“For what?”
Sam furiously stirred his mixture. “I don’t remember so good. I wasn’t paying attention.”
Gretchen sauntered in, and seeing me, stopped short. “Jake’s been here. He brought something for May.”
“Maybe not,” Bonnie said. “It might not have been for May—”
“It was—”
“Might not have been—”
Sam was stirring his soup like a madman. “Don’t blame me.”
Bonnie said, “Jake was here, and he brought something, and Sam was the only one around, so he gave it to Sam, but Sam can’t remember who Jake said to give it to.”
“I wasn’t paying attention,” Sam whimpered.
“May says it’s for her,” Gretchen said.
“Might not have been—”
I headed for the toolshed, with Bonnie close on my heels. “Don’t you want to know what it was?” she asked. “Aren’t you curious? Don’t you think it was probably for you?”
I stopped. “Okay. What was it?”
Bonnie clutched my arm. “A horse.”
CHAPTER 24
THE HORSE
I raced up the hill to the barn, pushed open the squeaky wooden door, and stood still, inhaling the familiar smell of hay and manure. When my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, I made my way down to the stalls, listening for sounds of the new animal.
That wonderful Jake, I was thinking. That blessed Jake.
The stalls were empty. In the pasture, I found only our two cows munching methodically at the grass. I turned and surveyed the rest of the farm. Bonnie was climbing the hill toward me, and below, in the squirt garden, Ben tended his beans.
“So where is it?” I asked Bonnie when she reached me.
“Where’s what?”
“The horse!”
Bonnie looked around. “What horse?”
“Honestly, Bonnie—the horse Jake brought!”
“Oh, Zinny, you goof,” she said. “It’s not a real horse. It’s a wooden horse.”
In the toolshed, I found the scythe and made my way back up the trail. That idiot Jake, I cursed.
Furiously, I swung at the meadow grass with the scythe. I was clumsy with the tool, nearly whacking my foot off several times, but eventually I got into a rhythm, and then it was as if my mind and body and the scythe and the grass were all connected. I swished my way across the meadow, surprised when I came to the fence on the other side that I was finished already and still had both my feet. I cut the barbed wire on the far side of the fence and lugged stones from the pile farther below.
What was happening to me? Why did I hope Jake would steal something for me? Normally I thought stealing was awful. Maybe I was looking for proof that he liked me. That was an ugly thing to consider, that I’d expect someone to do something so awful just to prove he liked me. I felt like a little kid demanding candy: I want it! I want it now! Only I didn’t want candy; I wanted a horse, and I wanted to know who Jake really liked. In my mind I could hear May saying Oh, Zinny, you’re so immature!
In bed that night, I listened to the tree cricket. It was seventy degrees outside, and a warm breeze teased the curtains. On May’s bedside table across the room was a small brown box, and beside it stood a miniature wooden horse.
The horse had to be meant for me, and I was tempted to snatch it from the table. Jake was giving these things to me, for me, wasn’t he? But then I wondered why May was so sure it was for her, and if Jake had said something, and if he had changed his mind.
My dreams that night were filled with bizarre images. Gold medallions and ruby rings shimmered in the trees, and brass tokens fluttered in the air. Racing through the woods were tiny brown horses chasing beagles and beady-eyed salamanders. In the midst of all this, my Aunt Jessie danced on the trail, doing the boogie-woogie, while another woman, dressed in red, hid behind a tree.
CHAPTER 25
A PLAN
I spent most of the next day devising a new plan, which I presented to my parents that evening. My proposal was that I would spend the rest of the summer camping along the trail. That way I wouldn’t have to trek back and forth each day, and I could speed along with my mission.
“Zinny,” my father said, “I’m not sure you should be up there alone.”
“Why not?” I said. “There’s nobody around. It’s just me and the trees and the birds.”
“What about the lions and tigers?” Sam asked.
“There aren’t any lions and tigers, Sam,” Mom said. “But bobcats, maybe, and deer—and maybe a bear or two—”
I wasn’t afraid of deer. I’d heard about the bobcats and bears, but these were just stories, I figured. “I’ve never seen anything like that up there,” I said. “Besides, if I don’t bother them, they won’t bother me.”
“You’re too young,” Dad said.
“Too young? Weren’t you eleven years old when you drove Uncle Nate’s truck from here to Mississippi?”
“Well,” he stumbled, “times were different then.”
“And Mom, weren’t you twelve when you backpacked through Kentucky?”
“Was I only twelve? Times were different then—”
“It’s just hills,” I said. “Trees and hills and dirt.”
“Zinny,” Dad said, “I’m not so sure about this trail thing.”
“It’s not a trail thing—”
Dad scowled. “You were easier to deal with when you didn’t talk, you know that?”
Mom said, “Don’t say that—let her talk.”
“Okay,” he said. “Won’t you be crossing other people’s property? What if they don’t want you carving up their land? You’d be trespassing.”
“It’s a public right-of-way,” I said.
“Is it? How do you know that?”
“The lady at the museum told me. It’s on all the maps—”
“What maps?”
So I showed them the maps, and even though the lady at the museum hadn’t actually told me that it was a public right-of-way, once I had said that it was, it sounded reasonable to me, and the more I insisted that it was, the more I believed it.
My parents were impressed by the maps. “This is amazing,” my father said. “It goes all the way to Chocton.”
“Zinny,” Mom said, “I had no idea—why don’t you get some help with this project?”
“It isn’t a project—”
“I don’t like the idea of you being up there alone,” Dad said. “Maybe you could take someone along—one of your brothers, say, or Gretchen?”
From the next room, Gretchen shouted, “No way!”
“I don’t want to take anyone with me. I want to do it alone. It’s my trail—”
“Zinny, it isn’t your trail,” Mom said.
“It is, too. And I’m not taking anyone with me.”
“But what if something happened to you? What if you got hurt?”
“I’d come home.”
“But what if you couldn’t come home? What if you were knocked unconscious? Or bitten by a snake? Or broke your leg?”
“Good golly,” I said. “Or what if a plane fell on me? Or a tornado came along and swept me to Canada? Or—”
It went on like that for some time, until Mom said, “Zinny, you seem awfully anxious to get out of here—”
“Well, I am!” I said. “It’s too crowded here and too noisy. Nothing is mine. Bonnie wears my shoes, Sam took the pillow off my bed, I never have a towel that’s my own, nobody knows my name, there’s never a clean glass in the cupboard, and somebody swiped my toothbrush.” I didn’t think I ought to mention about feeling that if I didn’t finish this trail, I was going to be struck down by the hand of God.
Mom and Dad stared at me. Mom said, “We’ve never heard you talk like this—you never talked to us—”
“And you never talked to me either!”
They both reared back as if I had thrown a tub of water in their faces, and I should have felt terrible, but my thoughts were jumping
around like peas on a hot shovel.
Mom said, “But you were always at Jessie’s—you always talked to her—”
I should have let her finish, but I didn’t. On I barreled: “Up on the trail, everything’s mine: the trees, the grass, the air, the flowers. Like Aunt Jessie always said, you need those hyacinths.”
“What’s she talking about?” Dad said.
“You know,” Mom said wearily, “Jessie’s hyacinth thingy.” I think that even though she loved Aunt Jessie and missed her, she was getting tired of hearing me refer to Aunt Jessie as the ultimate authority.
“What hyacinth thingy?” Dad asked.
“That wall hanging Jessie embroidered, with the saying about the hyacinths: Man needs bread and hyacinths: one to feed the body, and one to feed the soul.”
I saw the wall hanging in my mind. The saying was cross-stitched at the bottom, and at the top were three pictures: a loaf of bread, a bundle of hyacinths, and suspended over the bread and hyacinths was a hand—a large hand. It gave me a shiver to think of it. Aunt Jessie had said it was the hand of God.
And instantly I remembered hearing Aunt Jessie say, from time to time, The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Whenever she’d say that, I’d automatically see that hand of God. I’d see it handing out the bread and hyacinths, and then, instantly, snatching them back again. It made me cold to think of it now.
Dad said. “Whatever happened to that wall hanging?”
“Zinny put it in her coffin, remember?” Mom said.
“Oh yeah.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “Zinny, this is all about Aunt Jessie isn’t it—all this business with the trail?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.
“We all miss her,” he said. “But you aren’t going to find her up there—”
My mother surprised me by saying to him, “Maybe she will. Maybe Zinny needs to get out of this house for a while.”
We were interrupted by Will, who was carrying four eggs, and by Ben, who was chasing him. “Give them back!” Ben said.
Will stood beside Mom. “Look at these! Ben was going to bury them—in his squirt garden.”
“Ben?” Mom said. “Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“Do you mind if I ask why you were going to bury them?”
He flushed. “It’s an experiment. I wanted to see what would grow out of them.”
Will went wild. “Do you believe that? He actually thought he could bury these in the ground and chickens would grow out of them.”
“Maybe not a chicken,” Ben said. “Maybe a chicken bean.”
“What the heck is a chicken bean?” Dad said.
“Do you think we could get back to me?” I said. “The trail. Camping. Me. Remember?”
From the porch came a loud whacking sound, accompanied by Uncle Nate shouting, “Dag blast it! Dag blast it!”
We all surged through the door. Uncle Nate was furiously thrashing a coiled piece of rope.
I stood there, watching Uncle Nate beat the rope. I wanted to hug him—or slap him—I wasn’t sure which. I wanted to shout, I miss her too! I miss her most!
My thoughts were interrupted by Dad. “Okay, Zinny, okay—”
“Okay? You mean I can go?”
“No,” Dad said. “I mean we need a few days to think this over. We’re not saying yes, and we’re not saying no.”
As Ben sneaked toward his garden, cradling the eggs in his hands, I touched Uncle Nate’s shoulder. “I think it’s dead now,” I said.
CHAPTER 26
PROVISIONS
Three days later, when I had convinced myself that my parents had forgotten all about my plan and that I’d have to make another plea, they surprised me by telling me that I could go. I nearly fell off the porch from shock. There were, however, conditions:
1. They wanted to see my gear before I set off, and they insisted I include certain safety items: flashlight, flare, matches, knife, and first-aid kit with snake-bite remedy.
2. I had to plan reasonable meals and, although they would pay for the food, I had to go buy it and organize it.
3. I had to promise not to do anything stupid.
4. I had to agree to return home once every ten days (originally they insisted on once a week, but I bargained) so that they could see that I was alive.
5. If a bear ate me, I had to leave a note explaining what had happened. (This last condition was their idea of a joke.)
It took me two days to organize everything. First I made lists of food and equipment, feeling proud of myself for being able to manage with so few items, but my family kept suggesting additions.
“What about water?” Bonnie said. “Don’t you need water?”
“I guess I do,” I admitted, adding water to the list.
“What about fruit and vegetables?” Mom asked. “You can’t just eat canned beans.”
I added fruit and vegetables.
“What about a sleeping bag?” Dad said. “You can’t just sleep on the bare ground. What if it gets cold?”
“And a tent,” Mom said, “or at least a tarp, for when it rains.”
One sleeping bag and one tarp joined the list.
I rejected the lantern because I already had a flashlight. I also rejected the portable stove because I couldn’t lug it up there with everything else I’d already be carrying. Reluctantly, I included a change of clothes because Gretchen made a scene over how disgusting it would be if I wore the same clothes for ten days.
“What do you think the pioneers did?” I had argued. “Do you think they carted around a suitcase full of clean clothes?”
“I’m sure they did,” Gretchen said.
Mom insisted that I take my toothbrush, and when I reminded her that someone had swiped it, she said, “You can have mine.”
“No thanks,” I said. “I’ll buy one.”
I felt as if I had that trip planned down to a gnat’s eyebrow.
With my food list in hand, I went to Mrs. Flint’s store. When I saw Jake’s truck parked outside, I stewed over whether I should leave and return the next morning, but that would mean another day’s wait before I could get up to the trail. I made a firm resolve to be quick, and to keep my mouth shut as much as possible.
“Zinny! Dang it, Zinny! I—you—what—I—” He stumbled all over himself, knocking over a pyramid of soup cans he’d been building, and backing into the magazine display. “Cripes—dang it—”
I busied myself gathering the items on my list, crossing them off as I found them. I’d decided not to speak at all.
Jake floundered among the soup cans, attempting to rebuild the display. “Zinny—cripes—Zinny—” He was as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.
I made a neat pile of the items I’d already selected and returned to the shelves.
“Dang it, Zinny—aren’t you even going to say hello?”
“Hello.” That was big of me, I thought.
“Aren’t you even going to thank me for the horse?”
“I believe May’s the one who should thank you.”
“May? Why May?”
“Because she said you gave it to her.”
“What? I never—to May? It was for you, Zinny.”
“That’s not what May says.”
The newly rebuilt pyramid of cans toppled to the floor. “Cripes—”
I crossed off the last item on my list. “Could you ring these up for me, please?”
He kicked a can across the aisle and stepped to the counter, looking as mad as a trapped hornet. Quickly, he rang up each item, mashing the register keys and roughly shoving each thing aside after he’d entered its price.
In three paper sacks, he dumped the groceries. The bread went on the bottom, cans on top. I wasn’t going to argue. It wasn’t until I’d paid him that I realized I wasn’t going to be able to carry everything. If I couldn’t carry it home, how was I going to get it up the trail, along with all my gear?
&
nbsp; If it had been Mrs. Flint waiting on me, I would have asked her to let me put some things back, but I couldn’t ask Jake that, not the way he was scowling at me. Before I could think of what else to do, Jake grabbed two of the bags and headed for the door. He tossed them in the back of his truck, returned for the third bag, and flipped the sign on the door from OPEN to CLOSED. “Get a move on, Zinny. I don’t have all day, you know.”
I climbed in the truck and stared straight ahead. He drove like a madman down the highway, careening around the curves, and spinning into our gravel drive.
“I hate trucks,” I said.
He sped up the hill toward the house, sending gravel flying on all sides. At the first bend, Jake swerved to avoid hitting Uncle Nate as he ran across the drive in front of us. Jake stopped and sat there, white as the moon, while Uncle Nate stared at the truck like a scared deer caught on the highway.
“You’ve got to stop running around like that,” Jake said. “You’re going to get hurt—”
Uncle Nate blinked and waved his stick. “The day I can’t run, I’d better be dead!”
I loved that. I wanted to say, You tell him, Uncle Nate. You just tell him.
Jake continued up the drive, more slowly now, shaken by his near miss with Uncle Nate. I felt I had to say something before we got to the house, but I didn’t know what to say—words were whirling around in my head like moths fluttering around a light bulb. What I finally said was not what I had intended—it was just what happened to fall out of my mouth: “What I was looking for was a real horse, not a stupid old wooden horse, and I can get my own horse, thank you very much.”
“Zinny—wait—I have two things to say and you’re going to listen. First: I hear you’re going to camp up on the trail by yourself. Why don’t you let me help you?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“You are the most stubborn person I ever did meet.”
“What was the other thing you wanted to say?” I didn’t want him to be another Tommy Salami. I wanted him to say, Zinny, I don’t care beans about May. It’s you I adore. Or something to that effect.
He gripped the wheel. “Zinny, I hate to say this, but I need that ring back.”