“You have,” Birdie said. “Um, Grammy?”
“Um what?” said Grammy.
“The business.”
“What about it?”
“Well,” Birdie said, “we haven’t had a swamp tour since last Tuesday. And also, no one’s buying any bait.”
“Ha!” said Mama.
Grammy turned to Mama with an annoyed look of her own, a much sharper one than Mama’s, since Grammy’s face was so sharp to begin with. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” Mama said. “Just another dose of shrewdness.”
“Very funny,” said Grammy. But then she laughed, a small laugh that grew a lot bigger. Mama started laughing, too. Birdie looked kind of amazed at first, but she ended up joining in. The three of them laughed and laughed. What were they laughing about? If I’d been following right, we were in a bad way of some sort. So therefore I mustn’t have been following right, because humans don’t get all laughy when they’re in a bad way. Meaning we were in a good way, situation normal. I found myself in the best of all possible moods.
“Bowser!” Mama said. “Paws off the table this second!”
“I’ve heard stories about the campground,” Birdie said.
“Uh-huh,” said Junior. “Got any gum?”
“Just this.” Birdie took out the wad from behind her ear.
“I’ll take it.”
“You can have half.”
Junior took half. Birdie put the rest back behind her ear. Junior blew a big bubble, filling the air with the smell of strawberry. “What kind of stories?”
We turned down a dirt road, fields full of tall greenish cane stalks on both sides. The strawberry smell got overwhelmed by the smell of sugar.
“About Mr. Santini,” Birdie said. “He doesn’t sound friendly.”
“Got a song about that,” Junior said.
“You’ve got a song about Mr. Santini?”
“Nope. Don’t even know him. The song’s called ‘Stay Away, Friend.’ Another Junior Tebbets original, words and lyrics.”
“Words are lyrics,” Birdie said.
“Yeah? That’s how come I need you in the band, right there.” Junior reached up into a green stalk that grew by the roadside and tore off a piece from the top. He broke it in two and handed half to Birdie.
“That’s stealing,” she said.
“From who?” said Junior.
“Whoever owns this cane field.”
“Who’s that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe some neighbor.”
“Or some big company from China,” Junior said.
“China? Who told you that?”
Junior sucked at the end of his sugarcane for a moment or two, then held it like a microphone. After that came some singing. Junior didn’t have a particularly loud voice but it was amazingly harsh to my ears. “Don’t you knock, this is the end, you’re a loser, stay away, friend.” He took a sidelong glance at Birdie. “What do you think?”
“I hate it,” Birdie said.
“Oh,” said Junior.
“But it’s kind of good in a way.”
“Yeah? What way?”
“Not mine,” Birdie said.
“But could you sing it?” Junior said.
“No.”
We came to a gate. It was open, so we went through. To one side stood an entrance booth with no one in the window, and beyond were several gravel lanes leading through the trees, RVs parked here and there. A sign was nailed to a tree at the beginning of each lane. Birdie read them: “Heavenly Road. Paradise Way. Glory Street.”
“She just told us a green tent by the pond,” Junior said.
“I don’t see a pond.”
Neither did I, although there was no missing its smell. And wasn’t it obvious that the middle lane would take us right there?
“How about Glory Street?” Junior said.
“Why not?” said Birdie.
And they turned toward one of the side lanes. I stood where I was, even digging in a little, and barked.
“Come on, Bowser.”
Nope. I barked again. And maybe I’d have started up on a nice long round of barking—so refreshing to get that out of your system every once in a while—except at that moment a man stepped out from behind the entrance booth, a pitchfork in his hand. He was a little potbellied sort of dude but the pitchfork was big, with sharp, gleaming points.
“What in heck is going on here?” he said, his voice rising.
“Maybe you can help us,” said Junior.
“Help you?” said the man. “You’re kids. And this is a dog.”
“Bowser!” Birdie said. “Shh.”
Shh? I had some trouble remembering what that meant. Hard to do my best thinking with that pitchfork so near.
The man’s voice, kind of high to begin with, rose some more. “No kids here. No dogs. Period.”
“Uh, Mr. Santini?” Birdie said. “We just—”
“How do you know my name?”
“You came into our store once,” Birdie said. And then to me, “Bowser!”
Uh-oh. Did Birdie sound the tiniest bit angry? Angry at me? That was unbearable. I got a grip on myself, the hardest grip to get, in my experience, and went silent.
“Store?” Mr. Santini was saying. “What store?”
“Gaux Family Fish and Bait,” Birdie said. “I’m Birdie Gaux.”
Mr. Santini frowned. He turned out to be good at it! I’d never seen a better frown, not close. “Claire Gaux’s granddaughter?”
“That’s right.”
“Hmm,” said Mr. Santini. Then he muttered something that sounded like, “Influential in certain quarters for some stupid reason.”
“Sorry,” Birdie said. “I didn’t catch that.”
“Nothing,” said Mr. Santini. “Is your grandma the voting type?”
“The voting type?” Birdie said.
“In elections,” said Mr. Santini. “For sheriff, say. Just to pick an example out of thin air.”
“I don’t know,” Birdie said.
Mr. Santini gave the pitchfork a shake. “Good citizens vote.”
“Oh, I’m sure Grammy’s a good citizen,” Birdie said.
That seemed to calm Mr. Santini down a bit. “Okay, then,” he said. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”
“What was it?” said Junior.
“A smart mouth, huh? What’s your name?”
“Junior.”
“Junior what? There’s a million Juniors in this parish.”
“Junior Tebbets.”
Mr. Santini frowned one of his world-class frowns. “Wally Tebbets’s boy?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Your old man got a permit for that food truck of his?”
“Permit to do what?” said Junior.
“Permit to do what?” Mr. Santini’s temper was back on the scene. “Think you can just roll up in a truck and start in to purveying—”
Birdie broke in. “There’s a permit, Mr. Santini.”
“There is?” said Junior.
“Tacked on the wall by the menu.”
“What men—” Junior began, but then Birdie stepped on his foot, so quick you’d have missed it unless you kept close watch on Birdie, which I do.
“Okay, then,” Mr. Santini said. “But things are slack in this town and I mean to do something about it. How we gonna compete?”
Birdie nodded like that made sense, so maybe it did. “As for your question,” she said, “we’re here to see Drea Bolden.”
“Biker gal from New Orleans?” Mr. Santini said.
“I’m not sure she’s a biker,” Birdie said.
“She’s on a bike, ain’t she?”
“Yes, sir.”
“She has green hair, don’t she?”
“Partly.”
“Partly is too darn much when it comes to green hair,” Mr. Santini said. “What you want with her?”
“She’s going to teach Junior how to read music.”
Mr.
Santini stroked his chin. He had hardly any chin at all—not a good human look, in my opinion. “Read music, huh? Why’d anyone want to do that?”
“It’s … for a competition,” Birdie said. “Junior’s going to compete in a music-reading competition.”
“I—” Junior began, but Birdie stepped on his foot again, even quicker than before.
“Competition, huh?” said Mr. Santini. “That’s more like it. I guess you can’t help bein’ kids, huh? Same goes for the dog, maybe more so. Space ninety-six, end of Paradise Way.”
We strolled down the middle path with me in the middle between Birdie and Junior. The middle of the middle! That felt comfortable, hard to explain why.
“My foot hurts,” Junior said.
“Toughen up,” said Birdie.
Junior gave her a sideways look that I caught but Birdie didn’t. “Rory Cannon’s a friend of yours, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s a baseball player.”
“Well, he plays baseball.”
“I see them practicing on my way home from the truck. It looks so boring.”
Birdie grunted.
“You like baseball?” Junior said.
“It’s all right.”
“You like jocks?”
“Jocks?” Birdie said.
“Like Rory Cannon,” said Junior.
“I wouldn’t say he’s a jock.”
“No? What is he?”
Birdie shrugged. “A kid.”
There was a silence. We rounded a bend on Paradise Way, and the pond came into view, a murky-looking pond with lots of lily pads on the surface and a green tent set up on the near side.
“Jocks are boring,” said Junior.
What was going on? I had no idea, except now it was Birdie’s turn to give Junior a sidelong glance that he missed but I caught. I felt a bit uncomfortable and maybe would have done some panting, but at that moment the front flap of the green tent opened and out stepped Drea Bolden, coffee cup in hand, and the sun glinting on the bright green tips of her hair. She took a sip, then went still—the way humans sometimes do when they sense the presence of someone else—and looked our way.
“Hey, kids! Come on down!”
We went down a gentle slope—all the slopes in bayou country being gentle—and said hi to Drea, Birdie and Junior actually saying hi and me wagging my tail and then picking up an interesting scent, specifically the scent of a ham sandwich, and following it to the tent.
“So, Junior,” Drea said, “you’re into music.”
“Music’s cool,” said Junior.
“And you, Birdie?” said Drea. “You into music, too?”
“Don’t know about into,” said Birdie. “But I like music. Some music, anyway. My great-granddaddy played the accordion.”
“Yeah?” Drea said, her green eyes brightening. “Did he live long enough for you to know him?”
Birdie shook her head. “Not close.”
“No? I sense a story behind that.”
Birdie opened her mouth to say something, but Junior was quicker. “You want great-granddaddy stories? My great-granddaddy ran guns to both sides in the Cuban Revolution!”
Drea gazed at him for a moment, then turned back to Birdie. “You were about to say?”
“Well,” said Birdie, “it’s a long—”
“Hey!” Junior said. “Maybe I could write a song about gunrunning and the Cuban Revolution.”
Drea’s voice got a bit edgy. “Do you know much about the Cuban Revolution?”
“I’ve heard of it,” Junior said, his voice a little muffled now, on account of the fact that I’d worked my way past an annoying tent peg or two, under the nylon skirt at the bottom of the tent, and right inside. It was dim and shadowy in the tent, but dim and shadowy never bothers me.
“Tell you what,” Drea said, her voice also muffled. “Why don’t I bring my guitar and some sheet music and we’ll get to work?”
By that time, I’d located the ham sandwich, partly eaten and lying on a cooler. It was the work of almost no time at all to amble over to the cooler and snap up the ham sandwich, which I’d just finished doing when the flap opened and Drea came in. Her guitar lay on a sleeping bag. She picked it up, took a nail file from her pocket, and then noticed me, standing actually quite close to her, the ham sandwich in my mouth, impossible to miss.
“Well, well,” said Drea. “Aren’t we the sneaky ones?” Then she took the file to one of the guitar strings, back and forth, back and forth. A notch appeared in the string. Drea stopped filing before it broke.
BACK OUTSIDE, DREA SAT ON A TREE stump near the edge of the pond and strapped on her guitar. Birdie and Junior sat on a log. I lay near Birdie, my energy level kind of low, which can happen to anyone on a full stomach. Out on the pond, a big frog sat on a lily pad, his throat making strange bulging motions. His eyes seemed to be on me, and the expression in them was not friendly. I wondered what to do about that.
“Here’s what I’m going to play,” Drea said, handing a sheet of paper to Junior. “It’s just a single-note run, very simple.”
“The notes are these little circles?” Junior said. Birdie leaned in to see.
“Exactly,” said Drea. “The lines are the staff. And under each note I’ve written what it is—in this case C, G, C, C, G, etc.” She ran her thumb across the strings and then began picking them one by one. At the same time, she sang, “You better come on in my kitchen, it’s goin’ to be rainin’ outdoors.”
“Hey!” Junior said.
“Wow,” said Birdie. “You’ve got a great voice.”
Drea smiled and shook her head. “Interesting, but nowhere near great.”
“Huh?” said Junior. “Sounded great to me.”
“Lots of color, an appealing roughness—as a music producer back in New Orleans put it, saying no in a nice way—but I don’t hit the notes dead center.”
“Dead center?” Junior said. “I don’t get it.”
“Sing,” Drea said.
“Me? Like what?”
“What I just sang—I’ll play along.”
“You better come on in my kitchen,” Junior sang, “it’s goin’ to be rainin’ outdoors.”
“Ah,” Drea said. “Uh. Well … I … can see why you’re a drummer. Your sense of rhythm is … all there is. I mean, all there. Your sense of rhythm is all there, in every note.”
“Yeah?” Junior said, looking real happy.
“And how about you, Birdie?”
Birdie shook her head.
“Come on,” Drea said. “Junior and I plunged right in.”
Plunge right in? That was the moment I got the idea about how to handle that bothersome frog! More on that later. Now Drea started playing the tune again, and Birdie sang, softly at first and then stronger, finally tailing off at the very end.
“You better come on in my kitchen, it’s goin’ to be rainin’ outdoors.”
Things went silent down by the pond. Drea had her head tilted a bit to one side, was looking at Birdie in a new way. “Dead center,” she said. “Each and every one. But with no break in the flow. And the dynamics!”
“Dynamics?” said Junior.
“Loud, soft, getting louder, getting softer, that kind of thing,” Drea said. “Like so.” She started strumming the guitar, first quietly, then getting louder and louder and louder, her strumming hand a blur, and—“Oops.”
“Oops?” said Junior.
“I broke a string,” Drea said. “See?” The broken string dangled loose. “You could do me a big favor, Junior.”
“Yeah?”
“Run into town and buy me a new E string.”
“Run into town? And buy it where?”
“Claymore’s sell guitar strings,” said Birdie.
“There you go,” Drea said. She handed him some money. “And keep the change.”
“Keep the change from a twenty?” said Junior. And he was off.
Drea put the guitar aside. “Funny how music runs in f
amilies,” she said.
“I didn’t know that,” Birdie said.
“Look up the Bach family sometime.”
“How do you spell that?”
Drea smiled. “B-A-C-H,” she said. “Tell me about this great-grandfather of yours, the accordion player.”
“He was my grammy’s dad,” Birdie said. “I don’t know much about him. Mr. Savoy at the library has a record of him playing.”
Drea gazed out at the pond. The frog was still there, eyeing me in that hostile way and doing the throat-bulging thing. “And your own dad,” Drea said. “Is he musical, too?”
“My dad’s dead,” Birdie said. “I don’t know whether he was musical or not. I was very young.”
Drea kept her eyes on the pond. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay.”
“Do you have any memories of him?”
“A few,” Birdie said.
“Like?”
Birdie said nothing.
Drea turned to her. “My apologies, Birdie. Didn’t mean to be personal. The fact is my own dad’s dead, as well, so I took the liberty. Gives us something in common, although I was somewhat older than you at the time, meaning I have lots of memories.”
“Oh,” Birdie said. “Uh, I’m sorry, too.”
Drea laughed. “No need. Awkward old me strikes again.”
Then they just sat there for a bit, Birdie on the log, Drea on the tree stump. I found myself inching down toward the edge of the pond.
Birdie cleared her throat. “One thing I remember is these blue shoes I had, and how he tied them for me and said, ‘No loose ends, Birdie.’ ”
Drea nodded. “A good memory to have.”
“But,” Birdie said.
“But what?”
Birdie was silent.
“Go ahead,” Drea said, her voice very soft.
Birdie gazed in my direction, although I got the strange feeling she wasn’t seeing me. “But,” she said, “it’s the only one. My only memory of him. So puny. Like he almost … wasn’t real.”
Drea reached out like she was going to take Birdie’s hand, then stopped herself. “What did he do?” she said. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
Birdie’s eyes went back to normal, seeing what was around in their usual way. “My dad was a detective with the New Orleans Police Department. He was killed in … uh, what’s the expression?”
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