Waiting for Augusta (5 page)

Gulping back thoughts that shouted how stupid an idea this was, I crept around to Pastor Frank's backyard. Easing the gate open wasn't an option because Daddy told me Frank blocked it from the back with full kegs so that nobody could get in. I'd have to climb the ten foot tall fence.

A finger tapped my shoulder. “
Hey
,” it whispered.

My heart nearly shot outta my chest, and I turned around ready to lie, the excuse dying in my throat when I saw a dirty ponytail. “
You
,” I angry-whispered back. “What are you doing here?”

Noni backed off a step, the hurt on her face switching quickly to annoyed. “What're
you
doing? And who on earth do you keep talking to?” She sniffed the air. “If you're a little nutty, that's fine.”

“You've got a poor sense of timing, you know that?”

She eyed the fence, then fixed me with a doubtful stare. “You gonna jump that?”

“Do I look like I've got springs for feet? I'm climbing it. Quit talking and get out of here before you wake someone up. I've got a plan, okay? Now, go.”

She stood her ground, studying me. “What's over that fence?”

“Please?” I tried. “If you've gotta know, it's a chicken guarding my traveling money.”

She blinked in the moonlight, a goofy smirk fluttering at the edges of her lips, like she wasn't sure if I was joking or just crazy. “
Our
traveling money. We're partners,” she said, smacking my arm. “Shake on it.”

“Who's that?” Daddy asked.

“
Shh, not now
,” I told him.

“Yes,
now
,” Noni said, thinking I was talking to her. “I'll be down by the creek. Quarter mile, dark sheet. Can't miss it. I'll get outta your way, but you got to shake first, so I don't go waiting for nothing.”

“Keep your voice down!” I whisper-shouted. “Just wait a minute. I never said you could come.”

“Sure you did.”

“Oh? When's that?”

“When you confided in me about our traveling money just now.”

“It's not
our
money, it's
my
money.”

“Since you're about to hop a fence to get it and you're shushing me like an old lady, I'm guessing it's not your money at all. But I'm offering to share the guilt you're gonna feel about stealing it by saying it's
ours
. I'd say that's pretty generous of me.”

Good Lord, she was trouble. “And remind me what I get out of this partnership?”

“I don't know. A friend.” She waited with her bottom lip sucked into her mouth. Her arms wrapped around her waist, the same way May Talbot's had done back by the hog shed. “And all those things I told you before—knot tying and stuff.”

The girl's arm bruise was clearly visible, and I saw that it circled her elbow the whole way around. It looked bluish purple in the moonlight. I wanted to know where that bruise came from. It looked like it had to hurt, but she wasn't complaining. She'd told me she was tough. I already knew she was stubborn. Tough and stubborn were the sorts of things that might come in handy when trying to do something impossible.

And she seemed to really want to come with me.

It felt good to have someone want that.

Well, shoot. She'd worn me down. I shook her hand, then watched until she disappeared into the trees along the streambed.

“Who was that?” Daddy asked.

“That was our running away partner. Now, keep quiet or you'll distract me.”

Daddy snorted. “You sound like me on the golf course.”

I smiled at that. A soft light was on in the upper bedroom, but I didn't see any movement. Taking a deep breath, I wedged my shoes between the fence boards and shimmied up to the top. Heaving my body over the side wasn't too difficult, except for the last part. The falling part.

I slipped down the splintered fence, catching on a stray nail. Its edge scratched against my chest, ripping my shirt from waist to armpit before I smacked into dirt dust and sprigs of Alabama crabgrass. I shut my lips tight so I wouldn't cry out and lay there for a few seconds to catch my breath. Then I sat up and got to my feet.

A sign above the henhouse said
MRS. CLUCKSY'S PALACE
, and it was the goofiest thing I'd ever seen for a pet. More like a garden shed, the wooden structure stood five feet high and eight feet wide. The door was just big enough for me to squeeze through. Twinkly light strands and plastic ears of corn, all with evidence of heavy-duty pecking, were stapled around the entrance. One more check toward Pastor Frank's
house, then I poked my head in the chicken palace and heard the familiar snoring that's particular to birds.

“You sure it's under her?” I said to Daddy.

“Heck, yes. There were only a couple of us left one night and someone was talking about security guards at a hunting store in Mobile. Frank started bragging about his security system and how Mrs. Clucksy guards the night's take by sitting on it after she's done with her shift. He even said he puts it in a big plastic egg, so she feels motherly.”

I didn't see how Mrs. Clucksy could ever be the motherly type. She spent her nights wearing a cape and strutting along the bar, taking pecks at bowls of corn nuts and sips of the patrons' beer. The new town preacher spoke a whole sermon about her one Sunday, saying how the minions of Satan come in all shapes and sizes, and that beer-drinking chickens were an abomination and were certain to carry disease.

“Okay, Daddy. You stay here.” Taking off the pack, I tickled my fingers in the air to loosen up the joints and leaned my entire torso inside Mrs. Clucksy's home. It was cave dark in there, so I backed out, yanked on a strand of twinkly lights, and brought it in with me.

Sweet Sally, “palace” was no understatement. This was a royal castle for chickens. Lengths of red velvet hung like wallpaper, and several shiny bowls were secured by a metal rack that ran the length of one side. Mrs. Clucksy had her
pick of corn, wheat, seeds, and what appeared to be bran cereal. Water and an amber liquid were the beverage options, the pee-colored stuff smelling suspiciously like beer.

“Hey! What's going on in there?” Daddy whispered.

I ignored him, advancing on my knees to the throne at the back. Mrs. Clucksy looked to be as out cold as Mama, and I was hoping for a quick steal and getaway. Barely registering the line of rooster pictures posted near her bed, I paused beside the feather pillow nest and gave her the tiniest of pokes.

Nothing.

Mrs. Clucksy's premises and breath reeked. I held my breath while slipping a hand under her chicken bottom. It was there—a smooth shape that had to be the money. Quickly and gently, I reached my other hand out, lifted her body, and pulled on the egg. Sweaty and grinning with excitement, I set her down, backed out, and put on the pack. “Got it.”

“She didn't even make a peep. Good work, son!”

And that's when Mrs. Clucksy woke up.

If a bird could scream, Mrs. Clucksy would be the queen yeller of any horror film. The high-pitched squealing was part chicken cluck, part about-to-be-butchered pig, and part angry-female-having-her-baby-stolen. The second she started cackling, another light flickered in the room above the bar. I tucked the egg into my waistband, ran to the fence,
and was halfway up when Frank stormed out the back door, yelling, “Mrs. Clucksy? What the heck is going on, sweetheart?”

That chicken was charging down the welcome plank like a crazed, half-drunk animal (which, in all fairness, she was), and she headed straight for me.

“Hold on tight, Daddy.” I scrambled over and started running like the wind. Frank must've caught sight of my backside because he gave a holler and scooted for my section of the fence.

“Thief! Stop right there, you weasel!”

Metal clanked as Frank shoved the kegs away from the gate. I dumped the money in my backpack and tossed the empty cash egg aside while I ran into brush cover. Looking over my shoulder to make sure Frank wasn't heading our way, I swear that egg looked like a big version of a golf ball that somebody had hit way off course.

I threaded through bushes down to the creek bed and stopped to catch my breath. “Hey, Daddy, you didn't put this ball in my throat, did you?”

He didn't answer. I waited a few minutes, then dug in my bag for the flashlight and pointed it at him, half expecting him to jerk away from the light like I was shining it in his eyes, not his urn. “Hey, Daddy . . .”

The only answer was a soft sound, like a muffled hog pen, and something ached right in my chest, because it was
a sound that I truly didn't know I'd missed until it hit my ears. Daddy was snoring just like Mrs. Clucksy had a couple minutes ago.

“This is the craziest thing that's ever happened to me,” I told him.

It's not crazy,
the urn's clasp said back.
It's a miracle.

A
quarter mile down the stream, something hit me on the back. When I turned and traced the blow, I noticed a raggedy sheet on the opposite bank, hanging over a low willow branch to create a makeshift tent. Noni's arm poked out of it.

“
Stop
,” I told her. “Quit throwing stuff.”

“What's the password?” the center of the sheet called. Noni crawled out of the tent and stood. “Oh, never mind. Anyone follow you?”

“No. How am I supposed to get over there?”

“Try stepping in the water. Isn't any deeper'n your knees right there.” She pointed.

I followed her fingers and found the low section, wading fifteen feet to the other bank. Long stream grass and bushes near the willow did a nice job of hiding a tiny clearing. She'd used rocks to hold down the sheet at angles, and the willow branch was the perfect height to create a hideaway. I stepped
closer to get a better look, but she jammed a hand in my face before I got far.

“Empty the provision bag,” Noni ordered. “Let's see what we got.”

I did like she said and emptied the bag. Without Daddy giving me instruction, it was like this Noni girl had some sort of power over me. Her hair was lit up under the starlight, a few tiny strands broken off on top, waving free and rhythmic in the night breeze. I had the sudden urge to hear her sing. Her eyes drifted over the supplies approvingly until she inhaled quickly and slapped at my thigh.

“Ow! What'd you do that for?”

“Bug.” She picked up the pork container and opened it. “You're welcome.” Without asking, she took a pinch of meat, dipping it into the corner that I'd filled with sauce. “I'll take an even half of our food. Don't be taking extra 'cause you're a boy. We're splitsies on everything, got it?” She chewed quickly and swallowed. “Say, what's this?” Reaching behind my ear with her clean hand, she pulled her wrist back and waggled a coin.

I snatched Daddy's ball-marking quarter from her fingers. “Very funny.”

“Thanks. Told you I did magic.” She winked. “Got more where that came from. Where's your kit?”

Confused, I pointed to my art box, only to see Noni's scowl from the day before.

“No, your outdoors stuff. Matches, fishing line, stuff like
that. How're we gonna make a fire to cook stuff? Come to think on it, what're we gonna eat after we run outta that pig if we can't fish?”

“Use your magic if you're so good. My daddy taught me to butcher a whole hog better than anyone in Hilltop, and I can fish, too. Just didn't bring a pig or a pole.”

She was right, of course. I should've brought stuff like the things she'd mentioned. Daddy would have. He probably didn't say anything because he thought it was common sense. Not to me, though. I'd brought paintbrushes, a lucky quarter, a golf book, and clean underwear.

“You didn't bring anything useful? What kind of kid are you, anyway?” She saw my face and softened. “Now, I didn't mean anything, don't be a lemon wedge. You are who you are. Call it lucky that I am who I am. We'll be fine.” She stuck a hand in her pocket and came out with a small red pocketknife. “At least I've got this. My daddy gave it to me. Not much on it except a blade, a toothpick, and tweezers. The blade's dull, but it's something.”

I took it and pulled out the tweezers, holding them up in a shaft of moonlight. “I'm a lucky boy, all right. This'll keep us good and safe from splinters.”

“Was that a joke?” She lifted one side of her upper lip, sneering like a mean Elvis. “Not a very good one. Leave the jokes to me, crazy. That knife's better than nothing. Can't gut a fish with a paintbrush.”

“And you can't catch a fish with a dull two-inch knife and a toothpick.”

“Maybe I could.” She eyed the urn. “What's that?”

I tapped the urn, hoping for a few words, but Daddy didn't say anything. He'd stopped snoring, too. “This is my daddy. I got to scatter his ashes. We're going to Georgia.”

She took another pinch of pulled pork. “Fair enough. That who you've been talking to?”

“Maybe.”

“He talk back to you?”

I stared at her, considering. Worst that could happen, she'd pick her prickly self up and leave and I'd be out somebody who seemed more pork-eating porcupine than girl. “Would you believe me if I said that my dead daddy's stuck and he won't get any peace until he's scattered on a golf course?”

Her big eyes got bigger. She dipped her finger in the sauce and licked it clean, then plucked a rib from the container and shut it tight. She looked down at the cover of Daddy's Augusta National book. “A golf course. That's a little loony, isn't it?” After a time, she nodded, her lips flicking around, then settling into a straight line. “I accept the terms of partnership.”

“You believe me?”

Noni shrugged and gnawed at the rib. “Some things are true whether other people believe you or not.” She let her head fall back until she was looking at the stars through a
thick cobweb of willow branches. “My daddy used to say that people meet up with their life on the road they take to run away from it. But I'm not real sure what that means, even though I've thought on it now and then.” Without moving her head, she reached out and flicked my knee. “So what are you running from?”