CHAPTER EIGHT

Owen True – The Scrapper

 

 

GRAMPS ANSWERS THE PHONE and then calls to me. “It’s your mom.”

Fine-al-lee!

“Hey Mom,” I say casually. If she’s not gonna miss me, I’m not gonna miss her.

“Oh Wenny, I miss you so much!”

“Yeah?” A space in my chest squeezes into a ball. I feel a tingle behind my eyes, and I realize that I do miss her, but I’m too old to cry over it. I choke it back. “So, how’s the Bahamas?” No way I’m going to ask her about Ar-throw-up. I don’t wanna know.

“It’s beautiful, and we’re having a good time. How are things?”

In Haywire? She’s gotta be kidding. “Uh, fine.”

“I can’t talk long, honey, long distance from here is so expensive, but I just needed to hear your voice. So glad you’re doing fine. Give your gramps a big hug for me, okay?”

Short and sweet. Well, at least she misses me. She promises to call me every week and then Dad calls right after promising the same thing. So I’m not forgotten. Just abandoned. Cool.

It’s the second Sunday I’ve been at Gramps’ and I’m aware of another change in him, other than the silent radio. He hasn’t dragged me to church. I’m almost afraid to mention it. In case he actually did forget, I didn’t want to accidentally remind him.

But it bothers me. Gramps and church go hand in hand. What gives?

So, I ask him.

“Well,” Gramps holds the word out, and rubs the bristle that grew overnight on his chin. “The pastor left for a bigger church shortly after your gran passed away. Meant I had to go into Edson to go church. I just didn’t have the heart to go alone.”

He pauses and looks at me like he is getting the big idea I was afraid I might give him. I don’t mind thanking God for my food, seems like a good and right thing to do, but no way do I want to dress up just to sit in a room full of grey hairs for two hours.

“Uh, I gotta go, Gramps. Told Mikala I’d come over.” The screen door squeak follows me out and I make a dash for it.

“My parents finally called,” I say to Mikala as I climb the ladder to our fort. We spend most afternoons here now, unless we feel like hiking along the creek. It’s shady and the breeze through the trees keeps us cool. Mikala usually scribbles the story she’s writing in her notebook, while I read one of her library books or daydream.

Mikala scribbles a bit more, then looks up. “That’s good. How are they?”

“Fine.”

“Have you been back to the log, Owen True?”

I don’t go to the log at the creek behind Gramps’ house anymore. Just the thought of it makes the hair on my neck stand up.

“Uh, why do you ask?”

Mikala throws her pen to the floor. “This stupid story. It’s not working out. I’m just not a good writer.”

I sit up. “You can’t give up, Mikala. All good writers hate what they write.”

“They do?”

“Yeah.” I don’t know this for a fact, but I remember hearing my mom talk about a famous guy named Hemingway and that he thought his writing sucked sometimes.

“I need more ideas. Did you go back to the log?”

“Why? Is that what you’re writing about?” I don’t know, because Mikala refuses to let me read anything.

“Maybe. It’s interesting, Owen True, so tell me.”

So, I do. Even the part where I nearly peed my pants in fear.

Mikala’s eyebrows squish together. “What do you think it means?”

“How the heck should I know? I’m not even sure if it’s real.”

“You think you’re seeing things?”

“Maybe.”

“Too much sun?”

Hadn’t thought of that.

“Could be. But why does it only happen when I’m on the log at the creek? Why not here in the tree house, for instance?”

“Probably because it’s not from too much sun. I believe you’re really seeing angels, Owen True.”

“But are they real?”

“I think they are. The question is why are they appearing to you?”

That is a good question. One we can’t ponder for very long since Mrs. Sweet is calling Mikala from the back door.

“Oh, I have to go.” Mikala picks up her notebook and pen. “Promised Mom I’d watch the girls so she could go into Edson. She’s applying for a waitressing job at a restaurant open at nights.”

“Okay, yeah. I should help Gramps in the garden anyway.” I tuck the books under the bench where they’ll be safe from rain and then follow Mikala down.

I run home and I’m sweating from the heat by the time I get there. Gramps is in the garden just like he said he’d be. I grab the hose and turn it on, bending over the arch of water to slurp it up.

“Hey, young man! I could use the help. Why don’t you grab that hoe over there?”