The Truth as Told by Mason Buttle Page 7
Calvin snorts a laugh about this.
His dad says, “Just so you know, Mason is welcome at our house too. We have a helper there to supervise after school. An adult. Of course, Calvin tells us he’s having more fun here. I can imagine. Your orchard lands are beautiful.” He sweeps a hand backward. He says, “This is just what we hoped for when we moved here. Thank you for letting Calvin play in all your acres.”
I wonder if Calvin’s parents know about the chasing. And maybe the part about how we don’t get supervised all that much here. I wonder.
His mom says, “You’ve been so nice to host him. We felt we should contribute. He must be eating you out of house and home.”
I say, “Are you kidding? Calvin? He fills right up. There’s not much to him.” Then I guess they already know this.
They laugh. Bring the bags inside.
Shayleen comes out of the room that used to be my room. I bet she heard the grocery bags crackling. A shopping noise. Top of the bag I see bananas and vanilla wafers.
The Chumsky parents talk to Grandma. I keep half my ear on it. They want to make this official. I don’t know what that is about. Not until Grandma says, “No. I won’t take a penny. He’s a friend. He’s always welcome here.”
Then I get it. She does not want us to be Calvin’s babysitters. That’s good. Seventh-grade dudes do not need babysitters.
The Chumsky parents say, “Well, at least accept the groceries. It’s just a few snacks. Please.”
Grandma tells them, “Just this once.”
I ask Calvin does he want to wash up before he goes home. There is dirt under his fingernails. All over his tiny paw hands. He says, “No. My parents love it when I get dirty.”
His mom says, “We do!”
Calvin says, “They just don’t want to be there while it’s happening.”
His dad says, “True.”
His mom says, “True.”
They all laugh. Calvin grinds his gritty knuckles in his ear.
I say, “We have plenty of dirt here.”
Then the three Chumskys go up the hill. Up Jonagold Path.
Tell you what. I was sorry when Uncle Drum sold that off. Sorry we lost so many Galas and Cortlands to the bulldozers. But I am not sorry we got the Chumskys living up there now. Not one bit.
chapter 27
SEEKING A TUBE
Next few days we brave it. We go down to the construction sites. Creep along the yards. Watch out for the apple chuckers. We come back with two five-gallon buckets. Little bit cracked. Picked those from the dumpsters. We don’t need any trouble about trespassing or stealing.
We turn the buckets upside down inside the root cellar. They are something to sit on.
So we have our place. It is away from Shayleen. Away from speeding lacrosse balls and apples and swatting sticks. We sit. I don’t say it, but I think about the tree fort. The leaves. The limbs. The breezes. Miss those in the root cellar. I liked the work of getting in here. Sweeping it down was fun. But there is not so much to do. And it’s still pretty dark.
Don’t you know, that’s when Calvin says, “Mason, I have an idea.”
He brings up a picture on his tablet. Shows me a tube stuck into the ceiling of a house. Looks like there is a light on inside it.
He says, “Do you get it? It’s a light shaft. It collects light at the top from outdoors and brings it all the way into the room below.”
I say, “What? How?” Then I say, “You want to put one of those in here?”
He says, “Yes. We can make one.” He points up over our heads. He says, “We’ll put it right through there.” I look up at the old boards and wonder about the whole thing. Calvin says, “I’ve been thinking about this. A lot. I know how to approach it. We’re going to need some parts. And I think I know where to get them.”
I say, “Where? The construction sites?”
Calvin Chumsky nods his white head.
So we go and we search around the dumpsters some more. Calvin holds up a piece of plastic pipe like they use for plumbing.
“We need something like this,” he says. “Only bigger.” He makes a wide circle with his arms. Like he is hugging someone round and invisible.
I say, “I don’t know a reason for plumbing pipes to be that big. What you’re showing me is way bigger than the flushing hole of a toilet, Calvin.”
Calvin asks me, “But have you seen if any of these new houses have raised decks or screen porches?”
“Yeah. Sure. Number fourteen and eighteen. Crispin Drive.”
“Does anybody live there?”
I say, “Not yet.”
Calvin says, “Good. Dumpster time!”
Turns out Calvin is after one of those big cardboard tubes. The kind for making a column of concrete. Like what the porches and decks sit on.
So we check dumpsters. We crawl below the porches at numbers fourteen and eighteen Crispin Drive. No luck. We walk through two new sites on McIntosh Circle on the way home. That’s where we see something. Calvin and I run straight to it. There are words on the side. Calvin reads it: Sonotube form. But it has been sliced open. Calvin says, “Close. But that won’t do.” He says, “It’s not long enough anyway.”
He says, “If I calculated right, we need about six feet.”
I say, “Six whole feet?” I make big eyes at him. “What! That’s more than me! I can’t see us having any luck finding that.”
Almost as soon as I say those words, we do have luck. Right close to home. We are two doors down from Matt Drinker’s house and we see a new foundation is in. Six cement columns stick up from the ground like they are waiting for something to land on them. Calvin and I sort through a lot of torn-up Sonotube remains.
Remains. That’s what Calvin calls the fat curls of cardboard. And then one—just one—nice long tube. It is the fattest of all. And it is whole.
We lift it. It is not heavy, but it is awkward. Part of that is because Calvin is at one end and I am at the other. One short. One tall. This is not so good for balance. We got some swing and stumble going here. Truth is, I could put this tube on my shoulder with Calvin inside of it and make the climb home just as fast. But the way I feel about it is this: The tube is Calvin’s find. It is his prize. And there is great glory in carrying home a prize. But it is too long and rolly for Calvin to manage alone. He needs my help.
So here I am dragging Calvin at the end of a Sonotube form. I am thinking a little bit about glory. A little bit about how far we have to go.
I hear Calvin say something.
I stop. Look back at him. I say, “What?”
He says, “I said, uh-oh.”
Then I see. Matt Drinker and Lance Pierson. Taking long steps right at us. And Corey McSpirit is coming along behind them.
“Hey Butt-hole! Fetus-face!” Matt says. “Leave that! It’s mine. I have a plan. I’m going to saw that up and hang the hoops for accuracy practice.”
I get what he is saying. He wants targets. For lacrosse. It would be pretty fun to shoot balls through the circles.
I say, “If you’re going to cut it up can’t you use a few shorter ones?”
“Can. But I won’t. That big one is mine.”
Calvin says, “Well, wait a second. How good are you?”
Matt says, “What are you talking about?”
Over there to one side, quiet Corey McSpirit is smiling. He speaks up. He says, “That’s a fair question.’’
Calvin says, “The greater test of accuracy comes with the smallest opening. Am I right?” I see Corey nodding his head. Calvin says it again. “So how good are you?”
Matt Drinker goes all red in the face. He says, “What do you know? You don’t even play.”
Calvin says, “Me? Heck no. I’d stink at that game. But I’m asking you. Sure you can send a ball through a twelve-or fourteen-incher. Easy. But what about that eight over there?” He points at the smaller tubes.
Matt says, “No way. I know what I want.” He takes a step closer.
“Nope! That one is mine.” He points.
Calvin says, “How do you figure? Why is this one yours?”
“Because, Pygmy Boy. It’s closer to my house than to anyone else’s.”
Calvin shakes his head. He says, “That’s incomprehensible.” I see Calvin thinking. He tells Matt, “How about this? It’s yours . . . if you can knock me off of it.”
About a hundred holy cows go mooing inside my head. NO-O-O-O!
But don’t you know it, Calvin dives onto that tube. Pins it to the ground. He wraps arms and legs around it. He locks his hands together. Hooks his ankles. Tucks his chin. Closes his eyes.
Calvin Chumsky is not going to let go of that tube.
chapter 28
THE FIGHT FOR THE TUBE
I look at Calvin all attached to the Sonotube. Makes me think. Sometimes Uncle Drum watches sports. Basketball, soccer, or football. Of course, he has to get the TV from Shayleen now and that isn’t easy. But what I am thinking about right now is who wins. Sometimes there is a better team. But sometimes there is a team that wants it more.
Matt Drinker lands on Calvin like a chest of drawers.
Lance Pierson hollers, “Crush him, Matty! Crush him!”
What a scramble! We got scuffing. We got pulling and clawing. We got Calvin grunting under the weight of Matt.
I am not one to let somebody pound on my best friend’s scrawny back. I cannot stand to let him rip him out of his shirt. Or dig his nails into his bare skin like he is doing. So I go over and drag Matt off Calvin.
Matt turns and thumps a few punches on me. Tells me, “Quit touching me, you sweaty hog!”
Calvin says, “Let him at me, Mason. I can do it!” And he clamps his skinny self to that tube all the harder.
Matt grabs Calvin’s shirt. Pulls that all out of shape. Both guys groaning. Struggling. Lance Pierson eggs Matt on. Corey McSpirit stands to the side. Keeps just one eye on the fight. Sick look on his face. I’m not good at figuring that dude out. But then Corey says it—kind of sharp. “Let him have the tube, Matt.” One side of his lip curls up. Corey says, “We’ll use the other ones.” But Matt is deaf to him.
And then I feel like Corey is the same as me. I don’t mean he is big with sweat pouring off him. Not that. I mean he doesn’t like this scene. And we both know Matt won’t quit. I turn to root for Calvin. And gosh, he holds on. But I see his fingers slip-slip-slipping. And I watch . . . and I watch . . . with my two fists full of sweat.
Blaaam! A car horn blasts. Blaam! I look and see the Drinkers’ van rock to a full stop. Mrs. Drinker puts her head out the window. “Matty! Matty! Let go of that little boy! Let go right now!”
She gets out of the van. Matt lets go of Calvin. Mrs. Drinker takes giant steps across the roughed-out driveway of the building lot. She hollers for Matt, Lance, and Corey McSpirit to get into her car.
Matt hollers back. He says, “All right! All right! But you don’t have to drive us. We can walk it. It’s only two doors down!”
But Mrs. Drinker will not have that. She says, “You will get in the car!” Finally, he does. After Corey. After Lance. The door is the slow-slide kind. Lance has time. He leans up. Shows me his middle finger before the door seals them in.
Mrs. Drinker stays. She kneels down by Calvin. Taps on his arm. She says, “Are you all right?” She says it over and over again.
I hear him saying, “Yep. Yep.” Little mouse sounds. Then bigger ones. He says, “I’m fine. Just resting. It was a friendly contest. Seriously. I’m fine.”
When she believes him it’s kind of funny because Calvin is still wrapped around that tube. Like he is glued on there.
I tell Mrs. Drinker, “If he says fine, he really is fine.” Hope I’m right.
Mrs. Drinker goes back to the car. She takes Matt and his friends two doors down to the Drinker house. The garage door opens. Swallows them up.
I get down in the dust beside my friend. I say, “Calvin? Hey there. You really all right?” I tip my head down to see his face. Dirty. Muddy rings around his nose holes. He is a bit scraped up.
He stops holding the tube so tight. Soon, I think he is just lying on it. His eyes slide sideways to look right at mine. Smile opens across his face. Calvin says, “Mason, the tube is ours.” And he starts to laugh.
We pick the tube up again. Swing and stumble. We have some good glory. We carry home that prize.
chapter 29
SAND AND PAINT
Saturday morning Calvin brings paint. Leftovers from their new house in the upper development. He comes down Jonagold Path dragging the two buckets on the road. Looks like his pencil arms will pull out of the sockets. I go to help.
I say, “Calvin, you are scraping a trail.”
He grunts. “Would you take the buckets?” I do. But he still looks pretty weighed down. Still huffs and puffs. That is due to his heavy backpack. He tells me he has a bag of sand in there.
Pretty soon, we are in the root cellar. Flashlight shining. We are mixing that sand into the paint. It’s a recipe Calvin learned off his tablet. The stirring feels good. Sand into the pale paint. We take turns to mix it. Then we start with two old brushes from our shed. We stroke the paint onto the root cellar walls. Thick and spready. It is the perfect thing. When I brush it on the wall I say, “Aww!”
Then Calvin says, “Aww!” Because this is perfect Caves of Lascaux paint.
We work awhile. Until Calvin drops his brush. He says, “Ugh.” He makes a puking face. He says, “Mason, we have to ventilate or we’re going to die in here.”
I get it. Ventilate is about two things. The paint is smelly. And it needs air to dry.
I set down my bucket and brush. Rub my sweaty hands on my pants. I say, “We’re going to have to open that door, huh?”
Calvin shakes his head. He says, “No way are we giving up our location. If they find out we are here, it’ll ruin everything.” He looks at me straight on. He says, “Let’s never give up the root cellar, Mason. Not for anything. Tell no one.” That is a dead-serious look on Calvin. Maybe because he feels like puke.
So I say, “I won’t. I promise.” Then I tell Calvin, “I have an idea.”
The idea is this: We have the old tractor. And it runs. Sometimes. So I take Calvin up beside the shed where the tractor stays. Key is always in it. I hop up. Give it a start. That engine backfires first. A poof of stink sends Calvin running backward. Holding his nose. But now I know it’ll run pretty great as long as it has fuel.
Turns out it doesn’t have much. Or could be the gauge is off. But I set the throttle. Start driving it down to the dip. I am laughing because Calvin is jumping up and down. Running alongside to cheer me on. The tractor sputters and bucks. I tell it, “Come on, come on! Giddyap!” It goes. And goes. Rolls. And stalls out at the root cellar door.
I ask Calvin if that will be all right.
He says, “Perfect.” But I don’t know. The tractor is not that tall. But what Calvin thinks is this: The tractor is a distraction. Something to look at instead of looking at the door. And the door is open only about halfway anyway. And it is still under the cover of brambles. So okay.
There is air for Calvin. He stops feeling sick. Dip after dip, I load my brush the way Benny Kilmartin’s dad Andy showed me. But this is a different kind of paint job. Dirt from the wall mixes in. Makes it look even more like the Caves of Lascaux on Calvin’s tablet.
On we go. Load, stroke, and spread. Load, stroke, and spread. I work high. Calvin works low. Easier for me to put paint across the ceiling. I’m way taller. I watch out for the beams. Don’t need another bump on the head.
I paint and paint. I think this: If I could do nothing else for the next one hundred hours, I would be happy. But for sure we will finish up faster than that. The root cellar is not so big.
Calvin says, “The recesses in the root cellar wa
lls are like the chambers. The real Caves of Lascaux had a good number of them. There was the Great Hall of the Bulls. And the Chamber of Felines, and the Shaft of the Dead Man.” Calvin knows them all.
He has an idea about us burning sticks to make charcoal. He says we can draw animals on the walls.
I listen to him. A thought comes to my brain: We are making something awesome right on the property of the old Buttle farm. Adding something instead of subtracting. First time in a long time for that. Unless you count Uncle Drum adding Shayleen, and I would not. Shayleen, with her shopping channel Chia Pets and her flying-saucer salad bowl. All still in the boxes.
Calvin and I finish painting the last patch of wall. We sit down on our five-gallon-bucket chairs. Pick paint off our hands. We look around us. Clean pale walls.
I say, “It sure is different now.”
“Transformed,” says Calvin.
I say, “So hey. What about that Sonotube?”
Turns out Calvin has special paint for that. It is not just pale. It is white. All white.
He tells me, “The inside of the tube absolutely has to be a light color. Reflective. So it gives back the light. See how the brown of the cardboard is dark? Well, that is absorptive. It eats the light up.”
I like the way he explains. I get it.
Calvin reaches inside one end of the tube with his brush and I reach inside the other end with mine. I get my arm in deep. Up to the shoulder. Calvin too. Not so easy painting where you can’t see. But it is funny.
Calvin tells me, “You just painted my hand, Mason. And you keep twisting the tube.”
I say, “Yeah, well. How do you like my Caves of Lascaux knuckles?” I pull my arm out of the tube to show him.
He says, “Now your hands almost match your head.”
I touch my head. Feels like plaster. But it is the sand paint from working on the ceiling. I say, “Looks like I dripped on your head today too.”
Calvin says, “Yes. That feels like bird turds.”
I say, “Looks like them too.”
So we laugh while we paint that whole inside of the tube. Me trying to roll it one way. Calvin trying to roll it the other.