by Bill Wallace
“What’s platinum?” I whispered.
“It’s a valuable metal. They use it for jewelry and stuff like that. It’s worth a lot of money.”
“More than gold?” I whispered.
Mom looked me square in the eye. When she nodded, I felt my head kind of snap back.
“More than gold.”
27
Mrs. Baum had Mom help her get some glasses from the cabinet. She had a big pitcher of lemonade in the fridge. Once everyone had something to drink, she went on with her story.
“The mail service was better in those days than it is now,” Mrs. Baum said. “Still took three weeks to get the package. Along with it came a letter saying Dad had been using a pick and shovel, and had already tunneled about four feet into the rock. Said it was starting to look like a real, honest-to-goodness mine. The package and letter got to us on a Friday afternoon, so Jeb had to wait until Monday to get it down to the assay office. As soon as he had the report, he called to have Dad be sure and write down exact directions to where he was digging. Only nobody answered the phone when he called.”
Mrs. Baum hesitated, her eyes kind of drifting off to gaze up at the ceiling for a moment, then looked back at us.
“The reason there was no answer . . . that’s when Dad and Al Beckman had their car wreck. Mother was at the hospital. That’s why no one answered . . . and . . .” She sort of drifted off again, then cleared her throat. “Anyway, Mother called us that evening, and we hopped a plane the next morning. Got here about two hours before Dad passed away.”
We all sat quiet for a time. Dad handed his piece of rock back to Mrs. Baum.
“So you never knew where he’d found the platinum.”
She shook her head. “The lake was already about three-fourths of the way up the ridge. All Mother could tell us was”—she pointed with a wave of her hand, toward the point—“ ‘I heard him tapping, with that pickax, down yonder.’
“Jeb and I moved here when he retired. Mother needed someone around, but she just didn’t have any reason to live without Dad. She passed away the following summer.
“Working around gold mines and gold miners, Jeb knew how greedy people can be. He figured if someone saw a submersible in this part of the country, there would be lots of questions. He also knew there’d be a swarm of people all over that lake looking for the mine. Most of them without the slightest idea what they were doing. Probably end up getting hurt or getting someone drowned. So he rented a bulldozer and dug the trench before the lake was full. Built the work shed to store and keep the batteries charged and hide the compressor and the air tanks. Bought bridge timbers for the top and put dirt and grass over them to hide it. And spent the next twelve years looking for that mine.”
“That’s why you didn’t want us riding in front of your house, isn’t it?” Ted asked. “Because we might find those bridge timbers.”
Mrs. Baum shook her head. “Not so much that you might find them. I knew those timbers were old. I was afraid a horse might bust through or break a leg. Didn’t want any of you boys getting hurt.”
Dad took a long sip of his lemonade and propped his elbows on the table. “Was that what sent him to the nursing home, Emma?” he asked. “Did he get trapped in the sub, like you did, and couldn’t get air?”
“No. We always carried a spare mask and scuba tank in the event that something went wrong with the sub. We never had to use it. I had it on, last night, but with that darned tree sittin’ on top of me, I couldn’t get the hatch open. Did give me enough extra air for you to find me and get me out, though.
“No, Jeb was just fixing his coffee one morning. I heard the crash when he fell and came running. Had a massive stroke. That’s what the doctors said. Old age. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
“But why did you start taking the sub out, Emma?” Mom asked. “Sounds like it was your husband’s job, not yours.”
“I didn’t take it out.” She gave a little snort. “I just let it sit in the boathouse. Left the fool contraption there for about eight years. Between Jeb’s retirement check and the platinum Dad had stashed, things were fine. Then that darned nursing home . . .” She paused a moment and gave another little snort. “Well, not just that nursing home—all of them. They all started going up on their prices. Every two to three months I’d get another letter telling me how much more it was going to cost the following month. What you’re holding in your hands is the last of the platinum. When that’s gone . . . well, it costs over three thousand dollars a month. Jeb’s retirement won’t cover it, and the only other thing I can do is start selling off the farm.”
She sighed and stared off through the window.
“For the life of me, I don’t know why I got such a problem with that. I can’t farm it. Jeb and I never had any children, so there’s nobody to leave it to. Its just . . . just . . . well, its my home. I grew up here. When he retired, Jeb and I had twelve of the best years of our life—right here. Just hate the thought of selling it and moving to a little apartment in town.”
Something clunked me on the knee. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt, but it made me jump. Then it clunked me again. This time it did hurt.
I peeked under the table. Dad’s boot came flying at my leg a third time. I managed to move just in time to keep from getting kicked again.
Frowning, I looked up at him. He winked and nodded toward my backpack, which I had laid carefully in the corner. I smiled, realizing what he was trying to tell me, then hopped up and went to get it.
“Maybe this will help, Mrs. Baum.”
I put the pack on the table and unzipped it. Then, using both hands, I reached inside.
Mom and Dad smiled when I put the heavy jar on the table. Mrs. Baum, Mr. Aikman, and Ted just sat there with their mouths gaping open.
When I brought it to the house, early this morning, Dad told me it was a gallon-size Mason jar. Part of the rubber seal was still around the top. The rest had rotted and fallen away. The wire bale that latched it was so rusted that it would probably fall apart if you so much as blew on it. But inside . . .
“Oh, my gosh!” Mrs. Baum gasped.
She let out a little laugh. I glanced at her and saw the big smile on her face. I also saw a tear roll down her cheek. Ever so slowly, as if nearing something magic or forbidden, she reached out a trembling hand and touched it with the tips of her fingers. Then she drew her hand back and reached again.
“It’s Grandpas silver dollars.”
The jar looked like it was ready to fall apart, but the coins inside were just as bright and shiny as the day they were made. Mrs. Baum wiped her cheek.
“Where on earth . . .”
“It was all wrapped up in the roots of that old cottonwood tree that fell on the sub.”
“No wonder we couldn’t ever find them.” She gave a little laugh. “I bet that tree was just a sapling when Grandpa buried them. Big as it is, we would have had to dig the whole tree up. I’ll be . . .”
Dad reached over and patted Mrs. Baum’s hand. “There’s not just silver dollars in that jar, Emma. Greg Ratcliff, a man who works with me at the fire department, used to collect coins when he was a kid. We didn’t open it because we wanted you to be the first. But just from looking through the jar, he said there are silver dollars, five-dollar gold pieces, twenty-dollar gold pieces, and something he called a Double Eagle. He told me to make sure you knew not to spend so much as a penny of it until he brought his book out and went through them with you. He also said . . .” Dad wiggled her hand in his. “Emma, you listening?”
“Yes, Simon.”
“He also said you need to put them in a safety-deposit box at the bank—today Just from looking through the jar at the dates and what little he could see around the sides, Greg said you probably had over a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of coins in there.”
Mrs. Baum’s mouth fell open. But she didn’t say anything. Instead, she started crying, then laughing, then crying some more.
“I don’t think yo
u’ll have to worry about keeping your husband in the nursing home anymore,” Mom said, giving her a big hug.
Mrs. Baum hugged her back. Then she hugged Dad. Then she turned to me. “Thank you, Kent. Thank you so much.”
I let her hug me.
“Remember when you asked me what Krissi and I were talking about the other night?” She whispered it right in my ear, making sure no one else could hear.
“Yes,” I whispered back.
“We were talking about you. She thinks you’re really cute. But don’t tell anybody I told you.”
I felt the heat rush to my cheeks. I hugged her back and smiled.
• • •
The more I thought about it, that hug from Mrs. Baum was probably one of the nicest, best hugs I ever had in my life.
I remember thinking what a grouch she was—just a nasty old lady who did nothing but scream at little kids for riding across her land. I remember being about halfway scared of her. So scared that I was afraid to tell her off or call her names like I wanted to. I remember Mom practically dragging me to her house that day, and how I decided she wasn’t quite as bad as I thought. Besides, she made great chocolate chip cookies. She had a mischievous side, too. Her eyes sparkled when she told me the secret about Krissi.
When she hugged me, her cheek was wet. The sleeve of her blouse was damp from her crying.
But it was totally awesome.
I mean . . . never been hugged by a monster before.
It wasn’t too bad.
About the Author
BILL WALLACE grew up in Oklahoma. Along with riding their horses, he and his friends enjoyed camp-outs and fishing trips. Toasting marshmallows, telling ghost stories to scare one another, and catching fish was always fun.
One of the most memorable trips took place on the far side of Lake Lawtonka, at the base of Mt. Scott. He and his best friend, Gary, spent the day shooting shad with bow and arrows, cutting bank poles, and getting ready to go when their dads got home from work.
Although there was no “monster” in Lake Lawtonka, one night there was a “sneak attack” by a rather large catfish tail. Checking the bank poles was not nearly as fun or “free” after that point, but it was the inspiration for this story.
Bill Wallace is now a full-time author, but for many years he was the principal and physical education teacher at an elementary school in Chickasha, Oklahoma. He has won nineteen children’s state awards, and been awarded the Arrell Gibson Lifetime Achievement Award for Children’s Literature from the Oklahoma Center for the Book.
Aladdin
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2003 by Bill Wallace
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ISBN 978-0-6898-5150-6 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-6898-5151-3 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-4814-3148-4 (eBook)