The Curse of the Buttons (11 page)

“What
I
did?”

Ike smoothed out the map on his cot.

“Forget it,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. I need you to come to the church.”

“I’m pretty busy,” said Ike.

LouLou and Jane pounded on the door.

“Ike, we can’t talk here,” Albirdie said. “Just come to the church.”

They stood there, silent.

“Will you come?”

“Later. I have to do something first.”

“It’s urgent.”

“I said I’d come,” said Ike. “When I’m done.”

Albirdie studied his collection and looked around the small room.

Ike went back to sorting. He straightened the shells. When he turned, she was gone and the compass was still pressed against his chest.

Morris and Milton were sitting on the roof of the lean-to when Ike came out. Barfoot was pawing the ground with his ears laid back. The boys laughed at him, hopping down when they saw Ike.

“Your horse is so old he should be glue,” Milton said.

“One horse for all three families?” said Morris. “Look at him. He’s a grandpa.”

Ike saw how homely Barfoot really was. That his back dipped like an old mattress. That his coat was dull, despite all of Ike’s brushing.

“Leave him alone,” he said weakly.

Ike climbed up on Barfoot’s back. “Let’s go.”

“We aren’t taking Barfoot to Hannibal,” Morris informed him, after a pause.

“I know.” Ike slid off Barfoot’s back.

“Do you have the map?” asked Milton.

Despite a few smudges and missing details, Ike was proud of his effort, and he held it up for inspection.

Milton handled it roughly. He coughed and used the map to cover his mouth. A bit of spittle landed on Hannibal.

Ike cringed. He moved reflexively to scratch Barfoot’s neck, but then backed away and put his hands in his pockets.

“Did you bring drumsticks?” Ike asked.

“That and more,” said Milton, holding up a lumpy sack.

Morris took the map from Milton, folding it carelessly and stuffing it in his pocket. “Come on, boys. Ma’s going to be at your house for a while now. We told her we’re going for a picnic. So we’ve got plenty of food and she won’t be expecting us back for hours.”

Ike walked between them. They were the same age but had a long-legged pace that kept Ike rushed and out of step. “Good,” he said loudly. “We’re going!”

Milton worked up some saliva in his mouth and spit on the road in front of them. “Bet you can’t spit that far, Ike.”

Ike pushed the back of his tongue against the roof of his mouth and tried to gather a wad of spit, but his mouth was parched.

“I could use some water first,” he said. “Did you bring a canteen?”

“Thought you would,” said Morris.

“Never mind,” Ike mumbled. “There’s plenty of water in the river.”

They were leaving. They were going out on the river in a boat. They would get to Hannibal and find the men. This was the moment when a man should whistle, carefree and bold, but Ike’s mouth was too dry.

Ike pulled the compass from his shirt, and held it up. “Ninth goes northeast. Isn’t the levee southeast?” he said. “Shouldn’t we be turning down Fulton or going back to Morgan or High?”

“Whichever,” said Milton, striding ahead. “The boat’s not at the levee. We’re going the right way. You’ll see.”

Morris stopped. “The compass! You got it! Well, Ike Button is not such a disappointment after all,” he said. He grabbed for the compass, but Ike pulled it close and stuck it in his pocket.

“Isn’t
he
the captain?” said Milton, taking a left on Grand, next to the river.

“We should have gone right,” Ike mumbled. But he walked with them along Grand, past stone mansions, then down the grassy riverbank until there were no more houses.

It was wide and flat here, with a bluff rising behind them and another across the river. They slowed, and the boys poked along thick reeds at the river’s edge.

“Where is it?” Milton asked.

“It’s here,” said Morris. “Quit pestering me.”

“Quit pestering
me,
” said Milton, giving Morris a shove. Morris lost his footing and fell into the moving water. He struggled out and lunged at Milton, but just then Ike spotted something.

“There!” he said. “Is that what we’re looking for?”

“Didn’t I tell you?” said Morris, whapping Milton on the head. “Didn’t I tell you it would be here?”

There was a small skiff in the underbrush. It was well-worn, with two oars crossing a narrow plank seat.

“Does it float?” Ike asked.

“ ’Course it floats,” said Milton. “It floats, doesn’t it, Morris?”

“Sure it
floats.
It’s a boat,” said Morris.

They stood over it without laying a hand on it. Finally, Morris tossed his picnic sack into the boat. “Who knows when Pa is going to be back,” he said to Ike. “We’re men of action.”

“Yes,” said Ike. Exactly. At last. No matter if it lacked the glamour of the
Jeannie Deans,
it wasn’t a raft, and they only had to get to Hannibal.

Milton gave the boat a push. “It’s not going to bite, boys. Let’s get it in the water. Push!”

Ike and Morris took the sides and pushed as Milton stepped into the shallows and pulled. When the stern reached the water and just the prow rested on the sand, they paused, panting.

“Whose boat is it?” Ike asked.

“Mr. . . .” Milton started, but Morris interrupted him.

“It’s our boat, Ike. Just give me your sack and hand me that compass and help me get the rest of it in the water.”

The skiff was a heavy, flat-bottomed thing. It was as if the boards had soaked up the whole river and weighted it down. Ike placed his sack under the bow.

“The compass,” said Morris, holding out his hand.

Ike hesitated. He looked at the face of the compass.
East.

“It can’t get wet,” he said. “I’ll hold it.”

Milton reached for it, but Morris pushed him at the boat. “Let’s get this thing in the water,” he said.

They edged the prow in. The current tugged, and Ike held tight to the side, anchoring his feet in the muck.

“I’m going to take the oars first,” said Milton.

“I’m the oldest, so I will take the oars first,” said Morris.

“The current will take us downriver pretty fast,” said Ike. “We won’t have to row for a while.”

“Exactly,” said Morris, and he climbed into the boat and sat squarely on the seat.

“Hold it steady, Ike,” said Milton. He tumbled in and knelt on the floor of the boat directly behind Morris.

“OK, Ike. Just push us out a little farther to clear the bottom.”

“But how will I get in?”

“Here, hand me the compass,” said Morris. “Then I’ll help you in.”

Ike gave Morris the compass, then reached out for his hand.

“Just give another push first,” Milton snapped.

Ike grasped the side, gliding the boat out another foot, then let go to reach for Morris’s hand. But Morris swatted him away.

“Sorry, Ike,” said Morris.

“It was a great idea,” called Milton. “We owe you one!”

“Wait!” Ike cried. He grabbed for the prow but the boat spun sharply out of reach.

Milton and Morris fumbled for the oars. They each took one and dipped them, rowing clumsily.

“No!” Ike screamed. He waded to shore and ran alongside. “Come back! Wait!”

“Tell our mother not to worry!” Milton called.

The brothers argued over the oars, rocking the boat. The current caught them, and they were moving fast. Ike reached for the slingshot still in his waistband, grabbed a stone, and quickly shot it after them, but it was too big and just plopped in the water right in front of him.

“Danged piece of junk!” He tried breaking the slingshot over his knee, then threw it into the brush.

“You’ll be sorry!” he hollered, but they could no longer hear him. Their heads were dots; the boat was a small line, dwarfed by a steamboat coming upriver.

Ike raged, pulling a handful of leaves off a low-hanging branch and throwing them into the air, picking up a stick and whacking at the bushes. He yelled and screamed until his lungs were raw, then he dropped down on the sand, his forehead on the grainy pebbles, and cried. He pounded the sand with his fists and heaved big choking sobs until his chest burned.

There was a rustling in the brush. A whinny. Ike rolled over and looked up into Barfoot’s snorting face.

“Go away!” Ike said, rising to his knees. But Barfoot leaned his head down and butted Ike’s chest, then laid his nose on Ike’s shoulder.

Ike swatted at him. “Go on, Barfoot! I don’t want you here.” He stomped down the shore, but Barfoot followed.

Ike picked up a fistful of sand and flung it at Barfoot. “Can’t you see I don’t want you here!” Barfoot backed up.

“Barfoot.” Ike turned away, willing himself to look at the water only, the river that had taken everything away from him — his brothers, his father, his uncles, his compass, his chance to live up to the family promise that had died with Palmer. When he finally turned his head, Barfoot was gone.

Ike lay flat on the sand and turned his face toward the water lapping the shore. The setting sun was spreading itself over the ripples. He reached out a hand and let pink water lap over it, feeling his stomach press into the sand with each lengthening breath.

As dusk settled, he pulled himself to sitting, hugging his knees close, and rested his chin on his arm. He watched a mosquito hover, then land on his sinewy forearm; watched as it sank its stinger into his arm, relishing the small prick of pain as it took a quick drink, its belly swelling; watched dispassionately as a small bump formed in the spot. He sat on the shore until bats swooped and chattered above him, dipping and diving over the river.

When pink had faded to gray, and then black, and the stars came out, he stood, poked around the brush until he found his slingshot, and picked his way back to the spot where they’d found the boat, tracing the path they’d beaten through the brush. Barfoot was there by the street, standing at attention, regal despite his dipping back and wide belly. Ike reached out and touched his warm side. He climbed up on Barfoot’s back.

“Let’s go home, Old Pokey,” he said.

It was long dark when Ike and Barfoot returned. All the mothers and little girls were in the yard, candles flickering on the table. Mrs. Hinman was there, too, with Old Man Hinman.

“There he is!” LouLou called as Ike approached. She and Jane ran to Ike and grabbed his arm as he slid off Barfoot’s back, pulling him toward the others. Goldenrod and Marigold leaped up, barking.

Aunt Betsy wept freely. “You’re home. Our dear boy is home. Oh, we were so worried.” She locked Ike in an embrace. His own mother wiped her tears quickly and wrestled him away from Aunt Betsy for her own hug.

“You had us worried to ashes, Isaac,” said Aunt Sue. She swatted the back of his head, then held him in a stiff hug. “OK, everyone. Party’s over. Go on inside. And now we’ve got Susannah out looking for him. Will the worry ever end?”

“Where are
my
boys?” Mrs. Hinman wailed. “
My
boys have not returned. They’re always punctual, my boys.
We’ll be home by dark, Ma,
they said, and I sent them with plenty of victuals to last until dark. A picnic.
A picnic,
they said. But what kind of picnic lasts until”— she paused to take a breath and look up at the sky —“lasts until comets cross the sky. Where are my boys, Isaac Button?”