S.O.S., page 13
“Yes, ma’am,” Ryan said.
Verne rose from his seat. “Let’s get started,” he said. “Sunday might be a day of rest for some, but on a farm or a ranch there’s always something that must be done.”
On the way out, he gave Ryan a mischievous grin and added, “But, first I want you to meet a friend of mine.”
He set off for a distant Banyan tree that grew along the banks of an irrigation ditch. Rex tried to follow, but Verne raised a thick finger.
“Stay!” he said in that deep, commanding voice. Rex stayed.
They passed a melon patch on the way. Verne leaned over and scooped up a monstrous fruit that easily weighed twenty five pounds or more. As they walked, he juggled it like a ball, tossing it from one hand to other with no visible effort.
When they got closer, Ryan heard grunting noises coming from a large pen that had been built in the shade of the tree.
Verne called out, “It’s daddy, Bertha! Come to get his morning kiss.”
While Ryan wondered who in blazes Bertha was, and why she should expect a kiss, an enormous pig rose out of the pen, snuffled the air and made oinking noises.
“That’s Bertha?” Ryan gasped.
“None other,” Verne said. He handed Ryan the watermelon. “Here, hold this, son,” he said. Ryan nearly buckled from the unexpected weight.
At the pen Verne said, “Give Daddy a kiss, Bertha.”
The pig offered up its big snout, going, “Oink, Oink,” and by gosh and by golly it made kissing noises and Verne gave it a lip smack.
Ryan never dreamed a pig could get this big. It was easily five hundred pounds and four feet high at the shoulders. With its front legs braced against the pen, the animal towered over Ryan.
Verne said, “Lie down for Daddy, Bertha. Show Ryan here what you can do.”
Making little squealing noises, Bertha flopped on the muddy ground.
“Roll over, Bertha,” Verne commanded. “Go on, now. Roll over.”
He made kissing noises, and then, to Ryan’s amazement Bertha rolled over like a five hundred pound dog. Lying on her back, she waved her four feet in the air, looking so silly that Ryan nearly burst into laughter.
“Don’t laugh,” Verne warned him under his breath. “She’s a sensitive pig and you’ll hurt her poor feelings.”
With difficulty, Ryan stifled laughter.
Verne grabbed a rake that was propped up against the pen.
“Does Bertha baby want her belly scratched?” he asked.
The stream of oinking noises coming from Bertha made Ryan guess that would be a “Yes.”
Making kissing noises all the while, Verne scraped her enormous tummy with the rake and Bertha squealed and wriggled with undisguised pleasure.
When he thought she’d had enough, Verne put the rake away and took the watermelon back from Ryan.
“Thanks,” he said, then, holding the melon between two hands, he gave it a whack on the fence, splitting it neatly in half.
Bertha scrambled to her feet.
“Oh, baby knows what’s coming next, doesn’t she, girl?” Verne said and he tossed first one half, then the other into the pen.
Bertha got busy munching them down.
“Come on,” Verne said. “Let her eat in peace.”
As they walked away, he said, “If you can imagine, she was only this big when I found her.” He spread his hands about a foot apart. “About the size of a pup.”
“You found her?” Ryan asked. It never occurred to him that you could find a pig. He figured farmers bought them from breeders, or bred their own.
“Florida is full of wild pigs,” Verne said. “Razorbacks left by the Spanish years and years ago. They can be a nuisance, getting at our crops and stuff, so we usually hunt them down and kill them for meat and sport.
“And, just like you noticed the other day, they can be dangerous as all get out. Grow big old tusks, six, eight inches long. First thing I did was clip hers, so she wouldn’t grow any.
“I think old Bertha’s momma was movin’ her litter from one place to another and little Bertha got stuck in the barbed wire fence. I rescued her and she was such a cute little thing I didn’t have the heart to put her down. I thought I’d let her be and maybe raise her for some gourmet-style bacon and hams.”
He smacked his lips. “No kitchen scraps for Bertha,” he said. “I feed her nothing but the best. Melon and apples and oranges and whatever nuts and berries that are in season. Vegetables from the truck garden.”
Verne shook his head in wonderment. “Can you imagine what her bacon’s gonna taste like with a diet like that? And shoot, what could be better than apple-fed ham smoked over apple chip coals?”
“You mean, you really are going to eat her?” Ryan asked.
“Of course I am,” Verne said. “Why else would I go to all that trouble? God made pigs so we could eat bacon and ham and deep fried crackling.”
“I suppose so,” Ryan said, trying not to laugh.
Verne gave him a stern look. “You doubting me son?” he asked.
“Nossir,” Ryan said. “I’d never do that.”
On the way back to the house Sammy and Ada came driving up. They were dressed in their Sunday best, as were the twins who sat between them, uncomfortable in flowery dresses and little black Mary Janes with white lacy topped socks. Alex was perched in the back, wearing long pants a crisp white shirt and polished shoes.
“Off to church, Sammy?” Verne asked.
“Sure am boss,” Sammy said. “Sunday morning chores are done and everybody’s either visitin’ family, or at church. It’s Charlie Silver Moon’s turn to mind the stock. Hank’ll pick it up next Sunday.”
Verne nodded. “Well, you’d best get goin’ then,” he said. “Deacon Jones’ll give you what for if you’re late.”
Sammy laughed. “Don’t worry, boss,” he said. “Got a couple of Ada’s pies to smooth the way.”
Then, after a pause, Sammy said, “You hear the war news yet, boss?”
Ryan’s heart gave a bump. Could the news have something to do with his father? He kicked himself. That was ridiculous. He was too far away for news to filter down this far.
Still.
He crossed his fingers behind his back and waited.
Verne said, “Haven’t had a chance yet. I try to catch a listen when Myrtle isn’t around. Doctor’s orders, you know.”
Sammy nodded. “Yessir,” he said. “Good thing, too. This was awful close to home.”
Verne’s eyebrows rose.
“German U-boat hit a freighter off our coast last night,” Sammy said. He shook his head. “Word is, there ain’t no survivors. Radio said the sub surfaced and machine gunned ’em all.”
Verne’s face went pale and he suddenly looked twenty years older. With the way his own stomach took a multi-story tumble, Ryan guessed he didn’t look much better.
“That’s terrible,” Verne said, deep voice atremble. “They were just unarmed merchantmen. Civilians. No threat to anybody.”
Sammy sighed. Reflexively, he touched the place where his left hand used to be. “If they’d take me,” he said, “I’d join up tomorrow. Shoot the hell out of them Germans.”
Ada leaned over the twins, so her head was closer to the driver’s side window.
“I suspect we’ll all be speakin’ to the Lord about those poor boys this mornin’, boss,” she said. “And they’ll most likely be takin’ up a collection for the families.”
Verne reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll. He peeled off a thick sheaf of bills and handed them to Ada.
“Put this in for me and Myrtle, would you Ada?” He looked at Ryan, then back at Ada. “And for Ryan, too.” He looked at the remaining money in his fist, then shrugged. “What the hey,” he said. “Make it from everybody on Sullivan Island.” And he handed it all over to Ada.
Ada gave a sad smile. “I’ll be proud to boss.”
She shifted back to her place and Sammy slowly drove away. In the back, Alex gave a shy wave. Ryan waved back.
When they were gone, Verne said, “When we go to town tomorrow to get you into school, I’ll swing by and talk to Captain Frank.”
Ryan gave him a quizzical. Verne said, “He’s the fellow I hired to operate that fishing boat I told you about earlier,” he said.
The boy nodded, remembering. “I’ll get him to prep the boat for rescue operations,” Verne said. “First aid stuff. Food. Blankets. That sort of thing. Then, next time one of those merchant ships are hit maybe we can help.”
“You think it’s going to happen again?” Ryan asked.
“Unfortunately, I do,” Verne said. “And anybody who thinks otherwise has their heads stuck way up their behinds.”
It suddenly occurred to Ryan that the flash of fiery light that Alex had pointed out last night was very likely the merchant ship sinking in burning seas.
In his mind’s eye he saw the U-Boat surfacing. The German gunnery crew pulling the tarps back from the heavy machinegun with fast well-practiced ease.
And he imagined them opening up. Aiming for the bodies thrashing around in burning seas.
“You alright, boy?” he heard Verne ask. His voice seemed to come from a distant place.
Ryan sighed. “Nossir,” he said. “I am not.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Car Magic
All Ryan could see in the bathroom mirror was an idiot wearing clothes that shouted “I’m A Yankee.” He was clad in heavy cords, a dress white shirt and black, spit-shined leather shoes.
And no matter how many time he pushed down on it, the Our Gang Comedies cowlick sticking up on the back of his head insisted on staying as erect as a steel bar.
Making matters worse, it was only seven thirty in the morning and he was already dripping sweat in the south Florida tropical heat.
In short, Ryan was desperately trying to shake off the Monday morning first-day-of-school blues. And right now—staring in the mirror—it not only looked hopeless. It was hopeless.
His suitcase was packed tight with equally unsuitable clothes and so from now until some distant point in the unforeseeable future he’d be condemned to look like a rube.
He’d be the target of every Florida Cracker’s sneer from here to Key West, where the sun mystically fell off the ends of the earth in a green flash. Ryan had read that in a column in one of his science fiction magazines, and had an itch ever since to see the phenomenon.
Ryan would have to ask Alex about the green flash. He perked up. For a change he had somebody intelligent to talk to. Actually, that was two somebodys. Alex and Hattie. He’d rarely found one—much less two—friends like that in all the schools he’d attended. They were gone now in the mist of other schools, other half-semester friends, and if not for Hattie and Alex the days that came might be the same as all those in the past. He was suddenly aware that he might have just found a treasure.
Outside, Verne beeped the horn.
Okay, Ryan Karr. Time for the pep talk. New school. New teachers. New kids. Keep your head low. Mouth shut and do not draw attention to yourself. That is Rule Number One: Do Not Draw Attention To Yourself.
In dismay, he looked down at the clothes he was wearing. He hoped to blazes they’d get a cold snap soon so he could buy new duds—never mind the bicycle and the boat. First things first.
Outside, a particularly humongous car horn blast almost made him jump out of his skin. And he heard Verne bellow: “Time’s a wastin’, Ryan!”
Ryan snorted amusement. What in the world was Verne up to? He gave the cowlick one more futile push and hurried off to investigate.
A moment later he stepped through the screen door to be greeted by a magnificent sight: a car whose like he’d never seen before except in a few men’s magazines in barbershops. Which practically every schoolboy visited once a month—twice if you were a Navy brat, or a kid in Catholic school.
Also, like any red-blooded American boy of his time, Ryan could spout the pedigree and specifics of any automobile on the road. And the 1941 Cadillac Convertible sitting before him was at the top of any list of a young man’s favorites.
Streamlined like the Florida Special that had carried him to Jove Beach, it was long and low and gleaming black, with the spare tire mounted on the side. The chromed grille and window frames sparkled in the morning sun. With the top thrown back showing off the rose-colored leather upholstery, the vehicle looked like it was right out of a travel poster depicting beautiful people standing around admiring the car and each other.
Ryan was so transfixed it took a moment before his eyes fell on Verne sitting behind the wheel, sporting a grin as wide as the Seminole River. He gave the horn another shot.
He clapped the big Panama on his head and grinned the widest grin Ryan had ever seen, his single blue eye sparkling with fun.
“Those aren’t school bells you hear ringing, young man,” Verne said, playing a little drama of his own making. “Let’s get goin’, Pard, ’fore they send the truant officer out to lasso us and haul us away to the hoosegow… or school… whichever is worse.”
“Please, Verne,” his grandmother said. “You’re going to give me a splitting headache.”
With a start, he realized she was sitting in the back seat, dressed for town in a gray suit, gloves to match and a string of pearls around her slender throat. Her makeup was light.
“My God, the man can make an event out of the smallest endeavor,” she complained.
Verne patted the passenger’s side. “Get on in, Ryan,” he said. “You’ll be riding shotgun today.”
Delighted, Ryan hopped in, sinking luxuriously into the soft leather.
In the back, his grandmother was going on about the things she needed to pick up in town after they got done with Mr. Jordan, the school principal. Thankfully, she was talking to Verne because Ryan was so knocked out by the car he only made out every third word or so.
He watched, fascinated, as Verne pressed the starter button with his thumb and the big V8 engine rumbled into life. Then he smoothly shifted the lever of what Ryan realized was the new 4-speed hydromatic transmission all the guys were talking about back in Philly. Verne applied gas and the car moved forward, seashells crunching under its wheels.
Magic!
Then he heard Verne say, “Myrtle, we have to do something about the boy’s clothes. It’s just morning and he’s already sweating like Bertha on a hot August day.”
That got Ryan’s attention. He glanced up at the rear view mirror and saw his grandmother’s lips tighten.
“Another expense,” she said. “I told Cassie what kind of clothes to send down with him. I swear, that family is so scatter brained that—”
Verne broke in. “Myrtle, darling,” he said. “Seems to me the folks up in Philadelphia have pretty much got their hands full. And with the war and, uh…” he glanced over at Ryan… “Well with the war and all, I suspect they’re pretty distracted.
“Besides, I don’t mind us taking a little of the burden off them if we can. They’re family after all. Sure I married into it, but that’s how I feel darling, and you know it.
“We can certainly afford it. The feds bought our entire crop of oranges at top dollar to make concentrate for our boys in uniform.”
Ryan could see his grandmother’s eyes narrowing. She was not mollified.
“We can talk about this later,” she said.
“That we can, darling,” Verne said. “That we can.”
He nudged Ryan with his elbow. “What do you think of my pride and joy, son?” he asked, patting the steering wheel. “I think she’s a work of art. Or pretty near to one. How about you?”
“She’s fantastic!” Ryan enthused. His excitement carrying his mind away from his grandmother’s pettiness.
“Wait’ll we get out on Dixie Highway,” Verne said. “I’ll open her up and show you what she can do.”
“Oh, boy!” Ryan said.
“Now, Verne,” his grandmother said. “Don’t be going too fast. You know how I get.”
“Not to worry, darling,” Verne said, giving Ryan another elbow nudge. “Not to worry at all.”
Ryan could hardly wait for Dixie Highway.
Magic!
CHAPTER TWENTY
Philadelphia Blues
“Class, may I have your attention, please? We have a new student joining us today.”
Ryan stood straight as a board as twelve pairs of eyes took his measure. Even though he’d done this many times before, he was nervous. He’d never felt so out of place, standing there in his sweat-soaked Yankee clothes.
Beside him, Mrs. Carlin—a pinch-faced woman with graying hair—held forth with practiced ease.
“This is Ryan Karr, class,” she said in her soft southern accent. Turning to Ryan, she offered him a piece of chalk. “Ryan, would you write your name on the board for us, please?”
“Yes ma’am,” Ryan said, voice cracking a little, eliciting giggles—immediately cut off by Mrs. Carlin’s fierce glares.
Ryan wrote his name on the blackboard, the chalk screeching, then breaking in half from nervous pressure.
More giggles.
Mrs. Carlin snapped—“Class! This young man is not here for your amusement. Kindly give him your full attention, please.”
“Yes, Mrs. Carlin,” came the practiced chorus of agreement.
“Now, Ryan,” Mrs. Carlin said, “where are you joining us from?”
“Philadelphia, ma’am,” Ryan said.
“Philadelphia,” Mrs. Carlin said, nodding as if this was of great significance.
Titters broke out and she rapped a pointer on her desk to silence them.
“Marla Gentry,” she said, indicating one of the girls Ryan had seen on movie night, “please come up here and show the class where Philadelphia is on the map.”
