Flotsam Page 7

  “I didn’t know I was either. But Nate made me bring him. Plus I needed to cross off another item on Mr. Heckler’s list.”

  “Item?”

  “He wanted me to find a church.”

  Brier nodded. “Well, that’s kind of an odd way of getting someone to come to church. Especially if you don’t even go yourself.”

  “Yeah. It is.”

  “Oh! Don’t you even care about me?” Nate screamed, bawling hysterically, and yanking on Amy’s skirt. “I need a band-aid, because I‘m bleeding to death.”

  “What happened Nate? Why are you bleeding?” Brier asked.

  “Because,” Amy said, “a rock bit him.”

  “A rock?”

  “Yeah,” Nate said, happy to tell his story again. “And it had really big teeth. And it bit my toe all bloody.”

  Brier raised his eyebrows. “That’s terrible. But it just so happens that I have a band-aide in my pocket. Here, sit down, and I’ll put it on your toe.”

  Nate wiped his eyes and let Brier pull of his shoe and sock to bandage his toe. After they were done, Amy looked at Brier quizzically. “Where did you get a band-aid?”

  Brier shrugged. “I take one with me every time I go to church. Nate always needs a band-aid every time he sees me. I think my presence triggers pain or something.”

  Amy laughed. “Triggers pain? Well, maybe it’s not you. Maybe it’s just your name: Brier Patch.”

  Brier’s eyes lit up. “Hey, I never thought of that before.”

  Nate wandered into the chapel. Amy and Brier took off after him, and steered him into a seat.

  The mournful prelude music that drifted through the air made Amy think of dead people in caskets.

  “Hi,” Nate said, scooting up beside Amy. He leaned close to her and started examining her hair.

  “Wow,” he said, like a herald proclaiming an important message to the world. “Your hair is full of snow!”

  Amy felt like tweaking the little kid in the side. Instead, she just glared at him. “My hair is not full of snow!”

  “Yes it is,” he said pointing to her hair. “You have snow in your hair.” He picked a piece of dandruff out of her hair, and held it in his hand, hoping that it would melt. When it didn’t, he poked it with his finger, and cried out. “OUCH! Amy’s snow bit my finger!”

  “Shhhhhhhhh!” Amy said, putting a finger to his lips.

  “My dandruff didn’t bite your finger.”

  “Yes it did,” he said, turning on his tears. “The hot snow in your hair bit my finger.”

  Amy let out a tired sigh. “Okay. The snow in my hair does bite, so don’t go picking through it.”

  “Owwwwwwwww!” Nate continued to howl. “Amy’s snow bit my finger!”

  “Brier,” Amy said, nudging Brier in the ribs. “Do something before he screams any louder.”

  Brier smiled, and glanced at Nate. “Nate, how about we play I spy?”

  “No,” Nate pouted.

  “Please.”

  Nate pinched his nose and frowned. “Phew, Brier you stinky.”

  Brier glared daggers at Nate. “No. I am not, you snotty little kid.”

  “I’m not A SNOTTY LITTLE KID!” Nate cried, causing the people in the seats behind them to give them very nasty looks.

  Just when Brier and Amy thought that Nate was going to spontaneously combust, the choir stood up and started singing, Amazing Grace.

  The words flowed out over the congregation, quieting children, including Nate, and calming troubled hearts. In the middle of the song, a soloist stood up, and the choir hummed along as the clear voice of the singer rang out, “I once was lost, but now am found, I once was blind, but now I see.”

  After the song ended, Amy sat pondering the words.

  She had never heard the song before. To her, that song was something special, like a message of hope to someone who had felt lost all her life.

  When the meeting ended, Brier, Nate, and Amy walked to the exit, only to have the preacher shake their hands as if he would never let go. “So good to see you all here,” he said, repeatedly. Then as they were about to leave, the preacher caught them once again. “Could you guys do me a favor, he wondered?”

  “What kind of favor, preacher?” Nate asked, looking up with shining eyes.

  The preacher smiled. “Well you see, old Miss Blossom down the road really needs someone to visit her. She’s an old Jewish woman who gets very lonely. I was going to go today, but something came up and I won’t be able to. Could I count on you three to visit her today? You know where she lives. Right, Brier?”

  “Yeah,” Brier moaned. “I do.”

  “Then it’s settled. Thank you. God bless.”

  “Same to you,” Brier murmured, dragging his feet as he moved toward the door. “Holy smokes,” he said, stopping. “Look. Flotsam’s trying to get into the church house.”

  Amy gasped, and pushed through the doors, and grabbed him before he could get in. “Naughty boy,” she said, running her hands along his soft neck.

  “Naughty?” Nate asked. “No all he wants to do is to go to church. That’s good.”

  “Yeah,” Amy agreed. “But not for a deer.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, that’s why.”

  “That’s not a reason.”

  “Yes it is, now let’s go home.”

  “No,” Nate corrected. “We can’t go home. We promised the preacher that we would visit Miss Blossom.”

  “Oh yeah,” Brier sighed. “Lucky us. Let’s hurry. The sooner we visit her, the sooner we can go home.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Through The Gate Of Books

  Amy, Brier, and Nate trudged down a barren dirt road, hemmed on both sides by giant trees, until they reached a house. The house was surrounded by a most interesting fence made of strange things, like old stoves, bicycles, dressers, wagon wheels, chairs, pots and pans, mattress springs, glassless windows, a piece of vinyl here, a wooden picket there, barbwire, chicken wire, bathtubs, and old railroad ties.

  “Look, a toilet’s growing flowers,” Nate said, pointing at an old discarded pink toilet full of dirt, with pink, white, and purple flowers growing out of it.

  Amy laughed. “Sure enough. It is.”

  “That’s Miss Blossom, for ya,” Brier said. “I’ve heard a lot of interesting stories about her junk fence. But I never really came here to see it for myself.”

  They stepped up to the gate and paused, looking at the strange arrangement of books wired onto it.

  “Whoah,” Amy said, touching one of the books. “That is really weird. They all have titles that have to do with something coming home: ‘Lassie Come Home, Home on the Range, Come Home Peter, A Homecoming, Come Home Billy.’ Brier, I’m really thinking your town has more nuts in it than a squirrel’s nest.”

  Nate frowned. “Miss Blossom’s not a nut. I like her junk. I like her gate. It’s really cool.”

  “Sure it is,” Brier said, opening the gate. Amy and Nate followed Brier into the yard, with Flotsam trailing behind.

  Amy stopped and looked around, amazed at the beautiful sight. The yard was a jungle of plants and flowers. There were little bird feeders made out of thimbles. Mirrors, washbasins, old dishes, and beautiful jewelry, were placed everywhere. There was a pond full of glittering gold fish, with hundreds of blooming lily pads on top of the water beckoning butterflies to them. There were hidden corners to explore, things and plants to look at, everywhere.

  “Don’t eat any of these flowers,” Amy said, rubbing Flotsam behind the neck. “If you do, you’ll be in big trouble.”

  Flotsam ignored Amy’s wishes, and went over to the grass and started grazing.

  “Fine, you can only nibble the grass,” Amy said, walking through the tangled jungle, past flowering vines, humming birds and bees, and flowering bushes, to the house.

  It was an attractive little house covered with ivy. The door had a stunning stained glass window with a picture of a bluebird flying t
hrough the sky. A Jewish menorah reflected in the sun from the front window as if beckoning them to come in. Brier pressed the doorbell, and a sound like a meadowlark echoed through the house.

  A minute later the door opened and a graceful old woman appeared.

  “Hello,” she said, smiling warmly. “What are you children doing here?”

  Before they could answer, Nate smiled, and said, “The preacher told us you were a lonely, shut-in Jewish person, and asked us to come see you.”

  “Oh.” She looked at them critically. “The preacher said I was a lonely ole’ shut in did he?”

  “So, are you?” Nate asked.

  “Am I what?”

  “Lonely?”

  “Yes. I suppose so. I am lonely most of the time. But what does that matter? There are many lonely people in the world. After I got out of Hitler’s death camps years ago, I was the only one of my family left living. Everyone else had died. I couldn’t find my husband, my mother, my sister. Life was never the same after that. Ah, but where are my manners. Come in, and sit down a minute.” Her eyes lit up as she spied Flotsam nibbling on her grass. “Oh my, look children, a fawn grazing on my lawn.”

  “We brought him here,” Nate said.

  “You did?” Miss Blossom looked at Amy and Brier for explanation.

  Amy nodded. “Yes, Miss Blossom, we did.” Amy walked over to Flotsam, and ran her fingers over his back. “His name is Flotsam. I found him stuck in the mud in Mr. Heckler’s ditch. I’ve been taking care of him ever since.”

  Miss Blossom walked over to Flotsam and gently touched him. “What a wonderful, beautiful creature.”

  “Yes,” Amy agreed, “he is.”

  Nate looked at Miss Blossom with curious eyes. “Are you lonely now, Miss Blossom?”

  “No. Not while you’re here.”

  Nate looked pleased, and cast Miss Blossom a happy smile. “I’m glad. But I feel bad that you don’t have any family. If you want, we can be your family.”

  “Oh, I would like that.”

  “Okay,” Nate agreed. He paused and looked thoughtful. “Is that the reason why you put books on your gate, and put junk round your house?”

  “Is what the reason?”

  “Being lonely.”

  Miss Blossom shook her head. “No. And yes.”

  “Is it because you like books and junk so much?”

  “I do love to read,” Miss Blossom said. “But that’s not why I stack junk round my house and put books on my gate. I chose every book attached to that gate for a very personal reason, as a symbol.”

  “Symbol for what?” Amy wondered.

  Miss Blossom got a far-away look, and sighed a sigh that would make normal sighs a puff of air compared to her long drawn out one. It was a sigh that was devoid of hope; a sigh that could have made babies weep and could have blown out a whole host of candles. “Its none of your business,” Miss Blossom finally said, looking very sad. “It’s something you children wouldn’t quite understand. It's a symbol of a hope I used to have. I put those books there a long time ago when those books were brand new. Now my hope is about as tattered and dilapidated and as bleached as those books have become. It was silly. I never should have put them there.”

  An awkward silenced followed.

  “I’m hungry,” Nate said, breaking the silence.

  “You’re hungry?” Miss Blossom repeated.

  “Yes, I’m star-fing. So star-fing that my stomach is singing.”

  “You’re stomach is singing?”

  Nate nodded. “It gurgles songs when it’s hungry.”

  “What tune is it gurgling now?” Miss Blossom asked, smiling.

  Nate paused and put a finger to his lips, thinking. “It’s gurgling, I like to eat, eat, eat, apples and bananas.” He rolled up his shirt, revealing his plump little belly. “Listen. I’ll bet you can hear it.”

  Miss Blossom cocked her head to the side listening. “Oh, sure enough it is. You must be really hungry. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone’s stomach gurgle a tune before. Wait here, and I’ll bring you some milk and homemade doughnuts.”

  They waited on the porch, watching Flotsam nibble the grass, while Miss Blossom brought them food. After they ate, and visited for a long time, they said a fond farewell to Miss Blossom, and headed out the gate, promising to visit again soon. As they walked home, Amy took out Mr. Heckler’s List of Lost things, and crossed out the words:

  #6. Find someone who is lonely.

  #7. Find a church.

  With enough time and effort, Amy believed that she would soon have most of the items that were findable on that silly list, crossed off.

  Chapter Twelve

  ---The Last Day Of School---

  Being in school the day before school break can be, at times, a form of slow death. It is so long and drawn out, like a movie in slow motion, where the runner painfully, slowly, centimeter by centimeter, tick by tick of the clock, gets to the finish line.

  Amy sat at her desk in Miss Rackbith's class with the clock ticking away and Miss Rackbith’s voice dripping on, and on, and on. Amy secretly got out Mr. Heckler’s Lost Things List and stared at it, mulling over the items she needed to find, as if it was a list of things she needed to get at the store.

  She stared at the words, and read: #8. Find your family. Siblings? Parents?

  There was no way she would be able to find her mom, or anyone related to her. It was the curse she had been inflicted with. No matter how hard she tried, things that were her own were impossible to find. She figured it was the curse that would follow her to her dying day.

  She glanced at the items on the list and stopped at the words: #5. Find an enemy and turn him/her into a friend.

  That was going to be impossible, as well. Who were her enemies? Tristan of course. Mr. Locksley? She stared at her teacher, Miss Rackbith. Yes, she supposed, even Miss Rackbith was her enemy. She had many enemies. But, who out of all those people were worthy candidates for friends?

  Not Tristan. He and his minions had been watching her every move ever since she had taken the lunchbox from their hideout.

  She supposed they were waiting for her to make one more wrong move. But she knew enough about self-preservation to steer clear of them. Miss Rackbith, her friend? The very thought seemed amusing, and very frightening.

  She got another piece of paper, just for humor’s sake, and started writing Miss Rackbith a letter.

  Dear Miss Rackbith, it read.

  Thank you for being such a good teacher. She stopped writing. Yeah, right. A good teacher? The lady hadn’t taught her anything except how to fear for her own life. She resumed writing again.

  I really appreciate the time you put into your lessons. Lessons in longsuffering, she thought.

  Hope you have a great summer.

  Sincerely,

  Your student.

  Amy

  She glanced down at the letter, and frowned. Nope. There was no way she was going to give Miss Rackbith this note. It was full of lies. Terrible ones. She guessed her enemies would have to stay exactly that. Amy let out a loud sigh, and glanced down at the strange engravings etched into the desk’s surface.

  One disturbing pencil mark said, “she bites,” another said, “Never chew on your pencil, or the Rackbith will make you sharpen it with your teeth the rest of the year.”

  Other cryptic words said, “beware of the eyes. They might sting you.” Another etching had a Ben and Miss Rackbith’s name written inside a heart.

  Miss Rackbith noticed Amy’s lack of attention, and walked over and smacked Amy's desk with the end of a broom that she was carrying.

  WHACK! The sound was like a loud firecracker, causing Amy to jump in her seat. Miss Rackbith fingered Amy’s hair as if she would like to yank it.

  Miss Rackbith pointed to the letter Amy had been writing. “What were you scribbling, instead of listening to me?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” Amy said, quickly pocketing the letter she had written.
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  “Give it to me!” Miss Rackbith ordered.

  Amy shook her head. “No. I won’t.”

  “Yes. You will. Or I’ll…I’ll…”

  “Fine!” Amy said, quickly handing the letter to her. “Have it. I don’t care.”

  Miss Rackbith snatched up the letter, with the full intent of reading it aloud and making Amy squirm. Instead, Miss Rackbith was the one doing the squirming. She paused, her eyes going along the words Amy had written, with great interest. After finishing it her eyes grew misty, and her angry face relaxed into a calm frown.

  “Finish up your homework!” she snapped, going to her desk and collapsing into a chair.

  Amy watched as Miss Rackbith sat there looking dazed, for the rest of the class period, as she reread the paper Amy had written.

  Maybe. Amy thought. Just maybe. She could cross off one more item on Mr. Hecklers Lost List Things after all. She took out her pencil and crossed out the words on the list:

  #5. find an enemy and turn him/her into a friend.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Number Nine

  Amy surmised that goats were ten times worse than deer. Over summer break Flotsam hadn’t got his head stuck anywhere, whereas, Dorothy, Mr. Heckler’s milk goat, got its head stuck in the wire panel fence five times a day. After caring for Mr. Heckler’s goats she concluded that they were defiant, dumb, lazy moochers. They loved grain so much that they would, if they were given the opportunity, eat as much as they could until they would literally die of gas.

  For the past week, Dorothy the dumb goat had been making it a ritual to get her head stuck in the same place, at the very same time, each day. So Amy's morning ritual had been to free this goat’s head.

  Brier was standing by, watching the whole frustrating business. “Why don’t you just chop off its head?” Brier joked. “That way it would never get its head stuck again.”

  “Very funny,” Amy said, struggling to get the goat’s big head back through the wire paneling, with very little success. Amy would hold the goat's head up at an angle, and try to maneuver its horns and ears so the horns could slip through the small square space while trying not to pinch her fingers between the goat’s horns and the wire paneling. The goat wasn’t enjoying Amy's efforts, especially when it thought that Amy was trying to choke it. The goat let out an ear-splitting, ugly, sickly bleat. “Meeeeeaaaahiiiiiiiiiiiiii ugglug.”