Hoot

FOURTEEN

Luckily the next day was Saturday, so Roy didn't have to get up early to catch the school bus.

As he sat down for breakfast, the phone rang. It was Garrett. He'd never before called Roy, but now he wanted him to go skateboarding at the outlet mall.

"I don't have a skateboard, remember?" Roy said.

"That's okay. I got an extra."

"No thanks. I can't make it today."

The true reason that Garrett had called was, of course, to find out what had happened to Dana Matherson at Trace Middle.

"Dude, somebody tied him to a flagpole!"

"Wasn't me," said Roy. On this topic he couldn't talk freely in front of his parents.

"Then who? And how?" Garrett demanded.

"No comment," said Roy, echoing Mullet Fingers.

"Aw, come on, Eberhardt!"

"See you Monday."

After breakfast his father drove him to the bicycle shop to pick up his new tire, and by noon Roy was fully mobile again. An address for "L. B. Leep" was listed in the phone book, and Roy had no difficulty locating the house. It was on West Oriole Avenue, the same street as the bus stop where he'd first spotted the running boy.

In the Leep driveway sat a dented old Suburban and a shiny new Camaro convertible. Roy leaned his bike against the mailbox post and hurried up the sidewalk. He heard voices bickering inside the house, and he hoped it was only a TV show with the volume turned up.

After three firm knocks, the door swung open and there stood Leon Leep, all six feet nine inches of him. He wore baggy red gym shorts and a sleeveless mesh jersey that exposed a pale kettle-sized belly. Leon looked as if he hadn't spent five minutes in the exercise room since retiring from pro basketball; all that remained of his NBA physique was his height.

Roy tilted back on his heels in order to see Leon's face. His expression was perturbed and preoccupied.

"Beatrice home?" Roy asked.

"Yeah, but she's kinda busy right now."

"Only take a minute," Roy said. "It's about school."

"Oh. School," said Leon, as if he'd forgotten where his daughter went five days a week. With a curious grunt, he lumbered off.

A moment later, Beatrice appeared. She looked stressed.

"Can I come in?" Roy asked.

"No," she whispered. "It's a bad time."

"Then can you come out?"

"Nuh-uh." Beatrice glanced anxiously behind her.

"You heard what happened at the hospital?"

She nodded. "Sorry I didn't get back in time to help."

"Is your brother okay?" Roy asked.

"Better than he was," said Beatrice.

"Who's there? Who is that?" demanded a chilly voice from the hallway.

"Just a friend."

"A boy?"

"Yeah, a boy," Beatrice said, rolling her eyes for Roy's benefit.

A woman not much taller than Beatrice materialized in the doorway behind her. She had a sharp nose, beady, suspicious eyes, and a wild fountain of curly auburn hair. Blue smoke curled from a cigarette poised in glittering fingertips.

It could only be Lonna, the mother of Mullet Fingers.

"Who're you?" she asked.

"My name's Roy."

"What do you want, Roy?" Lonna took a noisy drag off the cigarette.

"It's about school," Beatrice said.

"Yeah, well, it's Saturday," said Lonna.

Roy gave it a try. "I'm really sorry to bother you, Mrs. Leep. Beatrice and I are doing a science project together-"

"Not today, you're not," Lonna cut him off. "Miz Beatrice here will be busy cleanin' the house. And the kitchen. And the bathrooms. And anything else I can think of."

Roy believed Lonna was skating on thin ice. Beatrice was obviously the stronger of the two, and she was seething mad. Lonna might have softened her tone had she seen what her stepdaughter's teeth had done to Roy's bicycle tire.

"Maybe tomorrow," Beatrice said to Roy, her jaw set grimly.

"Sure. Whatever." He backed down the steps.

"We'll see about 'tomorrow.'" Lonna's voice was snide and croaky. "Next time, call first," she grumped at Roy. "Ever heard of a telephone?"

As Roy rode away on his bike, he pondered the possibility that Mullet Fingers was better off roaming the woods than living at home with a witch for a mother. Roy wondered what made a grownup turn out so ill-tempered and obnoxious. It wouldn't have surprised him if one day Beatrice literally chewed Lonna's head off.

His next stop was Dana Matherson's house, where another shaky example of motherhood lived. Roy had a feeling that Dana's father was no prize, either, and it was he who answered the door. Roy had expected another Neanderthal hulk, but Mr. Matherson was thin and jittery and unhealthy-looking.

"Hi. My name's Roy."

"Sorry, we're not interested," Dana's father said politely, and began to shut the door.

"But I'm not selling anything," Roy said through the crack. "I'm here to see Dana."

"Uh-oh. Not again." Mr. Matherson reopened the door and lowered his voice. "Let me guess. He's hired you to do his homework for him."

"No, sir. I'm just a friend from school."

"A 'friend'?"

Dana didn't have many friends, Roy knew, and the few he had were all much larger and meaner-looking than Roy.

"I ride the bus with him," Roy said, and decided to recycle Beatrice's line one more time: "We're doing a science project together."

Mr. Matherson's brow furrowed. "Is this some kind of joke? Who are you, really?"

"I told you."

Dana's father took out his wallet. "All right, young man, no more kidding around. How much do I owe you?"

"For what?"

"For my son's homework." Mr. Matherson held up a five-dollar bill. "The usual?"

He looked defeated and ashamed. Roy felt sorry for him. Clearly it was an ordeal, raising a goon like Dana.

"You don't owe me a dime," Roy said. "Is he home?"

Mr. Matherson asked Roy to wait at the door. Moments later, Dana appeared, wearing droopy boxer shorts and a grimy pair of sweat socks.

"You!" he snarled.

"Yup," said Roy. "It's me."

"What are you starin' at, cowgirl?"

Not much, Roy thought. He noticed that Dana's lisp had disappeared, along with the swelling in his upper lip.

"You must be nuts to ride all the way over here," Dana said, "just so you can get stomped to a pulp."

"Come on outside. I haven't got all day."

"What did you say?"

Dana stepped onto the porch and shut the door behind him, presumably so that his father wouldn't be a witness to the bloodshed. He wound up and swung fiercely at Roy's head, but Roy saw it coming. He ducked, and Dana's fist connected solidly with a fiberglass bird feeder.

Once Dana stopped howling, Roy said, "Every time you try to hurt me, something bad happens to you. Haven't you noticed?"

Dana was doubled over, shaking his injured hand. He glared up at Roy.

"Like yesterday," Roy went on, "when you tried to kill me in the janitor's closet. Remember? You ended up getting whupped by a girl, stripped naked, and strung to a flagpole."

"I wasn't naked," Dana snapped. "I had my underpants on."

"When you go back to school Monday, everybody's going to be laughing at you. Everybody, Dana, and it's your own stupid fault. All you had to do was leave me alone. How hard is that?"

"Yeah, well, they'll be laughin' even louder when I kick your skinny ass to kingdom come, cowgirl. They'll be laughin' like hyenas, only you won't be around to hear 'em."

"In other words," Roy said irritably, "you haven't learned a thing."

"That's right. And you can't make me!"

Roy sighed. "The only reason I came over here was to talk things out. Put a stop to all this dumb fighting."

That had been his mission. If only he could make peace with Dana Matherson, even temporarily, then he'd be free to focus his energy on solving the Mullet Fingers dilemma.

But Dana hooted in his face. "You must be crazy. After all the crap that's happened to me, you're so dead, Eberhardt. You're so dead it ain't even funny."

Roy realized it was no use. "Hopeless. That's what you are," he said. "By the way, that's a cool shade of purple." He pointed at Dana's swollen knuckles.

"Get outta here, cowgirl! Now!"

Roy left him there on the porch, pounding the front door and bellowing for his father to let him in. Evidently the lock had clicked behind him when he'd come outside to take a punch at Roy.

It was a funny scene, Dana hopping up and down in his baggy boxer shorts, but Roy wasn't in the mood to enjoy it.

He hid his bicycle and snuck through the hole in the fence. In broad daylight, the junkyard didn't look so spooky; just cluttered. Still, Roy had no difficulty spotting the rusty old panel truck with JO-JO's ICE CREAM AND SNO-CONES painted on the flimsy awning.

Beatrice's stepbrother was in the back of the truck, zipped into a moldy sleeping bag. When he heard Roy's footsteps, he stirred and cracked one eye. Roy knelt beside him.

"Brought you some water."

"Thanks, man." Mullet Fingers reached for the plastic bottle. "And thanks for last night. You get in trouble?"

"No big deal," said Roy. "How do you feel?"

"Like cow poop."

"You're looking better than you did," Roy told him, which was the truth. The shine had returned to the boy's cheeks, and his dog-bitten arm no longer appeared puffy and stiff. A blue button-sized bruise was visible on the other arm, where the boy had yanked out the intravenous tube before fleeing the hospital.

"Fever's gone, but I hurt all over," he said, squirming out of the sleeping bag. Roy looked the other way while he put on some clothes.

"I came to tell you something. It's about the new pancake house," Roy said. "I talked to my dad and he said they can build whatever they want on that land, long as they've got the legal papers. There's nothing we can do."

Mullet Fingers grinned. "'We'?"

"All I mean is-"

"You're sayin' it's a lost cause, right? Come on, Tex, you gotta start thinkin' like an outlaw."

"But I'm not an outlaw."

"Yeah, you are. Last night at the hospital-that was definitely an outlaw move."

"You were sick. You needed help," Roy said.

Mullet Fingers finished off the water and tossed the empty bottle. He stood up, stretching like a cat.

"You crossed the line, and why? 'Cause you cared about what happened to me," he said to Roy, "just like I care about what happens to them weird little owls."

"They're burrowing owls. I've been reading up on them," Roy said, "which reminds me-they probably aren't too crazy about hamburger meat. They eat mostly bugs and worms, according to the bird books."

"So I'll catch 'em some bugs." The boy spoke with a touch of impatience. "Point is, it ain't right, what's happening out there. That land belonged to the owls long before it belonged to the pancake house. Where you from, Tex?"

"Montana," Roy replied automatically. Then he added, "Well, actually, I was born in Detroit. But we lived in Montana right before we moved down here."

"Never been out West," Mullet Fingers said, "but I know they got mountains."

"Yeah. Awesome mountains."

"That's what we need here," said the boy. "Florida's so flat, there's nothing to stop 'em from bulldozin' one coast to the other."

Roy didn't have the heart to tell him that even mountains aren't safe from machines like that.

"Ever since I was little," Mullet Fingers said, "I've been watchin' this place disappear-the piney woods, the scrub, the creeks, the glades. Even the beaches, man-they put up all these giant hotels and only goober tourists are allowed. It really sucks."

Roy said, "Same thing happens everywhere."

"Doesn't mean you don't fight back. Here, check it out." From a pocket of his torn jeans the boy produced a crumpled piece of paper. "I tried, Tex, see? Had Beatrice write a letter, telling 'em about the owls and all. Here's what they sent back."

Roy smoothed out the paper, which bore the Mother Paula's company emblem at the top. It said:

Dear Ms. Leep, Thank you very much for your letter. We here at Mother Paula's All-American Pancake Houses, Inc., take pride in our strong commitment to the environment. Every possible effort will be made to address your concerns. You have my personal assurance that Mother Paula's is working closely with local authorities, in full compliance with all laws, codes, and regulations. Sincerely, Chuck E. Muckle Vice-President for Corporate Relations

"Lame," Roy said, handing the paper back to Beatrice's stepbrother.

"Yeah, it's just a whatcha-call-it… a form letter. Didn't even mention the owls."

They stepped out of the ice-cream truck into the sunlight. Ripples of heat rose from the junked cars, which were lined up in rows as far as Roy could see.

"How long are you going to hide here?" he asked the boy.

"Till they chase me out. Hey, what're you doin' tonight?"

"Homework."

In truth Roy had only one short chapter to read for Mr. Ryan's history class, but he wanted an excuse to stay home. He sensed that Mullet Fingers was planning another illegal visit to the Mother Paula's site.

"Well, you change your mind, meet me you-know-where at sunset," the boy said, "and bring a socket wrench."

Roy felt a strange mixture of apprehension and excitement. Part of him was worried about the tactics used by Beatrice's stepbrother, and part of him was rooting for the kid.

"You've been sick," Roy said. "You need to rest up."

"Ha! No time for that."

"But the stuff you're doing, it won't work," Roy persisted. "It might slow things down but it won't stop 'em. Mother Paula's is a big company. They're not just going to give up and go away."

"Neither am I, Tex."

"Sooner or later they'll catch you, and then you'll end up in juvenile hall and-"

"Then I'll run away again. Same as always."

"But don't you miss, like, a normal life?"

"Can't miss what you never had," said Beatrice's stepbrother. Roy detected no bitterness in his voice.

"Maybe someday I'll go back to school," the boy went on, "but for now I'm 'bout as smart as I need to be. Maybe I can't do algebra or say 'Nice poodle' in French or tell you who discovered Brazil, but I can make a fire with two dry sticks and a rock. I can climb a coconut palm and get me enough fresh milk to last a month-"

They heard a motor start and ducked back into the ice-cream truck.

"Old guy who owns the place," Mullet Fingers whispered. "He's got an ATV-it's super cool. Goes flyin' around here like he's Jeff Gordon."

When the growl of the all-terrain vehicle faded away toward the other side of the junkyard, the boy signaled that it was safe to leave the truck. He led Roy on a shortcut to the opening in the fence, and they slipped out together.

"Where you headed now?" Roy asked.

"I dunno. Maybe do some recon."

"Recon?"

"You know. Reconnaissance," Mullet Fingers said. "Scope out targets for tonight."

"Oh."

"Aren't ya gonna ask what I got planned?"

Roy said, "It's probably better if I don't know." He considered mentioning that his father was in law enforcement. Maybe it would help the boy understand Roy's reluctance to participate, even though he sympathized with the owl crusade. Roy couldn't bear the thought of facing his parents through jail bars if he and Mullet Fingers got caught.

"My dad works for the government," Roy said.

"That's swell," said the boy. "My dad eats Hot Pockets and stares at ESPN all day long. Come on, Tex, I got somethin' way cool to show you."

"The name's Roy."

"Okay, Roy. Follow me."

Then he took off running, again.

One summer in the late 1970s, long before Roy Eberhardt was born, a small but powerful tropical storm boiled out of the Gulf of Mexico and came ashore a few miles south of Coconut Cove. No one was injured or killed, though the ten-foot surge caused heavy damage to buildings and roads along the waterfront.

Among the casualties was a stone-crab boat called the Molly Bell, which was torn from her anchorage and swept up a swollen tidal creek, where she wallowed and sank from sight.

The storm blew itself out, the surge waters receded, and there, sticking halfway above the surface, was the lost crab boat. And there she stayed, for the creek was so slender and the currents so tricky and the oyster beds so perilous that no salvage captains would risk their own vessels to retrieve the Molly Bell.

Each season she grew more shrunken and dilapidated, surrendering her sturdy hull and deck to the ravages of woodworms, barnacles, and weather. After two decades, all of the Molly Bell that showed above the surface was the sloping, bleached roof of her pilothouse-just wide enough for two boys to sit side by side, faces upturned toward the sun, legs dangling over the pale green creek.

Roy was dazzled by the wondrous quiet, the bushy old mangroves sealing off the place from the honking and hammering of civilization. Beatrice's stepbrother closed his eyes and gustily inhaled the salty breeze.

A lone osprey hovered overhead, attracted by a glimmer of baitfish in the shallows. Upstream a school of baby tarpon rolled, also with lunch on their minds. Nearby a white heron posed regally on one leg, in the same tree where the boys had hung their shoes before swimming to the derelict boat.

"Two weeks ago I saw a crocodile in here. Nine-footer," remarked Beatrice's stepbrother.

"Great. Now you tell me," Roy said with a laugh.

The truth was, he felt totally safe. The creek was incredibly beautiful and wild; a hidden sanctuary, only twenty minutes away from his own backyard.

I might have found this place all by myself, Roy thought, if I hadn't spent so much time moping around being homesick for Montana.

The boy said, "It ain't the crocs ya gotta worry about. It's the mosquitoes."

"Have you brought Beatrice out here?"

"Just once. A blue crab bit her on the big toe, and that's all she wrote."

"Poor crab," said Roy.

"Yeah, it wasn't pretty."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Anything but my name," said Mullet Fingers. "I don't want one and I don't need one. Not out here."

"What I wanted to ask about," Roy said, "is you and your mom. What's the deal?"

"I dunno. We just never connected," the boy said matter-of-factly. "I quit sweatin' it a long time ago."

Roy found that hard to believe.

"What about your real dad?"

"Never knew him." The boy shrugged. "Never even saw a picture."

Roy couldn't think of what to say, so he quietly dropped the subject. Downstream a disturbance shook the water, and a dozen silvery cigar-sized fish jumped in unison, trying to escape some hungry predator.

"Cool! Here they come." Beatrice's stepbrother pointed at the frantic V-shaped wake. He got flat on his belly and instructed Roy to hold his ankles.

"What for?"

"Hurry up, man, c'mon!"

With Roy anchoring his feet, the boy scooted himself forward over the rim of the pilothouse until his wiry upper torso was suspended out over the creek.

"Don't let go!" he yelled, stretching his tan arms outward until his fingertips touched the water.

Roy's hold began to slip, so he pitched forward, exerting his full weight upon the boy's midsection. He expected both of them to go tumbling into the creek, which was all right as long as they didn't scrape any oyster bars.

"Here they come! Get ready!"

"I've gotcha." Roy managed to hang on as he felt the boy lunge. He heard a grunt, a splash, and then a triumphant "Whooo-hoooo!!!"

Grabbing the boy's belt loops, Roy pulled him safely back onto the pilothouse. The boy flipped over and sat up beaming, his hands cupped in front of him.

"Take a peek," he told Roy.

The boy was holding a bright blunt-headed fish that sparkled like liquid chrome. How he had snatched such a slippery little ghost from the water with only his bare hands, Roy didn't know. Even the osprey would have been impressed.

"So that's a mullet," Roy said.

"Yep." The boy smiled proudly. "That's how come I got the nickname."

"Exactly how'd you do that? What's the trick?"

"Practice," the boy replied. "Trust me, it beats homework."

The fish glittered blue and green as it wriggled in his palms. Holding it over the creek, the boy let go. The mullet landed with a soft plop and vanished in a swirl.

"Bye, little guy," said Beatrice's stepbrother. "Swim fast."

Later, after they paddled to shore, Roy's curiosity got the best of him. He heard himself saying: "Okay, you can tell me now. What's going to happen tonight at Mother Paula's?"

Mullet Fingers, who was shaking a snail off one of his new sneakers, flashed a mischievous glance. "There's only one way to find out," he said. "Be there."