The Truth as Told by Mason Buttle

by Leslie Connor

  And then I think of it. I have a handsaw! My own. Uncle Drum bought that for me on my tenth birthday. Right before Benny and I started to build the tree house. And I sure used it plenty. But there is trouble about that handsaw. Last I looked for it, I was trying to help the lieutenant with his puzzle. I couldn’t find it. Not anywhere. And now I can’t think when I had that last. And maybe it wouldn’t be any better for this job. Might snag on the canes. But don’t you know it, I can’t get that out of my head.

  So here I go again. Up to the shed. Calvin comes with me. Moonie Drinker too. We search. High and low. Up and down the workbench two times over. Then I pull out the rakes and shovels. Flowerpots and rusty tomato cages. Moonie puts his nose in every corner. Tail wagging now and then. Like he has found a new friend in every spider web. Calvin and I laugh. But we do not find that handsaw.

  I tell Calvin, “Stuff goes missing, is all. That’s how it is around my house.”

  So we head back to the dip in the hills. I see that the sun is sinking. I pick up the hand-eating loppers again. Set to work. Calvin is the lookout. Goes to the spot where he can see down to the Drinkers’ yard. Moonie has a lie-down in the grass. He doesn’t go far from me.

  It’s not long before Calvin comes back. Running in those tan-sandy shoes. He says, “That’s it! The game is breaking up, Mason. And I have to get home.”

  I say, “But I almost got this!” I clamp the loppers down on the canes. I stay at it. I want to pull on that door so bad!

  Calvin gives me about one more minute. Then he says, “You really better stop. What if they come looking for Moonie?” And don’t you know the dog looks up when he hears his name. Head on a tilt.

  I say, “Darn!” I drop the loppers. I turn around to look at Calvin and there I see Matt Drinker. Standing right behind my new best friend.

  I walk forward, is what I do. Big long strides.

  Calvin looks confused. But then he makes huge eyes like he knows. And both of us wonder this: What has Matt Drinker seen?

  Matt has Moonie’s leash. Twirls that in one hand. The dog stands up. Wags a tiny wag. Licks his lips. He walks around behind my legs. Sits.

  I say, “Hey, Matt. Hi.” He gives me a plain face back. Not that mean. But not that nice.

  He says, “I came to get my dog.”

  I say, “Oh. Right. Well, I was about to bring him down to you.”

  That is a true thing. If Moonie comes over I take him back to the Drinkers’ always around suppertime.

  I say, “But we were . . . just finishing up this . . . chore. Down here. Had a chore. For my uncle Drum.”

  That is a not-true thing. Calvin gives me a sly eye.

  Funny thing. It is all lost on Matt. He just reaches around me. Clips Moonie to the leash.

  And then . . . then . . . the part I hate. He yanks him and hauls him. And I know, because I have seen, he will do that to the dog all the way home. Doesn’t need to. But he does.

  I say it to Calvin. I say, “I wish he wouldn’t do that. I know he doesn’t mean anything by it. But man, I do not like that.”

  Calvin is giving me a funny look. Like I must have that wrong.

  But he doesn’t say, and it’s time for him to go. And we are glad we are not caught trying to open a secret door.

  I say, “Tomorrow. Tomorrow we get through and we open that door.”

  Calvin shows me a thumbs-up.

  chapter 22

  PERMISSION TO ENTER

  Tell you what. I wash up for my supper and all I can do is think about that door.

  At the supper table I say, “Hey, found a door in the hill. Out back of the house.” I jab my thumb to point so they know where I am talking about.

  Shayleen yells, “Mason! You almost stabbed me with your fork!”

  She is right. I forgot to put that down.

  “The root cellar,” Uncle Drum says. “Hmm. Empty.”

  Grandma says, “That hasn’t been used since the 1960s. I was a girl. They used to pack it with jars of peaches and pickles. Pumpkins and squashes. Bags of carrots and turnips.”

  I say, “Yeah?”

  Grandma nods. I like when she remembers old times. Old things about the crumbledown and the Buttle farm.

  I say, “Can I go in there?”

  Uncle Drum says, “If you can get it open.” He says it like he thinks I won’t. Not to be mean. It’s just what he thinks.

  Shayleen sits there shaking her head. Like she knows anything.

  I say, “But if I do?”

  Grandma and Uncle Drum say what they usually say. “Suit yourself. Stay out of trouble.”

  I nod my head and think. Staying out of trouble is pretty much what Calvin and I have in mind. We want to ditch the apple throwers.

  Shayleen knocks me out of the thought. She pushes the roll of paper towels at me. She says, “Wipe down! We’re eating dinner, Mason! Ugh!”

  I think this: We could be away from Shayleen too.

  I am giving her a look when the phone rings. Her eyes cross. I get that. The ringer is so loud it could shake the plaster off the walls. Good thing we don’t get a lot of calls.

  I pick up and guess what? It is Matt Drinker. Calling for me. You wouldn’t think this would happen. But it does.

  He says, “Mason.” Because this is when he calls me Mason instead of something with butt in it. He says, “My mom wants you to come over tonight. For Moonie. She’s going out for a meeting.”

  I say, “And you’ll be there?”

  He says, “Yeah. But I’m busy. So you should come for Moonie. Be the dog-sitter. My mom will pay.”

  I know what this is. I know because Moonie does not need a dog-sitter when someone is home. This is Matt Drinker being scared to be alone. Funny thing, the way he is. Like two different Matts in one dude. I will go down there and he will not be the apple-flinger, lacrosse-ball-stinger kid. He won’t whack me with a stick. And he won’t say much at all. He will play video games. He will tell me to have as many snacks as I want from the Drinkers’ pantry. Same place the yellow dog chips are. He will sit in the low game chair. Punch the buttons on his controller. He will pretty much ignore me. But Moonie won’t.

  I finish supper and help clear. Then I go. I go a little bit for Matt’s mom. A little bit for the money. But mostly, I go to be with Moonie.

  On my way down the hill I stop. I turn back to look at the wall of brambles. I think about that door in the hill. And the root cellar behind it. Try to imagine it in my brain.

  I cannot wait to get in there.

  chapter 23

  THE DOOR SWINGS

  Calvin and I are ignoring some rain.

  I grunt. I say, “We are going to get through this door!”

  He says, “This is a beast!” He tugs with me. Backpack swinging.

  He is right. The door in the hill is as stuck as a thing ever was. The brambles are cut. We hold them back with a stick. We fiddle with the latch. It wiggles and jingles but is worthless to pull on. Not much to grip, and it is damp from rain. We both try. Our fingers slide off.

  I say, “There must have been a handle. Once. Something to pull.”

  Calvin nods like he agrees.

  I get ahold of the edge of the door. Pry my fingers in deep. I pull it. Something gives. Little bit. I dig in again. Bend back two of my fingernails while I am at it. Don’t care.

  I tug. And I say it again. “We will—ugh!—get this open! We will!”

  And then it gives! I stumble back. Nearly knock Calvin over. I grab him. Keep him on his feet. The wood door swings. The hinge sings an old whiny note.

  We stand squished at the door. We look. But we don’t go in. All we can see is the dark of it. Calvin and I don’t speak. We blink our eyes. I think about my great-and great-great-grandparents and all those early Buttles. Wonder how they could see to find their pickle jars and pumpkins.

  Calvin says, “We are going to need some light.”

  I go fast. Up to the house. I fetch Uncle Drum’s flashlight off the nail by t
he door. I run back. Kind of go slipping as I run round the porch and come down the short slope. It is slick from the rain.

  I shine the light inside. I take two steps down to the packed dirt floor. Calvin follows. I hold up the light. Bring it slow along the inside. Along the stony walls.

  Calvin whispers. He says, “Whoa-ho. Wow-how.”

  Turns out you don’t say much more than that. Not when you just opened up a place nobody has been in since a grandma was a girl. You just stand in your sweaty shoes and blink a lot. Think about bushels and jars. And all of that. And you follow the flashlight sweeping along those walls. And you wait for your eyes to adjust. Because you want to see more.

  The walls are made of stones. With old mortar between them. And some packed dirt. Maybe. Hard to say. I pick it with a fingernail. What I have left of that. Some of the stuff makes crumbs. Some holds tight. The ceiling is low. Made of wood. I take a step. Don’t you know, I bang my head. “Ow!”

  Calvin says, “Oh, Mason! Keep low!”

  I look up to see the beam I walked my head into. Dirt falls in my eyes so I blink that out. Wipe sweat down my face. I tell Calvin, “Well, I guess I won’t forget that now.” I rub the spot. Feel an egg coming up there. Not too bad.

  I think this: The root cellar is a room. Not so big. About like if you put a few good closets together.

  We step over old boards. Shine the flashlight along the walls and into a few recesses. Recesses is what Calvin calls them. We walk to the back wall.

  Calvin pats it with both hands. He says, “This wall is the foundation of your house. See? And then they built two side walls and capped them so it wouldn’t collapse . . .”

  He is looking all up and down the space while he talks.

  I hold the flashlight in one hand. Dry the other on my pants. I brush my fingers along the stony, stony walls. I am thinking. Remembering a story I heard. When Calvin is quiet I ask him, “You ever heard of the Caves of Lass-Co?”

  “Caves?” Calvin shakes his head no.

  I say, “There is a true story. I heard it on the radio. National Public Radio. You know. It’s what my grandma listens to all day. It’s news and music and stories. Well, there is guy named Garrison Keillor. That’s her favorite one. He does a talking bit on there. And he told the story about the caves.”

  Calvin says, “Caves? In a place called Lass-Co?” He reaches into his backpack.

  I say, “Yeah. Lass-Co in France. France over in Europe.”

  “Oh . . . France . . .” Then that part seems interesting to Calvin.

  I say, “Bet you could find it. On your tablet.”

  Next thing I see is his face all lit up. The tablet is shining up at him. He is clicking around. Few seconds more and he is looking super close at some pictures.

  I say, “Did you find it? Did you find something about Lass-Co?”

  Calvin Chumsky is silent. Face in that tablet. He is nodding his big nod. He looks up and all around the root cellar. One full sweep.

  He tells me, “Mason. This is going to be perfect.”

  chapter 24

  FRENCH LESSON

  I set a sack of apples on Ms. Blinny’s desk. She opens the top and peeks in. She says, “From your place, Mason? From your orchard?” She looks at me. Big smile. She reaches for an apple and the whole bag tips. One runaway. Ms. Blinny makes the save. She holds the apple in her two hands. She says, “Look at it! What perfection! Thank you, Mason. I shall treasure these gifts.” She pretends to hug the sack of apples. Then she says, “I meant to ask, did your family open the apple stand this season?”

  I tell her no. Wish I could say yes. I think it plenty: There is still good left of our place. We have acres of healthy trees.

  I tell Ms. Blinny, “Anytime you want more apples, just tell me. Good ones keep coming. We have varieties. Trees keep making fruit. No matter what.”

  Then I get myself settled at the Dragon. Tuck my tissues in under the earphones. I look at my fingernails. Chipped up from prying on that root cellar door. Well worth it, is what that is. I lean my head down and tell this to the Dragon:

  So I told Calvin a true story. One I know because Garrison Keillor told it. He is my grandma’s favorite. On the radio. Tell you what even that tiny jingle the vegetable peeler makes is too loud for when Mr. Keillor is on. Grandma stops real still when she listens to him. Me too.

  Best thing is when I catch Mr. Keillor two times in one day. Double chance to stick the story in my head. And that’s what happened. I heard Mr. Keillor say there are paintings on a wall in a cave. In France. In Europe. A place called Lass-Co. Except now Calvin showed me that French people put an X on the end of some words. I can try to memorize how to spell Lascaux. I think this Dragon knows how. But umm I don’t think I will take French.

  Okay. But anyway. Garrison Keillor said it was four big boys. Just outside playing around that found those paintings on the inside of the caves. Pictures of animals and stick people. It is all primitive art is what Calvin said. Means super old. Might have been there seventeen thousand years with nobody knowing it. Maybe more. Tell you what. That is old. It is older than apples. Those boys also had a dog with them. Dog called Robot. I have a picture of their dog. In my mind. Looks just like Matt Drinker’s dog, Moonie. Black spots on white. My brain chooses that because Moonie is my favorite dog. Umm. So. Calvin found a whole Caves of Lascaux tour on his tablet. That is the only way to see it now. We have sure been looking at it a lot. Used to be they let people in the caves. But then all that human breath was bad for the paintings. Mr. Keillor said so. And Calvin read that to me too. But what we saw on the tablet was all that old art. Tell you what. That was amazing.

  chapter 25

  INSIDE BISHELL’S HARDWARE

  Saturday morning I ride Uncle Drum’s bike downtown to Bishell’s Hardware. Long way. But I like what I am going for. Makes the pedaling easy. I pick out two whisk brooms. A pack of fresh batteries for Uncle Drum’s flashlight. I take those up to the cash register. I look to my left. I see the blue of old blue jeans. Standing right beside me is one of Benny Kilmartin’s dads. It’s Andy. The most at-home dad. The dad I know the best.

  Feels so good to see him—I breathe in. I say, “Andy! Hi!” Comes out like a shout. Too much in this early morning quiet of Bishell’s Hardware.

  I look down the aisle behind me. I see leaf rakes. Bags of birdseed. Work gloves waving from a go-round rack. Tell you what. I think I’m going to see Benny. Coming up to the register with something cool in his hands. Might be a metal tie-down or a pulley. Benny loves hardware stuff. Anything from the racks and spools and the tiny drawers at Bishell’s.

  Then I see Andy’s face. Looking back at me. Like he’s been punched. And I remember. There was a funeral. There is a loving memory bench.

  Boom.

  Sometimes I cannot keep my head around it. That Benny died and then stayed gone.

  I stand in the time-freeze in Bishell’s. Thinking.

  My brain starts running memories. I think about the Kilmartin house. It was always getting built up instead of crumbling down. All because of Andy. He did their roof over. Patched up ours too. That time we had the snow come in. He built bookshelves for Benny’s other dad, Franklin. He made a bottle tree. From rebar and empty wine bottles. The sun came through the colored glass. Greens and yellows spilling all over Benny’s shirt. His arms. Andy grilled us strip steaks and peaches that same day. He showed us how a rock wall goes together. Benny and I helped him build the one at the bottom of their driveway. Solid. Like a root cellar. One time Benny went to bed with a fever. I stayed to paint window trim with Andy. That’s when he taught me the right way to load a paintbrush.

  I blink.

  Paintbrushes. That’s what Andy has on the counter at Bishell’s Hardware. He set them there the same second I set down the batteries and whisk brooms.

  But Andy has his head down. Stone still. I see his plaid shirt. It breathes. Then it is like he grows thinner inside of it. Then he walks out of the hardware. Leav
es the brushes on the counter.

  Two clerks watch him go out. Then one looks at me. Like he thinks he knows my story. Sad to see you. He swallows. Rings me up.

  I take my bag. Go look for Andy on the street. But he is gone. I sit on the loving memory bench out front of the hardware. Just for a minute. Put my hand over that brass plate. I know what it says. Because this one is for my gramps. Grandma told me he came downtown to Bishell’s every weekend. Always needed something or other. So the bench has the name Buttle on it. Like Mom’s. It is a tough thing. None of these ones who are gone was very old. Least old was Benny.

  Before I ruin this morning all the way, I go. I strap the bag with the whisk brooms and the batteries onto the back of Uncle Drum’s old bike. Pedal out of town. I start that long ride out Swaggertown Road. Legs pumping.

  I think it: Calvin will be waiting. We have got something cooking and I can’t wait to start.

  chapter 26

  THE CHUMSKY PARENTS

  Calvin and I do a whole day of cleaning up the root cellar. We drag out the old boards. We sweep and then resweep with our whisk brooms. I work high. He works low. We make sure no one is around. No one looking up from Matt Drinker’s yard. We sweep a pile of crud out the door.

  Some spots are cleaned right down to stone. Calvin calls them recesses. Then he talks about chambers. Chambers is what his tablet says about the parts of the Caves of Lascaux.

  We find one hole in the door. Pinkie finger–sized. Like mine. Not Calvin’s. He has a smart idea. We get a piece of rope and push it through. We tie knots in both ends. One inside the cellar. One out. Calvin says, “We can just yank on it. All the quicker to close it.” That’s the last thing we do for the day.

  The sky has the color of just before dark. We go up and find Calvin’s mom and dad on the porch of the crumbledown. Just arrived. Two bags of groceries in their arms.

  They tell Grandma, “Nice to meet you.” They say, “We thought you should know. He does have parents.”