9
Truman was moody for the longest time after that. Nelle couldn’t even get him to come out to play. She begged him to let her ride his Tri-Motor plane but he flat-out refused. He wasn’t being mean; he just didn’t feel like seeing anyone. Instead, he stayed in his room for weeks on end.
Sook couldn’t stand to see Truman carrying on and tried everything to snap him out of his spell. In the beginning, she sat by his bed and hand-fed him like he was a small sparrow that had fallen from its nest. Later, in moments of quiet, Sook told him about the grass harp that she’d heard as a child—the sounds the wind made when it wafted through the rolling fields of the tall grasses nearby. She would then gently whisper in his ear until he fell asleep.
Cousin Jenny also grew concerned. “As long as I’m alive and running this house, you’ll have a roof over your head, young man. You’ll not lack for clothing on your back or food in your belly. Your mama doesn’t deserve your love.”
His cousin Bud would take him to his cotton patch on the other side of the hill, just to get him out once in a while. Usually, they did this in silence, Truman riding glumly on Bud’s shoulders with Bud’s whiskers tickling Truman’s legs. But this time, Bud spoke.
“Life is a heck of a hill to climb, Little Chappie. But if it gets too steep for ya, just get down on your hands and knees and keep going. Sooner or later, you’ll get over the hump,” he said, wheezing.
They made it up and over the hill.
At the cotton patch, Truman would hang out quietly in front of the shack of Bud’s only worker, Black John White (so called to avoid confusion with White John Black, the tobacconist). While Bud and Black John surveyed the crop, John’s wife would make hot biscuits with bacon drippings for Truman, but it did little to cheer him up.
One day, as the sunlight was fading and dusk turned the grass around their home from green to orange, Truman asked, “Bud, how come I don’t have a real home like other kids?”
Bud, who was normally calm, put his hands on Truman’s shoulders and looked him square in the eye. “Tru, this is your home. You are my blood kin, my second cousin thrice removed. But blood kin’s not the most important kin. Do you know what is?”
“No, sir.”
“Love kin. And that comes from the heart. That’s why this is your home. Now, you got every reason to mope. Can’t blame you for that. But if you just look around, you’ll see—you’re already home, Little Chappie.”
Nelle felt lonely without her friend. To cheer her up, A.C. took her golfing at the local course, which she liked because it made her feel like an adult. She caddied and occasionally took a swing under A.C.’s supervision. Her father always wore his dark three-piece suit, even on the golf course, which made for quite a sight with his herky-jerky swing. But between holes, they’d talk.
“I don’t understand how come Tru won’t play with me no more, A.C. I never seen him in such a state,” she said.
“Well, just be patient and he’ll come around. The situation with his father can’t be helping.”
Nelle had been dying to ask. “Did you ever arrest him?”
A.C. chose his words carefully. “No. Judge decided he didn’t want to waste time chasing him down. He believes Arch’ll mess up soon enough, and when he does, the court will still be there.”
“Poor Truman,” said Nelle. “It must be awful having a daddy who’s a liar.”
A.C. put his hand on her shoulder. “Judge not, lest ye be judged, daughter.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means don’t be so quick to cast judgment; wait until you know the whole truth. Truman’s father may not be trustworthy, but I believe he’s trying to provide in the only way he knows how.”
“That don’t make it any easier on Tru,” she mumbled.
He stopped and considered the next hole. “No, it doesn’t. But what you can do is just be kind to Truman. He needs someone in his corner. Sometimes, a small gesture of friendship can make all the difference.”
Soon enough, Nelle came up with a plan to cheer up her friend. But she needed a wingman for her project, and she looked to one of Truman’s youngest cousins, Big Boy, to help her bring Truman back to life.
Big Boy was the son of Lillie Mae’s sister, Mary Ida. His real name was Jennings, which was why everyone preferred his nickname. He and Truman were the same age and he lived on a farm just outside Monroeville. He was not a particularly big boy, though, except at birth, when he weighed over twelve pounds. His growth slowed as he got older, and by seven, he was just an average-size kid. He wore Coke-bottle glasses, which made his eyes look as big as an owl’s. As he heard Nelle’s plan, his big eyes grew even wider.
“So . . . it’s gonna be like a secret hideaway?” he asked.
“More ’n that, Big Boy. It’s gonna be our headquarters,” she said proudly.
“Headquarters for what?” he asked.
“Why, for our detective agency, that’s what. The only thing that’s gonna shake Truman out of his stink is a good ol’ mystery that needs solving.”
“But there ain’t no mystery in Monroeville,” said Big Boy. “’Cept why the courthouse clock is always five minutes slow.”
“Well, I was reading about Sherlock,” said Nelle. “And he said, ‘To a great mind, nothing is little.’”
“I don’t get it,” said Big Boy.
Nelle tried to spell it out for him. “Silly, just ’cause you don’t see something in front of your eyes don’t mean it ain’t happening. Once we start looking, who knows what we’re gonna dig up around here?”
Big Boy still appeared puzzled.
“Look.” She pointed to the sketch of the hideout she had drawn in crayon on the back of a piece of wrapping paper. “Sherlock and Watson had 221B Baker Street. This’ll be our headquarters.”
Big Boy raised his glasses to take a closer look. “A treehouse?”
The drawing was crude, but he got the idea. The treehouse was held aloft by a double chinaberry tree, one trunk on each side of the stone wall that ran between their properties. It looked like a couple of trees dancing with a house floating in their arms. A rope ladder went up the trunk of one to a trapdoor you could lock from inside in case of intruders. It had all kinds of nifty features: a porthole with a telescope for spying and a can-on-a-string telephone that connected to both Truman’s and Nelle’s rooms, in case an emergency arose.
“Wow,” he said. “Can we put in a fire pole? You know, for quick escapes.”
“Excellent idea, Big Boy,” said Nelle. “Once Tru sees this, he’ll be back to his old self in no time.”
Of course, Cousin Bud and Black John White ended up building most of it for them. Nelle and Big Boy hauled leftover wood from the old, abandoned icehouse at the edge of the field, handed hammers and nails when needed, and put all the finishing touches on it themselves. In two weeks, Nelle’s plan was realized.
Truman knew Nelle was up to something but he couldn’t quite see what because the corner of the house blocked his view. But something was afoot. Every time he ventured out to have a look-see, Sook or Bud would suddenly need his help or challenge him to a game of Go Fish.
He would find out soon enough.