Do Bananas Chew Gum? Page 6

  “It’s a spooky cave,” Alex said, pushing his way down, too.

  “There are black bugs down here,” Chuck called. “This one’s friendly. Look.”

  I lay down on the trunk of the tree and reached into the finest of the roots. They looked soft like moss. I knew tree roots were supposed to drink in water. I wondered if they were wet.

  The ones on top were dry, so I stuck my hand farther into the middle. I didn’t strike water. I struck metal.

  “Hey, I found something,” I called, and the boys scrambled through the hairy brush. “It’s stuck.”

  “Another truck?” Chuck asked.

  I pulled, but whatever it was had roots twined all around it. Settling my feet as well as I could, I gave one swift yank. It pulled free, and I went rolling off onto the ground. I just lay there, looking at what I had found. It was all rusty and full of pits, but it was something, at least it used to be something. It was about a foot long and shaped like a small shovel. There was a lot of dirt inside the handle.

  I didn’t know what it was, but I knew for sure it didn’t blow in from the garden. It had been knotted up deep in those roots for a long time.

  “It’s just a broken-off piece of something,” Alex said, turning it over in his hand.

  “Maybe some Viking left it,” Chuck said.

  “Maybe,” I told him. I mean, why not? Those Vikings sailed just about everywhere else. Why not Lake Michigan? “Maybe it’s a Viking tool of some kind,” I said, just to keep him going. “Let’s see if there’s more.”

  “A sword,” Chuck yelled. “I want a sword they chopped people up with.”

  We started tearing off roots and digging like madmen. The dirt smelled clean. Not like the garbage did at noon. It had that good smell, like after a hard rain.

  “I’ll go get a shovel from the basement,” Alex said. “I bet there’ll be dinosaur bones, too.” And he flashed across the backyard like a kid in an ad for Keds.

  Chuck and me started digging with our hands, lifting out dirt and pushing root branches aside.

  “Are you running away to China?” a voice above us asked.

  I looked up and groaned. “Alicia,” I said. She smiled sweetly like nothing had happened. “That was some stupid thing to say in class,” I told her. “Thanks a whole lot.”

  “This is our yard and we found something in it,” Chuck said. “Who are you?”

  “Alicia,” she told him. “I’m Sam’s friend.” She grinned like she’d just won a big chess game or something. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said to me. “I expect it wasn’t stupid at all. I was just taking your advice. And it worked. They started talking to me after school.”

  “How did you know I was here?” I asked her.

  “Wally told me,” she said. “But you know, he really is shy.”

  I wasn’t exactly crazy about Alicia coming up and saying she was my friend and all, but nobody was looking and how often do you find treasure under a tree, anyway? “Look, it’s got to be ages old,” I bragged. And I held the rusty pipe thing up for her to see.

  She took it, turned it around in her hands a few times, and shrugged her shoulders. “It doesn’t look like much.” Then she leaned over and looked closer at the hole. “Can I help? I’m practically a professional digger. I found a silver treasure today.” She sat down on the grass and showed Chuck the handful of coins.

  “We don’t even know what we’re looking for,” I told her. She sat there, smug, like she knew a secret.

  “I found something of yours,” she said finally, taking a piece of paper from her purse and flapping it at me. It was the old creative twister paper.

  I grabbed it, stuffed it in my pocket, and said, “It’s just doodling. It’s nothing.” But by the way she smiled I knew she’d read it over and figured out I was Dumbhead Sam.

  Alex arrived with the shovel. At first Chuck and Alex took turns fighting over who was to dig. I turned away from Alicia and watched them unearth a few night crawlers. When the ground got harder, they decided to turn the shovel over to me. The hole was crowded. Alex and Chuck wanted to stay down where the action was, but that made it hard to move the shovel. Roots and kids and me—that was a lot for one hole. I kept whopping one of them with the handle or raining dirt down their necks. Alicia ordered them out, but they stayed put. She didn’t say anything to me.

  “Maybe we’ll find gold,” Alex said.

  “Or oil,” I told him, feeling better just thinking about finding something.

  “Or just more roots,” Alicia said, matter-of-fact.

  Clink, the shovel hit something.

  “Watch out, you’ll break it,” Chuck yelled. “I bet it’s the sword.” It didn’t sound like metal, but it didn’t sound like a root either. We all three clawed around it with our fingernails. Chuck pulled it out. It was just a rock covered with dirt.

  “Alex, get some water, fast. We’ll wash it,” I said to get him out of the hole, and he sprinted off again. While he was gone we dug up a smooth stone, about fist size, with one end cracked off.

  “It’s another dinosaur egg,” I yelled, and Chuck threw a fistful of dirt at me.

  Every spade I turned had something in it. Pretty soon we had a whole pile of rocks and junk. When Alex came with the water we stuck everything inside, put our hands in, and tried to swoosh it around and scrub the dirt off. The muddy water spilled over onto Alex’s already gray sneakers.

  Alicia pulled the first thing out of the pail. And for the first time she got excited. “I think it’s part of a pot,” she said. “See how smooth it is?”

  “You mean a ‘top,’ don’t you?” Alex asked, giggling and giving me a poke in the ribs. He was going to beat that joke to death, and bash a hole in my side while he did it.

  Alicia gave me a questioning look, and I shoved Alex over into the tree branches.

  “Who tracked mud in my kitchen?” Mrs. Glass was standing behind us. (Did she see me shove her kid?) She said it like she was saying hello, not like she wanted to know who tracked mud in her kitchen. I guess she was used to mud. “What are you doing? Maybe I should have them leave this tree out here a few weeks instead of cutting it up tomorrow. It’s better than a jungle gym. Alex, your shoes are disgusting.”

  “I’m Alicia Bliss,” Alicia said, holding out her hand. But it was muddy wet, so she and Mrs. Glass both just looked at it. “I’m Sam’s very good friend.”

  “Oh, Sam, you’ve got a girl friend,” Mrs. Glass said, snickering like she was in sixth grade.

  Alex and Chuck started showing her the stuff we’d found.

  “Hey,” she said, “this looks great. I love the little metal scoop. And that does look like part of an old pot.” She kind of bounced up and down. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll call the paper. Maybe they’ll come over and take our picture. Or maybe, anyway, somebody there can tell us where we can find out what this stuff is.”

  “It’s Viking stuff,” Chuck told her. “Sam said.”

  “Fancy that. I love it. I absolutely love it. Sam, you run in and call the paper, will you?” Then her face fell. “Oh, I forgot, you can’t …” Alicia looked startled, like she was surprised somebody else knew, too.

  Mrs. G. started in toward the house. “Look, you kids stay out of my kitchen, will you? Burrow around under the roots some more. You keep the dirt outside and I’ll call the editor of the News Advertiser right now. I met him yesterday,” she called over her shoulder.

  We didn’t find much while she was gone—some chips of rock we saved in the bucket. They didn’t look like anything, but we sure found a bunch of them.

  “Listen,” Mrs. Glass called as she ran toward us, pushing the hair out of her eyes. “I’ve been on the phone all this time. Everybody said I should talk to somebody else. What a hassle. The editor wasn’t too hot about sending somebody out to take a picture. He said he had a million storm pictures already, so I brought the Polaroid out. Flop over in the branches and smile.”

  We smiled and then watched the picture d
evelop into leaf-green and dirty brown. We looked like mud-caked soldiers camouflaged to hide in the sideways tree behind us.

  “Anyway,” she went on, “he said for me to call the Historical Society, which was a pretty smart idea, but of course nobody was there this late. So I called the Randall University number and they transferred me to the archeology department and there was this one woman still there. So I told her we had found some Viking artifacts under an ancient tree in our backyard.”

  “Viking?” Alicia yelped. “You’re kidding.”

  “You really told her that?” I moaned. “I doubt it’s really Viking stuff.”

  “Oh, me, too,” Mrs. Glass sighed, “but who’s going to come and look if I say it’s a bunch of broken stones and an old rusty pipe? Besides, Chuckie said that’s what you said.” She smiled at me, showing her crooked teeth. “I don’t think this archeologist person believed it was Viking artifacts, either, but she did say she’d stop by on her way home. We don’t have anything to lose. Sam, take my picture with the tree,” she said, handing me the camera.

  “Did you find anything else good?” she asked as I took the picture.

  “You moved your mouth,” Chuck said.

  “Oh, well, then, take another.” She smiled without showing her teeth for the picture.

  “I’ve got to leave now,” Alicia said. Then she lowered her voice. “Mrs. Bird was looking for you after school,” she whispered to me. “She was mad you didn’t wait.”

  “Come on, kids. Sam wants to talk to his girl,” Mrs. Glass said to them, laughing.

  “I just thought you ought to know,” Alicia went on, “Mrs. Bird is going to call your parents about you. I heard her tell Miss Meredith, and I thought I should warn you.” She looked at me hard to see how I was taking it, so I didn’t flinch.

  “They’re not home,” I told her.

  She sighed, like she was terribly, terribly worried about me. “That’s something, I guess. Now, Sammy, if you ever want to know how to spell anything or read anything—even the simplest little words—I’ll be glad to help. I’m so sorry,” she cooed, like I was a three-year-old. I could have smacked her one, like I was a three-year-old.

  “Look, just buzz off,” I said, mad. “I don’t need any help from you or anybody else.” She stood there looking for a minute like I had smacked her one. “And you sure don’t need to feel sorry for me,” I went on. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Oh,” she said, and then smiled brightly. “You’re upset because I know you can’t spell, aren’t you? Don’t worry, I won’t tell. I think you’re cute.” She turned and skipped out the driveway.

  6

  You Dig?

  THE GLASSES were grubbing away, tossing things into the bucket of water and laughing like crazy. “Why don’t you help us dig?” Mrs. Glass asked me. “Unless you have to go home. It must be almost five-thirty.” I wanted to dig. I would have if I’d been by myself, but I thought if I joined those three, Alex and Chuck would probably start the stupid top-pot stuff again.

  Nobody was home at my house so I just lay down on the grass and shuffled through a patch of dark green clover, trying to find one with four lucky leaves. I needed it. I really needed it. But my finding power had left me. I rested my chin on the ground and searched for leprechauns under the clover. If I found one and it gave me a wish, I said to myself, I wouldn’t be greedy like those guys in stories who ask for marble castles or chests of gold or power over the sun and the moon and the universe. All I’d ask for would be to read and write as good as Wally Whiteside. Not even to be a big brain like Alicia Bliss. Just one little easy wish.

  “Sam, what are you thinking about over there?” Mrs. Glass called.

  I picked up a maple seed, split open the sticky end, fastened it on my nose, and sat up. It arched up just right. “I’m a rhinoceros,” I said, “thinking rhinoceros thoughts.”

  “You’re crazy,” Chuck called, laughing. “Sam’s crazy,” he told his mother.

  “We’re finding dinosaur bones,” Alex said. “Come see.”

  “Dog bones, more likely.” His mother waved something at me.

  I plucked the rhino horn off my nose and walked over.

  “Is this Viking Village?” a voice called out. Down the driveway on a sun-yellow moped tooled this girl who was probably in college. I mean, about that old. Not much older, anyway. She wore a pack on her back and jeans with knees that had worn through to the very last threads. Her long brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail and on her T-shirt was printed YOU DIG? I could read it. It was a cool T-shirt.

  “Brenda Strawhacker,” she said, hopping off the moped and shedding her pack, “archeologist, third class.” She stuck out her hand for somebody to shake. Chuck grabbed it with a muddy paw.

  “I’m Chuck,” he said. “I found the truck.”

  She didn’t even blink. “Mostly,” she said to him very seriously, “Vikings went in for dragon ships and sleds and wagons—some of them elaborately carved. But you hardly ever—even in Illinois—find Viking trucks.”

  “Uh, hi,” Mrs. Glass mumbled, scrambling out of the tree hole. “I’m Marietta Glass. This is Alex. He’s also mine. And that’s Sam. He’s a friend.” She was a total mess. She hadn’t even changed since she’d gotten home from work except to take off her shoes. Her pink striped skirt looked like it was never going to be clean again, not even with New Formula Tide.

  Chuck grabbed his yellow dump truck and gave it to Brenda, who looked pleased.

  “It’s mine,” he told her. “The tornado whipped it into the hole.”

  “Sam says some Viking guy left this, though,” Alex told her, reaching for my little metal spade.

  “I didn’t—I never said that. I just—just said maybe, that’s all,” I stammered out, grabbing the rusty thing from him. “It’s probably nothing. But it was way down in the roots of the tree.”

  Brenda took it from me, narrowing her eyes as she inspected it, scraping at the rust with her fingernail. “What do you think?” she asked me.

  I shrugged my shoulders. I wasn’t going to say anything else dumb.

  “Do you know what it is?” Mrs. Glass asked her.

  “Um … I can guess,” Brenda said, and she started cleaning mud out of the handle with a twig.

  “So can I,” Chuck said. “It’s a kid’s beach shovel.”

  “Looks like it, doesn’t it? Look at that. The handle’s a hollow tube. That’s a clue, all right.” She sat on her heels in the grass, and it looked like the right thing to do so we sat, too, in a little circle around the water pail. “Caught in the roots of a tree that big, it’s got to be at least a hundred years old. I don’t think they had nineteenth-century beach toys.”

  “Only a hundred?” Alex said. I guess he was really counting on the Vikings. Or maybe a dinosaur.

  “Come on, you’re lucky the iron lasted this long.” She flicked off a piece of rust and started to tell us this story about what we’d found. No kidding, she looked at this crummy crusty piece of pipe and started telling us about how farmers used to live right where we were sitting. She said how there were forests of sugar maple trees and how they drilled holes in the trees and stuck in these pipes so the maple sap could drip out. She called the pipe I found a tapping gouge, and said the sweet sap used to drip out of it in the spring and the farmers would gather the sap in buckets and heat it to make maple syrup.

  I looked at that rusty pipe and I could hardly believe some farmer a hundred years ago had left it outside, dropping it by mistake or something. Or maybe, I thought, it was his dumb kid who’d lost it. That farmer probably got mad at his kid and sent him back out to look, but the kid still couldn’t find it. And then one of those maple seeds like I’d had on my nose dropped on the ground next to it and a tree grew all around it, right there.

  I wondered if the kid who’d lost the tapping gouge could read and spell. Maybe you didn’t have to back then.

  “That was some stroke of luck,” Brenda said. “Lots of things like
that are never found, though I’m not sure losing this huge maple tree was worth it.” We all looked over at the big tree that had become a kind of friend by now, sharing its secret with us.

  “Is it fun, being an archeologist?” I asked her.

  “Sure,” she said. “And work. I’m going next week to our big dig in southern Illinois.”

  That’s what I’d like to be, I decided. That’s what I’d really like to be, an archeologist. To dig and find good stuff and tell people about how it got there. I mean, not just finding junk and piling it up in orange crates, but really knowing about it.

  “Well,” Alex said, turning the gouge over in his hand, “it’s not gold and the Vikings didn’t leave it, but it’s not bad.”

  “Got anything else?” Brenda asked.

  Mrs. Glass stirred the stuff in the bucket with her hand. “They found a whole bucket of things—just junk probably—gravel and filler. You don’t want to bother with it. It’s all dirty.” She stood up. “Thanks for coming, though. No kidding. We appreciate it.”

  “Come on,” Brenda said, “don’t hold out on me. What have you got?”

  Chuck tried to lift the bucket, but it was too heavy, so he tipped the whole mess over onto the grass. We were all pretty embarrassed by it—a landslide of muddy rocks. Brenda picked up several pieces and rubbed them between her fingers. “Where’d you find these?”

  “Hiding under the big old treasure tree,” Mrs. G. said, clearly tired of the whole thing. She grabbed the camera and took a picture of Brenda, the boys, and the mud pile.

  “No kidding? This is really great,” Brenda said as she sifted through the mud. “In the dirt under the gouge? Look, I’d probably have to know more than I do now, but I’d swear this is from a garbage pit.”

  “Good grief,” Mrs. G. moaned, rubbing her hands on her skirt.

  “Garbage?” Alex asked, staring into the rubble.

  “Right. It’s excellent,” she said, obviously excited about something the rest of us missed.

  “Excellent?” Chuck asked her.

  “What’s so excellent about garbage?” I asked.