“Then why don’t we try it once?”
“Just once?” I said.
“Just once, Rob.”
“Okay, I’m game.”
“I figure the whole trick is to find the right stone.”
“Here’s one,” I said.
“Too small,” said Soup. “That old pebble wouldn’t weigh enough to make any difference. We got to get the price up to twenty cents at least, or it’ll be one heck of a long trip into town for nothing.”
“You’re right,” I said to Soup. “If our tin foil brings only eighteen cents, we both can’t go to the picture show.”
As we walked into town, Soup and I were silent for a while. The very thought of missing the double feature was a Saturday afternoon tragedy. We both knew what was playing and had known for a week. The first movie was Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy that had a gorilla and a piano in it. We’d seen the Previews of Coming Attractions on the Saturday before. The second feature was a cowboy movie with Dick Foran, the singing cowboy. Only in the movie he wasn’t Dick Foran. He was a cowboy named Chip.
Neither Soup nor I could have missed seeing the double-bill of the day. To miss seeing those two shows would have been next to heartbreak. We just had to have twenty cents, as each ticket was a dime.
“We better hurry, Soup. We have to walk all the way to Mr. Diskin’s and get our money and then all the way back to the movie theater.”
“We need a stone,” said Soup.
“It’s wrong, Soup. Let’s not do it.”
“We could miss the show if we don’t.”
“You win. We’ll do it. But I don’t feel right about it, Soup. The only reason I’ll go along is that we need twenty cents. Why in the heck didn’t we ask Mama for a couple of pennies?”
“We should of,” said Soup. “But it’s too late now. We’re almost to Diskin’s Junkyard.”
“Almost.”
“He’s a Jew,” said Soup.
“Who?”
“Old Mr. Diskin is. I heard somebody say so.”
“Who told you?”
“I know who it was. It was the man who told Ally Tidwell that it was all right to put a stone in the middle of a ball of tinfoil and cheat old Diskin, because it wasn’t really so bad to cheat a Jew.”
“It’s bad to cheat anybody. If we had twenty cents worth of tinfoil, Soup, I wouldn’t do this.”
“Neither would I. But I heard that guy say that there was no such thing as a good Jew.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “But if there was a good Jew, it sure would be Mr. Diskin. He’s the only Jew I know, and he’s been great to us.”
“Yeah, he has,” said Soup, letting out a sigh. “Hey! Here’s a stone that’s just the right size.”
“How can you tell?”
“It’s small, but it’s heavy. Here. Heft it.”
I hefted the pebble in my hand. It wasn’t a very big stone, so I figured we really weren’t cheating Mr. Diskin out of more than a penny or two.
“I’ll do it,” said Soup.
We unrolled our ball of tinfoil, planted the pebble inside at the very core, and wrapped layer upon layer of shiny tinfoil so it resumed its original appearance of a small cabbage.
Ten minutes later, Soup and I ran through the gate that was under the sign “Diskin’s Junkyard.” Mr. Diskin saw us coming and got up out of his rocking chair. He was smiling, just like he always did. Deep inside my stomach there was a small hard place, as if I had hid the stone inside my soul. I hated the whole business so bad I wanted to turn and run. But instead I handed the ball of tinfoil to Mr. Diskin. I noticed his hands as they took the ball from out of mine. His hands were old and white and seemed to be more like claws.
He put the ball of tinfoil on the old red scales that he weighed things on; and while the scales were balancing, he did his little trick—the one he always did. Pulling an old handkerchief from his pants pocket, he held it over his eyes. He pretended he was Justice, blindfolded with the scales. He always did it, and we always laughed. It was so absurd that it was funny, because it was Mr. Diskin’s way of telling us that he was honest and that he gave everybody an equal price.
Soup and I both liked Mr. Diskin. We liked anyone who enjoyed a chuckle or two. He never talked. Mr. Diskin never said a word, just took your stuff and weighed it up on the balance, and then paid you the ten cents. Seems like he always knew that kids wanted a dime for the Saturday movies.
Soup and I held our breath. Mr. Diskin took our ball of tinfoil out of the balance and shuffled inside his old shack to get his money. That’s where he kept his supply of dimes, but we didn’t know exactly where. He must have had a thousand dimes back inside the darkness.
He was gone longer than usual. It seemed to Soup and me that he was inside for almost a year. Then he came out. But on this day he wasn’t smiling. We held out our eager hands for the money. Inside my sneaker, my toes were moving around a lot. That was because I was looking at my feet. I didn’t want to look at Mr. Diskin, and when I finally did look at his old face, he wasn’t smiling.
Mr. Diskin handed us three things. Two dimes and a stone. It was the stone that Soup and I hid inside our ball of foil.
“Thank you, Mr. Diskin,” said Soup.
“We’re sorry about the stone,” I said.
Looking at Mr. Diskin, I expected to see tears roll down his face or see him use his old hanky and wipe his cheeks. But he didn’t cry. He just stood there looking at the little stone and moving his head back and forth a tiny bit as if his old hat was saying no.
On the way to the movies, Soup said, “I never felt as bad as I do right now in my whole life.”
“Neither do I,” I said. “I feel like a hunk of dirt.”
“Me too,” said Soup.
Chapter Six
A Football Valve Is Hard to Find
“MOM?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s my valve?”
“Your what?”
“My valve. You know, my silver blow-up valve. I just can’t seem to find it.”
“Well, I don’t have it. Robert, I don’t even know what a valve is.”
“It’s silver. It’s to blow up my football. Look. All the air leaked out of my ball, and it won’t kick worth a hooey. Soup’s here. We want to play football, but we can’t until we find my little silver valve.”
“Why don’t you ask Soup if he has a valve?”
“I already did. Soup said he used to have one but it disappeared. His mother helped him look this morning, but she couldn’t find it either. We got to find one or we can’t play football. Please help look.”
“Can’t you see I’m baking biscuits? Whenever you lose something, it’s always when my hands are white with flour.”
“Hurry, Mom. Soup’s waiting.”
“I’d hate to keep Soup waiting. Someone as important as that. All right, where did you have it last?”
“Have what?”
“Your football.”
“Soup’s got that. But it needs air. What you have to find is my valve—please.”
“Can’t you blow up your football without a valve?”
“No. It’s what you put the air in with.”
“You used to have a football that had laces like a shoe. All you did was untie the laces and blow up the ball with your mouth through a little rubber stem.”
“That kind is old-fashioned. The new kind blows up with a valve, but I guess you lost the valve.”
“I didn’t lose it. I’ve never even seen your valve. What color is it?”
“Silver.”
“You mean it’s the color of my good teapot?”
“Yes. Only it’s little. It’s only this long, about as long as my finger. It’s like a needle.”
“Did you look up in your room?”
“No.”
“Then go look there, and I’ll look downstairs. As I recall, you lost your valve before, didn’t you?”
“Yes. But I found it in your sewing basket.”
“Maybe that’s where it is now.”
“I already looked in the sewing basket, Mom. It’s gone. Maybe somebody just walked off with it.”
“Who’d want one of those things?”
Mama was still talking, and I could hear from way up in my room. The valve was not under my bed nor in my chest of drawers. I looked up on my closet shelf. No valve. My throat was starting to tighten. Suppose we really couldn’t find it and it really was lost. Or worse, some careless or unthinking person had stumbled on it and thrown it out. How could anyone do that?
“Is this it?”
My mother’s voice rang out like a shiny beacon in a darkened world—a lighthouse upon desperation’s lonely and rocky shoal. I almost broke both ankles jumping down the stairs. And there was Mama holding my silver football valve.
“You found it!”
“Yes, I found it. In the pocket of Aunt Carrie’s apron. Robert, you are just going to have to take better care of your things. Learn to have a place for everything. That way you’ll always know where your valve is.”
“I will. Where’s the pump?”
“Isn’t it out in the shed?”
“Oh, I remember. Soup’s got it. We were trying to blow up the ball without a valve. It doesn’t work.”
Soup brought the pump into the kitchen from the back porch. We screwed the tiny barrel of silver into the threads of the pump hose. It was ready to be inserted into the football.
“You have to wet it first,” said Soup.
“I know.”
I put the pointed end of the valve (the one with the little air hole on the side) on my tongue and licked it several times. It tasted like silver. When somebody’s mother blew up a football, she’d never wet the valve until we reminded her it was part of the ritual. And then she’d never lick it. Instead, she’d always wet the valve under the cold water tap. Mothers didn’t seem to understand that the best part of finally finding your valve to blow up a football was to taste the silver. There is no taste in the world quite like it. It’s the taste of an early morning in September, a Saturday when there’s no school. The fields are still wet with morning, and some yellow leaves are already sprinkled on the pasture dew.
The taste of a silver football valve is all of that and more. It’s the flavor of knowing that you had a pal like Soup who was just as anxious to boot that old ball as you were. Neither one of us could kick it twenty feet, but that was of no matter. What mattered was that it was autumn, and Saturday.
Soup was holding the ball and I was working the pump with Mama helping. I was afraid we’d put too much air in and the football would explode. That’s why Soup held the expanding ball. I stopped pumping.
“More,” said Soup.
We gave a few more downward pushes in the old tire pump, and Soup yanked out the needle. The ball was perfect—swelled with air to the point that you could see the clean white part of the dirty threads along the seams.
“Let’s go!” I yelled.
“Yowie!” said Soup.
“Not so fast,” said Mama. “You left your valve in the pump.”
“I’ll get it later,” I hollered over my shoulder as Soup and I headed for the open meadow of flat grass.
As we ran, we threw the ball back and forth, dropping it almost every time. It sure felt great to be alive on Saturday morning. Like the whole world knew it was Saturday and there was no school. It was cold and clear, and the sound of a badly kicked football punctured the air. The wind was as ripe as apples, so full of fall that you could almost bite every breath.
I could still taste the silver.
Chapter Seven
A Barrel of Chicken
“YOU’RE AFRAID,” said Soup.
“No, I’m not.”
“Then what are you just standing there for?”
“Well, it looks like kind of a steep hill. Maybe we should try it on the level.”
“I knew you’d be scared.”
“I ain’t scared.”
“Then why don’t you get inside the barrel?”
“Here’s why,” I said, showing Soup a bent nail inside the old apple barrel.
“It’s just an old nail.”
“Yeah, but if it rips my sweater, my mother won’t like it.”
My mother already took notice that I look worse when I come home from school than when I start out. I never see a difference, but she always does.
“You’re afraid.”
“I’m not afraid of rolling down Dugan’s Hill in a barrel. Just afraid of tearing a rip to the sweater.”
“What do you care?” said Soup. “After all, it’s my sweater.”
“Used to be,” I said. “Your mother gave it to my mother for some of us to wear. Reckon it’s my sweater now, since you outgrowed it.”
“That’s because,” said Soup as he gave me a punch on my arm for emphasis, “I’m bigger ’n you. I can’t even get into that old sweater.”
“And I can’t get into that old barrel.”
Soup looked around for a rock and found one. Rolling the barrel so the nail was against the ground, he pounded it flat against the raw, splintery wood.
“There,” said Soup. “I fixed the nail.”
With a doubtful eye, I got down on my hands and knees to inspect the barrel’s newly improved interior. I noticed then that some of the staves were rotten and loose.
“Get in,” said Soup.
I started to back into the barrel, feet first, taking one last look down the full length of Dugan’s Hill. I backed in only an inch or two, until I felt Soup’s restraining hand tug on my belt.
“Head first,” said Soup, “not feet first.”
“How come?” I said, happily exiting on my hands and knees.
“Because,” said Soup.
I knew better than to ask Soup “because what?” As far as Soup was concerned, his one-word explanation—because—was enough for me. It would be a waste of good time to offer further documentation for his decision that proper barrel-entering was performed head first. Argument would now be useless. Soup never made a moot point. And so with a sigh of resignation, Soup’s sweater and I occupied the barrel in the approved manner.
The barrel, prior to my entry—or rather re-entry—had been light inside. Now that I filled it, it seemed dark. To make matters worse, the inside bottom of the old apple barrel that I now faced still carried a few overripe remains of its recently emptied cargo.
“You see?” said Soup, “now when you roll inside the barrel, nothing can hit your face. There’s a reason for everything.”
I was about to add, “Nothing can hit my face except rotten apples.” But I didn’t. It would be folly to talk back to Luther Wesley Vinson when your arse end is pointed shoe-level in his direction and within his range, especially in such an undefended position. You had to know in this world when to keep your mouth shut and your behind inconspicuous.
“Ready?” said Soup.
“Ready.” I really wasn’t ready at all, not prepared in the least. But what good would it do to say I wasn’t?
“Now,” said Soup, turning the barrel with precision, “make sure you stay on the road. ’Cause if’n you don’t, you’ll roll off down the meadow and through a fence into Biscardi’s hen coop.”
“I will?”
“Not if you stay on the road,” Soup said.
“How do I do that?”
“Rob, don’t you know anything about rolling in a barrel? Any jackass can do it.”
“That’s me,” I said. “I’m in there somewhere.”
“Remember this one thing,” said Soup, his voice assuming his I-know-and-you-don’t attitude, rather like Miss Kelly. No one ever questioned Miss Kelly. Her words were dipped in bronze.
“Remember to keep your weight even in the barrel. The important thing is balance,” said Soup.
“Balance,” I said in a hollow voice, as if it came from deep inside a barrel. It did.
“Brace yourself,” said Soup. “And don’t tear my sweater. I may
want it back.”
“No, you won’t. It’s got apple on it.”
“You’ll go on the count of three,” said Soup.
“Why three?”
“That’s the way you do it. As I holler out the number, you’re supposed to say the same number. Okay? One!”
“One,” I said.
“Two!”
“Two.”
“THREE!”
On the final number, I never got a chance to answer. Soup gave the barrel a heck of a push and also what sounded and felt like an extra kick, to insure I reached maximum rolling speed. Soup was a perfectionist in so many wondrous ways.
Down we went; the barrel, Soup’s sweater, and I—down Dugan’s Hill. I put fear out of my mind in order to concentrate on balance. Faster and faster the barrel rolled, so fast that some of it came apart. Around and around I went; my head was spinning, and I forgot what little I knew on the topic of balance. I did try to brace myself, but it didn’t really matter anymore. When you walk up Dugan’s Hill, you’re not fully aware of its many and countless bumps. Yet rolling down it inside an apple barrel, each bump seems to make itself known.
Around and around, faster and faster and faster the barrel rolled. I figured there had to be some fun to it; and yet my mind seemed to be asking: when would the fun start? I tried to tell myself that it was great sport.
It didn’t work. It wasn’t fun. There was no joy to it at all. Not one bit. It hurt, it was scary, it made you so dizzy and weak that you wanted to cry, scream, and throw up all at the same time. And you got wood slivers in your hands.
Some people might call this fun. I sure don’t.
There was a loud noise, and then another. It sounded like a barrel with a fool in it, going at great speed, smashing through the side of Biscardi’s chicken coop. I was thrown out of the barrel, but still moving, rolling, and sliding through a thick and slippery carpet of straw and hen manure. My last thought, as I slid into a hysterical group of Plymouth Rock matrons, as if they had been second base, was of Soup’s sweater.
I’d have to be careful, I thought, as I tried to slow myself down by grabbing a chicken, or I’d really do more damage to the sweater than just a little old nail hole. Several staves out of the barrel and a rusty hoop seemed to be sliding along with me. It sure was a long hen house.
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