“I know,” agreed Tree. “Delrita just told me I look like Ronald McDonald.”
“Delrita!” Mom said, catching my eye in the rearview mirror as she shifted the car into gear. I knew what she was thinking: No wonder you don’t have any friends.
“It’s all right,” said Tree. “I asked for it, coming to school in this getup. Coach insisted the whole team dress up for Spirit Week.”
Mom was still eyeing me in the mirror. Here it was Friday, and I hadn’t even mentioned Spirit Week.
She stopped at a red light and said, “I was glad to see your family at church on Sunday.”
“We liked it,” said Tree. “It’s a lot smaller than the one we went to in St. Louis.”
The rain started pouring down as the light changed, and Mom turned the windshield wipers on full blast.
With big tears rolling down his cheeks, Punky looked back at me and said, “Call the news, D.J. Don’t want no rain.”
I didn’t say anything, so when the sky flickered with lightning, Punky shivered and said again, “Call the news.”
I could feel the questioning stares of Tree and Avanelle, but right now I couldn’t worry about them. Reaching across to pat Punky on the shoulder, I said, “I can’t. I don’t have a phone.”
Tree and Avanelle exchanged glances, and Mom explained, “Punky thinks Delrita can call the weatherman and shut off the rain. In fact, he thinks she can do just about anything.”
“Birdie would believe that,” said Tree with a chuckle.
“Birdie was in my class last Sunday,” said Mom. “She’s quite a little talker.”
“What did she talk about?” Avanelle asked quickly.
“Everything. She told me she swallowed a bolt and had to go to the hospital. And she said she had a chicken named Henrietta, but it got stolen.”
“Oh,” said Avanelle, obviously relieved.
“I’m curious about the bolt,” Mom went on. “Did she have to have surgery?”
“No,” answered Tree, and his face lit up with a grin. “The doctor said to think of it as a trial or tribulation. ‘This, too, shall pass.”’
Mom chuckled at the doctor’s joke, and I caught myself smiling.
Soon Mom turned off at McDonald‘s, and Tree directed her to the right house. He got out of the car but kept his head ducked inside as he thanked us for the ride and told Punky, “Don’t worry about the storm. Pretend it’s angels shooting fireworks in the sky.”
He and Avanelle ran across the yard, and when they reached the porch, they turned and signaled Punky with their thumbs up.
I studied Tree, thinking how he’d been a real gentleman with Punky.
He waved at me and disappeared into the house, letting the door slam in his sister’s face.
“... seem like nice kids,” Mom was saying as we drove away. “I met their mother at church. The poor woman has her hands full, with all those children and another one on the way. I wonder about her husband—where he is, where he works.”
“Avanelle never said,” I replied. Mom wasn’t the kind of person who would judge the kids by their parents, so I don’t know why I didn’t tell her about Mr. Shackleford’s being in jail.
By the time we got home, the rain had stopped and a watery sun was peeking out from behind the clouds.
Punky climbed out of the car, tipped his cowboy hat to the sky, and said, “Thank you, D.J.” Then, tucking his lunch box under his arm, he headed for the house.
NINE
Silver Dollar City
After supper, I sketched another swan on cardboard and took it to the garage, where I asked Dad to cut some shapes for me out of basswood.
He uncovered his band saw and scratched his head thoughtfully as he looked at the drawing. “Why not do something different with this one?”
“Like what?”
“Open his wings.”
“I’m not ready for that,” I replied. “I haven’t carved one yet without breaking its neck.”
“If you break the whole batch, I can always cut more.” Tossing a pencil to me, he said, “Come on, give this little fellow a chance. Let him spread his wings and fly.”
Doubtfully, I sketched and erased and sketched some more.
Dad grinned when he saw my final drawing. “That’s good. Now he’ll look like a full-grown trumpeter, and not an ugly duckling.”
I spent the rest of the evening holding a block of wood, but I didn’t do much carving. I kept thinking about a certain pair of eyes. Green eyes. My favorite color.
When I went to bed, sleep was a long time coming. My mind worked overtime, thinking about Tree and Avanelle, and I was surprised to find I wanted to share Silver Dollar City with them.
Before daylight the next morning, we were sailing down Highway 65 South for the three-hour drive to Branson, pulling the furniture trailer behind us.
Punky slept most of the way. Time meant nothing to him, and even though we’d explained about getting up early, he’d stayed up to salute all the flags on TV.
I dozed for a while, but when the sun came up, I sat looking at the scenery and wondering idly if the Wildcats had beaten the Tigers at the game.
Punky was taking up about three-fourths of the backseat, his legs stretched out beside me and his head resting on a pillow in his lap. You’d think it would break his back, but even in his bed at home, he folded himself in half like that to sleep.
“Five more miles to Branson,” said Dad at last, rubbing his neck and stretching his shoulders.
“Delrita, you’d better wake Punky,” Mom said.
I ruffled the hair around Punky’s bald spot, where he was the most ticklish. He quivered a little and grunted.
“Time to wake up.”
“Wait a minute.”
“Come on, sleepyhead. We’re almost there.”
“Wait a minute.”
This went on for about three miles before Punky roused enough to sit upright. Even then he kept his eyes closed against the glaring sun and bobbled lazily like a buoy in the water.
Mischievously, I reached for his Jellybean lunch box and said, “If you leave this in the car, you won’t have to lug it around all day.”
“Hey, you rascal, hands off,” said Punky, instantly alert as he snatched the box from me. He checked its contents carefully—two clowns, a flag, his red birthday socks, a handful of broken crayons, and the Ronald McDonald cup. Then he folded his arms and pouted, his chin jutting out so far that his bottom lip covered his top lip and he resembled a little old man with no teeth.
“Punky’s mad, and I’m sad, and I know what’ll please him,” I said, chanting the rhyme that I used when I knew I’d gone too far, “—a bottle of ink to make him stink, a bottle of wine to make him shine, and a barrel of monkeys to tease him.”
“Don’t want no monkeys,” said Punky, but there was a hint of a smile in his eyes.
“You smell good this morning,” I said. “What’s that after-shave?”
“Sam say,” replied Punky, jerking a thumb toward Dad.
Dad’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “It’s Wicked Cowboy,” he said. “Just right for sweeping dance-hall girls off their feet.”
“Yeah, buddy,” said Punky, shining the silver trim on his cowboy hat with the sleeve of his jogging jacket. His grumpy mood was already past, and he was ready for action. I grinned at the thought. At best, Punky’s action would be in slow motion.
When we got close to the auction arena, a guard stopped us from going into the parking lot. “It’s full,” he said. “You’ll have to park here on the main road and walk in.”
Dad thanked him and turned to Mom. “Do you want to get out here? No sense in all of us wearing out our shoe leather. We’ve got to save some for—Hey! Why don’t we take these two hooligans on to Silver Dollar City? We could meet up with them this afternoon, after you and I have looked at antiques.”
“Let’s do it, Dad,” I said eagerly, hanging over the back of his seat.
“I don’t know,” Mo
m said. “That’s a lot of responsibility for Delrita.”
“I can handle it.”
“Shirley, it just makes sense. Punky would be bored to tears around all that furniture, and think of the Depression glass and expensive crystal.”
Mom gave in at the mention of the glassware. Punky was clumsy, and one wrong step could cost several hundred dollars in damage. “Well, okay,” she said, and Dad swung the car back onto the highway.
Silver Dollar City was nine miles from Branson on a winding, hilly stretch of Route 76. The view to our left was breathtaking—hills and valleys in countless fall colors, all muted by the morning mist rising off Table Rock Lake. In some places, the guardrails along the road’s edge seemed like small protection from sheer drop-offs into empty space.
Dad kept glancing in the rearview mirror. “Bringing that trailer into these hills wasn’t such a good idea. It’s top-heavy without a load, and I can feel it bucking against us every time I touch the brakes.”
“It’s creepy,” I said, “like riding Fire-in-the-Hole.”
Mom shot me a worried look. “Don’t take Punky on that ride. It’s dangerous for anybody with a weak heart.”
“I know. I’ll go later with Dad.”
She gave me the bottle of nitroglycerin and a whole list of dos and don‘ts. “Don’t let Punky out of your sight.... Don’t let him get too tired.... If it gets hot, go inside where it’s air-conditioned and watch a stage show.... Remember, there’s a first-aid station across from the blacksmith shop.”
Finally, Dad steered into the Silver Dollar City parking area and stopped. He gave me fifty dollars—the most I’d ever held at one time—and said with a wink, “Don’t spend it all in one place.”
Mom checked her watch and said, “We’ll meet you at two o‘clock at the/general store.”
Punky and I got out, and as Dad backed the trailer into a parking space so he could turn around, Mom hung out the window, blowing kisses and hollering, “Have fun!”
Our tickets cost thirty-six dollars, but they would entitle us to go on all the rides and see all the shows as often as we wanted. Thinking how fifty dollars wasn’t much money after all, I jammed the remaining fourteen into my jeans pocket with the ten-dollar bill I’d brought from home.
Punky, gripping his lunch box with one hand and me with the other, tugged me toward the music and laughter and friendly atmosphere that was Silver Dollar City.
The place was bustling with people in old-fashioned costumes, from cowboys with six-guns and leather chaps to dance-hall girls with plumed hats, frilly dresses, and button-topped shoes.
At the gazebo, a band was playing bluegrass music, and a character who called himself Sheriff Howdy Highpockets was handing out badges to little kids. Punky marched right up to get a badge of his own and stood grinning as I pinned it to his T-shirt.
I was itching to go to the woodcarving shop, but I figured Punky would be easier to keep track of if I tired him out first. Besides, the City was already crowded, and the lines for the rides would get longer as the day wore on.
First we rode the steam-engine train, where Punky’s hat was “stolen” by a band of robbers. “Hands off,” he ordered when he finally got it back.
We rode the water toboggan and took a float trip through the flooded mine before the warm, spicy smell of simmering apple butter convinced us it was time to eat.
After a thirteen-dollar lunch at the Lumbercamp Restaurant, we strolled around, looking in the shop windows. The brooms, leather goods, candles, and apple-head dolls filled the air with a delicious potpourri of smells.
My calf muscles began to tighten from so much walking on hilly ground, and my knees kept wanting to buckle and set me down somewhere. Our jackets became ten-pound weights on my arm. Punky had little rivers of sweat trickling down from beneath his cowboy hat.
“Let’s go watch the stage show,” I said.
“Yeah, D.J.”
The Silver Dollar Saloon was cool and dark, and the show lasted about half an hour. When it was over, Punky said, “I’m starved.”
Munching on doughnuts and sipping soft drinks, we watched wheat being ground into flour at the mill. By then, there was just enough time to visit the woodcarving shop before meeting my parents at two.
TEN
The Master Woodcarver
As we stepped inside the shop, I inhaled deeply, savoring the aroma of wood shavings and paint.
Punky walked all around a man-sized wooden Indian, trying to figure out if it was alive. I touched the Indian’s face and chest, marveling that anyone could carve a chunk of wood to look like real feathers, skin, and leather.
Keeping a firm grip on Punky’s hand, I headed down the first aisle. So far, I’d been careful to keep him out of the shops so he wouldn’t try to swap his treasures for some of Silver Dollar City’s souvenirs. Now I could almost see his mind working as he weighed what was in his lunch box against what was on the shelves.
It was easy to understand his interest. There were hundreds of intricate carvings—everything from birds in flight and trout jumping to bearded mountain men.
I steered Punky over to the counter, where the master woodcarver was giving a demonstration to an audience of a dozen or so. He had a salt-and-pepper beard and wavy gray hair. His forehead was etched with fine wrinkles, carved expertly by time, and his denim work shirt and faded overalls matched the blue of his eyes.
“You can carve with just an ordinary pocketknife,” he said, “but regardless of what kind of knife you use, it’s important to have a razor edge. For that, I use an Arkansas stone.”
The stone was actually two stones—one black and one gray—pressed together in a rectangular shape. The woodcarver rubbed some oil onto the black side and worked his knife across it, all the time talking in a comfortable, easy drawl. “Basswood is best for carving because there is very little grain and it doesn’t split easily. Dried wood is better than green wood. The green has a rosin that dulls the blades.”
The woodcarver finished sharpening the knife and went on to explain the tools of his trade. “These V-tools are for detail work, like incising lines for stop cuts.... This is a veiner, for carving folds in clothing....”
Soon the demonstration ended, and he resumed carving a woman at a spinning wheel.
Some of the watchers moved on, and Punky started chewing on his fingers. I stayed glued to the spot.
What fascinated me most were the hands of the craftsman himself. Before my eyes, those hands used instruments like a surgeon to create a worn-out expression on the woman’s face and a wisp of hair across her cheek.
Suddenly, from across the room, I heard Punky cry out, “My box!”
I spun around and saw Punky and a clerk in a tug-of-war over the Jellybean lunch box. Instantly, I knew that Punky had made a switch, and my face flushed with shame that I hadn’t watched him more closely.
I shot across the room, babbling excuses to the clerk. “... didn’t mean to steal ... money ... doesn’t understand.”
The clerk let go of the box. Plucking at the neck-line of her calico dress, she glanced from me to Punky in confusion.
I flipped open the lunch box, my eyes burning so that I could barely see the three clowns inside. The two I had carved looked pitiful and plain next to a beautiful rodeo clown that didn’t belong to Punky. With trembling hands, I picked up the rodeo clown and thrust it at the clerk.
“Clowns—Punky—my uncle—traded,” I stammered.
The woman didn’t answer.
When I spied Punky’s new red socks on a shelf behind her, I snatched them up and said, “See, Punky didn’t steal the clown. He left you these in trade.”
“Mighty fancy socks, if they’re worth twenty-five dollars,” declared a voice, and I whirled around and stared into the smirking face of a fat man in Bermuda shorts. Behind him stood a gawking crowd of tourists.
“You call it trading. I call it stealing,” the man said.
“You’re a fat boy,” said Punky, jabbing a
knobby finger at his potbelly.
“Get your slobbery hands off me!” ordered the man. His nostrils flared with rage, and he backed away as if Punky were poison.
The crowd parted for a moment to let the woodcarver through, then clustered together again like vultures. I stared in alarm at the knife in the woodcarver’s hand as he drew closer and closer.
Stepping up beside me, he turned around and spoke to the crowd. “Thanks, folks, for your concern, but I’ll handle this,” he said as he folded the knife and stuck it in his pocket. Before I knew what was happening, he ushered Punky and me into an office and closed the door.
“Sit down,” he said.
I sat, pulling Punky down beside me and wondering what it was like to be arrested.
“My name’s Walt—Whittlin’ Walt,” said the woodcarver as he perched on the desk. “What’s yours?”
I felt uneasy that the man didn’t seem angry. Was he playing games with me? “Delrita Jensen,” I mumbled, unable to meet his faded blue eyes. “And this is my uncle, Punky—Richard Holloway.”
“Want to tell me what happened?”
I told him that Punky didn’t understand about money, and started to show him the treasures in the lunch box.
“My box. Hands off,” said Punky, but he showed Walt the clowns himself.
“So you’re a man who loves clowns,” said Walt.
“Yeah, buddy.”
“And who carved this one?”
“D.J.,” Punky replied, plucking the clown from Walt and dropping it back in his lunch box.
“I did,” I admitted. Why didn’t he just call the security guard and get it over with?
“A clown lover and a whittler,” said Walt, glancing from me to Punky and back again.
I started jabbering nervously under his gaze. “I’ve been carving for two years, ever since I watched you carve a trumpeter swan. I’ve tried and tried to do one like it, but I never can get it right.”
“Nobody starts out being a master. The question is, do you have what it takes to be one?” Walt reached into a drawer, pulled out a gnarled tree root, and thumped it down on the desk. “What do you see?”