The Luck of the Buttons (7 page)

“Did the people of this town, the people of Goodhue, Iowa, snuff that idea out? No! The people of this town are opening their minds and pocketbooks and saying yes to progress.

“The Dostals said yes to progress. The Perkinses said yes to progress. The esteemed William Millhouse the Third said yes to progress. The only question that remains is this.” Harvey paused. The crowd went silent, hanging on his every word.

“The question remains: will
you
say yes to progress?” Harvey let a long beat go by as the crowd considered his question.

“What is progress, you ask? Bear with me a moment. One of Goodhue’s own sons, Lester Ward, is leaving the nest soon. Not only is Lester going to be an Iowa Hawkeye; he’s going to be an Iowa Hawkeye
football
player.” The crowd cheered. Harvey raised his hand.

“Now, how will you get news of Lester’s glory? His parents, sure. Some of you will go to the games, no doubt. Others will listen on the radio. But what about the story of the game? The story that lists the name of one of your own in its pages? The one you can snip out and paste in a scrapbook? Will they feed you that story in the
Cedar Rapids Tribune
? No, sir. I am here, ladies and gentlemen, to bring the newspaper back to Goodhue. The
Goodhue Progress.
With your help, we can bring progress to Goodhue. Find me after the announcements here, and put your down payment on progress.

“Now, on to the business at hand! mayor, the list of essay winners, please.”

“Progress?” said the woman behind Tugs. “I thought we were going to get a bowling alley.”

“That’s what I heard,” said a man next to her.

“It’s a newspaper,” said Aggie, turning to the people behind them. “Really. We’re going to have a daily newspaper.”

“Oh!” said the man.

“Well, I never,” said the woman.

“. . . and the blue-ribbon essay for age thirteen and older . . .” Harvey Moore called, “goes to Florence Floyd! Where’s Florence? Come up here, Florence, and inspire us with your words!”

“Come on,” said the woman behind Tugs. “Let’s try to intercept Mr. Moore when he comes down the steps.”

As Florence read in her high fluted voice, Aggie turned back to Tugs.

“What was the important thing you wanted to tell me?”

Tugs wavered. Maybe she was just imagining things. Maybe Harvey really was going to start a newspaper.

“Nothing,” she said. She held up her ribbon. “We won the three-legged, Aggie.”

“Did you see the look on Burton Ward’s face when he came in behind us?” said Aggie. “That was worth the price of admission.”

Tugs was suddenly hungry, and she pulled Aggie toward the Button blanket.

But then they heard “. . . Button” over the megaphone and turned around.

“Tugs, Tugs Button. Is Tugs Button here?” bellowed Harvey Moore. “Well, sorry to disappoint you, folks, but it appears our eight-to-twelve division winner is not present. Let’s go on. . . .”

“Tugs!” gasped Aggie. “You won the essay contest! Come on!”

Aggie dashed off, but Tugs’s feet were stuck. There must be some mistake.

Then she heard Aggie’s voice ring out. Aggie Millhouse was standing on the bandstand, holding the megaphone and beckoning her to come up for her ribbon. But it was too much for Tugs. She ducked behind the nearest tree and listened as Aggie accepted her ribbon for her and read her essay aloud. Her hunger vanished and was replaced with a mix of fear and elation. She heard her own words echoing over the crowd and wondered if she’d really written them. Her face burned with the horror of it, all those people hearing her thoughts.

She peeked out. Aggie was skipping down the steps and running back to Tugs, with Tugs’s second blue ribbon held high as she ran.

“Here!” Aggie said. “I’ve never won two blue ribbons, Tugs. Your essay was really good.”

Tugs and Aggie linked arms and walked back to the Buttons’ blanket, where such a commotion had occurred over Granddaddy’s betting on the horseshoe contest that the adults had missed the goings-on at the field and bandstand. Ned was sitting alone behind the Button blanket, leaning against the tracks.

Mother Button stood up when Tugs introduced her to Aggie.

“Oh, heavens, a Millhouse at our blanket and we’re fresh out of”— she looked around at the crumbs and empty dishes —“everything.”

“That’s OK,” said Aggie. “I have to check in with my family. Want to come, Tugs?”

Tugs looked at Ned, then back at Aggie.

“I’ll catch up with you later,” she said. She watched Aggie disappear behind a group of Floyds returning to their blanket, then sat down next to Ned.

“Can I see?” Ned asked, holding out his hand.

“Sure,” said Tugs, and handed him her ribbons.

“They’re shiny,” he said.

“You can hold them,” said Tugs. She felt full-up satisfied.

After a couple of lazy hours, Aunt Mina heaved herself off the ground and bustled about, packing baskets and folding blankets.

“Let’s get picking up here, people. They’ve got the tug-a-war going on down there, and next thing you know, they’ll be announcing the raffle. If we don’t leave now, we’ll get caught in the going-home rush. I, for one, am ready to get home to my own four walls.”

The Buttons started the long trek through the park. Tugs lagged behind, hoping to hear at least who did win the raffle. Had she spelled her name right? Had Mr. Pepper taken her free tickets out so that only paying tickets would be in the box? She fingered her ribbons proudly. Ribbons should be enough. But . . .

Then the band blared and Granddaddy Ike stopped to listen. He was near the front of the Button line, so they all had to stop. The moment the band was finished with its fanfare, Mr. Pepper stood up.

“As the president of the garden club and the art guild, and as proprietor of your hometown photography store — come to Pepper’s for all your photography needs — I am proud to draw names for this year’s raffle prizes — three Kodak Brownie cameras!” He reached his hand into the hat Harvey Moore had lent him for this purpose and drew out a name.

“Mrs. Perkins!” he called. There was applause and a squeal from Mrs. Perkins as she made her way to the stage.

“Orion Ortner!” Another smattering of applause as the town butcher walked to the stage.

“And last but not least, Tugs Button!”

Tugs stood, dumbfounded.

“Tugs Button!” Mr. Pepper said again, and Tugs ran up to the stage.

Mr. Pepper handed her a smart little box, just like the ones she’d unpacked at his store. She opened the cover and lifted out the camera.

“Green!” she said triumphantly. She dropped the box and manual on the step and held the camera out to Mr. Pepper. “Now what?”

Mr. Pepper laughed. “No reading the manual for you, Miss Button?” He opened her camera and wound film into the empty spool while Tugs hopped from foot to foot, looking around to see who was noticing that this was her camera Mr. Pepper was readying.

“Granddaddy Ike! Over here!” she hollered.

“Now, pay attention, Miss Button, so you can do this yourself next time,” Mr. Pepper said.

“
Miss Button!
Ha, ha, ha!” Tugs snorted. She could sooner fly to the moon than concentrate on Mr. Pepper’s dainty fingers. He’d called her Miss Button! She won the Kodak raffle! The camera was green! Her favorite color! The color of early wheat, and the sky before a summer storm, and moss on stones by the river, and . . . !

“Here you are,” said Mr. Pepper, handing the camera back to Tugs. “Six pictures to a roll, so look and think before you snap. Don’t open the back before the roll is wound clear through. And come to Pepper’s to buy more film.”

Tugs held the camera out in front of her, like a crystal egg. It was so beautiful. Her hands were suddenly slick, and she was afraid she’d drop it. Mr. Pepper laughed.

“This here is the new aluminum model. You aren’t going to hurt it, girly. Now, go have . . .”

But Tugs saw the Millhouses standing near the Buttons just then and left Mr. Pepper at a gallop, forgetting the box and to shout a thank-you over her shoulder.

“Well, I’ll be a chicken’s gizzard,” said her mother.

“Better take that girl to the track,” said her father.

“Are you sure she’s one of us?” asked Granddaddy Ike.

“Sure, I’m sure,” said Tugs. “I got the chompers, don’t I?”

There was no denying it. Tugs had the teeth of a Button — square, wide, and protruding. For as long as anyone could remember, Button children had been teased about their maws. It was one root of their misfortune, the Buttons believed. While other parents sent their children off to school with a kiss and told them to do their best, the Buttons just said, “Don’t get hit by the tater truck.” Which would be nonsense to any other family, but Leonard Button, one of the Swisher Buttons, had indeed looked the wrong way when crossing Main Street some years ago. While he had survived, he hadn’t eaten a potato, mashed or otherwise, since.

It didn’t seem sporting to document failure, so Buttons didn’t own cameras, yet here was Tugs with a fetching green leatherette Kodak No. 2 Brownie F model, loaded with film to boot.

“Hold these ribbons, Aggie,” Tugs commanded. She aimed her Brownie and tried to capture her winnings on film. But Mrs. Millhouse yoo-hooed just then, and Tugs snapped the shutter right as Aggie spun around.

“Dagnabit!” said Tugs.

“Tugs Button — such language!” gasped Mrs. Millhouse, pulling Aggie away. “Come on, sweetness.”

“My ribbons, Aggie!” Tugs yelled. Turning to give them back, Aggie tripped over little Winslow Ward, and they both went sprawling in the dirt.

“Figures,” Burton Ward said to Tugs as he picked up his wailing brother. “You’re such a Button.”

“Sorry!” Aggie called as she was hustled away by her mother. Tugs picked up her trampled ribbons and tucked them in the pocket of her overalls.

“See you next week?” she hollered.

“Going to camp!” Aggie called as she was eclipsed by Harvey Moore and the dispersing crowd. Tugs clicked the shutter again.

Tugs looked down through her camera’s viewfinder and pivoted slowly all the way around and down and up. It was like watching a movie, seeing the bandstand, the bakery, the soft evening sky go by in that tiny frame. These were the same ordinary sights she’d been seeing her whole life, but suddenly they were sharp and beautiful, like little jewels collected in a box. To think — only this morning she’d been an ordinary twelve-year-old girl with snarly hair, gangly limbs, and a propensity for calamity, and now, just hours later, here she stood, Tugs Button: ribbon winner, Kodak owner.

She held the camera at arm’s length, smiled into the eye of its lens, and pressed the exposure lever. Then she turned the winding key until a little number four appeared in the red window on the back.

“Let me see.” Luther Tingvold towered over Tugs, holding out his hand.

“Um,” said Tugs, clutching her camera close. Luther was the leader of the Rowdies.

“I want to see!” hollered Walter Williams, stepping in front of Luther.

“Take our picture, Tugs!” said Finn and Frankie Chacey, making ape faces while trying to shove Walter out of the way.

“Trade you my pocketknife for it,” growled Bess McCrea, the toughest girl in town.

Tugs didn’t know whether to be flattered or afraid. No Rowdy had ever said hello to her, much less wanted something she had. Their attention both thrilled and frightened her. She had to do something clever now, say something clever.

“It’s green,” she blurted out.

Finn and Frankie guffawed. Bess shook her head in disgust. Luther shrugged and turned away.

“Last one to the fire hydrant’s a horse’s patoot!” called Walter, and they all took off running.

Tugs aimed her Brownie after them and pushed the lever. She adored the satisfying
click
it made.

“Now, don’t go getting a swell head,” said Father Button as he took Tugs’s elbow and led her back to the car. “And take your eyes outa those clouds. We got a big day tomorrow — family reunion.”

At home Tugs cleared a spot on her dresser for her camera and tied her ribbons to the drawer pulls so she would see them first thing when she woke.

This July Fourth fortune was good for Tugs, but over to Elmer Button’s farm the next day, where for the last umpteen years the family had been gathering to share their annual midsummer woes, the fizz wasn’t out of their Cokes before the other Buttons started grumbling. Twenty-seven Buttons took shelter under a wide oak as drizzle turned the back forty to mud and mosquitoes buzzed in the hot, still air.