Jackson Jones and the Puddle of Thorns (7 page)

“Mama, do you mind that I was going to sell your birthday flowers to buy a basketball?”

Mama shook her head.

“I was giving you the
look
of the flowers,” I explained.

“You were very clear about that.”

I felt a surge of generosity. “The basketball costs twenty-four ninety-five,” I said, “so maybe I could just sell twenty-five flowers. That way you could see the flowers for longer than just your birthday.”

I shifted in my seat. The city sped by.

“That is, I could have done that if the flowers hadn’t been stolen.”

All Mama said was “Flowers grow again.”

• • •

I went to bed feeling good.

The next morning I woke up feeling sad.

I remembered the look of those bare stems.

Then, as if I had to torture myself, I dragged on my jeans, left a note for Mama, and slipped out the door.

I took the roundabout way to school again.

Slapped through the wet grass, opened the gate latch.

Bird chatter. Woodpecker tat. Crunch of wood chips.

Then I stopped.

The garden.

I couldn’t believe it.

O
n each green stem—seventy to be exact—was a small, colored bow. Red bows. Yellow, blue, purple, white bows. Each bow tied precisely.

Finicky bows.

Perfect bows.

There were even bows—I counted twenty-six—on the rosebush. They nestled in that mess of barbed sticks like little birds waiting to sing.

Only one person could make bows like these.

I could picture him measuring and cutting the ribbon, tying the knot, looping the rabbit
ears, pulling. Maybe even untying the bow, looping it into perfection. It must have taken him hours. He was that slow. That precise.

My man, Reuben.

For the second day in a row I was late to school.

“I suppose you were sick again,” said Ms. Wanbe.

“Yes’m,” I said.

“But you’re feeling better now.”

“Much better.”

Ms. Wanbe sighed.

All during reading I waved at Reuben, made imaginary bows in the air.

“Jackson,” said Ms. Wanbe, “you may be feeling too good.”

“Oh, no, Ms. Wanbe, just good enough.”

Ms. Wanbe sighed again and signaled for recess.

I caught up with Reuben, started walking real slow.

“Blood’s going to kill you,” said Reuben. “You better be glad he’s not here today.”

“Blood, Blood, Blood—is that all you can say? Where’s my big hello?” I was joking but
feeling nervous at the same time. Not about Blood—about Reuben. See, I’d been so bent on winning our fight, proving I was right, that I’d forgotten, well, that Reuben was my friend. Now he does this nice bow-thing—and I feel like all this time I’ve been trying to win a race that wasn’t even a race.

I did not feel cool.

“Thanks for the bows.”

“It’s nothing, man. Woolworth’s had a sale.”

Still walking. Slow.

“Miz Lady wants to bring your mama’s birthday cake to the garden. That okay?”

More walking.

“We could be partners again,” I said. “Except the garden’s not much now.”

More walking.

“How you doing with Captain Nemo?”

“Okay,” said Reuben. “Miz Lady said my last strip was great.”

My spirit sank to the toes of my Air Jordans.

“She said the drawing was very detailed”—
Reuben eyeballed me—“but the writing had lost its spark.”

My spirit leapt up past my knees.

Suddenly Reuben bonked my head. I poked his arm. And before I knew it, I had promised him my Space Shuttle Grill ice cream saucer.

“Reuben,” I said, “I’m sorry I said you were slow.”

“Precise,” said Reuben.

That’s how Mama got two birthday celebrations in a row—one at the Space Shuttle Grill and one at the garden.

She liked Reuben’s bows. She liked Miz Lady’s pineapple surprise cake. She liked Mailbags’s gift of two crookneck squash.

She loved the flowers I bought from the florist. Even though they were a rip-off. Ten dollars for two wrinkled yellow roses and a tuft of leaves.

Abraham even came.

“I thought a garden would be the death of you,” I said.

“Just came to sing happy birthday to your mother.”

“I hope you can stay for cake,” said Mama.

“I hope so too,” said Abraham.

Abraham ate his usual two slices of cake. I didn’t even tease him, I felt that good.

“I even got myself a present.” Mama laughed and waved a package of zinnia seeds. “I’m hoping Jackson will share a corner of his garden.”

“Garden’s dead,” I said.

“No way,” said Mailbags. “Those flowers are going to bloom again. Give ’em a few weeks.”

Seventy flowers blooming. Twenty-five spelling
basketball
.

Reuben and I high-fived.

“Here comes Juana and the kids,” said Mama. “Maybe they’d like some cake.”

Slap, slap, slap. Juana’s sandals marched up the garden path. In one hand she carried a peanut jar and a plastic grocery bag. The other was clamped to a struggling Gaby.

Slap, slap, slap. Juana’s face was set.

“She doesn’t look like she wants cake,” Reuben whispered.

I knew that look. Juana had turned that same look—THE LOOK—on me when she had accused me of cheating Gaby.

“The money’s gone,” I shouted. “I bought flowers for Mama’s birthday.”

Slap, slap, slap, slap.

Juana halted in front of me.

“Gaby has a confession to make.”

So THE LOOK was directed at Gaby, not me. What a relief.

Gaby scrambled for the peanut jar. Ro dove for the bag.

Juana shook them off.

“A terrible confession,” she said.

“They’re mine,” Gaby screamed. “Mine, mine, mine.”

As I watched Gaby claw and leap, I had a terrible feeling. My spirit fell again and landed somewhere in the heel of my right Air Jordan. It trembled there.

I had punched the wrong man.

“W
hat’s in the jar?” I asked Juana.

“Olive oil.”

“
Fragrant
oils,” howled Gaby.

“She was making perfume,” Juana explained.

I grabbed the bag. It was full of petals. And broken flower heads. Probably about seventy.

“You stole my perfume”—Gaby landed a kick on Juana’s leg—“just when it was smelling good.”

“Smelling good,” Ro howled.

Gaby sighed tragically. “I was going to sell it for a hundred bucks a bottle. Maybe more. It smelled much better than that blond-head
lady’s.” She faced me. “I was going to cut you in on the profits, Jackson. Honest. Just as soon as I invented it.”

Juana’s face didn’t change expression.

Gaby gazed out across the garden as if seeing a great vision. “I was going to call it Bouquet Jones,” she said. Her look swept across the street, as if including the cars, people, and 7-Eleven store in her vision. “It would have been as famous as Calvin Klein perfume. Now…” She sadly spread her empty hands.

Mama uncapped the peanut jar. Sniffed. “Vanilla,” she pronounced.

“A hint of cinnamon,” said Miz Lady.

Mailbags sniffed. “Definitely olive oil.”

“And twelve drops of Night of Stars,” said Gaby. “Dab some behind your ears. Free trial.”

“Gaby has three dollars and seventy-two cents, which she would like to pay you for damages,” Juana told me.

“No, she wouldn’t,” said Gaby.

“It’s okay,” I said. “The flowers will grow back.”

Gaby stuck her tongue out at Juana.

“Just don’t ever cut them again,” I added quickly.

“The perfume business is bust anyway,” said Gaby. “Mama locked up the Night of Stars.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Juana directed THE LOOK at Gaby.

“Cake?” Gaby asked.

“Apologize to Jackson.”

“No.”

THE LOOK deepened.

“I’m-sorry-I-cut-your-stinking-flowers-now-can-I-have-some-cake.” Gaby got that out in one breath.

“I’m sorry,” said Ro.

“Ro didn’t do anything,” said Reuben.

“He just wants cake,” explained Gaby.

Juana turned to Ro. “Say, ‘please,’ not ‘I’m sorry.’ And don’t suck your thumb.”

“I’m not sucking, I’m
tasting.
”

Juana addressed the adults. “I’m trying to teach them manners.”

Then Juana apologized to me, saying she had falsely accused me of cheating Gaby. Seems like Gaby finally told her the real story
behind the sale of the red zinnias. She also said she still felt—THE LOOK crossed her face—I had treated Reuben wrong.

I knew that.

Night was coming on and the lightning bugs dipped over Reuben’s bows. Checking out the exotic flowers, I guess. Still we stayed outside. Mailbags rapped in his buffalo voice about a dude that sowed seeds and reaped gold—mari-gold. We all laughed. The little kids sang about
el gato
in a sombrero. (Which means “cat in a hat.” Juana’s taught me that much Spanish.)

Then I started thinking how we—Reuben, Miz Lady, Juana, everybody—were gathered around kind of like the plants in my garden. Like flowers, almost. (Except Gaby was more like a weed.) And the city Mama and I had passed through last night—with folks sitting on their front steps and pigeons and all—was part of that garden, and that garden spread out a long way in the darkness, even into other countries. It was weird to think of the garden covering that much ground. Like thinking
of the sky making a place for everyone to breathe. And the vastness of space.

I thought and thought, trying to understand.

Big things and small things—how they all fit together. How flowers die—and then come back. (According to Mailbags, anyway. I’d believe
that
when I saw it.)

Mama told a story. Miz Lady told a longer one.

Till the mosquitoes started biting and drove us inside.

Mama said it was her happiest birthday ever.

The next day as Reuben and I walked to school, he asked the BIG question:

“You scared about Blood?”

I’d asked myself that question a lot since Mama’s garden party.

“I know what I’m going to do.”

“Prepare to die.” Reuben shuffled beside me. “Hey, can I have your Nemo notebook when he wastes you?”

“He’s not going to waste me.” Lub-dub. My heart again.

“How about your spade?”

“Vulture.”

“Dead meat.”

Reuben softly punched my arm.

At school Blood eyed the clock, then eyed me, then eyed the clock. He reminded me of a Doberman pinscher watching a little piece of steak.

Ms. Wanbe signaled for recess.

Grim-lipped, Reuben walked beside me. We were the last in line.

Lub-dub, lub-dub went my musical heart.

One by one the kids peeled off to the blacktop.

Except Blood. He waited for me by the door.

With the fat lip I’d given him, he looked twice as mean.

“Jackson,” Reuben whispered.

“Shut up,” Blood growled. “Or you’re next.”

He rubbed his fist into his palm. I wondered
if he was going to lick his chops, like a Doberman pinscher.

“I got something to say.” I stepped forward.

“You got
nothing
to say.” Blood spat. The spit quivered, then seeped into the sidewalk.