The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson

“The key to crafting a lure, my friend, is to make it plumb irresistible to the fish. They have to take the bait. No bait, no bite.”

I nodded, fingers idly strumming the strings of a banjo while I drowsed in a beam of July sunshine on the bank of Rattlesnake Creek. Tumbleweed sat on a rock a few paces down, tongue sticking out as he bent a fishhook. He sighed and set down the hook. “Pay attention, Gene. Do I have to explain all about burrancy again? You’d know what burrancy was if you’d just peel your attention away from that dang-blasted banjo for one minute.”

“Buoyancy,” I mumbled.

“The word is buoyancy. Something that’s buoyant is able to float.”

He scowled. “Don’t try to play school with me, Gene. I heard the word straight from the leathery lips of m’ grandpappy, Ephraim Thompson—God rest his crooked soul. The word, my friend, is burrancy.” He tossed a pair of corks toward me. “Now, make yourself useful and string up some lures.”

I sighed and moved the banjo off my chest. The weather wasn’t helping my concentration. Sun flitted through the branches of the birch trees overhead, speckling the rocks on the bank and twinkling off the surface of the water. There was the mere whisper of a breeze. Even the fish were sleepy. The afternoon was such a reverie that I had almost forgotten I was expected at the barbershop in an hour or so for my new part-time job.

But it was a good kind of forgetting. Lying there in the dappled shade, I felt myself drifting further and further away from that responsibility. I began to convince myself maybe I had imagined it all. Maybe the job I was supposed to begin at Wendell’s was just a figment of my brain. After all, what boy in his right mind would agree to a part-time job at the very spot in town where he had last laid eyes on the same man who later that day pointed a gun at him? Though I had seen nothing of Trent Berger since that night on the keelboat, he continued to haunt my dreams.

After that night on the keelboat, when I showed up at the breakfast table with the stubborn remains of boot black smeared across my forehead, Ma had decided I needed something worth-while to occupy my time. So, with the vandalism to Wendell’s shop fresh on her mind, she had informed me of my new employer.

Maybe if I lay here long enough, the whole job thing would vanish like a summer daydream.

“Bottle cork lures?” I asked. “Sounds a bit fishy to me.”

“Ha, ha,” he said. “Got the notion directly from the Chinook Indians while I was ice fishing with ’em last winter.” He paused, then shot me a sly look. “Something like that, anyway.”

I yawned again. Despite Ma’s vigilance, I had managed to peel myself free of the house a few times in the week or so since our midnight blackjack game. The time spent traipsing through the woods and caves outside Rattlesnake Junction with Tumbleweed had made me realize that, while his tales were thrilling as a trip down the Colorado River, they were generally half-true. Or less. Not that I minded, really. I was getting pretty skillful at telling my own tales, explaining away the poison ivy rashes, sliced palms, and missing patches of hair that had become part and parcel of our burgeoning friendship.

Ma had even seemed to soften up, allowing these occasional excursions because of what she considered looking out for the “least of these.” “I have a notion that you’ll be good for that Thompson boy, Eugene,” she had said before I left the house that morning.

“You’ll need one of these,” Tumbleweed said, tossing me a piece of yarn. I fetched a cork, but a noise in the bushes caught my attention. I rolled over to see a short, kindly-looking man standing before me. He was dressed for travelling, a bag over each shoulder, and wore a flat cap, rounded with a stiff brim in front. Sleeves rolled back, he wore a black leather vest over a blue shirt. His thin mustache curled up at both ends like sideways question marks as he bowed politely and smiled.

“’Scuse us there, gents,” he said in a lilting Irish accent. “Didn’t expect nary a soul to be stirring in these woods this mornin’.”

I sat up, dropping my corks. As I reached for them, I saw her.

Standing behind the man was a tall slim girl in a blue dress, white buttons in a single line down the front. Her dark hair was pulled back into a thick braid. Hands clasped at the waist, she stood quietly looking at the man. I tried to muster speech, but at the sight of her, my throat had unexpectedly closed up, and I could only manage a strange clacking noise.

Tumbleweed stepped forward. “How do you do, sir?” he said, removing his hat and bowing low. “And you, ma’am. We’re honored by your presence.”

The man wrapped his arm around the girl’s shoulder. “Absalom Curtis,” he said. “And this is my daughter Harmony, the very apple of my eye.”

The girl smiled shyly, and dimples appeared at the corners of her mouth. Beneath long lashes, her eyes were cornflower blue. “The pleasure is all mine,” she said quietly in the same lilting accent, her gaze flitting to catch mine.

I swallowed hard. It still felt like someone had stuffed a bunch of straw down my throat, but I could finally breathe a little. Harmony smiled faintly. Our eyes met. I looked away, heart racing. Then looked back at her. Then away.

“Perhaps you gents might point us in the direction of the town of Rattlesnake Junction?” Absalom asked.

I opened my mouth to answer, but Tumbleweed stepped forward. “Well, I’ll be dang-blasted,” he said. “You’re standing right in it.” He pointed toward the woods. “Right up that-a-way’s the town square—general store, livery, etcetera.”

“Uh, yeah,” I added. “Yup.” Tumbleweed smirked.

Absalom reached into his bag. “That is cracking news! We have a concert tomorrow—that’s Saturday, right?—at the—hang on—” He unfolded a small slip of paper.

“Mount Carmel Church, Pa,” Harmony said.

“Concert?” I asked.

“Indeed,” he said, swinging a brown leather bag from his shoulder. “My daughter and I are humble musicians traveling the wild frontier prairies. I play this fiddle, and she sings like a nightingale. We caught a boat from the old country about six months ago and we’ve been performing our way across this fine land of yours.”

“The old country?” I asked.

“He means West Virginny, you nitwit,” Tumbleweed hissed.

The man smiled. “Actually, I mean Ireland.”

“The pastor and his wife have been kind enough to invite us for dinner this evening. Name of something with an ‘A’, Armstrong, Atkinson…”

“Appleton, Pa,” Harmony said.

“What?” I asked. “Appleton?”

“I’m Appleton,” I said. “I mean, I’m Eugene. Appleton Eugene. No, Eugene Appleton.” I could feel my face getting warmer. Harmony smiled.

“Well, I’ll be. What an extraordinary coincidence,” Absalom Curtis said. He glanced over my shoulder. “I see you’re a musical man yourself,” he said, pointing to the banjo.

“You bet,” I said. “I play the banjo.”

Tumbleweed spluttered for air behind me.

“Incredible,” Absalom said, mustache curling as he smiled broadly. “Perhaps after dinner tonight, you can favor us with one of your favorite tunes. Don’t suppose you know ‘Mary McRary’s Cornbread Reel’?”

“‘Heartsick Days, and an Upset Stomach to Boot’?”

“What about ‘Grandpa’s Dog Caught Grandma’s Cat, and They Don’t Know What to Do’?”

“Hmph,” Absalom said. He slid the fiddle bag over his shoulder. “We have a few pieces of business in town to take care of, but I believe we’ll be seeing you shortly. Much obliged to you both.” He removed his cap and bowed again. Harmony followed him past us.

When they had disappeared into the woods, Tumbleweed turned to me, eyes flashing. “You play the banjo, Eugene?” he snapped.

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “Kind of a fib. Why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t,” he said. “She wouldn’t give you the time of day anyway.”

“Never mind.” We both gazed at the break in the trees through which Harmony Curtis had departed. “Well, gotta go,” Tumbleweed said, tossing his fishing rod over his shoulder and hoisting the bucket which held his tackle. Then, he vanished through the same break in the trees, whistling a cheerful tune as he did.

I gathered my belongings and trudged back into town. Each step came heavier and heavier as I moved closer and closer to town. Finally, as I emerged from the bushes onto South Street, the bell atop the church tower rang the hour. I reached our house to see Ma on the bottom step, a scowl on her face.

“Eugene Cornelius Appleton, there you are! You’re exactly sixty-one minutes late for our appointment. Or had you forgotten all about that meeting?”

“No, Ma. I remembered. I just got hung up in the woods, that’s all,” I said. Ma gripped my shoulder and steered me back onto the street.

We marched past the church and continued around the green. Ma stopped in front of a familiar-looking small building with a hand-painted sign.

“Barber – All Ages Welcome”

The memory of my last encounter with Wendell Jenkins came flooding back, followed shortly by the memory of that evening, and Trent Berger’s sneer as the beefy, deep-voiced man reported back about teaching Jenkins a lesson.

It looked for the most part like the vandalism to Wendell’s shop had never happened. The front window had been replaced, and the walk was swept neatly. There was even a small mat on the doorstep to welcome customers.

“Do we have to…go in there?” I asked.

“Now, Eugene, I know you’ve liked your carefree days lately, but I think this will be a good arrangement for both of you. He’s just getting over that awful incident with the schoolboys damaging his shop. This might give you a little purpose in your life this summer, instead of spending all your time traipsing around town with Tumbleweed and mooning over Mayor Scoggins’s daughter.”

Yipes! Ma’s powers of observation were hawk-like. How did she know about Charlotte Scoggins? Then, I remembered Harmony Curtis and her dimples. This was getting complicated.

“Plus,” she added, “I’ve always felt Wendell could use an extra pair of hands in his shop, what with that bad leg of his. You could learn a lot from him. He’s a war veteran, after all.” She started toward the front door.

“Wait!” I called. “Are you sure it’s safe? What do you really know about Wendell?”

“Eugene Appleton, for two years you’ve sat one pew ahead of Wendell Jenkins at church, never once even bothering to give the poor man a second look. What’s going on?”