by Jack Gantos
“I’ll be right back,” I said. I stepped out of the doorway and stopped around the corner. I could hear everything they said.
‘Jack is a good storyteller,” Mrs. Pierre said. “But his subject matter is simply in poor taste. He was doing so well. I didn’t expect this sort of thing from him. I expected something more tasteful. He’s a good boy, with good manners …”
“Well, you know what they say,” Dad said. “Good taste starts in the home.”
“I agree,” she said.
“So let me tell you a little story and this way you’ll get a sense of where Jack is coming from.”
“Fine,” she said.
Dad pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Want one?” he asked. She refused. Dad lit up, took a puff, and when I peeked around the doorjamb I watched as he blew two cones of smoke out of his nose like a fuming bull. I had seen him do this at the Elks Club when all the men had gathered around to hear him tell a story.
“So,” he started, as he slid the metal trash can over for an ashtray. “Once upon a time there was a very fat man who kept eating and eating but he kept getting skinnier and skinnier. Finally he goes to the doctor. ‘Doctor, Doctor,’ he says, ‘what’s wrong with me?’ So the doctor listens to the symptoms and examines the man and says, ‘You have a tapeworm.’ The man is surprised and says to the doctor, ‘Well, how do I get rid of it?’ The doctor says, ‘Go home and every day for six days in a row shove an apple and a hard-boiled egg up your rear end. Then on the seventh day just shove the apple up.’”
Dad took a drag off his cigarette as he looked over at Mrs. Pierre. She seemed stunned and I could just imagine she was thinking, “Like father, like son.” Or, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“What about the hard-boiled egg?” I blurted out, and stepped back into the room.
“That’s just what the man said to the doctor,” Dad replied, and gave me a wink and a smile. “And the doctor says, ‘That’s just what the tapeworm is thinking. And the moment it sticks its head out and says, “Hey, where’s my egg?” Splat! You hit it with a hammer.’”
After the punch line Dad threw his head back and had a long, hard laugh. I wanted to, but didn’t because I also wanted to get a clear look at Mrs. Pierre’s face. It wasn’t that she was appalled or angry. She seemed confused, that people could listen to something so tasteless and find it so much fun.
Finally, Mrs. Pierre pulled herself together. “Well,” she said, and stood up. “Thank you for the story, and for coming in this evening. I have a much better sense of where Jack gets his ideas.”
Dad smiled. “It was a pleasure meeting you,” he said. “And if Jack ever misbehaves, you give me a call. I don’t care what he writes. But he’d better mind his manners.”
I waved to Mrs. Pierre and she waved in return.
On the way home Dad looked over at me. “You do everything she tells you to do,” he said. “She’s your teacher, so she’s the boss. But when you have a good story, then you be the boss. Never let other people put words in your mouth. You got that?”
“Loud and clear,” I said.
“And no more brownnosing,” he said. “It’s embarrassing to the family.”
I smiled at him and rubbed the palm of my hand across my nose. “Hey, Dad,” I said. “Where’d you get that story?”
“I got a million of ‘em,” he said, full of high spirits. “Let’s go down to the Elks Club. Keep your ears open and you’ll have another story in no time.”
I looked over at his face and could see he was already thinking of a story to tell the other men. He was great, and I wanted to be just like him.
The Penny Tree
“What are you getting Pete for his birthday?” Betsy asked. He was going to be five years old and I hadn’t gotten him a thing.
“I’m still thinking about it,” I answered, as I wedged my hand between the couch cushions.
“You are not thinking,” Betsy shot back. “You are couch fishing for change because you’re broke.”
“I’ve got plenty of cash,” I replied, lying as my fingers desperately clawed the mysterious spaces within the couch.
“You spend all your money on yourself and that nutty cat,” she said, reading my mind. I had just spent my last cent on a blue rhinestone Chihuahua collar for Miss Kitty II, who, as Tack said, was the doggiest cat in the world.
“Ah ha!” I shouted, and pulled an old penny out of the crack. “Now I’ve got something for Pete.” I held the penny up for her to see. “This little penny will change his life,” I announced, without the slightest idea how it might do so. But I kept talking. “You don’t need a lot of cash to give a great gift.” I rapped my knuckles against my head. “You just need a generous imagination.”
“That’s just another way of saying you are cheap!” she said, sneering.
‘Just you wait,” I snapped back. “With this one penny I will steal the birthday gift-giving show.”
“Put your money where your mouth is,” she said. “I bet ten bucks—that’s a thousand pennies—that my gift will be his favorite.”
“You’re on,” I replied, thinking that I did need a “generous imagination.” Quick.
I grabbed the classified section of the newspaper off the coffee table and went into my bedroom. What can I buy for a penny, I wondered, as I stared at the ads. Cars were too expensive. I turned the page. Houses, furniture, and exotic pets were out of my price range. There was nothing for a penny at the grocery store, shoe store, toy store, bookstore—any store. In fact, nothing in Miami could be bought for a penny. Why do they even make them? I asked myself. They just end up behind couch cushions, in jars, jammed into penny loafers, lost under refrigerators, sucked into vacuum cleaners, or swallowed by crawling babies. They certainly were a lot more trouble than they were worth.
Buying something for a penny was definitely out of the question. I was back to where I started. But then I glanced at one more ad. A plant store was having a sale. Still, even a bag of dirt, which I could get for free in my back yard, cost two dollars. Even a jug of tap water was more than my budget could handle. Then suddenly my generous imagination saved the day.
After dinner Mom brought out the birthday cake. She lit the five candles and said to Pete, “Honey, make a wish.”
Pete’s eyes floated up toward the ceiling as he sucked a whole roomful of air into his lungs, then he leaned forward. The five little flames didn’t know what hit them. In a split second there was nothing left but five vanishing trails of smoke.
“Okay,” Pete announced, grinning. “I’m ready to open presents.”
Mom and Dad lifted a big box onto the table. Small trains crisscrossed the wrapping paper. Pete ripped it open with one swipe and lifted the top off the box. There was a train set with a steam locomotive and lots of old-time cattle cars, and water tankers and a red caboose.
“Awesome!” Pete shrieked, and threw his arms around Mom and Dad. “Thank you,” he said.
Mom and Dad spent a lot more than a penny, but I wasn’t worried. My generous imagination had been extra generous.
Suddenly Pete turned toward Betsy. “Next,” he said.
She gave him a big package with a huge bow on the top. Pete yanked the bow off, peeled the paper back, and flipped open the top of a box. He pulled out a pair of train engineer’s striped bib overalls, a matching denim cap, and a red bandanna.
“You are the best sister on the planet,” he said, and gave her a hug. I figured she must have spent at least twenty bucks.
Then he looked at me. I felt my ears turn red. The heat was on. I supposed if I hadn’t spent all my money on things like a self-cleaning cat box I would be giving him a pocket watch or a silver-plated railroad spike or something that would fit the gift-giving theme. Still, I didn’t lose faith in my generous imagination.
“So,” Betsy cut in with her smarmy voice, “what did you get Pete?”
I reached into my shirt pocket and removed a small manila envelope. On the front of it
I had drawn a tree covered with tiny pennies. Under the drawing I had written: One Penny-Tree Seed.
I handed it to him. He opened the metal clasp and shook out the single penny and a piece of paper with “Planting Instructions.” He looked suspiciously at the penny, then back at me. Then Mom and Dad and Betsy stared at me. They did not seem pleased with my choice of gifts.
I snatched the Planting Instructions out of his hand. “It reads, ‘Plant in fertile soil and water six times daily until a penny tree grows.’”
“Will it actually grow?” he asked.
“Oh yeah,” I shot back. “Absolutely. It’s guaranteed. Says so right on the directions.”
“Wow!” he shouted. “This is the best gift ever. When the tree grows I’ll have enough pennies to buy an entire real train.”
“Sure you will,” I said, with my generous imagination getting away from me. “You could even buy the old Santa Fe Railroad and ride it across the desert.”
Then he ran out the back door to go plant his seed.
‘Jack,” Mom said, “I hope you haven’t started something you will regret. Your brother believes everything you say, so don’t you dare let him down.”
“Don’t worry,” I said to Mom. “It’s under control.”
As soon as she was out of the room I turned to Betsy and stuck out my hand. “That will be one thousand pennies, please.”
She gave me ajar of change and a few bills. “Mark my words. When you mess this up, this money is coming right back, plus another ten.”
“We’ll see,” I replied.
The next morning Pete woke before me. When I got up I peeked out the kitchen window. There he was, watering his seed. I smiled to myself as I poured milk on my cereal. What an incredible gift, I thought. This was definitely the smartest thing I had ever cooked up. It only cost me one free cent, and on top of it I made a thousand more from Betsy. I felt like a genius. As I ate, I began to imagine what dog items I’d buy next for the cat.
When Pete came in he was excited. “I think it is growing already,” he said.
“Could be,” I replied. ‘Just remember, water it six times a day or else it will shrivel up and die.” I figured he’d never be able to keep up the six times per day schedule and sooner or later I’d have to announce the death of the penny tree. And I will be blameless. It was perfect.
But the first warning I had that Pete’s generous imagination was bigger than mine was when he came running up to me holding the windup alarm clock in his outstretched hands.
“How many hours apart is it if I water six times per day?” he asked.
I did the math in my head. “Four,” I replied.
“Then set this for four hours from now,” he said.
I did. When I handed it back to him he grabbed his little plastic play chair and went outside. When I looked out the window again he was sitting in his chair, reading a book with the alarm clock on his lap and the watering can at his side. Cute, I thought. Very cute. I should take a picture.
“Where’s Pete?” Mom asked. “We have to go to the store and get more train track.”
“Out back,” I said, and pointed toward the window.
She looked out. “Oh, that is precious,” she said. But then her voice grew serious. ‘Jack, you know your brother still believes in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the tooth fairy. It would be awful of you to burst his bubble.”
“He’s a little brother,” I said. “It’s a law that older brothers have to burst the bubbles of little brothers.”
‘Just don’t hurt him,” she warned me. “Or there is a parent’s law that says there might be consequences.”
That was her favorite warning, “There might be consequences.” This always got my generous imagination worked up. Usually I pictured myself wrapped in chains and handcuffed to a post in our spider-filled attic.
That night the alarm went off at midnight, and again at four in the morning. Each time, Pete hopped out of bed, turned on his flashlight, and ran outside to water his penny tree. Each time, I had to set the alarm for him.
By morning, I was beginning to feel the “consequences” creeping up on me.
All the next day Pete kept up his watering routine, and I kept my mouth shut. That night we were sitting in the living room reading. Pete had pulled out his old copy of The Carrot Seed. He knew the story by heart and flipped through the pages over and over. “This is the greatest book ever,” he shouted. “The little boy plants a carrot seed and waters it and waters it and even though everyone in his family says it won’t grow he still waters it because he believes it will. And then, boom, overnight it grows into a giant carrot. That’s just how it is going to be with my penny tree because I believe in it!”
I peeked over the top of my book. Mom, Dad, and Betsy were peeking up over their books—and they were glaring at me. I smiled back. They didn’t.
Suddenly, I was beginning to feel bad about myself. Maybe I had gone too far. Maybe Pete was too delicate for my scheme. “I’ll be right back,” I announced, and put my book down. I ran to the garage and got a garden spade. Then I went over to Tack Smith’s yard and dug up a plant that sort of looked like a little tree. Then I replanted it where Pete had planted his seed. I sneaked back into my bedroom and got a handful of pennies and some tape, then went back outside. Quickly, I taped a few pennies on the branches. “This will make him happy,” I said to myself, “and then we can forget about the penny tree.”
The next morning Pete woke me by jumping up and down on my bed and shouting. “It grew! It grew! I’m rich. Come see.”
I hopped up and followed him outside. “Wow,” I said, and made my eyes get real big. “It worked.”
He bent down and held one in his hands. “Why are they held on with tape?” he asked.
“That’s not tape,” I said. “Those are penny stems.”
“Cool,” he said. Then he asked a question that I gave the wrong answer to. “If I leave them on the tree will they grow really big, like huge penny hubcaps?”
“Nah,” I replied. “They’ll turn into nickels.”
Pete’s eyes bugged out. “Nickels!” he shouted. “Then I’ll wait to pick them.”
Oh no, I thought. I did it again.
Everything went downhill fast from there. And the more broke I became, the happier everyone else was. First, I had to sneak out in the middle of the night and change the pennies to nickels. And of course Pete was thrilled. When he saw them he danced a little dance around the yard and then announced that he would wait for them to become dimes. Once again, I dug into my piggy bank and got dimes and later sneaked out and put them on the tree. The following morning Pete went nuts. He did somersaults across the yard and drooled all over himself. Then he decided to hold out for quarters. That night, I changed the dimes to quarters. The next day Pete went screaming wildly around the back yard until he was so dizzy he fell over and announced he would wait for fifty-cent pieces. I had seen it coming, so I’d gotten Mom to exchange the money I’d won from Betsy for half dollars at the bank. That night I did the changeover. The next day he was bonkers. I tried to get him to pluck the half dollars off the tree, but no, he was holding out for the dollar bills. That night, I gave the half dollars back to Mom for singles. I taped ten bills all over the tree, and when I finished I said to myself, “Okay, I’ve broken even—this madness has got to stop. I started it, so I’ll finish it.”
I got a small pair of scissors and cut off all the leaves from the tree and left them scattered under the tiny branches.
The next morning Pete and I got up together to water the tree. On the way out of the house he said, “Maybe after the single-dollar bills there will be five-dollar bills, then tens, then twenties, then hundreds …” I stopped him. “Don’t count your chickens before they are hatched,” I warned him, sounding like my father.
When we arrived at the tree Pete gasped and dropped to his knees. “It died!” he shouted. “All its leaves fell off.” He began to cry.
“But dollar
bills are still left on the bare branches,” I pointed out.
“Why’d it die?” he blubbered. “I loved this tree.”
“It’s not dead,” I said, putting my arm around his shoulders. “It’s just that winter is coming. The penny tree has a short growing season. You know, like oranges and limes.”
Pete wiped his eyes on his sleeve. Then he thought about what I’d said. He thought about it for so long that I knew I was in trouble.
“You mean it will return next summer?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Of course it will.”
“That is so cool!” he shouted. “I’ll be rich all over again.”
He was ripping the dollar bills off the tree as I stood up and slowly walked back to my room. I shook my piggy bank. It was empty. I better start saving now, I thought. That kid’s generous imagination is going to cost me every red cent I can get my hands on.
From the Grave
Halloween didn’t wait until dark to be spooky. It was a rainy Saturday morning and Pete and I were watching a Hogan’s Heroes rerun on TV. Sergeant Carter had just set off explosives in an important Nazi railroad tunnel and was now dodging German patrols when suddenly a local TV announcer came on and said, “We interrupt this program to bring you an important news flash from the Dade County Sheriff’s Department.” But before he could deliver the news, there was a big bang and the house jumped as if hit by a truck. Mom screamed in the laundry room, and on television the announcer’s face began to cloud over with wisps of white smoke that seemed to be leaking out of his shirt collar as if he were the devil’s newscaster. Then the picture vanished, but the smoke stayed and gathered into a cloud as dark and thick as the ones above our house. I leapt forward and yanked the plug out of the wall just as Mom dashed into the room.
“We’ve been hit by lightning,” she said breathlessly.
“The TV blew up!” Pete shouted, pointing at the smoke that was seeping, like an escaping ghost, out of the speaker at the front of the set. “We were going to get special news and it blew.”