Tumble & Blue

by Cassie Beasley

  “I refuse to call a grown man Goat.”

  “Well, I’m going to call him Goat,” said Tumble. “He told me to.”

  The name wasn’t exactly classy, like Tumble or Maximal Star, but it showed an individual nature.

  “I think it shows an individual nature,” she announced.

  Her mother rolled her eyes. “You would.”

  Tumble was grateful to Goat for not mentioning that the Montgomerys were special when he was explaining to her parents what had happened. It turned out that Beast was their landlord’s infamous curtain-eating dog. He’d been left in Goat’s care when Mr. Patty moved, and he was the one who’d startled the deer.

  “He just took off running after it, ma’am,” Goat had said to Tumble’s mother. “I was trying to call him back, but I guess he caught sight of Blue Montgomery and your girl having a footrace. And that dress—all I can figure is it reminded him of the drapes. I can’t think of any other explanation.”

  He’d held a hand to his chest.

  “The old ticker nearly jumped right out of me today when I was trying to catch him.”

  To apologize, Goat had invited them over to his cabin for dinner. Tumble’s parents had been too baffled to refuse.

  The stain on the ceiling dripped a drop of water onto Tumble’s head, and her mother groaned. “So much for brownies.”

  She set the casserole dish on the floor.

  “At least Tumble’s made a friend,” her dad said. “It sounds like Blue’s a brave kid. He tried to save our daughter from a curtain-killer.”

  “I just wish he hadn’t gotten hurt right after they met,” her mother said. “What will his family think?”

  “It’s not like I kicked him in the leg or anything!” Tumble protested.

  “It was a freak accident.” Her dad smiled at her. “That’s all.”

  “That’s right,” said Tumble, crossing her fingers behind her back. “That is completely correct.”

  ■ ■ ■

  By five o’clock that afternoon, the Wilsons were dressed and ready to go, even though it was too early.

  “I’ll get the television situation worked out soon,” Tumble’s dad promised as they stood around wondering what they were supposed to do. Listening to water splash into pans wasn’t much entertainment.

  “I could read aloud to you both,” Tumble suggested.

  Her mother smiled. “Lily, that sounds like a wonder—”

  “Great! I’m on Chapter Thirteen again,” Tumble said. “Maximal Star’s about to save a guy from falling off a skyscraper.”

  Her mother flinched as if she’d been jabbed with a pin.

  Tumble pulled her paperback copy of How to Hero Every Day out of her emergency backpack. The pack was filled with her first aid kit and a few other essentials that Maximal recommended. With Blue as a friend, Tumble had decided it would be best to keep it with her at all times.

  “It’s a great rescue. Maximal does it with nothing but a pair of long johns and a stapler.”

  “That sounds even more . . . unique than the last one you told us about,” her mother said.

  “It’s amazing,” her father added, “how old Maximal manages to always be in the right place at the right time to save people in such . . . unique ways.”

  “That might be how it seems to the layperson,” Tumble explained. “But it’s really all to do with Tenets Three and Twenty-Seven.”

  She waited for them to ask, but they didn’t.

  “The third Tenet of Heroism is ‘Ever vigilant,’” she explained. “And Twenty-Seven is ‘Creative in the absence of resources.’”

  “You know what?” her mother said suddenly. “I just remembered I wanted to show you something on the porch.”

  “Huh?”

  “On the porch. We can sit and watch the rain, and I’ll show you something neat.”

  Tumble had seen the porch. Some of the boards had buckled. It was not neat. “But what about Tenet Twenty-Seven and the stapler?” she said to her parents’ retreating backs.

  The screen door squealed open.

  Oh well. Tumble would convince them one day. She tucked the book carefully back into her bag beside a laminated sheet that showed the proper way to perform the Heimlich maneuver. Then she headed outside to find them both looking up at the porch’s ceiling.

  “See where the paint’s flaked off?” Her mother was pointing to a corner where the gray paint was chipping.

  “It’s blue underneath,” said her father.

  Tumble saw that he was right. Beneath the gray, there was another layer of bright bluish paint.

  Tumble considered the color. “It’s pretty.”

  “I just thought it was interesting,” her mother said. “This house had a feisty personality once. You don’t get this kind of character with an RV.”

  Tumble thought that being able to travel all over the country was a more than decent trade-off for character. And the RV was fire-engine red. If that didn’t show feistiness, she didn’t know what did.

  “But you don’t like houses,” Tumble said. “That’s why we have the RV.”

  She didn’t mean to let her tongue get ahead of her, but when you spent so much time thinking about something, it was hard to hold it in.

  Her dad tilted his head. “What gave you that idea?” he asked. “It’s not that we don’t like houses. It’s that . . . sometimes being in one place is harder.”

  Her mother nodded. “It can be tough when the situation changes around you, and you’re stuck in the same rut, doing the same things.”

  Tumble’s parents looked at each other, and she saw that they were remembering. All the way back to before Tumble. Before Lily. Before she was anyone at all.

  “Are you thinking about Jason?” His name felt strange in her mouth, like a secret even though it wasn’t quite.

  Her mother cleared her throat. “Maybe a little, sweetheart.”

  Tumble clutched at her pocket. She could feel the plastic snack bag, always there. And with it, the outline of the picture. The pencil. The eraser.

  “I . . .” But the words still weren’t ready. They weren’t right.

  “Anyway,” her dad said, “it would’ve broken your Grandpa Laffy’s heart if we didn’t want to roam around in one of his RVs.”

  “True.” Her mother rested her hand against his arm. “Although I think he misses having me run the repairs department.”

  “You were the queen of Laffy Motors,” he replied. “I always felt like the court jester when I went to visit you there.”

  Tumble could see the little golden crown medallion gleaming on the side of the RV from here. “Come to Laffy’s RV kingdom!” her grandpa’s commercials said.

  She hadn’t considered how Grandpa Laffy fit into all this. Until now. Had her brother been there, running around Laffy Motors, being the kingdom’s prince? Would Tumble have been an RV princess in another life?

  Tumble wanted to demand answers. She wanted to apologize. But she couldn’t do either.

  At least not yet.

  Oh, Maximal Star, she thought. I wish you’d written a book on how to hero as fast as possible.

  NINETEEN

  THE FLATS

  At six, Eve Montgomery’s Thunderbird pulled into the Wilsons’ front yard, and Blue’s grandmother splashed across the grass to offer them a spare umbrella. “It’s gonna be a tight fit,” she apologized. “Goat didn’t invite Ma Myrtle, but I’ve been wanting to get her away from all the . . . well . . . you know.”

  Tumble’s parents didn’t know, and Tumble wasn’t about to tell them.

  Goat’s house was only a couple of miles away. Blue’s grandmother turned off the dirt road onto a private trail that was blocked by a gate covered in POSTED NO TRESPASSING signs.

  Eve jumped out of the car and opened it. When she made it
back, she was shaking rainwater out of her hair.

  “I could’ve done that,” said Blue. He waved his right arm at the rearview mirror.

  “Hey!” said Tumble. “Your cast is off! That’s great.”

  “You’re not supposed to get your stitches wet,” Eve said. “And I’m not sweet enough to melt.”

  Blue grinned at Tumble. “They took my cast off at the ER, but now my leg looks all Frankensteined.” He leaned over and lifted the bandage so that he could show her the black stitches running up and down his bruised shin.

  “How many are there?” Tumble asked. She was sardined between her parents, so she couldn’t see as well as she would have liked.

  “Thirty-nine.”

  “Impressive.”

  Goat’s cabin wasn’t what Tumble had expected. “Cabin” made the place sound like it would be built out of logs, but it was just a regular single-wide with yellow vinyl siding. A wooden deck built onto the back overlooked a creek.

  She also spied a brand-new kennel with a Dogloo in it. Beast was probably hiding from the rain in there, but she was still glad she’d made a point of not wearing a single ruffle or frill.

  “Hey, he’s got a boat,” said Blue, pointing toward a short dock where a green jon boat was tied.

  “The outboard motor’s been broken for months,” Eve said.

  Goat stepped out of his front door as she parked the car. He was holding a magazine over his head to block the rain and waving so enthusiastically that Tumble couldn’t help but wave back.

  ■ ■ ■

  Blue waited to help Ma Myrtle up the steps, so he was the last to enter Goat’s house.

  A teenage girl with bushy hair and glasses met him at the door. She was wearing tight jeans and pink high heels, and she was holding a box of double-decker chocolate MoonPies out in front of her like an offering.

  “Hi,” said Blue, shaking raindrops off his umbrella.

  “Where’s . . .” The girl craned her neck to see over Blue’s shoulder.

  “I’m the last one.”

  “But I thought . . . Howard’s not with y’all?”

  “No?”

  “Oh.” She pulled the MoonPies out of Blue’s reach. “Uncle Goat said a Montgomery boy was coming, and I—”

  “I’m Blue.”

  “Howard’s back at home, Millie,” said Granny Eve. She nodded at the box of snack cakes. “Are those for him?”

  “No!” she said. “I mean yes. But only because I know he likes them. It can be for you instead, or you can give it to . . . or . . . here!” She turned bright red and practically threw the MoonPies at Blue.

  “I’ll give them to him,” he promised.

  “I’m just here to help Uncle Goat with the dinner is all,” she muttered.

  “You helped cook tonight?” Tumble’s mother asked, sniffing the air. “It smells wonderful.”

  Millie nodded. “My parents own Flat’s Restaurant. You should come try our famous swamp cakes. I’m there most days in the summer.”

  “How is Bagget?” Ma Myrtle asked, her eyes narrowed.

  Bagget Flat was the one who’d fed Ma Myrtle bad deviled eggs, Blue realized. He hoped his great-grandmother wasn’t going to mention the food poisoning in front of Mr. Flat’s family.

  “Daddy’s the same as always,” said Millie. “Cooking up a storm for the restaurant.”

  “All of us Flats cook,” said Goat, waving them toward a pair of card tables that had been pushed together in the kitchen. “And eat!”

  The whole group fit around the table, but only because nobody complained when they were bumped with an elbow or jostled with a shoulder. The Flats served sweet tea and Diet Coke, cheese grits and fried fish. A giant vegetarian lasagna filled the center of the table.

  “For my ticker,” Goat explained, loading his plate. “I’m trying to eat my vegetables.”

  Millie eventually recovered from her embarrassment. Over bowls full of cobbler for dessert, she told a story about how her father had stuffed himself with so much peach pie during an eat-off that the button on his pants had popped loose and left a dent in a spectator’s forehead.

  Goat burst into a laughing fit, and all at once, Blue understood why he was called goat.

  “He sounds like a goat!” Tumble whispered. She sounded delighted.

  “Shhh . . .” Blue said.

  “I remember that!” Goat bleated, slapping the table so that the cobbler spoons rattled in their bowls. “Nobody’s a better eater than my brother Bagget! When we were boys he nearly ran the restaurant out of business. He ate more of our swamp cakes than the customers did.”

  Ma Myrtle took that as a challenge. She slammed her tea glass down on the table. “Our Howard could eat a pie the size of Bagget himself if he had a mind to!”

  Millie smiled dreamily. “It would impress Daddy if he did.”

  “Oh, it would!” said Goat. “It would impress him to no end. We ought to get Howard to come down to the restaurant and give it a try one of these days.”

  Ma Myrtle opened her mouth.

  “He doesn’t do eating contests,” Blue said quickly. “Remember, Ma Myrtle?”

  Ma Myrtle shot him a glare, but Blue didn’t feel guilty. It was Ma Myrtle’s fault that Howard’s home was full of bloodthirsty Montgomerys. And with the way she was enjoying the chaos, Blue suspected that she would keep the relatives hanging around and fighting among themselves for a long while. The least she could do was not force Blue’s cousin into battle with another famous eater.

  TWENTY

  THE OTHER HALF

  Tumble was stuffed. After dinner, when the adults dragged extra chairs into the living room, she plopped down onto the shag carpet beside Blue and tried hard not to burp.

  Ma Myrtle and Eve took seats on the short sofa behind them. Her parents and Millie sat across from them on kitchen chairs. Goat, in an armchair that had to be almost as old as the man himself, was telling Tumble’s dad that he was in charge of catching all the fish for Flat’s Restaurant.

  “How do you do that if your boat is broken?” Blue asked.

  “I’ve still got my canoe,” said Goat. “I keep it for when I want to head into the Okefenokee. Too tricky to get the jon boat down that way.”

  “Luna Montgomery,” Ma Myrtle interrupted, “was a famous navigator. She sailed around the world on a raft she built out of coconut shells.”

  Eve sighed. “I don’t think that’s true, Mama.”

  “How would you know? I’m the only one who’s read the family history.” She tossed a strand of wispy gray hair over her shoulder and lifted her chin toward Tumble’s parents. “Howard may not use his gifts, but others in our family are very talented. Right now, in fact, I’ve gathered them all together to show—”

  “I want to hear more about fishing!” Tumble said. Her parents would be out the door in a flash if the Montgomerys started talking about fates and curses tonight.

  “Mama, let’s not tell family stories,” Eve added. “The Wilsons have just moved here. We don’t want to put too much on them at once.”

  “Nonsense, Evie. We should show them a Montgomery in action!” Ma Myrtle’s skinny fingers flashed down to the space between the sofa’s cushions and reappeared with a remote control.

  “I’ve been looking everywhere for that!” Goat slapped his knee and let out one of his bleating laughs.

  “The show that comes on before our Samantha’s is about to end.” Ma Myrtle clicked the television on. She smiled mildly at the Wilsons. “My granddaughter Samantha has chosen not to visit me before my demise. But I do love her show anyway.”

  “Mama,” Eve hissed. “They don’t want to sit here all night watching Samantha’s show. I thought it would be nice if the two of us had an evening away from the chaos, but if you can’t behave—”

  “Here it is!”

>   Tumble recognized the show that was coming on. It was a sitcom that she hadn’t watched often, but she knew it was popular. And the main actress’s name was—

  “Samantha Lewis is related to you!” Tumble’s dad exclaimed, leaning so far forward that his chair tipped.

  Eve sighed. “Lewis was my fourth husband’s name. She’s not as charming in person, I’m afraid.”

  The show started with a tinkle of music, and Samantha appeared on the screen. She looked like a female version of Howard—dark hair and olive skin. Which made sense when Blue told Tumble in a low whisper that the actress was Howard’s mother and that it was a very sore subject.

  Tumble wondered what it must be like to see a mother you didn’t know in real life on television every day.

  When the first commercial break came, Eve spoke up. “All right, that’s enough, Mama,” she said over the sound of an advertisement for laundry detergent. She reached for the remote.

  Ma Myrtle tried to hold it out of the way, but Eve snagged it and peered down at the buttons.

  “Goat doesn’t want us filling up his living room until kingdom come,” she said. “And I’m sure the Wilsons need to be getting home.”

  “That would be best,” Tumble’s mother agreed. “We’ve got a few leaks, and we don’t want the pans to overflow onto the floor.”

  “I can put you in touch with a roofer,” Goat offered.

  “Thank you, but I like to do my own repairs.”

  “Where’s the off switch on this thing, Goat?” said Eve.

  Tumble pushed herself up onto her knees to help Blue’s grandmother find the right button. Suddenly, from his chair across the room, her father said, “No, don’t turn it off!”

  Tumble looked at him. He was gesturing toward the television.

  “We’ve got a little fame in our own family,” he said. “Look, Tumble! It’s Grandpa Laffy’s commercial.”

  A bus-sized RV—the same model as their family’s—rolled across the screen. Light flashed off its chrome. It’s crown emblem twinkled. And then Grandpa Laffy was there, wearing purple velvet and ermine like the monarch in a school play. He even had a scepter made out of a hood ornament.