Ruby Holler

by Sharon Creech

  Dallas held his block of wood to his ear, as if maybe he could hear what was inside. “Sairy? Are we lost?”

  “Lost? Us? Shoot, we’re on this scrubby patch of dirt on this hillside. Maybe we don’t know where exactly this hillside is, but I’m sure we’ll be fine, just fine.” She reached up to touch her yellow scarf, as if it might bring them luck.

  “Sairy, did you ever wonder if Tiller might get used to being on his own?”

  Sairy flashed him a worried look. “I was thinking about that a little earlier,” Sairy said. “You can read my mind. I was thinking how maybe we’d get used to this hiking, and maybe I’d stop thinking about the holler or Tiller, and then I felt bad, like what if Tiller forgot to think about me?”

  “Yeah,” Dallas said, “and what if Florida gets used to traveling on the river and doesn’t want to come back and maybe she won’t want me tagging along?”

  “Listen to us,” Sairy said. “A couple of worrywarts.”

  “Yeah,” Dallas said. “A couple of stupid worrywarts.”

  CHAPTER 40

  BABIES IN THE BOX

  Tiller and Florida had traveled the length of Hidden River and had spent the last two hours portaging into the Goochee River.

  “It’s so beastly hot,” Florida said. “And I thought you said portaging would be easy. It wasn’t easy. Look how long it took us, lugging all our stuff out of the boat and up the bank and over those rocks and then dragging that heavy boat up the bank and—”

  “Why’d we bring so much stuff?” Tiller grumbled. “Every time we portage, we’re going to have to lug all this crud.” He eyed the dark storm clouds in the distance. “We’d better get that tent up or we’re going to get soaked tonight,” Tiller said. “Smell that? It’s a real goosedrownder that’s coming our way.”

  Later, as the storm clouds broke above them, they sat under the canopy of the tent while the remains of their fire steamed and fizzled. Tiller was carving a fishing boat, and Florida was staring at her piece of wood.

  “Look what a mess I’ve made of this,” she said. “I don’t know what the cruddy crud it is.”

  “You don’t have to know when you start out,” Tiller said. “Just see what comes out. Sometimes you have to sneak up on it. Pretend you’re just moving your hand, your knife, and you don’t think you’re making anything. Then all of a sudden you look down, quick, and sometimes you can tell right then. But still you pretend you don’t know because you don’t want what’s inside to curl up tighter and refuse to come out. You want to be gentle with it.”

  Florida closed her eyes, rolled the wood around in her hands, and then she opened her eyes quickly and stared down at the wood. Nothing. “Whoa!” she said. “Did you see that lightning? Are we supposed to be out here when that stuff is crashing around us? What if it hits a tree and the tree falls on us and konks us dead?”

  “I guess someone will find our smashed-up bodies someday,” Tiller said.

  “Tiller? You ever seen a dead person? I mean a real dead person, not a picture of one.”

  Tiller thought about his father, lying cold on his bed, and his mother in her coffin. He thought about his two best friends who’d died last year. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve seen a few. Have you ever seen a dead person?”

  “Yep.”

  “And who was that?”

  “A boy in our orphanage place. Dallas couldn’t save him.”

  “What?”

  So she told him about Joey and his fever and about Dallas watching over him and Joey saying, “Who am I? Who am I?” and Dallas trying to get him to breathe again.

  “That’s terrible,” Tiller said. “Where were the Trepids?”

  “They were there. Mr. Trepid was crying, and Mrs. Trepid was yelling at him, and—”

  “Terrible, terrible.”

  “You know what? Dallas didn’t talk—I mean he didn’t say a single word—for a whole month after that.”

  “What about you? How did you feel?”

  “I felt like it was probably going to be me who died next,” Florida said, “and so I wrote my name on my arm in red ink so even if I was delirious with a fever, I’d know who I was, and I told Dallas that even if he couldn’t get me to breathe again, it wouldn’t be his fault. If I didn’t breathe again, it would probably be because I didn’t have any room left for air.”

  Tiller poked at the damp wood and ashes. “Florida? You mind if I ask you something? If it’s nosy, you just ignore it.”

  “Like what?”

  “I was thinking about your name. Florida. It’s a mighty nice name. You probably don’t have any idea how you got it, do you?”

  “I only know what those putrid Trepids told us.”

  “And what was that?” Tiller asked.

  “They told us we were in a box on their porch, little babies, both of us in the same box, and there wasn’t any note or anything. We were wrapped up in a clean white blanket, and the box was lined with papers, well, not papers exactly, but pamphlets, you know those kind you see for people going on trips and stuff?”

  “What, like tourist pamphlets, that sort of thing?”

  “That’s right,” Florida said. “And I was lying on one that said Fly to Florida! and Dallas was lying on one that said Destination: Dallas! and so they gave us those names. I was the Florida baby and Dallas was the Dallas baby.”

  “I wonder why those things were in the bottom of that box,” Tiller said. “You ever wonder that?”

  “You know what? I never did wonder that, not until you just said it. Our mother probably just found an old box and it had that stuff in it and she didn’t pay it any attention. She probably just wrapped us up in that clean white blanket and put us inside. Maybe she wrote a note about how awful she felt having to give us up, and on that note was our real names, but maybe the wind blew that note away. You think?”

  “Could be,” Tiller said. “How about your last name? Carter, is it? How’d you get that?”

  “On the side of the box, it said Carter’s Produce.”

  “Ah,” Tiller said. “Well, Florida Carter is a lot better than Florida Produce.”

  “Or Florida Box.”

  Tiller touched the piece of wood Florida had been whittling away at. “You see what’s happening there? You’ve been talking and carving and paying it no attention and now, look there …”

  Florida stared down at it. “What do you think that is? Some curly-headed thing?”

  “I don’t know, but I bet if you keep paying it no attention, it’ll come out.”

  “That’s just what I’m going to do,” Florida said. “Pay it no attention whatsoever.”

  CHAPTER 41

  SHOPPING

  When Mrs. Trepid entered Burley’s Department

  Store and felt the cool air swirl around her, she put her hand against the damp hair on her neck. Such a relief to be where it is cool, she thought. Such a relief to be where it is quiet.

  In the dress department, she wandered from rack to rack, occasionally pulling out a dress and holding it against her. Too dowdy, she thought, or too prissy. And then she saw it: the perfect dress. It was pale blue silk with tiny pink flowers, ankle length and sleeveless, with a low, scooped neck. She held it against her and swished the bottom across her legs.

  Mrs. Trepid carried it to the fitting room, and once she had the dress on and zipped, she turned to look in the mirror. This is how I should always look, she thought. She stepped out into the hallway where there was a larger mirror, and she turned this way and that.

  A young salesgirl walked by with an armload of clothes. “That dress was made for you,” the girl said to Mrs. Trepid.

  “Do you really think so?” Mrs. Trepid said, turning a full revolution so that the girl could see it from all angles.

  “Oh yes,” the girl said. “And you could wear it for so many occasions.”

  Mrs. Trepid put her fingertips to her chin and regarded her reflection. “You know, I think you may be right.”

  In the dressing
room, Mrs. Trepid changed back into her own dress, took out her glasses, and examined the price tag. My goodness, she thought. That much money for a skimpy little dress? She thought about what her husband had said about his investments and about moving to an island. This would be perfect for an evening on an island.

  She found the salesgirl at the counter. “You know,” she said to the girl, “I can’t quite make up my mind about this dress.”

  “But it’s made for you,” the girl said. “You know what you could do? You could put it on layaway. Pay a little now and a little each month, and then it seems like you get it for practically nothing. I do it all the time.”

  Mrs. Trepid felt embarrassed that the girl could sense that she couldn’t afford the dress. “Of course I don’t really need to use layaway,” Mrs. Trepid said. “I could buy it right now if I wanted.”

  “Oh,” the girl said.

  “But I might just try that layaway. Why not?”

  After she left the dress department, Mrs. Trepid wandered around the store, touching purses and scarves and slips. She sauntered back through the dress department, pausing at the rack where she’d found her dress. As she did so, she heard the salesgirl talking to another customer.

  “That dress was made for you,” the girl said to the customer.

  Mrs. Trepid felt foolish, and hurriedly left the department. But as she stepped out onto the hot sidewalk, she thought about her blue silk dress with the pink flowers. She saw herself on an island, sitting by the ocean, sipping a cool drink.

  On the outskirts of Prosper City, some fifty miles from Boxton, Mr. Trepid found a Cadillac showroom. Inside, he circled the three cars on display, casually examining the tags which listed the specifications and equipment, as well as the price, of each vehicle. After he examined all three, he returned to the red convertible and stood with his hand on the driver’s door. He could smell the leather interior.

  “May I help you?” came a voice from behind him.

  Mr. Trepid kept his hand on the door as he turned to greet the salesman. The man was taller than Mr. Trepid and smiled down on him.

  “I’m considering buying a new car,” Mr. Trepid said soberly. “Perhaps one like this.” He tapped the door of the red convertible.

  “What are you driving now?” the salesman asked.

  “What, now? Me? I’m driving a Porsche,” he lied.

  The salesman glanced out the window, as if looking for Mr. Trepid’s Porsche.

  “It’s in the shop right now,” Mr. Trepid said. “That’s why I’m looking for a new car. Getting tired of that Porsche!” He tried to look disgusted at the thought of his Porsche in the shop. What Mr. Trepid really owned was a ten-year-old Plymouth. He’d had the foresight to park it three blocks away so that the salesmen wouldn’t see his battered old car.

  “So you’ll be doing a trade-in then?” the salesman asked. “On your Porsche?”

  “Probably not,” Mr. Trepid said, smiling heartily at the salesman. “Think I’ll give the Porsche to the wife.”

  “Ah,” the salesman said. “Will you be wanting financing? Would you like to talk with our finance manager?”

  Mr. Trepid tapped the door once more. “I may pay cash,” he said.

  “I see. What did you say your name was, sir?”

  “Trepid. George Trepid.”

  “Well, Mr. Trepid, are there any questions I can answer for you, sir?”

  Mr. Trepid had a hundred questions, but he wasn’t going to ask them of this salesman. He didn’t want to appear ignorant. “I think not,” Mr. Trepid said coolly. “I’m going to check out another dealership first.”

  “I think you’ll find we can give you the best deal,” the salesman said. “Here’s my card. Anything I can do for you, you just let me know.”

  “Thank you,” Mr. Trepid said, stuffing the card in his shirt pocket and glancing at his watch. “And now I must be off. Perhaps I’ll see you again.” He hurried to the door and stepped out into the bright sunlight. Well! he thought. I think that went very well indeed.

  CHAPTER 42

  DORKHEAD

  In the morning, as Sairy was repacking, she lifted her half-carved piece and said, “You know what I do with these carvings sometimes? I make up names for them. Silly names, like Peeker and Bitty Beak, just made-up names.”

  “I have a made-up name,” Dallas said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, Dallas. It’s just a name those Trepids got from a box.”

  “A box?”

  And so he told her about the box that he and Florida had been found in, and when he finished, Sairy said, “Dallas, remember when we got your passport?”

  “Stupid picture. I look like a dorkhead.”

  “No, you don’t. You look mighty handsome. But did you notice the birth date on it?”

  “Yeah, March third. Dorkheads. My birthday’s July twenty-ninth.”

  “But maybe … maybe your birthday really is March third.”

  “Naw,” Dallas said. “You think? Naw. I don’t want a March birthday.”

  “You’re right. I understand. That Trepid fellow probably just made a mistake.”

  But later, as they set off down the hill, Dallas remembered, or thought he remembered, the Trepids’ telling him that since they didn’t have any idea of when Florida or Dallas were really born, the Trepids had listed their birth date as the day they arrived at the orphanage. So, Dallas thought, their real birthday must have been several months before that. Maybe March third was his real birthday. It made him mad. A person ought to know when his birthday was.

  CHAPTER 43

  LOOPS

  When they’d first set off down the river, Florida had imagined that all of the rivers they would travel would be as narrow as the one passing through Ruby Holler, and that it was all just water, running smoothly on and on and on. What she now knew, after only a day and a half on the river, was that rivers were like living things, and they had many faces. You might come around a bend and wham! The river suddenly widened out and ran faster. And just when you’d get used to that wide rushing river, you’d go around another bend and wham! It narrowed again and put a few rocks in your way and a few eddies to swirl you around and then maybe a sandbar to stop you short.

  You might start out in the morning with the river like a velvety shimmery cloth, and by noon it could be full of ripples and waves and splashes. You could watch both wind and rain coming at you from the distance, marking the water. And as the sun went down, all sorts of golden light flashed here and there, and long shadows stretched farther and farther, until it was all one big black shadowy thing out there.

  As they paddled along on this new morning, Florida said, “Tonight, I’m going to catch another big fish, like last night. Wasn’t that a beauty? Didn’t that taste like the best thing you ever tasted in your life? I am a natural-born fisherwoman! Maybe my mother was a fisherwoman. You think?”

  “Could be,” Tiller said.

  “Your arm okay from where I hooked you?”

  “Uh-huh,” he said.

  “You think we can get that reel untangled?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Tiller? How come you don’t get mad at me when I goof up?” She heard his paddle dip in and out of the water, in and out. “You hear me?”

  “I heard you. Maybe I’m too old to get mad, or maybe what you consider goofs aren’t what I consider goofs—it’s just stuff that happens.”

  “Most people would consider everything I do a goof.”

  “Then they’re just putrid,” Tiller said, and he laughed. “Putrid—what a great word.”

  “So you don’t mind too much about me and Dallas being in Ruby Holler?” She heard Tiller’s paddle dipping in and out of the water, in and out. “If you do mind, you can say so.” She stared at the river ahead. Why didn’t he answer her? What was he thinking?

  Finally he said, “Florida, it’s been putrid having you and Dallas in Ruby Holler.”

  “What?” She snapped
her head around.

  “I was just kidding,” he said. “It’s been real interesting having you and Dallas in Ruby Holler.”

  “Good interesting or bad interesting?” she asked.

  “You know I can’t say bad interesting, or you’d probably tip me out of this boat, so I guess I’ll have to say good interesting.”

  Florida stared at the water. “Tiller? How come we’re paddling so hard and getting nowhere? Does it feel like we’re going upstream instead of downstream?”

  “You know when we went to the right of that island back there?” Tiller said. “And then the river looped?”

  “Yeah, I remember. It’s been looping ever since.”

  “Maybe we should have gone the other way—to the other side of that island,” Tiller said.

  “What does the map say?”

  Tiller placed his paddle across his knees and reached for the map. “Don’t see any island on this map. Don’t see any loops.”

  “You’re not telling me we’re lost, are you?”

  “I think we might be a little bit lost,” Tiller said.

  “If it’s just a little bit lost, that’s okay, I guess.”

  CHAPTER 44

  PROGRESS

  Z was in his usual place leaning against the door as Mr. Trepid paced around the shack, anxious to hear about Z’s progress.

  “And you say you’ve spotted some possible sites?” Trepid said. “Very good. Approximately how many?”

  “So far, about twenty-five,” Z said.

  Trepid halted. “Twenty-five?” he sputtered. “That’s … that’s … too many.”

  “Like I said before, there’s a lot of stones in that holler,” Z said.

  “But twenty-five? Are you looking for big stones or unusual piles of stones, or are you marking any old stone you see?”

  Z pulled a stick of gum from his pocket, unwrapped it, and popped it in his mouth. “If I marked any old stone I saw, I’d have marked about two thousand by now.”

  “Have you finished surveying?” Trepid asked.