in need
.” At that, Grandma Rae plunked herself back down, mouth in a twist. Accepting and assisting those
in need
was the theme of the preacher's sermons that summer, and if Grandma Rae was going to command our attention to those weekly sermons, then Mama was going to put the preacher's words to good use. To us, she said, “That cat can stay in the barn. You may get it some dinner, and then wash up for your own.” Yes sir, Mama was a lifelong animal lover, worse than all the rest of us. I pictured her as a wide-eyed
little girl, a mouse in her dress pocket and a dog at her heel. I ached to be just like her.

As we headed past the garden, Ben started in on cat names. “How about Jasper? Or Marmaduke? Oh no, what if it's a girl? I know! Cynthia!” Even with my back turned, I could feel Grandma Rae's disapproval burning a hole right there on the porch.

“And so it continues,” she complained loudly.

Grandma Rae was referring to what had started a few weeks earlier. It was turning out to be the summer of those in need. It seemed that once your eyes recognized one, the needy were all around, even in unexpected places. That spring had been the driest on record in over fifty years, and by the end of May, Blue Jay's apple orchards had barely a blossom. By June it was worse. With no real rain all spring, the farmlands were crackled brown, and the wheat fields were in poor shape for harvest. The Wakeman family had such a bad crop that Faye Wakeman began working mornings at Harland's Market to make ends meet. Then there was a brushfire that almost wiped out the garden club's roses behind the church. These were terrible things, of course, but there wasn't a whole lot I felt I could do about them. Until one late June afternoon, the last day of school, much to Ben's horror, Daddy had found a painted turtle with a cracked shell on the side of the road. And so began our animal hospital.

“Who could do this?” Ben shouted, hands clenched in angry little fists.

“She's an old beauty,” Dad agreed, tracing her wide shell admiringly.

We carried her to the barn, where we fixed her up good with yellow industrial tape. She looked just like a crooked highway lane, the lines running right down her bumpy shell.

“We'll call her Speed Bump,” Ben decided.

It was then I got my idea for the animal hospital. And since that June day I'd been working real hard helping the needy, just as Grandma said. It wasn't exactly her way, but it was my own. And that was all that mattered.

While Grandma Rae busied herself arranging help for the Wakemans and carrying her own well water to the town rose gardens, she offered only a stiff look of disapproval to the old turtle, who we set up in a quiet corner of our barn, our first official patient.

Word spread quickly in town. By the middle of June, the mailman had brought us a box of baby birds, five barn swallows, who'd fallen out of a nest. The day after that Faye Wakeman had called from Harland's Market with news.

“Franny, I've got you some more patients,” Faye said.

Ben and I hopped on our bikes and pedaled the two miles into town under the scorching sun, holding our noses past the Piels' pig farm, then coasting gratefully into the shade of the town green. We just about collapsed with relief once inside the air-conditioning at Harland's. Faye handed us cold pops and slid a cigar box out from under her cash register.

“Darrel would laugh me out of the house if he knew I'd delivered these little guys to you, but I just didn't have the heart to leave them,” she told us.

Inside the box, five pink bodies stirred. Their dark ears were pressed tightly against their heads like flower petals, their
smooth tails wrapped protectively around one another like a little nest.

“Ooh, mouses,” Ben whispered.

“Found them under a hay bale. Must've scared their mama off. Can you help 'em?” Faye asked.

I stared at the mouse cluster. They had an alien look about them. “Mama will know what to do,” I told Faye.

“You're a good girl, Franny Parker.” Faye handed me a five-dollar bill. “Take this for your trouble.”

Mama looked hard at us when we got home. “This animal hospital of yours is a huge responsibility,” she said.

“I can do it!” I assured her.

She peeked inside the box and gasped. Mama's practical side was no match for such a sight. “Mother Nature,” she whispered, examining a clawed paw in her hand. “She sure knows her stuff.” I had to agree. From the whiskered noses to the round bellies, I had never seen anything so perfectly formed on such a small scale. Just waiting to fill up their space in the world. “All right then, call the vet. You'll need puppy formula and eyedroppers.”

I showed Mama the five dollars Faye had donated to our cause.

“Start saving,” she said, handing me a coffee can.

And I had been. All since June, right into the first week of July, I saved every cent and put it in the can I called “the Animal Funds.”

The night we brought the yellow cat home, I traipsed down the hill to the barn with buckets full of formula and fruits and
vegetables for all my patients, including a can of tuna fish. The air was cool and light, a faint breeze stirring the trees. And something else: music. Just like the breeze, it floated across the air from next door. The cabin windows glowed warmly, and inside I could see Lindy bent over the stove, swaying a little. The table was set, and there in one of the chairs was Lucas. His blond hair fell forward as he hunched over a book, a wide smile on his face. As I opened the barn door, I wondered what he'd read that made him smile like that. I turned on the lights and saw the many faces staring back at me, the glowing eyes of the animal patients nestled in my barn. I wondered if Lucas would like the sound of an old cat's raspy purr. I wondered if he, too, would grow all warm and fuzzy feeling the tiny heartbeat of a little bird pumping in the safe palm of his hand.

T
here is a boy!” Sidda whispered gleefully, as though she had conjured him up herself. It was the middle of the week, and she was filling her best friend Marilee in on the latest, Marilee having been away visiting her cousins. “He moved in last Friday. He's tall and blond, and I must say he seems very nice,” she said assuredly into the phone.

“How do you know?” I asked from the doorway of the room we shared. Sidda cupped the phone secretively and spun around.

“It is not polite to listen in on grownup conversations, Franny.”

“I didn't know you had any,” I muttered, collapsing on my bed with
The Yearling
. I'd been working my way happily through a series of horse books that Mama had gotten me for my summer reading, but I found myself setting them aside in favor of
The Yearling
. Lucas was right. So far, there was everything to like about the main character, Jody. He had himself a little orphaned fawn named Flag. And a disapproving mother who reeked of Grandma Rae. Sometimes I felt like I was reading about myself.

“His name is Lucas Dunn,” Sidda purred into the phone. I stared hard at Sidda, leaning back in her chair, his name rolling comfortably out of her mouth. Up until then the discovery of Lucas Dunn had been largely my own. Now it seemed she, too, had been watching. When I couldn't stand to listen anymore, I headed for the kitchen.

At the counter, Dad was seasoning drumsticks and dipping thighs in batter. “Feel like fried chicken?”

“What's all the fuss?” I glanced at the neatly set table, the two extra chairs.

“Neighbors are coming.”

“The Dunns?” I asked, panic spreading through my body.

“Should be here any minute,” Dad answered.

I rushed back upstairs to my room and smoothed my hair in Sidda's mirror. Sidda was off the phone, sprawled across her bed, turning the pages of a fashion magazine. I smeared a dab of her cherry gloss on my lips, feeling a little bit like a thief. A smooth-haired, shiny-lipped thief.

“They're here,” Ben shouted from the hall.

“Who's here?” Sidda asked, stretching lazily.

“Oh, just the new neighbor,” I said with a casual shrug. “You know, the tall blond one you think is so nice.”

“What? Now?” She hit her closet like a bullet.

“Somebody's trying to make herself
beauty-ful
!” Ben giggled in the doorway.

“Out, both of you!” Sidda screeched.

Ben and I raced downstairs to the door, where Lindy was handing Mama a big bunch of sunflowers.

“What a great farmhouse!” she said, stepping inside and looking up at the old beams.

“It's a work in progress,” Daddy said. “The progress being a lot slower than the work.”

Lindy nodded. “Old houses are a handful, but I think they've got good souls.”

“Me, too,” Mama said with a grin. I could tell she liked Lindy already.

Sidda sashayed into the room then, a swirl of pink skirt. She extended her hand dramatically to both Lindy and Lucas as Mama introduced them. I cringed. Didn't Sidda realize how ridiculous she looked?

“Why don't you kids give Lucas a tour?” Dad suggested, pulling my ponytail.

“Ben and I have to feed the patients,” I said.

“Patients?” Lucas asked.

“Just some pathetic animals Franny has,” Sidda explained, rolling her eyes. “I'll show you around.” She looped her arm in his.

“Actually, I think I'll tag along with Franny, if that's okay,” Lucas said, politely unraveling himself from Sidda's grip. Clearly this was not okay with Sidda, but Lucas didn't seem to notice.