“Yuk,” she said smiling and began to run for the old Perkins place, that beautiful, graceful run of hers that neither mud nor water could defeat.
It had seemed to Jess when he went to bed Wednesday night that he could relax, that everything was going to be all right, but he awoke in the middle of the night with the horrible realization that it was still raining. He would just have to tell Leslie that he wouldn’t go to Terabithia. After all, she had told him that when she was working on the h
ouse with Bill. And he hadn’t questioned her. It wasn’t so much that he minded telling Leslie that he was afraid to go; it was that he minded being afraid. It was as though he had been made with a great piece missing—one of May Belle’s puzzles with this huge gap where somebody’s eye and cheek and jaw should have been. Lord, it would be better to be born without an arm than to go through life with no guts. He hardly slept the rest of the night, listening to the horrid rain and knowing that no matter how high the creek came, Leslie would still want to cross it.
TEN
The Perfect Day
He heard his dad start the pickup. Even though there was no job to go to, he left every morning early to look. Sometimes he just hung around all day at the unemployment office; on lucky days he got picked up to unload furniture or do cleaning.
Jess was awake. He might as well get up. He could milk and feed Miss Bessie, and get that over with. He pulled on a T-shirt and overalls over the underwear he slept in.
“Where you going?”
“Go back to sleep, May Belle.”
“I can’t. The rain makes too much noise.”
“Well, get up then.”
“Why are you so mean to me?”
“Will you shut up, May Belle? You’ll have everyone in the whole house woke up with that big mouth of yours.”
Joyce Ann would have screamed, but May Belle made a face.
“Oh, c’mon,” he said. “I’m just gonna milk Miss Bessie. Then maybe we can watch cartoons if we keep the sound real low.”
May Belle was as scrawny as Brenda was fat. She stood a moment in the middle of the floor in her underwear, her skin white and goose-bumpy. Her eyes were still drooped from sleep, and her pale brown hair stuck up all over her head like a squirrel’s nest on a winter branch. That’s got to be the world’s ugliest kid, he thought, looking her over with genuine affection.
She threw her jeans into his face. “I’m gonna tell Momma.”
He threw the jeans back at her. “Tell Momma what?”
“How you just stand there staring at me when I ain’t got my clothes on.”
Lord. She thought he was enjoying it. “Yeah, well,” he said, heading for the door so she wouldn’t throw anything else at him. “Pretty girl like you. Can’t hardly help myself.” He could hear her giggling as he crossed the kitchen.
The shed was filled with Miss Bessie’s familiar smell. He clucked her gently over and set his stool at her flank and the pail beneath her speckled udder. The rain pounded the metal roof of the shed so that the plink of milk in the pail set up a counter-rhythm. If only it would stop raining. He pressed his forehead against Miss Bessie’s warm hide. He wondered idly if cows were ever scared—really scared. He had seen Miss Bessie jitter away from P.T., but that was different. A yapping puppy at your heels is an immediate threat, but the difference between him and Miss Bessie was that when there was no P.T. in sight she was perfectly content, sleepily chewing her cud. She wasn’t staring down at the old Perkins place, wondering and worrying. She wasn’t standing there on her tippytoes while anxiety ate holes through all her stomachs.
He stroked his forehead across her flank and sighed. If there was still water in the creek come summer, he’d ask Leslie to teach him how to swim. How’s that? he said to himself. I’ll just grab that old terror by the shoulders and shake the daylights out of it. Maybe I’ll even learn scuba diving. He shuddered. He may not have been born with guts, but he didn’t have to die without them. Hey, maybe you could go down to the Medical College and get a gut transplant. No, Doc, I got me a perfectly good heart. What I need is a gut transplant. How ’bout it? He smiled. He’d have to tell Leslie about wanting a gut transplant. It was the kind of nonsense she appreciated. Of course—he broke the rhythm of the milking long enough to shove his hair out of his face—of course what I really need is a brain transplant. I know Leslie. I know she’s not going to bite my head off or make fun of me if I say I don’t want to go across again till the creek’s down. All I gotta do is say “Leslie, I don’t wanta go over there today.” Just like that. Easy as pie. “Leslie, I don’t want to go over there today.” “How come?” “How come. Because, because, well because….”
“I called ya three times already.” May Belle was imitating Ellie’s prissiest manner.
“Called me for what?”
“Some lady wants you on the telephone. I had to get dressed to come get you.”
He never got phone calls. Leslie had called him exactly once, and Brenda had gone into such a song and dance with her about Jess’s getting a call from his sweetheart that Leslie had decided it was simpler to come to the house and get him when she wanted to talk.
“Sounds kinda like Miss Edmunds.”
It was Miss Edmunds. “Jess?” her voice flowed through the receiver. “Miserable weather, isn’t it?”
“Yes’m.” He was scared to say more for fear she’d hear the shake.
“I was thinking of driving down to Washington—maybe go to the Smithsonian or the National Gallery. How would you like to keep me company?”