The Painted Ponies of Partequineus and The Summer of the Kittens (13 page)

“Hanna, I wish he wasn't in a wheelchair, too, but that's the way it is.”

I guess I was getting upset, 'cause I didn't usually talk to Mrs. Crawford the way I did next. “But don't you see, it's like he's some kind of freak, sitting in that chair when everybody else is standing up.”

“He's not a…” she started to say, but I interrupted her. Mom would have been mad if she'd known I did that.

“People won't see Jimmy when they look at the picture. All they'll see is that stupid chair. You know I'm right. It's like you taught us in history class, about the American President, Mr. Roosevelt, during World War II when nobody knew he had to use a wheelchair, 'cause nobody ever took his picture in it. Everyone thought he was strong like everybody else, and he
was
. He helped win the war, didn't he? Well, Jimmy's strong too, only he just can't walk, and if he's in the wheelchair for the picture, that's all people will see, and they'll think he's weak or something. That's not fair!”

I expected Mrs. Crawford to say something like, “That's just the way it is” again, only she didn't. What she did was, she looked at me for the longest time, and I guess I was crying a little, because she dabbed at my face with her handkerchief, and then she walked over and talked to the photographer. He looked kind of disgusted and pointed to his watch, but I guess she won the argument. She told some of the boys to get nine chairs out from under the stage, where they store them on those big rolling racks. It didn't take long. They set them up in a straight row, and Mrs. Crawford chose seven kids and me to sit there, and then Jimmy raised himself up out of the wheelchair and onto the end seat, and Mrs. Crawford pushed his wheelchair away. The rest of the kids lined up in two rows behind us, tallest ones in the back with Mrs. Crawford, and the photographer took our picture.

Jimmy says he's going to put his in a frame and keep it on his desk.

June 1
^st

 

Hey, Diary!

Everything's working out pretty good, except Maggie still thinks my window is her own private door, so I have to let her go in and out that way sometimes. Dad hasn't fixed the screen yet, so I don't leave it open most of the time because of the bugs, and when she has to go out when it's closed she knows enough to go downstairs and meow at the door. It's all okay with Mom now. She even pets Maggie some-times, but Dad just ignores her. He hates her, I guess.

Jimmy likes her, though, and Maggie likes him, too. Sometimes she jumps up on his lap in the wheelchair and lets him give her rides up and down the sidewalk. The only one who doesn't like Maggie, except for Dad, I mean, is Mr. Harding. Today after school when I was sitting up in my tree and talking to Jimmy down on the ground, I heard Mr. Harding yelling something from his front porch, and a minute later Maggie came running through the loose board in the fence and disappeared under the back steps. A minute later Mr. Harding came limping around the front of the fence into our yard, leaning on a cane. He's never come into our yard before. He spotted Jimmy right away.

“Didn't I tell you to stay away from that cat?” he said, acting really mean. “What did you do, feed it so it'll hang around?”

“Jimmy didn't feed her, I did!” I shouted down at him, and Mr. Harding looked up at me, and I think he was kind of surprised to see me up there.

“You've got no business keeping a stray cat,” he said, waving the cane at me.

“She isn't a stray any more,” I said. “She's my cat now.”

“You should keep her indoors, then. Don't you know what can happen to cats that run around loose? They get diseases, or they get run over in the street. They kill birds and dig up people's gardens, too.”

“She has to go outside sometimes to pee and stuff.”

“Haven't you ever heard of kitty litter? And you have to get her vaccinated so she won't get feline leukemia. People like you, you think all you have to do is feed a pet and that's it, that's the end of your responsibility.” He sounded really angry. “Well, it
isn't! 
You should take her to a vet and have her spayed, too, before she has a bunch of kittens that nobody wants.”

“How come you know so much about it?” I was really annoyed.

“You tell your mother what I said. You have to take care of that cat properly. And you leave my fence alone, too. I know what you've been up to, sneaking into my yard. I'm going to nail that board shut, and you keep away from it from now on. You hear?”

“I'll stay out of your old yard. And you leave my cat alone. You'd better not hurt her!”

“Hurt her?” He got a strange, surprised look on his face. Then he shook his head and turned to go back to his own property, but just as he reached the corner of the fence he shouted back at me.

“What are you doing up in that tree? Have you been spying on me?”

Even though Mom always says I have to be respectful to adults, I was getting really mad. “This is my tree, and I can sit in it if I want to!”

“Well, it's sick. You better tell your mother to get rid of it before it falls down and causes some damage to my place.”

“What's wrong with my tree?” I shouted.

“It's got the Dutch elm disease, just like most of the other elms in town. If you don't get rid of it, branches will start falling off, on your roof, or on my roof, or maybe even fall on your little friend there and hurt him before he can get out of the way.”

He limped away and disappeared behind the fence, and I looked up at the branches of my tree. They looked a little bit bare, not full and green like they've been most years. I hadn't noticed that before. Some of the leaves were sort of yellow and curled up. There was another big elm in a yard across the street, and that one looked a whole lot better than mine.

“You think he's right?” I asked Jimmy.

“It does look kind of sick,” he said.

“I didn't know trees could die.”

“Sure they can. Anything that's alive has to die sometime. Trees get diseases just like people do.”

“I don't want my tree to die.” I was getting really worried. “Are there doctors for trees like there are for people?”

“I don't know,” Jimmy said. “Ask your Dad.”

“I don't talk to him much.”

Right then I heard a pounding noise by the loose board in the fence. I climbed down out of the tree, and Jimmy followed me into the back yard, only I got there first, 'cause it's kind of hard for Jimmy to roll through the grass. The board was back in place, and I could hear Mr. Harding hammering nails into it. I ran back around the front of the fence and into Mr. Harding's yard.

“Hey!” I called out.

Mr. Harding looked up. “I told you to stay out of my yard.”

“I want to help you fix the fence,” I said. I didn't really, but I wanted to find out if what he said about my tree was true, so I needed an excuse to talk to him. But he just sort of waved his hand at me, like he was shooing me away. I didn't leave, though. I walked right up to where he was hammering and stood there watching him, so he couldn't ignore me. When he finished fixing the board, he took his hammer and box of nails in one hand and leaned on his cane with the other and stared at me.

“Well?” he said.

“How come you know so much about trees?” I insisted.

“Why shouldn't I know about them? I may be old, but I'm not stupid.”

“Are you a tree doctor or something?”

And then the most amazing thing happened. He smiled. At least it was sort of a smile, 'cause the corners of his mouth turned up and he kind of snorted through his nose, almost a laugh, only it wasn't very nice to watch.

“No, child, I'm not a tree doctor,” he said. He didn't sound so mad any more. “And you can't save that tree, anyway. Once they get the Dutch elm, nothing can help.”

“What's wrong with it?”

Mr. Harding sighed and leaned hard on his cane. I could tell he didn't want to bother talking to me, but I really wanted to know what was wrong with my tree.

“It has a fungus,” he said, sort of gruff. “There's a beetle that spreads it from diseased trees to healthy ones. Most of the elms up at the university have it, so it's just a matter of time until all the trees in town get it.”

“Can't somebody give my tree a shot or some-thing?”

“No, it's too late to do anything. You just have to get someone to come and cut it down. Go on home, now, and tell your mother what I said.”

He sounded a little bit sad, not mean and angry like before. He turned away from me and carried his hammer and nails into his garage. I stood there waiting for him to come out again but he didn't, so after a while I went back to where Jimmy was waiting for me.

“He says my tree has a fungus,” I told him.

“Can't you scrape it off or something?”

“I guess not. He says it's too late. And he sounded like he knew what he was talking about.”

“Are you gonna tell your Mom?”

“I guess so,” I said.

Jimmy followed me to the house and backed his chair around so he was facing away from the porch like he always does when he comes to visit me. I went inside.

“Mom, can Jimmy come in?” I called out. She walked out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, and followed me to the door. She didn't say anything. She never has much to say lately, even to me. She reached out for the handles on the back of Jimmy's wheelchair and tilted it back, and I helped by lifting up on the footrests at the front, and we got Jimmy up onto the porch and into the house. Jimmy doesn't get to visit very many of the kids in school, 'cause nobody has a ramp like he does to get into his own house, but Mom always helps bring him in at our place. Mom likes Jimmy, too. She doesn't treat him any different than the rest of my friends.

“Hanna's got some bad news,” Jimmy told Mom. “The old man who lives next door says her tree's dying.”

“Mr. Harding?” Mom said.

“Uh, huh,” I said. “He says it's got a disease, and we have to take it down.”

“That can't be true,” Mom said. “That tree's been here since long before the house was built.”

“I think he's right, Mom,” I said. “It looks like it's sick, and some of the leaves are all curled up and kind of yellow. And there aren't as many leaves on it this year anyway, not like the one across the street.”

Mom draped her towel over the back of a chair and leaned over to look out the window and up at the tree. She looked at it for a long time, then straightened up and kind of shook her head.

“More expense,” she muttered.

“So is Mr. Harding right?”

“I'm afraid so, dear,” Mom said. “We always knew it might happen, the way the elms at the university have been dying, but it could have chosen a better time.”

She picked up her towel and headed back to the kitchen, and a couple of minutes later we heard her talking on the phone. I could tell from the way she sounded, all sort of sad and mad at the same time, that she was talking to Dad at his office. I couldn't hear everything, but she was saying something about the tree, and how he had to arrange to have it taken down, and then “You'd damn well better look into it! You've still got some responsibilities around here, unless you want to pack your bags and get out for good!”

I heard the phone slam down, and avoided looking at Jimmy so he wouldn't see how embarrassed I was. I'd never heard his Mom and Dad fight or anything, and I wished Jimmy didn't know that mine did. But he never said anything about it.

“What do you want to do now?” I asked him.

“We could play with Maggie,” he said.

“Okay, I'll go let her in.” I went out into the kitchen, and Mom was sitting at the table with her face buried in her hands, only she jumped up kind of fast when I came in and turned away so I wouldn't see she'd been crying. I didn't know why she was so sad, unless it was about the tree, 'cause I was sad about that too, only I wasn't crying, even though I felt like it a little bit. I went to the back door and called Maggie, and she crawled out from under the steps and sort of slinked inside. I guess she was still scared from the way Mr. Harding yelled at her.

“Mom,” I said, “Mr. Harding was real mad about Maggie being in his yard, and he nailed the loose board in the fence shut again.”

“It's just as well,” she said, standing at the sink with her back turned to me. “We don't want her bothering anyone.”

“Mom…” I wanted her to look at me, and finally she turned around.

“What?”

“Do you think Mr. Harding might hurt Maggie? Hit her or poison her or something?”

Mom smiled at me. That hardly ever happens lately. “Mr. Harding would never hurt an animal.” She turned away again, and I decided not to ask how she knew for sure, but I wanted to know why he acted so mean.

“Why is he so mad all the time?”