Jackson Jones and Mission Greentop

by Mary Quattlebaum

  On the drive through the city, Mama talked about Tudor Place. The land was purchased in 1805, she told me, and the mansion completed in 1816. The first owner had been the stepgranddaughter of George Washington. The same family had owned Tudor Place for six generations.

  “Mama,” I teased, “you sound like their Web site.”

  She laughed as she parked the car. “I printed it out.” She patted her folder. “I knew you'd have LOTS of questions.”

  We passed through the gate and—just like that—the city disappeared. No traffic, no sirens, no honking horns.

  My first thought: Reuben had to see this.

  A garden laid out so perfect. Careful as a Nemo drawing by Reuben.

  The teeny hedges were clipped like poodles and lined up just so, making fancy designs. The hedges seemed to cross over each other, like the neat way Reuben looped his shoelaces. I could picture old-time rich people strolling around. Checking out the time by the sundial.

  This was the famous knot garden.

  Mama and I moseyed down white gravel paths. We sniffed the boxwood, fingered the holly, and caught the trickle-trickle of the lion fountain. We sat in the teahouse for a while, like old-time rich people, and took in the huge, plush lawn.

  “When you finish your classes, you gonna doctor big gardens like this?” I asked.

  Mama shook her head. “I want to work with small spaces, outdoors and indoors,” she replied. “Places where people live and work. Nursing homes, schools, offices. People need green, peaceful spots.”

  Huh, Mama's gray office better watch out. It was due for some color.

  “And I want to start my own business,” Mama added.

  “With a plant stethoscope?” I teased. “And a green ambulance?”

  Mama smiled. “Exactly.”

  We found a tulip poplar tree, one hundred feet tall. And rosebushes tucked close to the mansion. All planted by the first owners, Mama told me.

  They were two hundred years old.

  It gave me a weird feeling to think of my thorn tree living that long.

  Then I remembered: It couldn't. The bulldozers were coming next week.

  We drove home in silence. Dark clouds gathered over the tight-packed buildings, the few city trees. “We're in for a storm,” Mama said.

  I barely noticed. I was thinking of Rooter's. That funny mishmash of twenty-nine plots.

  It might not be finicky like a knot garden.

  But, in its way, it was just as fine.

  Mama had fed me so many facts about Tudor Place that I felt like their Web site. The house and gardens were a historic museum, she had told me. The knot garden was protected. No one could ever bulldoze or build on it.

  I knew about other safe land, too. The government protected those forests Mama and I had visited. Those forests with that nasty poison ivy. Called them national parks. Those parks had LOTS of land and trees, even whole mountains.

  I just wanted to save a small patch.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  By the time Mama and I got home, my brain felt like a knot garden. My thoughts were jumbled into a maze. And I still hadn't come up with a good rescue strategy.

  But Juana had.

  That girl must have been training her Super J eyes on our door. She materialized as soon as Mama unlocked it.

  “Ready?” She hitched her backpack.

  “Juana,” I said, “I don't think a night march—”

  “You're absolutely right,” she replied seriously. “I have a better idea.”

  What now? I wanted to discover the details before I dove into the plan. “Tonight's not good.” I tried to stall. “It's my turn to cook—”

  “Oh.” Mama broke in as Juana's face fell. “You two go ahead. I'll make dinner. Jackson, can you be back in an hour?”

  “Sure,” Juana agreed for me.

  “Sooner if it rains?”

  “Sure.” Juana grabbed my sleeve and trotted me down the hall. Her backpack clinked and clanked.

  “Easy, easy.” I smoothed my jacket. “What's that noise?”

  The backpack clanked even louder as Juana handed it to me. “Listen, Jackson.” She punched the elevator button. “This is the plan.”

  For the second day in a row, I headed to Rooter's. This time I wasn't toting a sign. I was carting a backpack.

  Full of candles in teeny glass cups.

  Juana had bought twenty-four candles from her church. Her plan: to hold a vigil.

  “What's that?” I asked, clanking down Evert.

  Juana explained that a vigil was like a wish or a prayer. People stood together and thought the same thing. Maybe they wanted world peace or they mourned someone dead.

  “In our case,” Juana said, “people hope to save the garden.”

  “What people?” I said. “Where's Reuben? Where's Gaby and Ro?”

  “You know Mr. Careful.” Juana unlatched Rooter's gate. “Reuben won't go anywhere with the kids and a box of matches. He said Rooter's would burn for sure.”

  She unzipped the backpack. “And Gaby and Ro refused to come. They figured I was going to church with these candles.”

  “So we have a two-person vigil?”

  “It's a start.” Juana handed me the first candle. “People will join us, you'll see. Tomorrow we'll call all the Rooters.”

  I didn't see how candles and wishes could help the garden. But I kept my mouth shut. Juana had paid for those lights with her own money. I figured I could stand and hope for a while.

  Juana and I set out the twenty-four candles. Funny how they could hang so heavy in the backpack—but form only one little row.

  “Never mind,” Juana said. “The flames will glow like a … a sign of hope.”

  The hard part, though, was making them glow. A breeze blew out each flame. We tried three times before we succeeded in lighting one candle.

  Great. Twenty-three to go.

  Finally the last candle flamed. Juana and I stepped back, surveying our work. The row of soft lights shone.

  I had to admit: The teeny candles did look hopeful, flickering there.

  That's when I realized our mistake. Juana and I had focused on the ground—and forgotten to check out the clouds.

  “Uh-oh,” I said, “I felt a raindrop.”

  Boom. Thunder.

  The skies suddenly opened.

  For the second day in a row, I trudged home in wet clothes. Only this time I clanked. Juana and I had thrown the drenched candles into the backpack.

  “At least we tried,” I said when we reached our building.

  Juana shouldered the backpack. “We return tomorrow,” she said.

  I sighed. Juana sure was determined. That's great in a superhero, like Captain Nemo. But in a real person … I mean, I appreciated Juana's help and all. I just wished she'd mix some careful with her take-charge style.

  When I opened my apartment door, though, I forgot about vigils and rain. A spicy smell tugged me into the kitchen. Pizza! Mama was always talking about the expense of delivery pizza. “We can pick it up ourselves,” she would say. “We can make our own.”

  And now she had surprised me.

  Her way of saying thanks, I bet. She was grateful that I cooked and cleaned and watered the ficus so that she could tip-tap on the computer.

  I swelled, full of good feeling. Yeah, Mr. Man of the House.

  I prepared myself for a flat, steaming box.

  Instead Mama trotted out … four English muffins. They were dabbed with red sauce and cheese strips.

  Fake pizza.

  My hungry stomach growled like a Saint Bernard.

  “What's wrong, Jackson?” Mama set down the pan. “I thought you liked pizza.”

  “That's not pizza,” I said.

  “Well, it's dinner,” Mama replied. “I've got too much work to cook anything else.”

  “You always have too much work,” I muttered.

  “That's not true,” Mama said. “What about today?”

  I pointed out that a knot garden
wasn't exactly Disney World. We had visited because Mama was researching a paper. It wasn't like she had planned a fun day for me. I reminded her of all my cooking and cleaning.

  “And you're neglecting your plants,” I finished. “Look at the poor ficus. I'm the one talking to it.”

  Mama led me, sopping wet, to the couch. “You've been very helpful, Jackson,” she said.

  My stomach rumbled.

  “I never meant for you to become a … a guy Cinderella.”

  I squirmed. “It's not that bad.”

  At least I didn't have to mop floors or wrestle an old-time stove. We had a car, not a pooping horse. With her luck, Cinderella was probably stuck pruning the family knot garden. I'm glad I didn't live in the past.

  The idea hit then. A way to save Rooter's.

  My strategy wasn't brilliant.

  But maybe it would work.

  I jumped off the couch. “Can I use the computer?”

  “I thought—” Mama paused, puzzled. “I thought you wanted to talk about your chores.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “Can we do that later?”

  Right now I was on a mission.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Three days later, I was staring at gold words on a door.

  Drane and Company.

  I tugged at my church shirt. Set down my briefcase, an old one of Mama's. Shook the wet off my jacket hood.

  For the past three days, it had rained. Gray, steady. Rain, rain, rain. Juana had to call off all marches and vigils. And the bus ride downtown this morning—downright dangerous. All those poking umbrellas.

  On the sidewalk, I had splish-splashed through puddles. Passed the building where Mama worked. Good thing her cubicle didn't have windows. If she caught me skipping school …

  I had memorized the address I was searching for—the address on the letter about bulldozing Rooter's.

  I read the door's gold words again.

  Drane and Company.

  I swallowed. Tried to think what Nemo would do. The captain would zoom in, laser blazing.

  The captain never felt fear.

  Maybe I should have brought Reuben, my slow, careful bud. Or Juana, with her take-charge style. But, for sure, I'd get in trouble for skipping school. I couldn't bring them down, too.

  And my new strategy … I wasn't sure it would work.

  That's why I hadn't told a grown-up. Mama, Mailbags, Mr. K.—they would say we needed lawyers and more time to plan.

  And there wasn't time. The rain might postpone the bulldozing. But not for long. I bet Drane and Company would act quickly.

  I hoisted my briefcase.

  Stepped into an office that was nothing like Mama's.

  The carpet was thick and blue, the walls a soft white. I felt upside down. Standing on sky, surrounded by clouds.

  Suddenly a voice spoke from a desk. “You selling something?”

  I jumped. “Me? I'm here to see Mr. Drane.”

  “Mr. Drane?” The receptionist cocked her head. “This should be … interesting. What's your name? Company?”

  “Er, Mr. Jones,” I said, trying to sound grown-up. “My company—I guess it's Rooter's.”

  “You have an appointment, Mr. Jones?”

  I shook my head. “But my, um, business is urgent.”

  The receptionist spoke into her phone.

  “Go right in,” she finally said. “Second door to the left.”

  This was it. My heart dropped. Landed somewhere near my stomach. What if Mr. Drane had seen me and Rooter's on the news?

  Bad publicity for the company, Mr. K. had warned me. They'll be hard on you.

  “Mr. Jones,” said a voice as I opened the door.

  “Why”—the voice rose—”you're a child!”

  And Mr. Drane was a woman.

  Okay, we were both surprised.

  With her poofy hair, Amelia Drane didn't look like the usual bad guy. She wasn't a scary Flawt or an Unspeakable Z. When she asked me to sit, a smile slid briefly across her face. Her perfume hung in the air like a net.

  Turned out Amelia Drane had seen Rooter's on TV—but didn't think our march was important. She hadn't even remembered my name.

  “A protest that lasted one day?” she asked briskly.

  “There was a vigil, too,” I tried to explain, “but the rain—”

  “And you are the Rooter's representative?” she interrupted.

  I could tell she didn't think much of a kid representative.

  “Mr. Jones.” Amelia Drane spoke from behind her desk. “I run a business. That little piece of land has been losing money for years. The taxes are enormous.”

  She spoke slowly, as if I wasn't very smart.

  I started feeling mad. But I held back. Amelia Drane didn't know what I knew.

  Besides, Mr. K. had given me LOTS of practice in handling bossy people. I let her words slide off me. Drip, drip, drip. Like water off a leaf.

  “Finally there's a chance to build,” continued Amelia Drane. “Tell me why I shouldn't.”

  Her desk hulked before me like a fort.

  That's when I opened my briefcase.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I guess I should say that's when I tried to open my briefcase.

  One of the latches was stuck. I fiddled and poked and pried.

  Amelia Drane clicked her nails on the desk. I could tell she didn't think much of Rooter's, my briefcase, me.

  “There!” I shouted as the latch popped free.

  “Mr. Jones”—she made a big show of checking her watch—”I have an appointment at eleven.”

  “Wait, wait.” I frantically pulled out papers.

  Handed her a huge stack.

  Amelia Drane glanced at a few pages. “This is information on historic places,” she said, “with the National Park Service.”

  “Rooter's has historical significance.” I had memorized the key words. “It's a victory garden, more than sixty years old. It should be preserved.”

  Rooter's was like that famous knot garden. It was the past, still alive.

  Amelia Drane raised her brows.

  “You should give Rooter's to the government,” I continued. “You just have to fill out some forms.”

  Amelia Drane sucked in her breath. Then she spoke very slowly. She must have thought I was an idiot.

  “I won't fill out any forms.”

  “Then I will,” I said.

  Amelia Drane opened her mouth. Struggled.

  “You?” she finally got out.

  I smiled.

  Over the past three days, when Mama wasn't on the computer, I had searched, scanned, downloaded. I had read LOTS of teeny print. Most of it was confusing. But I could understand some.

  A place with historical significance can be reviewed by the National Park Service. Maybe protected forever. And if the owner does not ask for a review, someone else can.

  “Maybe not me exactly,” I explained to Amelia Drane. “But my mama. Or a lawyer. Anyway, there's no bulldozing till after a review.”

  “It could be months till we start!”

  “Or maybe never,” I said.

  Amelia Drane eyeballed me. She was flipping through strategy fast.

  Her smile slipped back into place. “A new apartment building means homes for more people.”

  “You can build on other land.”

  “I've seen that garden. It's full of weeds.”

  I winced. Probably my weeds. I quickly tossed out some of Mailbags's life-circle talk. “The garden's fading now,” I explained. “Soon we'll bed it for winter. Just watch, the flowers will return in the spring.”

  I crossed my arms. Maybe Juana's Super J had rubbed off on me. “The garden could be good publicity for you—or bad,” I said. “There's a TV guy interested in what happens.” I thought of Nathan Aramack, with his twisted-string camera.

  Amelia Drane paused.

  I waited.

  “It is such a small piece of land,” she finally said. “Maybe it's not worth develop
ing.”

  “There would be a nice plaque on the gate.” I made up strategy as I talked. “Your name would be listed.”

  Amelia Drane gazed across her blue carpet, as if seeing a vision. “For years this company has been linked with progress. Now we can be champions of the past.”

  The woman sounded like a commercial.

  “Does this mean you'll fill out the forms?”

  Amelia Drane swept a rain cape over her shoulders. “Oh, yes.”

  “And you'll send me copies?”

  She looked amused. “I promise,” she said. “Don't worry, Mr. Jones, your garden is safe. This is excellent publicity. We go from big, bad developers to preservers of history and nature.”

  Amelia Drane tucked her poofy hair into a plastic bonnet. “A time like this calls for celebration. Mr. Jones, may I take you to lunch?”

  All this Mr. Jonesing. Like I was a bigshot businessman.

  “What about your appointment at eleven?” I asked.

  “Oh, that,” she replied, waving her hand.

  Huh, I bet Amelia Drane had made up that appointment just to get rid of me and my briefcase.

  The woman had more strategy than a bad guy in a Nemo strip. But I had faked her out.

  “Lunch?” I grinned. “I know a place that has great chocolate pudding.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Two chocolate puddings later, I caught the bus back home. The rain had stopped. The sky was as blue as Drane and Company's carpet.

  Wait till I told Reuben and Juana. I could picture it now: high fives all around. Nathan Aramack would get a good news story. Mr. K. could return his gallons of dirt. Huh, I'd even help. I bet Mailbags would, too.

  Maybe Mama wouldn't be too mad about me skipping school. I decided to smooth on some strategy. I would plant myself by our phone, tuck my arm round her tree. “Mama,” I'd say, “you rescued a ficus. Me, I saved a whole garden.”

  I would probably be grounded. Mama worried when I broke the rules. But she might smile a little at my success.

  High fives, dirt-toting, Mama-chatting—all that could come later. Right now I just wanted to mosey down Evert Street. Pass the blacktop. Lean on Rooter's gate.