The Truth as Told by Mason Buttle

by Leslie Connor

  I watch Grandma slice apples into the pan. She is quick. Bet she beats all of us three to one.

  Grandma says, “Now, Shayleen. The shopping has to stop.”

  Tell you what. That girl turns into a puddle. Sobbing. Shoulders shaking. She has been ruining that vanilla wafer this whole time. Crumbs between her fingers. She looks at Drum. But he won’t look at her. She says, “But I have to shop. I do.” She has the black stuff running under her eyes. I hand the paper towels over.

  Grandma shakes her head. She says, “You can’t keep spending. You have to find a way to be a contributor.”

  Shayleen says, “How am I going to do that?”

  Grandma says, “Well, you like to shop. Maybe you’d like to sell.”

  I say, “Yeah! Work at the stand. Sell apples. Sell pies. We can use the help. Holy cow, Shayleen! It’ll get you outdoors.”

  Shayleen says, “P-p-pies?” She sputters that letter P all over the place. She says, “And then what? Someday Mason can just kick me out anyway?”

  I say, “I can’t kick you out!”

  She says, “Yes, you could. You own half.”

  I say, “Well, then I could kick half of you out. But there’s probably at least half of you that could do like Grandma says. Be a contributor.” I tell Shayleen, “That half can stay.”

  Uncle Drum breaks out laughing. Big and loud. Not the usual at the Buttle house. Not the usual for him. Then I can’t help it. I laugh too. Even Shayleen pouts and laughs at the same time. Grandma’s shoulders shake. Minnow eyes shine.

  I tell Shayleen, “Don’t worry. We’re going to find something for you to do. I don’t know how it happened. Maybe just because you’ve been here so long. But you feel like family. Sort of. I don’t think the Buttles can put family out.”

  Then we are quiet. Maybe like when everyone is just having their own thoughts. But the thing we get done together is that big pan of apples. Peeled. Pared. Full to the top.

  Before supper, Uncle Drum and I go out and walk the orchard. Moonie too. He wanders up and back. Never far. Tell you what. I feel kind of mighty. About the place.

  Half mine. Some day. Now there is something.

  I ask Uncle Drum, “Do you know what job you want?”

  He smiles. He says, “Not sure how much choice I have. But yeah. Grandma is right. I’m ready to work.” He reaches up into the nearest tree. Pulls off a leaf or two. He looks them over. He says, “I’m proud of you for what you said to Shayleen.”

  I say, “Funny thing. Isn’t it? Because that was no lie.” We walk on, and I ask him, “Uncle Drum, how did we get Shayleen anyway? I mean, like, why did you bring her home?”

  He says, “Well. I guess you could say, a weak moment born of guilt. Do you know what that means?”

  I say, “Well. Maybe if you tell me.”

  He says, “Six—almost seven years ago my little sister called me up late at night.”

  I say, “My mom?”

  He says, “Yep. Amy. And she wanted a ride, is all. Her car broke down. Old bucket of bolts. She wouldn’t get it fixed right and I was sick of that. She wanted me to come pick her up from the center of Merrimack after work. Third time in a week. And I didn’t go. I said no. So she walked out into a foggy night. She got to Swaggertown Road. No sidewalks. Plenty of shadows and the fog, and, well, you know the rest. But what you don’t know are the last words she ever said to me.”

  Uncle Drum stops. Looks at me.

  He says, “Thanks for nothing, Drum.”

  I think this: I thought the stars were out that night. I don’t know why. I just thought that. Then I think, somebody saying that, well, it would hurt pretty bad.

  I say, “Sorry. It’s hard, Uncle Drum.”

  He says, “Sure is. So when I saw this girl at the diner. Looking lost. In tears. Couldn’t pay her tab. Well, I thought of Amy. Because you know, people are out there, Mason. People are just looking for one kindness.”

  I say, “So maybe it’s not so much that other thing. The weak moment born of guilt. It’s kindness. Like you said. Like give somebody a break, is all. And you did.”

  He nods. Smiles and claps a hand on my shoulder. He pushes me and pulls me and hugs me to him.

  I say, “So hey, you think we can make Shayleen have a yard sale? Get that room cleaned out.”

  He says, “Yeah. I do. I think that’s needed.”

  I say, “Good. Me too. And we don’t have to feel bad about that, Uncle Drum. Because you know she doesn’t know what she bought anyway. You know that, right?”

  He says, “Yeah, I do. By the way, you want your room back?”

  I think about all I can see from the upstairs window. The backyard. The orchard. The heap from the root cellar. And the mighty aurochs on his wall. I say, “Naw. Thanks, Uncle Drum. I’m good upstairs.”

  Then I tell him, “You know, I’m glad about what Grandma said tonight. To all of us. Because you know, I have had a bad feeling. Kind of like the Buttles were going to go extinct.”

  Uncle Drum snorts. He says, “I know what you mean.”

  I say, “I don’t want that for us.”

  He says, “Won’t happen. I promise you.”

  chapter 70

  HOME BY A NOSE

  When Uncle Drum and I come back up the orchard rows we smell apples baking. Cinnamon. And spice.

  Uncle Drum says, “Nothing like being pulled home by your nose.”

  He is right about that. But I split off from him. Moonie too. We go down to the Drinker house so I can give the dog his supper. Settle him in for the night.

  I get him fed. Relieved. I fill his water bowl and put National Public Radio on low. I hug him up. Scratch under his collar. I tell him how great he is. At the door I turn back. Like always. I feel so bad about leaving him alone. It has been a lot of nights now. Helps if I just see that he is curling up in his bed. Ready for a big sleep. But tonight, he doesn’t do that.

  He comes. Stands beside me. Nose by my knees. He looks up at me. I whisper, “Go to bed, boy. Don’t you want to go to bed?” He waits.

  I push the door open. About as wide as Moonie’s nose. He stares at the space. I know I could back him up. Give him the stay hand. But I don’t do that. I push the door wider. I step outside. Moonie steps out too. No dashing off. He waits while I close up the Drinkers’ house.

  I think this: If he turns back I’ll go put him inside again.

  So I start out. Moonie follows. Middle of the hill, he is still with me. Heading to the crumbledown. I smell the apples baking. Sugar and spice. And I think this: What dog wouldn’t choose this home?

  I let Moonie in ahead of me. And all eyes are on us. Grandma and Uncle Drum look worried.

  I say, “He wanted to come. Feels awful down there.” I point toward the Drinkers’ house. I say, “And who knows when they’re coming back? There’s been nothing said about that. I don’t want him to be lonely.” I squat and wrap an arm around the middle of Moonie. I say, “This good dog . . . well . . . he did nothing wrong. He needs to be with me and I need to be with him. And I know. I know it is just until his family comes for him.”

  Saying all that gets me choked. I stop. Collect myself. It is how these days have been. Things piled up. Ache in the throat. It’s rough.

  I say, “I’m not going back down to the Drinker house anymore. I just can’t.”

  Grandma nods. She says, “The dog is welcome here. Until . . .”

  Uncle Drum says, “Sure. We’ll take it day by day.”

  Shayleen says, “What about his food?”

  I didn’t think of that. But I don’t want to go back for it.

  Grandma says, “He can have egg and rice for breakfast. And then, we’ll see.”

  Shayleen says, “We can get the real stuff delivered. UPS will bring it. Just saying.”

  At bedtime Moonie Drinker follows me up the stairs. He curls down right beside my bed. I hang one arm over. Inch it down until I touch him. He picks himself up. Hops onto the bed. He settles against me. And y
ou can guess it. I let him stay.

  chapter 71

  ROW OF YELLOW BOARDS

  On Saturday morning, I look out and see Andy Kilmartin. He is walking toward the crumbledown. He’s bringing boards. On his shoulder. Looks like new ones. He lays them out by the porch. Turns to go back to the truck for more.

  I pull the door open. Step out onto the sheet of plywood. It bumps and knocks on the joists below. Andy turns around. Then I don’t know what to do. I mean to say hi. And more than that. But I just stand there.

  Andy comes toward me. Steps up on the porch. The board rattles under both our feet. He wraps his arms around me. Tell you what happens. He cries his heart out. And all that time I feel his hands holding my back. Strong finger bones pull me in. Rock-wall fingers.

  I am sweat. I am tears.

  He sobs on my shoulder. Close to my ear.

  He says, “I’m sorry. I am sorry, son.”

  And when Andy says that—says that word, son—it comes out in more sobs. When he breathes back in, it is like a high cry. Like one long note on a fiddle.

  He says, “I forgot who you are, Mason. Franklin too. We are sorry. We got lost in our pain. And lost in this horrible, confused story. And missing our boy.”

  I cough it out. I say, “Same for me.” It is about all I can say.

  He says, “I am sorry. So, so sorry.” He grips me hard. He says, “You sweet kid. You sweet, sweet kid.”

  When he lets me go I see the mark on his shirt. Big old sweat spot I made on Benny’s poor dad. Moonie pushes between us. And it’s good. Because we stoop down to pat him. And talk about him while we finish crying. We sit down. Legs hanging off the spot where the steps should be. We stick to words about good dogs. And great ones. And best ones.

  Then Andy takes his hammer out of his tool belt. He leans down and starts pulling out the old nails. He knocks away bits of broken boards.

  I say, “Can I do some? Can I work with you?”

  Andy says, “Are you kidding? This is your job. I’m just here to help.”

  Uncle Drum comes out. Probably surprised. But he nods. Greets Andy. Then he asks, “How do those joists look?”

  Andy says, “Still serviceable.” And now he is the one who seems surprised.

  Uncle Drum says, “Good to go then.” He says, “Mason, think you can scare us up a couple of hammers?”

  I hop to it. I have good luck with that. One in the shed. Another in the toolbox.

  There’s not much more talking. We work. All three of us. All picking nails. Then setting the new boards in. Spacing them right.

  Done at midday. Rows of yellow boards shine. Baked pine in the sun. And I am glad when we move the mousey chair back. I figure we’ll keep it. Just for Moonie Drinker. While he is here.

  chapter 72

  WHEN A DOG GOES HOME

  I wake in the dark in my room upstairs. Moonie is standing on me. Two dog feet on my chest. Funny thing. He does step on me some. But just to get settled. Early on. Then he sleeps the night in a curl by my side. But now is the middle of the night. Or, I think so.

  I whisper, “What, boy? What is it?”

  He hops off me. Off the bed. He stands with front feet up on the window sash. I sit up. Look out across the orchard. And down the hill.

  I see it. Small square of light. A window. Then I know it. Somebody is home inside the Drinkers’ house.

  I whisper Moonie back into the bed. I hold him. Tuck my nose into the soft coat. I breathe him in. I pat the spotted back. I stroke the white belly. I feel his breath in my ear. Reaches down to my middle.

  I think this: Hard day coming.

  I wait for dawn. I know I have to do right. I get up. Get dressed. Moonie rests on the bed. On top of warm sheets. His head between his paws. He watches me with his golden-brown eyes.

  I keep my shoes quiet on the stairs. But Moonie clicks going all the way down. Toenails. Toenails. Toenails.

  I hear somebody say, “Psst! Mason!”

  I say, “Holy cow!” I about jump from my skin. I say, “Hush! Shayleen!”

  She says, “There’s a lady out there. She’s been sitting in a minivan.”

  I peek out. Don’t you know. It is Mrs. Drinker. Come for her dog.

  First thing is, I wave Shayleen back into her room. I will do this. But on my own.

  Moonie waits at my legs. I breathe a big breath in, and it shakes all the way out. I say, “Well, boy. Come on now.” Moonie wags. I try not to let him know what today means. Try not to let him know why my heart feels heavy. Like the head of a hammer.

  Got my hand on our doorknob. I peek again. And I see Mrs. Drinker. Out of the car now. She’s opening the big sliding door.

  I think this: I should open our door. Let Moonie run. Let him fly. Let him go wherever home will be. Elsewhere. But I stand there. Bite my lip.

  Then I see. Mrs. Drinker. Turning around from the car. She is hefting something out. The bin full of dog food. Got some papers on top of it. The pages flutter. October wind.

  I watch and I watch. And I sure do wonder what she is doing. She comes and sets the bin down on the new deck boards. She goes back to the car and hauls out Moonie’s dog bed. She puts it with the bin and slides everything a little bit closer to our door. My heart thuds.

  Mrs. Drinker turns to leave.

  I think this: She is right there. And I’m right here. Feels like watching a friend walk away. What about Moonie?

  I open the door. Step out on the fresh yellow porch boards. She doesn’t seem to hear me. I could still slip back inside . . .

  I say, “Mrs. Drinker?”

  She turns around. Moonie bolts past me. Springs toward her. Tail wagging. Body wiggling. It is his greeting for ones he loves the most.

  She crouches to catch his ruff in her hands. She hugs the dog and says, “Oh, Mason. I thought your house was still sleeping.”

  I say, “We are waking up.”

  She smiles. The sad kind. She fidgets. Strokes Moonie’s coat. Her eyes are full of water. Makes me wonder if our porch is a crying place.

  I say, “I’m sorry about letting him sleep here. It wasn’t the whole time. And I’m not trying to steal him.”

  She says, “Oh, no, no. I’m so glad he wasn’t alone.” She says, “Mason, we have troubles. You know that.” She chokes up. She says, “And we think Moonie will do best if he can stay with you.”

  I wonder what stay means.

  She is nodding her head. Then she says, “For always.”

  My heart pumps. I see pink in the air. It hangs there.

  She says, “He thinks he is yours anyway.” She laughs a tiny laugh. “We think he chose you. Both Matty and I think it.” She says, “This dog is a love. And he deserves love. You are his home. So there’s his food and his vet records. And the bed. All you need.”

  I think this: Moonie is mine. That pink wash blooms again.

  I say, “Thank you!” It comes up all dusty. But I mean it. I say, “There’s no better gift. No gift like Moonie.”

  She says, “I think this dog loved you from the day you sailed into the cellar. He must have thought, that boy is spectacular!”

  We each send one little laugh into the early air.

  I say, “Mrs. Drinker, it’s not my business. But I’m sorry. About the troubles.”

  She nods. Frowns. Then her face breaks.

  I say, “But maybe I can tell you this. It will be okay. Someday. Somehow. Don’t you think?”

  She sighs to get her breath. She is crying streams of tears. She says, “Right now . . . I don’t see how. But I will hope for that. My god. I will.”

  Then she hugs me and she hugs Moonie. She tells him, “Be a good boy for Mason.” He kisses her. Good-bye.

  She gets into her van. I keep Moonie close. Hold him. Hope he won’t be confused. But he is. He cries. Little murmurs I can feel from his chest. He is marching on his paws. I tell him, “I know, I know. But you have me. Promise you, boy. I promise.”

  We watch the van roll away. Not easy
to sort out. My heart feels scrambled. Mrs. Drinker is gone. Don’t think she is coming back to Merrimack.

  But Moonie is settling down in my arms. Like he gets it. He’s staying. Forever.

  chapter 73

  APPLE CRISP

  Tell you what. We got four people peeling and paring again. Grandma’s apple crisp was good. We are making another. Apple-cinnamon Sunday inside the crumbledown. And this pan is a big one. Got some people coming over. First time for that in a long time.

  Uncle Drum asked for some help. He bought a bunch of pairs of work gloves down at Bishell’s Hardware. Plan is, we will haul that heap out of the root cellar site. Load it into Uncle Drum’s truck. Dump run on Monday.

  Soon the apples are baking. The lieutenant arrives. Then Calvin Chumsky and his parents come down Jonagold Path. Sun shining on them. They want to help. And they want to see what is left of our Caves of Lascaux. They wheel Calvin in the chair. He is wearing both his tan-sandy shoes. He can walk again. Some. But the dead-asleep leg is still waking. And hurting. And making him tired. But Calvin is his same self as always on the inside. Mighty.

  I help push him around back to the dip in the yard. Moonie dances close to my heels. Beside Calvin’s wheels.

  Calvin sighs to see the great aurochs on the open cellar wall. He says, “Oh . . . how different to see him standing out in the light.” He turns wide eyes on me. Then on the cellar again. The Chumsky parents stare too.

  Calvin’s mom says, “Oh, the animal is beautiful. Powerful!” She squints. She says, “I can imagine how the whole root cellar was. The roof. The shaft. It must have been an enchanting place to be. So old. So rare!”

  Mr. Chumsky nods. “Looks like a lot of dirt. And a lot of fun. And, hey, a lesson in engineering! How will you boys top that? What’s your next project?”

  Lieutenant Baird hears that. He rolls his eyes. Uncle Drum makes a low sound in his throat. But then everyone is laughing.

  We put on the gloves. Face the heap. We start at the top. Lift out old boards. And long strings of brambles. And the work goes well.