Soup

by Robert Newton Peck

  There was another crash, a chorus of excited cackles, and one very angry yell as I finally came to a stop just as Mrs. Biscardi dropped the eggs.

  My first thought, as I lay on the floor of the chicken coop and looked up at Mrs. Biscardi with broken eggs dripping from all ten of her fingers, was that I hoped I didn’t get any yellowy egg stuff on the sweater. Soup was a regular guy, but he could be right fussy about certain matters that concerned his property, both present and past. I put my hands on my chest to feel if the sweater was still in one piece.

  All I felt was my shirt and part of an eggshell. To my dismay, I wasn’t even wearing a sweater. And yet my arms were wearing a sweater and so was my neck. I was about to ask Mrs. Biscardi if she’d seen a brown wool sweater, but I decided she had other things on her mind. One thing that seemed to occupy her thoughts was a large, gaping hole in the side of her chicken coop. The hole itself wasn’t so bad. The real problem was that most of the hens were running out through the hole and down the road.

  I looked through the hole for Soup. No sign of him. Soup had evaporated as mysteriously as had most of his sweater. Mrs. Biscardi seemed to be even more emotional than even her most excited hen. There was at least a dozen hens flapping around and cackling their heads off. The air was a snowstorm of chicken feathers, and so was the inside of my mouth. Mrs. Biscardi was saying things to either me or the escaping hens, and they didn’t sound very friendly. But seeing neither the chickens nor I could understand even one word of Italian, none of us really took offense at the remarks that seemed to tumble from her lips without so much as a breath in between.

  Mrs. Biscardi was dreadfully upset over something. She was so busy trying to guard the hole and trying to catch six or seven screaming chickens at once, while holding one hen firmly between her chubby knees, that it seemed to be an excellent time for me to scram. Getting to my feet, I ran out of the chicken-wire door. A piece of brown yarn was around my neck and I gave it a yank, but it didn’t come loose. As I ran around to the other side of the hen coop, more yarn caught my eye. It was a long piece of yarn, starting from inside the hen house and stretching straight up Dugan’s Hill.

  I climbed the hill, following the strand of yarn as I retraced the route that I had rolled inside the apple barrel only a minute earlier. The yarn came to an end, snagged around a rotted barrel stave and wound around a nail.

  It’s not easy to believe how anyone could walk home smelling of rotten apple, broken egg, and chicken manure and be as happy as I was. I even whistled, despite the licking I’d probably get for the mess I’d turned myself into. But now I was a full-fledged member of that brave and fearless group of adventurers who had the courage to roll down Dugan’s Hill in a barrel.

  In my pocket was a large wad of brown yarn. So if Soup wanted his sweater back, I’d give it to him.

  But he’d have to knit it all over again.

  Chapter Eight

  Hoedown with Chester Morris

  “SOUP?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How come you do that to a bug bite?”

  “I always do it.”

  “You make a X on each one?”

  “Sure,” said Soup. “See? I use my thumb nail and press a line into the bug bite that goes up and down. Then I press in a line that goes across.”

  “It’s a funny thing to do.”

  “What’s so funny about it? Cowboys brand their cows that way.”

  “No they don’t.”

  “I just pretend that I own a big cattle ranch out west, and it’s branding time whenever I see a bug bite. My ranch is going to be called the Itchy X. I’ll name it after a bug bite.”

  “If I had a ranch,” I said, “I’d put wings on an R and call it the Flying R. The R is for Robert.”

  “Or you could put the R lying down and call it the Lazy R.”

  “Speaking of lazy,” I said to Soup, “you and me are supposed to hoe the potatoes. Your ma said she’d give a penny for every row we hoe.”

  “I did half my row,” said Soup.

  “Well, I guess I did about half of mine. That’s half a penny for you and half for me. How will she ever pay us half a cent? She’ll have to axe a penny in half.”

  “She probably won’t pay us at all if she comes out,” said Soup, “and sees us sitting here in the shade with our backs leaning against the toolshed.”

  “Maybe we ought to go back and hoe the potatoes, Soup. At least we ought to hoe one row, so we can each get a whole penny to our name.”

  “Rob?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What you going to do with your penny?”

  “Save it, I guess. How about yours?”

  “I’m going to save mine too. And when I get enough pennies saved up, I’ll go west and buy the Itchy X.”

  “Next year. I’ll be saving up for an airplane,” I said, “but right now I’m saving up for the goggles.”

  “What do you want an airplane for?”

  “Maybe when I get my pennies all saved up, I’ll buy an airplane and fly out west to visit you at the Itchy X Ranch.”

  “That’ll be neat,” said Soup. “You can come anytime. You can come every day you want to, after school.”

  “Then we can saddle up a couple of horses and ride the range.”

  “Just like Tom Mix,” said Soup.

  “I’ll be Buck Jones. And I’ll have a white horse called Silver.”

  “How ya going to get a horse on an airplane?” said Soup.

  “Silver will be a trained horse, just like Buck’s. All I’ll have to do is whistle, and Silver will hear and climb inside the airplane.”

  “Horses don’t do that.”

  “Mine will. I’ll even have a big pair of goggles for Silver to wear over his eyes.”

  “What kind of an airplane you going to get, Rob?”

  “Oh, I reckon I’ll get a triplane. You know, the sort of plane that has three pairs of wings.”

  “Yeah, triplanes fly real good,” said Soup.

  “When I fly over your ranch, Soup, know what I’ll do to say howdy?”

  “Pee out the window.”

  Soup and I almost died when he said that. My stomach and ribs started to hurt, but I just couldn’t stop laughing. Neither could Soup. We just rolled around in the tall grass on the north side of the toolshed, our arms around our bellies. It was several minutes after Soup’s sudden wit before I could talk enough to really explain how I’d fly over his ranch out west and signal a greeting.

  “What I’ll do as I fly over is dip my wings back and forth. That’s what real airplane pilots do when they fly over people they know. I saw that in a movie.”

  “So did I,” said Soup. “It was the Saturday you spit your gum out in the drinking fountain. The first movie had Chester Morris in it.”

  “Chester Morris sure is good in the movies. You know what, Soup?”

  “No, what?”

  “Lots of times I wished my hair was black and slicked down so I’d look like Chester Morris. I bet he takes a comb and parts his hair in the middle so it’ll look real slick and shiny. So last night I tried to do it, too.”

  “You don’t even own a comb,” said Soup, “so how’d ya do it? Your hair is nothing but a lot of sandy curls. It sure beats me how you’d get your hair to look like Chester Morris when you don’t own a haircomb.”

  “I used Mama’s, and Aunt Carrie’s good amber hairbrush.”

  “Did you soak plenty of water on your head?”

  “Yeah, but it didn’t help. What really made me try the whole business was when I found a bottle of Stay-Comb.”

  “Was there some of the stuff left?”

  “Plenty,” I said. “Maybe the guy who threw it away just got tired of looking like Chester Morris. So I put the Stay-Comb on my hair.”

  “Is there any left?” said Soup.

  “No. I used it all. Must have been close to enough to fill up a tea cup.”

  “How’d it work?”

  “Not too good without a co
mb,” I said.

  “Did you look like Chester Morris any?”

  “Maybe a little. Not much. That old Stay-Comb sure is oily stuff. So I sneaked into my mother’s room and borrowed her comb.”

  “Did your hair part in the middle?”

  “No. The truth is, Soup, that comb of hers just couldn’t part my hair at all, no matter how I twisted it.”

  “Did you comb it all forward first, so it’s sort of down into your eyes. That’s what my mother does sometimes. You’re also supposed to stand very still.”

  “What does that have to do with hair?” I said.

  “Beats me,” said Soup. “All I know is, whenever my mother tries to comb my hair, all she ever says is stand still, stand still, stand still.”

  “Mothers sure are funny,” I said.

  “Yeah, but they do a lot of good,” said Soup.

  “My mother didn’t do much good when she saw her comb.”

  “You didn’t break it, did you?”

  “No. All I did was wander into Aunt Carrie’s room and borrow her good amber hairbrush. I guess I must have left some Stay-Comb on Mama’s comb. At least I’d sort of wiped it off on my pants, but some of the Stay-Comb was left between all the teeth. Like white jelly.”

  “Never mind about that. Did the brush work?”

  “It worked about as well as the comb,” I said, “but I still was a long ways from looking much like Chester Morris.”

  “What happened then?” said Soup.

  “Well, when Mama went to wash out her comb, Aunt Carrie came upstairs and asked me what I was doing with her good amber hairbrush. But after I told her, she put her hand on my head where all the Stay-Comb was. And then she pulled her hand away as if she’d touched something dirty. After that she took her hairbrush out of my hand and gave it a good look-at.”

  “I’ll bet it had Stay-Comb on it,” said Soup.

  “All over it. Aunt Carrie asked me what I thought I was doing with her good amber hairbrush.”

  “What’d you tell her?”

  “I said I was going to look like Chester Morris.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “You won’t believe it, Soup.”

  “Won’t believe what?”

  “Aunt Carrie looked me right in the eye and said, ‘Who’s Chester Morris?’”

  “Some people,” said Soup, “don’t know anything.”

  “Well,” I said, “maybe Aunt Carrie don’t know who Chester Morris is. But she can sure handle a hairbrush.”

  “Did she brush your hair?” said Soup.

  “Not exactly. She used the other side of the brush on the other side of me. And then she put my head under the pump.”

  “Wish I’d seen it,” said Soup. “It’s hard to picture your Aunt Carrie giving a spanking to Chester Morris.”

  “Gee, now that I still got some of that Stay-Comb on my head, do you really think I look a whole lot like Chester Morris?”

  “Like you was twins,” said Soup.

  Chapter Nine

  Eddy Tacker Was a Bully

  EDDY TACKER was so mean he’d pee on a puppy. I know, because he did it to mine.

  Tarn was just a tiny ball of collie when Eddy opened up his corduroys and did it. And that was something that even Soup wouldn’t do. That was the difference between Soup and Eddy Tacker. Eddy was a bully; but not Soup, even though a number of his suggestions were made with convincing force.

  As for Eddy, he made a hobby out of being mean. I hated him so much, I even knew his walk. For I could tell when he was coming up behind me with a dandy plan to jump on my back and ride my face into the mud. Or make me eat some.

  To make matters worse, Eddy wasn’t as tall as I was. Just a whole lot wider. I can’t honestly say that Eddy was tougher than I was. But his best weapon was that I thought he was tougher. Of Eddy Tacker, I was scared skinny. Even in my dreams, he invaded peaceful settings and disrupted fantasy. He fed me to a dragon or threw me in a moat. But when I wasn’t dreaming about Eddy Tacker, I was lying awake and thinking the sweetest thought a kid could ever think. How I’d get even. Little did I know how soon my next meeting with Eddy would be. Morning came. And with hardly a wink of sleep, I was fresh with deviltry.

  It was the day after Eddy tinkled on Tarn, and the air was ripe with revenge. I was upstairs in the schoolhouse balcony, and a boy named Carl Sprague was below. At the water bubbler I took a great gulp of cold water and let it loose, cascading toward Carl’s head. But the water landed on Eddy. I laughed. Eddy did not. It wasn’t the sort of thing that Eddy would take in the fun-loving spirit in which it was intended. Nor was it in Eddy’s nature to pass it all off as an innocent accident and laugh the whole matter off. Not this Eddy. His only thought was punishment for the offender who wetted his dignity.

  Eddy’s one thought, as his wet, evil face looked up to the balcony, was to avenge the wrong. But not a score-evening that was equal in severity to the offense. He would be dry in five minutes. Yet already forming in his face was a resolute promise to make me sting for a week. The worst part of Eddy’s plan was to let me know in advance what my horror would be as soon as afternoon recess rolled around.

  On the wall above Miss Kelly’s desk, our schoolroom clock ticked slowly. Its pendulum was a great silver disk that swung to and fro inside its keyhole-shaped case. Every tick of that clock brought Eddy closer. Miss Kelly finally rang the bell, a signal for us to line up two by two to be dismissed for the day. Behind me in line as we marched down the stairs, stepping on my heels as often as he could, was the bully himself. With each step he whispered his bloody intentions. Not loud enough for Miss Kelly’s superb hearing to detect, but with enough carry to be picked up by surrounding classmates of both sexes, including Norma Jean Bissell. Several of my classmates tittered away as if the whole business of my drubbing by Eddy was one heck of a joke. A grapevine whisper took up the call, spreading the news of the afternoon’s entertainment. All planned to watch, and probably even Norma Jean.

  I didn’t care if the other girls saw it. But why of all people would it have to be Norma Jean Bissell?

  Norma Jean and I rarely spoke. What we shared together was a silent courtship. There wasn’t even a carry-her-books-home-from-school arrangement, as we lived in opposite directions from the red brick building. Our only overt act of mutual recognition came once a day, as we sang “My Country ’Tis of Thee.” As a class, we rose and stood by our seats, belting it out, stanza by stanza. All four. When we got to the line, “Thy name I love,” I would look with longing at Norma Jean Bissell and she at me.

  I thought of Norma Jean as my sweetheart, the girl to whom I would one day plight my troth. What she thought of me I never discovered, as we never exchanged words. Only glances. It was strictly a romance of song, like Jeanette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy.

  But on this ill day, another Eddy was in the picture whose full intention it was to back me up against the schoolhouse and give me a whaling in front of Norma Jean and everybody. To make matters worse, Miss Kelly picked this day of all days to keep Soup after school.

  Out we marched, like a row of ducks. Two by two, all twenty of us. Down the slate walk, almost to the road. That was where I broke ranks and really turned it on. Never had I run so fast. Neither had Eddy Tacker, who was a step or two behind. His footsteps and his threats mounted in my ears. And that was when I saw Mama, waiting to drag me to the Dry Goods Store. My earlier distress had made me forget that she was meeting me to go to buy a new pair of knickers. My old ones had a rip at each knee. Boy, was she a welcome sight! Eddy, however, did not know the lady was my mother.

  I got to Mama just as Eddy got to me. Turning to face him, I laced him in the chops with the hardest right ever thrown. Eddy crashed like a tree into me, and both of us into Mama. It was a mess. Almost all of us were crying. A hand had blood on it. So did one nose, and one dress. My knuckles were swelling up like a baseball glove, and so was Eddy’s face. Five minutes later, the three of us sat in the Pharmacy and ate ice crea
m.

  Eddy and I shook hands. I took note that he put a bit more pressure on my swollen hand than the sincerity of a handclasp demanded. Eddy went his swollen way home. Mama then snaked me to the Dry Goods Store. With his tape, old Mr. Cottingham, who spoke in fluent grunts, measured my girth and pointed to a pile of knickerbockers on a wooden table. He told me to take off the ones I wore. I was ready to balk at this, but one look at Mama said she had worked up a head of steam. So I thought it best to skin down.

  The first pair of knickers was a perfect fit, and I said so. But Mama thought they looked a bit “pinched,” whatever that is. Off they came. On went a bigger pair. And a scratchier pair. Too baggy. In those, I could be run down by a lame turtle. But helpful old Cottingham said I’d “grow into ’em.” A third pair proved baggier and itchier than the second. I hated them and said so, and naturally Mama and Mr. Cottingham thought they were ideal.

  Just to make sure my new knickerbockers were totally without fit or comfort, they had me climb up and stand on a table. They had me turn around so much, you’d think that’s all I’d ever get to do—stand on a table and rotate.

  Mama still wasn’t satisfied. There were at least another six pairs in my size to try on. So she told me to take them off.

  So I did. And I was standing on the table in my underthings while Mr. Cottingham jerked another sample of his baggiest burlap from the bottom of the pile. I looked over their heads and who did I see, coming into the store with her mother? Norma Jean Bissell, that’s who. They both looked at me and I could have perished. Yanking the baggiest and scratchiest pair up over my hips, I announced how fine they fitted and how heavenly they felt. As they were several sizes too big, “to grow into,” I couldn’t feel a thing from my belt to my calf, where they buckled.

  It was decided I was to wear my new knickers home. The old pair got wrapped, the new ones paid for. We started to leave the store, parading right between Mrs. Bissell and her daughter. Norma Jean pretended that she didn’t see me. I pretended too.