CHAPTER 29
“It sounds like your sister’s another hero we could write about,” Ricky said when he finished reading Charlotte’s letter while we took a break from the chore of cleaning the henhouse. “That girl in the iron lung could’ve died!”
I put the letter back in my pocket for safekeeping. “Yeah. Charlotte got in the good line, for sure.”
“What good line?”
I shrugged. “You know—sometimes I imagine babies standing in lines up in heaven to get all the things they’ll be born with. Charlotte must’ve got in the line for all the good things. She’s always good. And you’re right—she’s definitely a hero—like your brother.”
Ricky shrugged. “Hadn’t thought about it that way—but yeah, Bill must’ve been in the good line too. I’m sure he’s a hero. Don’t know for certain how he got hurt, but I’ll bet you anything it was helping somebody. That’s just who Bill is.”
He looked back at me and tipped his head like he was trying to figure something out. “So, what line would you have been in up in heaven?”
That was easy. “I got in the line for trouble. Trouble for me, trouble for everyone who knows me. Probably went back for a second helping.”
He laughed at first and then stopped. “Wait. You don’t really believe that you’re bad luck for people, do you?”
“I don’t just believe it—I know it. How else do you explain all the bad luck in my family? There has to be a reason.”
Ricky shrugged. “What about me? My pa left and didn’t come back—and my big brother got hurt in the war. Do you suppose that’s ’cause I’m bad luck?”
“’Course not. That’s just—”
“Just the way some things work out, right?” Ricky’s expression was so serious. “Can’t rightly give a good reason for most bad things. I think bad things just happen—sort of like accidents do.”
I knew he was right about him not being bad luck, and I remembered the circle of life thing that Granddaddy talked about. But I guess I’d just been thinking I was bad luck for so long now, it was going to take some adjustment to think differently.
The smell of warm bread greeted us as we opened the door to the house. Betsy had been excited to help Grandma with her baking, and her blue overalls were now speckled white with so much flour, I wondered how much had ended up in the bread.
But before I could say anything, I heard the sound of shattering glass in the cellar.
“What was that?” Ricky asked, but there wasn’t time to answer. He and I ran down the steps to find Buster out of his crate, racing around the cellar and knocking over Grandma’s canning jars like bowling pins.
“Buster, no!” I tried to stop him, but he must’ve thought it was a fun new game. He’d never jumped out before, and I guess he liked the feeling of being free. Ricky and I tried to catch him, but when all three of us slipped on the pickle juice and fell into a heap, we couldn’t stop laughing.
“What on earth?” Grandma’s voice didn’t have a speck of laughter in it as she came down the stairs with Betsy trailing behind her.
I turned as serious as I could as Grandma took in the scene. “I’m sorry, Grandma. Buster’s sorry.”
“Out! He’s going out to the barn tonight. He’s too big to stay inside anymore.”
“But, Grandma, he’s—”
“He’s a farm animal—that’s what he is. And farm animals live in barns. You would do right not to forget that.”
Ricky kept his arms around Buster, who smelled like a pickle now, to keep him from getting into any more trouble.
Grandma looked back at hours of her canning work now trickling across the cellar floor. She shook her head and pointed her finger at me. “I know I don’t have to tell you to clean up this mess real good, now.”
“No, ma’am. I mean, yes, ma’am. I will.”
When Grandma shut the cellar door, Buster shook himself off, spraying pickle juice across Ricky, Betsy, and me. We tried not to laugh, but we couldn’t help it.
When we finally got Buster back in his box, he bucked Ricky’s hand to get him to pet his head while Betsy patted his back.
“He is getting pretty big.” Ricky started to pet Buster as he spoke. “Whatcha feeding this guy?”
I had to admit, Buster was more than three times larger than when we first got him. “He’s getting grains now, and water. He’s eating a ton,” I said. “I miss giving him his bottle, but my hands sure don’t! All that head buckin’ really hurt.” I looked down at the remaining scab on my right hand from more than a week before.
And then I looked inside Buster’s box, seeing—and smelling—that even more cleaning was needed.
I hated to say it, but maybe Grandma was right. Buster was too big to be inside anymore.
Ricky stopped petting Buster. “So where do we start?”
“I guess we gotta keep that clumsy guy away from one mess so I can clean up the other. Maybe you can hold him while I sweep and mop up. Betsy, could you get the bucket that’s outside by the porch? I’ll go get something for the broken glass.”
I should’ve been mad at Buster for causing all this extra work, but when I looked at him, covered in pickle juice and sitting, so happy, in his box, I just couldn’t muster up anything but a laugh. It was pretty funny.
I shook my head. Sometimes Granddaddy tells me if I’m not careful, I might find myself in a pickle. I don’t think I’ll ever think of that expression the same way after today.