Mississippi River Blues (3 page)

“Chores are tough news,” said Frankie. “How about we go find Tom and cheer him up?”

“I'll tell him a joke,” I said.

But when we found Tom, I wasn't sure he needed any cheering up. He was already pretty cheery.

In fact, he was whistling.

Chapter 4

Tom was standing before Aunt Polly's ultra-high, mega-long, and super-dirty fence with a giant bucket of white paint. He also had this long-handled brush, and he was whistling merrily like a flock of silly birds.

He'd whistle, then dip the brush, then whistle some more, then splash the white paint on the dirty fence, then whistle some more.

“He's way into the chore thing,” said Frankie.

“Do you think all this sunshine got to him and he's gone soft in the head?” I replied.

“Palmdale has lots of sun,” said Frankie. “And we're not soft in the head.”

“Not too much,” I said. “Let's talk to him.”

“So,” Frankie said to Tom, “Aunt Polly finally nabbed you, huh? Big fence, little brush. Looks rough.”

Tom slapped another brushful of paint on the fence and went on whistling as if he hadn't heard Frankie.

“Hey, Tom,” I said. “Did you paint your ears closed?”

Finally Tom turned to us. “Oh, hey, Devin, Frankie. Sorry, I didn't notice you. I was all caught up in this.”

“Take a break, man,” I said. “Maybe you don't know it, but you're working!”

Tom dipped his brush again. He whistled a bit, then said, “Depends on what you call work.”

“This is work,” I said, tapping the fence. “Believe me, if it doesn't involve pillows and a remote, it's work.”

“Not for me,” said Tom, moving his brush a bit. “It's not every day a boy gets a chance to paint a fence.”

Frankie and I looked at each other while Tom stepped back to survey his work as if he were some kind of artist. Slowly, he nodded as if it was good, then dipped the brush again and started on a new spot.

“Are you saying you
like
to do that?” I asked.

“It suits me just fine.” Tom whistled a new tune now.

I watched him slap the dripping white paint on the wood and spread it around. He was making the dirty fence all nice and neat and fresh. It did look like fun.

Lots of fun, actually.

“Um, there's a lot of fence,” I said. “Maybe you could use some help?”

Tom wrinkled his brow. “Oh, no, no. Aunt Polly's very particular about this fence. I'm the only one who's supposed to do it. Besides, you'll probably mess it up.”

So, he wanted the whole thing for himself, did he?

“That doesn't seem so fair,” I said.

“We've painted before,” said Frankie, stepping closer to the bucket of paint and looking into it. “I mean, lots of stuff has paint on it where we come from.”

“Lots,” I said, stepping in front of Frankie.

“I don't know.…” said Tom.

“I'll be very careful,” I said.

Tom chewed his lip, then started shaking his head slowly. “Aunt Polly said not to …”

“I'll let you play with … this paper clip!” I said, slipping my hand into my pocket and pulling out my jumbo paper clip. It gleamed in the sun.

Tom gave this no response.

“Okay, you can
keep
the paper clip!”

Finally, Tom breathed in, took the clip, and, frowning all over the place, handed the brush to me.

“Just a little, then. And please be careful!”

Ha! I was too clever for the kid.

I grabbed the brush and began dipping and sloshing it on the dirty fence. “Look at me, Frankie. I'm an artist!”

While I painted, Tom sat in the shade of a big oak tree that stood close by, dangling his legs, and, still whistling, he began to twist the paper clip into different shapes.

I hated taking turns with Frankie, but she gave Tom her wad of wound-up kite string, and Tom forced me to share the brush with her.

We were doing just fine, but the story messed it up for us. Suddenly, bunches of other kids came along and traded Tom all kinds of stuff to let them join the painting fun that Frankie and I had practically invented.

By afternoon, the fence was done, and in addition to the paper clip and the string, Tom had a nail, a piece of blue glass, a bit of chalk, a toy soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six firecrackers, a one-eyed kitten, a dog collar without the dog, a knife handle, four pieces of old orange peel, and a fairly well packed mud ball complete with a pouch to carry it around in.

It was when I saw Tom laughing to himself at the end of the day that I realized something.

“Frankie!” I gasped, pulling her aside. “I thought I was tricking Tom into letting me paint, when the whole time we were being had!”

“That's crazy talk,” said Frankie.

“Nuh-uh,” I insisted. “Tom suckered us—all of us—into doing his chore for him! He didn't do any work, plus he got a bunch of really cool stuff! Totally for free!”

Frankie's eyes bulged when she realized it, too. At first she was mad, then she began to laugh. “Devin, Tom is good. He's very good. And you know what he is?”

“A character in a book?”

“No. Well, yeah. But I mean that Tom is like the original slacker. Actually, he's the role model for people like you and me. Maybe we can pick up some tricks from him!”

I was grinning now, too. “Whoa, good brain flash, Frankie. They call this book a classic, but it's more like a training manual on how to goof off! If there have to be books, I suppose this is the good kind.”

Suddenly Frankie had the same sort of twinkle I'd seen in Tom's eyes. “Actually, Tom has given me an idea. Let's get him to help us find the lost page. If we tell him it's treasure, I bet he'll help us!”

We sauntered over to Tom as he stood there scanning the finished fence. “Beautiful,” he said. Then he turned to us. “I'm hungry. Let's go snatch a pie. You first.”

“Sorry, Tom,” said Frankie. “We need to go find something else.”

“What else?” asked Tom.

“Oh, just something hidden,” I said. “You probably wouldn't be interested.”

Tom's eyes bulged. “Did you say … hidden?”

“It's very valuable,” said Frankie. “It's probably the most valuable treasure there is, but we've got to find it alone. Sorry—” She started to turn away.

Tom jumped. “Wait! I'm mighty good at finding treasure that's been hid. I know all the places to look. Let me help!”

And he did help. But we ended up having to wait a couple of days. Aunt Polly wanted Tom to stick close to the house the rest of Saturday. And Sunday wasn't good because Tom was in church for most of it.

Finally, it was Monday morning and we were on the dusty street when Tom came running by.

“Late for school!” he said, flashing by us.

“Stop!” shouted Frankie.

Tom screeched to a stop. “What?”

“You promised to help us look for our treasure,” Frankie reminded him. “And you're going to help us.”

“But school,” said Tom.

“But … treasure!” said Frankie.

You could see the poor kid was all torn up inside. Suddenly, he grinned and tossed his books to the ground. “All right, treasure!” he said. “But we need to find Huck first.” He started straight off into the woods.

“What's a Huck?” I said, as we crawled over bushes.

“Huck ain't a thing,” said Tom. “He's a who!”

“Huck's a who?” said Frankie. “Who is Huck?”

“Finn,” said Tom, crouching under some low trees.

I gave Frankie a look. “I'm glad we cleared that up.”

“Speaking of clearing up,” she said. “Somebody should clear up these woods. It's a junk heap in here!”

She got that right. Just as we were coming around a twist in the path, we came upon a little area scattered with open cans and bottles, and featuring a smoldering fire and a pair of ragged pants hanging on a branch. And, oh yeah, an enormous barrel with two mud-caked feet sticking out of it.

Before I could say something funny, a voice echoed out of the barrel.

“Hey, you, get out of my yard!”

Chapter 5

We stood there, frozen to the spot, staring at the feet.

Suddenly, Tom gave out a yelping sort of laugh. “Everybody, meet Huckleberry Finn! Known as Huck to his friends.”

“Except I don't have any friends,” the voice in the barrel said. “And I like it pretty fine that way.”

At that moment, Tom kicked the barrel over, and out rolled a kid in a rumply old coat, a filthy shirt, a crumpled top hat, and a very bad look about him.

Huckleberry Finn was maybe a year or two older than Tom, but he was dressed in what looked like the clothes of grown-ups. His coat hung nearly to his heels, and one skinny suspender held up his pants, which were so long they dragged behind him in the dirt and had been worn to fringes on the bottom. Everything sagged and dragged on him.

“Hey, Tom,” he said. “Come on over to my yard. But watch your step so you don't smush my garden. It's looking good this year.”

Huck's “garden” was a clump of saggy weeds, and his “yard” was nothing more than a dried-up swamp.

“Nice place you got here,” said Frankie.

Huck snorted a laugh.

“It suits me just fine,” he said. “Nobody likes me much, mainly because I don't do anything, don't listen to anyone, don't obey any rules, don't go to school or church, don't have money to pay for things, sleep when I want, stay up late, and live in a pickle barrel.”

“I'm impressed,” said Frankie.

“And I'm hungry,” I said. “Do you have any actual pickles in there?”

“Got a dead cat,” said Huck. He reached into the barrel and pulled out a string. To the end of the string was tied a furry stiff thing that might once have been a cat, but now looked more like the kind of hat grandmothers wear when they go to church. It smelled quite a bit.

Frankie sighed. “No treasure, huh?”

“This here cat's sort of a treasure,” Huck said with a wide grin. “Traded a kid for him. Gave him a blue ticket and a bladder I got from the slaughterhouse.”

“Dude,” I said, backing away from the ripe smell. “I have to ask. Why do you keep a dead cat, instead of, say, the more normal pet, a live cat?”

“Dead ones smell more,” said Tom, peering at it.

“I ought to know,” said Huck. “I've been sleeping on it for three days now!”

“I don't sleep on dead cats,” I said, “but sometimes I sleep with my CD player under my pillow!”

“What's a CD player?” asked Tom.

“What's a pillow? asked Huck.

“Excuse me,” said Frankie. “This is fun, but let's not get sidetracked here. Huck, can you help us find some lost treasure?”

Huck laughed. “Forget treasure! Dead cats cure warts!” Then with one thumb still holding onto the cat, he hooked the other into his single suspender and breathed in deeply. “It's simple science, really. You take your dead cat to the graveyard at midnight where some wicked person is buried. When the evil spirits come for his soul, you heave your dead cat after them and say real loud, ‘Spirit follow corpse, cat follow spirit, warts follow cat!' Poof! The warts are gone!”

Tom's eyes lit up. “I'm convinced! When do we go?”

“Tonight,” said Huck. “I've got to plant some more weeds. But after that I'm pretty free. Besides, I reckon the spirits will collect old Hoss Williams tonight. He was bad. He's been buried in his grave for a few days already.”

“Nice,” said Frankie, making a face. “Graveyards. Nighttime. Dead people. Not my favorite things. And what about the very valuable, one-of-kind, lost, and missing treasure we need to find?”

“Let's do the warts first,” said Tom.

“No, I want to do the treasure,” said Frankie.

“Warts,” said Huck. “I got the dead cat and all.”

“Treasure!” insisted Frankie.

“Warts!” said Tom, stomping his feet. “Warts, warts, warts! Besides, lots of treasure is buried in graveyards.”

I looked at Frankie. “Maybe Tom's got a point. There is all that digging, and those piles of loose dirt, and all those holes. The lost page has got to be somewhere in the story. It might just be in the graveyard.”

Frankie grumbled. “You're right, I guess,” she said. “But I still hate it. If we do the warts now, can we do the treasure later?”

“It's a deal!” said Tom. “Huck, you come and meow outside my house tonight. We'll sneak out to meet you.”

“Meow?” I said. “Just like what that dead cat will never do?”

Huck chuckled at that, then turned to Tom. “When do you reckon we should do this?”

“The usual time for such things,” said Tom.

“Let me guess—midnight?” said Frankie.

“Midnight exactly!” Tom affirmed.

“Midnight in a graveyard with a dead cat,” I said.

“A dead cat on a string!” Huck reminded us.

Suddenly, a distant bell rang, in a sort of shrieky tone.

Ding-ding-ding-ding!

“School bell,” said Huck, laughing as he crawled back into his barrel. “Time to sleep.…”

But when Tom heard the bell, his eyes bugged out and he jumped a foot and a half. “Holy crow, I'm late! Mr. Dobbin will have my hide for sure!”

Without another word, Tom took off like a rocket.

And because this was
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
and not
The Adventures of Sleeping Barrel Boy
, Frankie and I blasted off after him.

Chapter 6

Tom raced up the dusty road toward the school-house, but Frankie was a good runner and caught up to him.

Exhausted, Tom slowed down. “You run pretty good, Frankie. Sometimes I race Amy Lawrence, but she doesn't run so fast as you.”

“Who's Amy Lawrence?” I asked, between huffs and puffs. “What is she, your girlfriend or something?”