The Danger Box Page 7

  ~A sailor fell overboard and drowned before we even left. I worried about dying. I thought about my family and friends and wondered if this was all crazy, but it was too late not to go. I would look like a fraidy-cat. I ended my letters with “God bless you” and “Remember me,” in case I never came home.

  ~I had to sleep in a hammock, in a tiny cabin with another guy. We could barely turn around. I slept over a table and two feet beneath the ceiling. I didn’t know at first that the only safe way to get into a hammock is bottom first.

  Who am I?

  Have you ever slept in a hammock or been anxious about a trip?

  NEXT ISSUE TO COME.

  FREE!

  * * *

  LORROL SAID YES to visiting the store, and sounded just as excited as I was. But by then it was almost three o’clock, and her mom was about to pick her up out front. Whenever she was late, she explained, she had to pay her mom a dime. Suddenly I understood the flip-flops smacking on the stairs.

  Her mom took her for a long bike ride every afternoon. “She’s ruthless!” Lorrol sighed, as if it was a good thing. “On our ride a few days ago, I thought my head would blow right off my neck. And last week it rained so hard I almost drowned. She’ll kill me with exercise, and then she’ll be sorry.”

  After the ride, they always made either chocolate milk shakes or cocoa. They had a hot plate, a small refrigerator, and a blender in the room they’d rented on a farm down the road. Lorrol said her mom loved not having to cook.

  I told Lorrol about my porch bike. “Very smart,” she agreed. She said she’d give anything to have a bike she could ride while she was reading a book. “You are so lucky,” she added. “I don’t think my mom would let me have one of those.”

  Lorrol was like Christmas happening in June — I had that same can’t-wait, what-if feeling inside. Like anything was possible.

  At dinner I told my grandparents about meeting a kid today. I explained that she was in Three Oaks for the summer, and liked to be at the library while her mom was at work. “She’s big on reading and writing,” I explained.

  Everyone stopped chewing when I said she’s.

  “That’s nice, Zoomy,” Gam said.

  “What’s her name?” Gumps boomed.

  “Lorrol Shein,” I said. “Like the sun, but spelled different. And by the way, what’s an ‘asset’? And what does ‘capable’ mean?”

  “Hmm, lovely name,” Gam said, and I knew my grandparents were trying not to sound too pleased. “I think an asset is something good. Valuable. And capable describes a person who can do lots of things.”

  “Sounds right,” I said. “Pass the mashed potatoes, please.” I didn’t want to get too enthusiastic — that’d be carving the pumpkin before it’s off the vine, as Gumps says. What if Lorrol turned out to be rotten, like her mom’s spelling?

  I smiled. Somehow, I wasn’t too worried.

  “She’s a city kid and I don’t think she’s ever seen a place like the store,” I said. “Can I bring her over one day?”

  “Of course,” Gumps said, and I could hear a grin. “What —” he began, then barked, “Ow, what’s that for?”

  “Finishing your spinach and minding your own business,” Gam said.

  I grinned. My grandma sure was a smart one. And Firecracker Girl was one hundred percent right about it being a lucky thing to be a member of the U.P. Club. My grandparents were the best.

  I’d always thought that was true. I’d just never known it was an asset.

  I said the word aloud as I was drying the dishes. Gam pretended she hadn’t heard.

  NOT SEEING A hotel of any kind, Player Four had asked at the gas station and been told that Mrs. Gander rented rooms. He drove across the tracks on Elm and parked in front of her house. There was no sign outside; his was the only car on that stretch of street. The front door was open.

  Vintage clothing and a web of beaded crystal necklaces filled the living room. Her house smelled like his grandmother’s in Indiana — furniture polish, scented soap, and fresh muffins. RING BELL IF YOU NEED ME, a small sign read. He rang the bell.

  His room upstairs had no air conditioner but an ancient sleigh bed, lots of books, a once-elegant velvet sofa, and an old desk. Plus, the best part, a screened porch of its own looking into a pine tree and out on the street. The porch had a table and two chairs.

  That evening he walked around the town. There was an old cannon in a park with a gazebo, a place to buy ice-cream cones, a hardware store, a pharmacy, a gun shop, and — yes! — Chamberlain Antiques and Whatnots. The name in the paper had been Buckeye Chamberlain — he had the correct town, all right.

  Player Four tried the door. It was locked. He peered in the window. The place was a rat’s nest of junk, with a few old dressers and rockers here and there. Hardly what he’d call real antiques.

  He sat down on a nearby bench and looked up. A gentle, pale yellow moon appeared and disappeared in puffy clouds. The sky was a deepening purple, and suddenly he felt as though he were tumbling back in time. Was it that the scene reminded him of an illustration in a book he’d had as a kid? He closed his eyes, listening for a moment to the distant whistle of the approaching train and the brum-brum of summer insects. So much green. So much sky.

  He hardly remembered visiting his grandma, but knew she’d also lived in a quiet town surrounded by fields. Growing up in Detroit, it was a world he’d only glimpsed as a kid.

  The train roared by, its lighted windows come and gone in seconds. Silence resettled on the street. For a moment, the man sitting on the bench didn’t care about the stolen box, or his truck.

  On the way back to his room, he passed an elderly couple out for an evening walk. They nodded and smiled. “Nice evening,” the man said.

  “Lovely,” the player heard himself reply.

  The door to Mrs. Gander’s house was still ajar; the old lady, watching TV in a pink dressing gown and slippers, explained that she rarely bothered with locking. Did he want her to bolt it? He shook his head.

  Brushing his teeth that night, Player Four felt sad. Why wasn’t he living in a simpler place like this? In a world where people said what they meant and trusted one another?

  Drying his face with a towel, he told himself not to be such a mush; he’d find the punk’s family, and certainly the treasure.

  It’d be like taking candy from a baby.

  THAT NIGHT I kept turning pages. Carefully. As I puzzled out words, I wondered if the person who wrote in the notebook had ever had a day like the one I’d just had — one that felt like a gift, a clear beam of light. The Deeps weren’t endlessly deep anymore.

  This long-ago person seemed like someone who’d had confusions also; a lot of the handwriting was unclear or scratchy. Sometimes there was a list running on and on, sometimes just word after word and an occasional mark like a comma or period. Almost every page was crossed out with a big, shaky X.

  I thought of Grandma Al’s tidy, looping grocery lists. Her writing was so strong and clear it looked almost like the cursive words in my spelling book. Even my Daily List Book was neater than this. A lot neater.

  The word Galapagos on the cover label had no little mark over the second a. I’d looked up Otaheite and found it was a name for what’s now the island of Tahiti, and Lima was a city in Peru. This person was traveling.

  Inside, the short words were easiest to decipher: all, before, which, is. And then I found this list: Wednesday, — Sea, Shells, Thermometer, followed by numbers.

  Next I picked out salt mine, and then earthquake.

  On the following page, I read nine shocking words. I read them again and then once more, trying to give my brain time to catch up.

  The Beagle called in on the 23rd of April.

  THE BEAGLE.

  Wasn’t that the name of Charles Darwin’s boat? How many Beagles could there be? The words were crossed off this time with parallel, slanted lines.

  There was so much I needed to find out. Like, what year was Darwin on
the ship? What kind of stuff was he doing? Where did they go? And what was “called in” if there were no telephones?

  What if I was holding a notebook kept by someone who traveled at the same time as Darwin, a person who maybe stopped on a nearby boat to get fresh water and supplies?

  Maybe it was even someone who’d met Charles Darwin! Maybe Darwin had told him something special, and that’s why this notebook was saved. Maybe it was important because of that one, sparkling moment.

  My hands were shaking and my heart was bumpa-whumping like I’d just bicycled for about an hour. At top speed.

  I couldn’t wait for tomorrow.

  I couldn’t wait to tell Lorrol.

  And then I did something odd, maybe just because I felt like the notebook shouldn’t be lying around in the open: I wrapped it carefully in one of my T-shirts and put it in the Danger Box, the small fruit crate where I keep my collection of old firecracker cases, smoke bomb wrappers, and shotgun shells picked up from the town park and anyplace else on the day after the Fourth of July. Because my grandparents aren’t wild about the collection, I keep it under my bed. It’s not exactly hidden, just out of sight.

  After the notebook was safely stored away, I reached for my Daily List Book. Since I always end each day with a no somewhere in the last entry, I wrote, ~No Telling What I’ll Find Out Tomorrow!!!!!

  I went to sleep picturing the Search Box on the computer. The Search Box, and Lorrol and me looking at it. Side by side. Plus that coconut smell.

  The words no telling washed back and forth in my head like waves hitting a beach. Like a beach seen on a voyage.

  No telling, no telling, no telling …

  * * *

  The Gas Gazette: Issue Eight

  A FREE NEWSPAPER ABOUT A MYSTERIOUS SOUL

  ~If you’ve never been seasick, let me tell you: It’s a nightmare. I got so sick, right away, that all I could do was lie in my hammock and gag and groan. I had nothing but “dark & gloomy thoughts.” I lived on dry biscuits and raisins.

  ~The weather got better as we headed south. The waves weren’t as choppy and my stomach felt more normal. We stopped in the Cape Verde Islands, 300 miles from the coast of Africa, and I was thrilled to get off the boat and do some hiking and collecting. Everything was new and exciting. I was told to carry a gun, but no islanders attacked us.

  ~I was “overwhelmed” when I first saw tropical plants and creatures. I took notes and collected madly.

  ~Once back on the boat, we headed for the equator. Bang, I was sick again. I was “squeamish and uncomfortable” and felt as though I was being “stewed in … warm melted butter.” I lay in the sticky-hot hammock, staring miserably at the dead creatures I’d collected as specimens. My hammock wouldn’t stop rocking.

  ~Being helpless in a strange place made me horribly homesick. It’s hard not to panic when you feel rotten.

  Who am I?

  Have you ever had to throw up away from home?

  NEXT ISSUE TO COME.

  FREE!

  * * *

  I WOKE UP the next morning knowing something I hadn’t realized the night before: No telling were the right words. I couldn’t tell Lorrol about the notebook. Not until I’d told my grandparents. What if she told her mom, and her mom told someone else … and Buckeye overheard?

  I couldn’t forget: Buckeye had stolen this notebook. Maybe. At least, it seemed like it had come with the truck. And the truck was probably not his.

  If I told my grandparents, and they decided the notebook had to go to the police because it might be valuable, would Buckeye think I’d told on him? If caught, he’d get in even more trouble.

  And if not … would he then try to hurt my grandparents or me? Would he get even scarier and angrier?

  I didn’t dare. What if this was like a lineup of dominoes — if I tipped one over and then a whole bunch more went down?

  Yup, the Beagle should stay a secret, at least for a while.

  After getting dressed, I felt under my bed. Whew, the Danger Box was still there. As I hurried downstairs to breakfast, I began getting excited all over again about seeing Lorrol and looking at the Search Box together.

  No reason we couldn’t find out some stuff about Darwin’s life. It was a perfect summer project, and was definitely investigative reporting.

  I didn’t like the idea of having to hide part of the truth from everyone, but I was caught between Buckeye and my grandparents.

  No choice. Sneaky was the only possible thing to be. At least until I could see better what was going on … well, not see, but see what I could tell.

  For someone with bad eyesight, I sure was seeing a lot.

  I WAS DYING to get back to the library after the morning chores, but Gumps asked me to help him at the store.

  At first I wanted to say Can’t it wait, but then I pictured Lorrol sitting at the computer next to mine, wondering where I was. I smiled — Brain Boy meets Firecracker Girl. Firecracker Girl misses Brain Boy. Plus, this would give me a chance to dust off our collection of horseshoes before I brought Lorrol to the store.

  “Gotta open early today,” my grandpa boomed. “Mrs. Lister, the one on Pine Street, is bringing in two family quilts she wants to sell.”

  Gam made a clicking sound. “Really! That’s too bad. Family quilts should stay family.”

  “Tough times, Al, old girl. Lotta people needing cash, and those quilts go like hotcakes with the Chicago folks.” Gumps was already putting on his baseball cap, the one that said OLD COUNTS.

  “Ready,” I said.

  “I’ll bake,” Gam said. “They’ve asked for more carrot cakes at the Green Door Dairy, and what’s good for the belly is good for the button jar.”

  We say button jar instead of piggy bank — I guess because recycling buttons was the same as saving money in the old days, and the old days aren’t too old in our household.

  “Save me the icing bowl!” I called as I put on my sneakers.

  “I will,” my grandma said, and I could hear she was smiling.

  “Lock that door,” Gumps growled as we stepped outside.

  “Yes, yes.” Her voice floated through the window as if he’d said something silly, but we did hear the bolt thump into place.

  He and I walked for a few minutes without talking, listening to the bugs whizz-trilling and the leaves shushing and the whole complicated mishmash of summer sounds. He leaned down and picked up something dark. I could see it coming closer in his palm.

  “Whadda we have here?” he thundered. “Well, just a plain honest-to-goodness June bug. Want it?”

  I nodded. I have a glass jar filled with dried bugs of all kinds on the kitchen windowsill. Sometimes in the white Deeps of winter I pull them all out and line them up like soldiers. Soldiers in summer colors — up close, you can spot flashes of purple, green, yellow, red, and orange. Once in a while the three of us play Monopoly using my dried beetles for game pieces.

  I took off my glasses and moved the dead beetle back and forth in front of my nose. He was perfect, with tattooed arms and pajama stripes down his back.

  “It must be nice to have the life of a bug,” I said. “No real worries.”

  “Hmph,” Gumps said.

  “All you do is make noises and walk and eat and hide from things that want to get you,” I said.

  “Doesn’t sound too easy to me,” my grandpa boomed. “I’d rather come downstairs and find blueberry muffins in the morning and an icing bowl in the afternoon. And I don’t think that fella’s looking forward to hot dogs on the grill tonight.”

  I smiled, and slipped the beetle into my T-shirt pocket. Now that I thought about it, Buckeye could squash me like a bug. Good thing I wasn’t even smaller.

  “You’re right,” I said.

  Gumps nodded. “Dang right.”

  MRS. LISTER NEVER showed at the store, and I could tell my grandpa was a little disappointed. “Those old quilts are an easy sell in the front window,” he muttered. “Come on, help me get prices on t
his box of plates. Came from a yard sale out north of the Hurley place.”

  Because my world is up close, I don’t have a clear picture of what’s in the countryside around Three Oaks aside from fields and trees. My grandparents describe where things are by talking about the location of people’s houses, sheds, or barns — it’s never about the roads. Sometimes it isn’t even about the living owners. People call our house the Turner place, even though Gam’s parents died a long time ago and she and Ash Baker Chamberlain have lived there forever.

  “I hope I’m still in our house when I’m your age,” I blurted out.

  Gumps grinned. “Nice thought,” he said. “Your grandma and I will be dried and propped up in the corner like a coupla corn-husk dolls, and you can charge admission.”

  I poked him then and he poked me back and we got to work. He dictated, and I wrote the labels, like: Wedgewood, 1838, chipped — $4.00.

  I loved the store. Speaking of corn-husk dolls, it was kind of like the whole Baker-Turner-Chamberlain family was in there, even the ones who were long gone. Like history wasn’t history anymore, at least in that one space; the past was still alive, and all around us.

  I thought about the notebook in the Danger Box. I was itching to tell Gumps about it. He and I often made up stories about the odd things in the store … like, a certain mirror with roses on the frame must’ve belonged to a young girl with red cheeks and a green thumb, or a certain pair of fancy boots belonged to a man who only wore them to church and limped every time.

  I knew Gumps and I could make up a great adventure to go with the old notebook; maybe a story about picking up shells when an earthquake struck, and suddenly the Beagle came into view and there was Charles Darwin shouting, “Are you okay?” from the deck, just as a huge wave hit….