Tru and Nelle

by G. Neri

  Sook couldn’t stand to see Truman carrying on and tried everything to snap him out of his spell. In the beginning, she sat by his bed and hand-fed him like he was a small sparrow that had fallen from its nest. Later, in moments of quiet, Sook told him about the grass harp that she’d heard as a child—the sounds the wind made when it wafted through the rolling fields of the tall grasses nearby. She would then gently whisper in his ear until he fell asleep.

  Cousin Jenny also grew concerned. “As long as I’m alive and running this house, you’ll have a roof over your head, young man. You’ll not lack for clothing on your back or food in your belly. Your mama doesn’t deserve your love.”

  His cousin Bud would take him to his cotton patch on the other side of the hill, just to get him out once in a while. Usually, they did this in silence, Truman riding glumly on Bud’s shoulders with Bud’s whiskers tickling Truman’s legs. But this time, Bud spoke.

  “Life is a heck of a hill to climb, Little Chappie. But if it gets too steep for ya, just get down on your hands and knees and keep going. Sooner or later, you’ll get over the hump,” he said, wheezing.

  They made it up and over the hill.

  At the cotton patch, Truman would hang out quietly in front of the shack of Bud’s only worker, Black John White (so called to avoid confusion with White John Black, the tobacconist). While Bud and Black John surveyed the crop, John’s wife would make hot biscuits with bacon drippings for Truman, but it did little to cheer him up.

  One day, as the sunlight was fading and dusk turned the grass around their home from green to orange, Truman asked, “Bud, how come I don’t have a real home like other kids?”

  Bud, who was normally calm, put his hands on Truman’s shoulders and looked him square in the eye. “Tru, this is your home. You are my blood kin, my second cousin thrice removed. But blood kin’s not the most important kin. Do you know what is?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Love kin. And that comes from the heart. That’s why this is your home. Now, you got every reason to mope. Can’t blame you for that. But if you just look around, you’ll see—you’re already home, Little Chappie.”

  Nelle felt lonely without her friend. To cheer her up, A.C. took her golfing at the local course, which she liked because it made her feel like an adult. She caddied and occasionally took a swing under A.C.’s supervision. Her father always wore his dark three-piece suit, even on the golf course, which made for quite a sight with his herky-jerky swing. But between holes, they’d talk.

  “I don’t understand how come Tru won’t play with me no more, A.C. I never seen him in such a state,” she said.

  “Well, just be patient and he’ll come around. The situation with his father can’t be helping.”

  Nelle had been dying to ask. “Did you ever arrest him?”

  A.C. chose his words carefully. “No. Judge decided he didn’t want to waste time chasing him down. He believes Arch’ll mess up soon enough, and when he does, the court will still be there.”

  “Poor Truman,” said Nelle. “It must be awful having a daddy who’s a liar.”

  A.C. put his hand on her shoulder. “Judge not, lest ye be judged, daughter.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means don’t be so quick to cast judgment; wait until you know the whole truth. Truman’s father may not be trustworthy, but I believe he’s trying to provide in the only way he knows how.”

  “That don’t make it any easier on Tru,” she mumbled.

  He stopped and considered the next hole. “No, it doesn’t. But what you can do is just be kind to Truman. He needs someone in his corner. Sometimes, a small gesture of friendship can make all the difference.”

  Soon enough, Nelle came up with a plan to cheer up her friend. But she needed a wingman for her project, and she looked to one of Truman’s youngest cousins, Big Boy, to help her bring Truman back to life.

  Big Boy was the son of Lillie Mae’s sister, Mary Ida. His real name was Jennings, which was why everyone preferred his nickname. He and Truman were the same age and he lived on a farm just outside Monroeville. He was not a particularly big boy, though, except at birth, when he weighed over twelve pounds. His growth slowed as he got older, and by seven, he was just an average-size kid. He wore Coke-bottle glasses, which made his eyes look as big as an owl’s. As he heard Nelle’s plan, his big eyes grew even wider.

  “So . . . it’s gonna be like a secret hideaway?” he asked.

  “More ’n that, Big Boy. It’s gonna be our headquarters,” she said proudly.

  “Headquarters for what?” he asked.

  “Why, for our detective agency, that’s what. The only thing that’s gonna shake Truman out of his stink is a good ol’ mystery that needs solving.”

  “But there ain’t no mystery in Monroeville,” said Big Boy. “’Cept why the courthouse clock is always five minutes slow.”

  “Well, I was reading about Sherlock,” said Nelle. “And he said, ‘To a great mind, nothing is little.’”

  “I don’t get it,” said Big Boy.

  Nelle tried to spell it out for him. “Silly, just ’cause you don’t see something in front of your eyes don’t mean it ain’t happening. Once we start looking, who knows what we’re gonna dig up around here?”

  Big Boy still appeared puzzled.

  “Look.” She pointed to the sketch of the hideout she had drawn in crayon on the back of a piece of wrapping paper. “Sherlock and Watson had 221B Baker Street. This’ll be our headquarters.”

  Big Boy raised his glasses to take a closer look. “A treehouse?”

  The drawing was crude, but he got the idea. The treehouse was held aloft by a double chinaberry tree, one trunk on each side of the stone wall that ran between their properties. It looked like a couple of trees dancing with a house floating in their arms. A rope ladder went up the trunk of one to a trapdoor you could lock from inside in case of intruders. It had all kinds of nifty features: a porthole with a telescope for spying and a can-on-a-string telephone that connected to both Truman’s and Nelle’s rooms, in case an emergency arose.

  “Wow,” he said. “Can we put in a fire pole? You know, for quick escapes.”

  “Excellent idea, Big Boy,” said Nelle. “Once Tru sees this, he’ll be back to his old self in no time.”

  Of course, Cousin Bud and Black John White ended up building most of it for them. Nelle and Big Boy hauled leftover wood from the old, abandoned icehouse at the edge of the field, handed hammers and nails when needed, and put all the finishing touches on it themselves. In two weeks, Nelle’s plan was realized.

  Truman knew Nelle was up to something but he couldn’t quite see what because the corner of the house blocked his view. But something was afoot. Every time he ventured out to have a look-see, Sook or Bud would suddenly need his help or challenge him to a game of Go Fish.

  He would find out soon enough.

  10

  Headquarters in the Sky

  One morning, Truman awoke to what he thought was the sound of fighting outside. He poked his head out the window and spotted Nelle walking along the top of the stone wall that separated their houses. She was doing battle with some unseen foe, wearing a patch over one eye and a pirate hat made of newspaper. Truman was so amused, he yelled, “Watch out for the gators!”

  Nelle lifted her eye patch and smiled at him. “Ahoy!”

  Truman pointed again at the invisible gator; she took a stone from her pocket and pegged a log next to the wall. “Got him! I ain’t afraid of no gators! Look what I can do!” She attempted a somersault but took a tumble and fell off her side of the wall.

  “Nelle?” Truman cried, worried.

  Nelle popped up, pretending to fight off a fallen branch. “Snakes! Help me, Tru!”

  Truman ran down in his pajamas and slippers. He poked his head out on the front porch, but all was quiet. “Nelle?” he called out. He crept up to the wall and peered over. She was nowhere to be found.

  “Psst!” Tr
uman heard a voice from far overhead. He followed the sound up the huge double chinaberry tree and suddenly he saw it: the magnificent secret headquarters Nelle and Big Boy had built.

  It was one of the greatest things he’d ever seen.

  Truman spotted a pair of feet sticking out the flap that covered the entrance. Even though he was still in his PJs, he decided to climb up the ladder. When he reached the top, he couldn’t believe his eyes. Every detail was perfect. A section for playing marbles and jacks. A lookout for spying. A board for drawing clues and whatnot. Jars for collecting bugs, rocks, and other scientific discoveries, and an open skylight for stargazing. Even a fire pole for quick escapes. Best of all was the sign gracing the front of the treehouse: NO GROWNUPS ALLOWED!

  He crawled in and found Nelle lying down on a mattress stuffed with hay, reading. He was speechless.

  “What happened to the snakes?” he finally asked.

  “Oh, Ah kilt them all,” she said, like it was no big deal. “I hate snakes.”

  He noticed she was reading one of the Rover Boys mysteries and plopped down next to her. She closed the book on him.

  “Read your own,” she said. Nelle reached under her pillow and produced a purple volume. “A.C. brung back it back from his trip to Selma.”

  New books were hard to come by in Monroeville, though occasionally traveling gypsies brought some from their distant wanderings. So whenever a new title appeared, it was like finding a dollar coin in the street—it was a treat.

  Truman glanced at the cover and saw the familiar profile with a pipe and deerstalker cap. “Sherlock Holmes!” He breathed in with delight.

  “Not only that—look!” She reached for a box on the shelf and handed it to him.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Just a little something me and Big Boy whipped up.”

  “A gift?” He tore into it, excited.

  “More like . . . something you’ll be needin’, Tru.” She watched as he pulled out a green baseball cap with another bill sewn onto the back.

  “A deerstalker cap. Just like Sherlock,” Nelle said proudly.

  Truman stared at it for the longest time. It was too wonderful for words.

  “Put it on,” she said.

  He carefully placed it on his head. “How’s it look?”

  “Just like the real thing,” she said. “You know what this means, right?”

  Truman pretended to smoke a pipe. “What?”

  “The game’s afoot!” she exclaimed.

  Truman nodded. “We just need to find our own mystery is all.”

  She picked up a magnifying glass from the shelf and started examining a dead bug. “I have a feeling a mystery will reveal itself soon,” she said. “All we have to do is wait.”

  11

  The Hound of Monroeville

  That night, it rained so hard it felt like the town was trapped under a waterfall. Gales of wind and water and who knew what else came pouring out of the sky. Truman had never seen such a deluge, but Cousin Jenny wouldn’t let him stand out on the porch to watch. “You’ll catch your death from it!” she said.

  So he sat in his room in the dark, watching the rain come down. Lightning lit up the yard from time to time, followed by a low rumbling that grew louder and louder till it shook the glass windows around him.

  It was in between lightning strikes that Truman heard a strange whimpering sound. “Do you hear that, Sook?”

  Sook was trying to sleep. “Thought that was you being scared of the lightning.”

  He heard it again. It was coming from outside. “No, that sounds like somebody’s crying.”

  Sook came over to the window and they both pressed their faces against the glass. A huge crack of lightning cut across the sky—and that’s when they saw it: a black and white puppy, wet and shivering, in the backyard.

  “Oh my!” she cried out.

  “It’s a dog. It looks lost,” he said. “I’m going outside.”

  “But, Tru—”

  Truman grabbed a towel and headed through the kitchen, tiptoeing so that Jenny wouldn’t hear him. He peeked out the back door and over the edge of the porch. The wind was howling and he couldn’t see a thing through the downpour. When the sky lit up again, he spotted the puppy sitting in the mud off the back steps.

  Truman was barefoot, but he threw the towel over his head and ran quickly out to the dog. He hated getting wet, especially in his pajamas. He wasn’t sure if the dog would bite but it seemed so helpless, shivering, with those big brown eyes staring up at him. Truman looked around but there was no one else in sight.

  The bedroom window cracked open and Sook peered out into the rain. “Well, don’t just stand there, Truman. Bring it in.”

  Truman gazed down at the puppy. The dog was sopping wet and looked like it hadn’t eaten in a while. It had been a long time since Truman had felt sorry for anyone other than himself. He quickly took the towel off and wrapped it around the dog. “I’m gonna call you Queenie,” he said.

  Queenie wagged its tail.

  He struggled to pick up the dog and managed to kind of drag it up onto the porch, where Sook was waiting with another towel and a piece of chicken.

  He put the dog down and dried it off as it wolfed down the snack. “She’s hungry,” he said. The dog started licking Truman’s face. “Stop it now, Queenie.” He giggled.

  “He likes you,” said Sook.

  Truman kissed the dog on the nose. “She. Her name is Queenie.”

  Sook bent down and peeked under the towel. “He. And you can’t name a he Queenie. Call him Rover or some boy’s name.”

  Truman didn’t care. He’d always wanted a dog. Arch had promised him one long ago and he’d picked out the name Queenie because it came to him in a dream about Queen Mary.

  “The dog’s name is Queenie and that’s all there is to it.” He hugged the dog and the dog licked his ear. “Oh, Queenie, I’m so glad you showed up.”

  “Looks like some kind of rat terrier,” said Sook.

  Truman petted his spotted fur. Sook put another piece of chicken down on the porch and Queenie sniffed around for it, then gobbled it right up.

  “Just as I thought, a bloodhound,” said Truman. “Perfect for Sherlock’s next case.”

  The light in Jenny’s room clicked on and Truman could see her shadow approaching the window. “Quick, Sook, let’s get him inside, before Jenny finds out.”

  They picked Queenie up in the towel and brought the dog inside. Queenie started to whimper until Truman leaned into his ear and whispered, “Shhh, everything will be aaallll right.”

  Once they were secure in their bedroom and Sook brought in some food and a bowl of water, Queenie settled in just fine. Truman made the dog a little bed next to the Tri-Motor plane he kept in the corner. Queenie was tuckered out, so he just plopped down and started snoring.

  “We can keep Queenie, right, Sook?” he asked.

  Truman could tell Sook was taken by the dog. “Well, we can keep it in here till Jenny finds out. Then you’ll have to deal with him . . . I mean her—it.”

  “Don’t worry. Jenny would never throw out a homeless dog,” said Truman. “Least not one as cute as Queenie.”

  It took only a few days for Jenny to find the source of the mysterious noises coming from Sook and Tru’s room. Truman came home from Nelle’s one day to find Jenny waiting on the front porch with Queenie on a rope leash. Sook sat behind them, looking mighty sorrowful.

  Before she could even open her mouth, Truman jumped into action.

  “Queenie!”

  Queenie bounded off the porch, the leash slipping through Jenny’s hands. Truman fell to his knees and Queenie came running up to him. He hugged the dog and Queenie licked him all over his face. “Oh, Queenie, what would I do without you? You’ll never abandon me like my parents, right?” He buried his face in the dog’s neck, knowing full well that Jenny would never toss Queenie out now.

  Jenny sighed. “Fine. But you must promise to take
care of the dog and feed it all the leftover scraps we have and be mindful that it never bother anyone—except for a burglar.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Truman ran over and hugged Jenny. She stiffened for a moment but Truman could feel her melt in his arms.

  Callie, of course, disapproved. “I do hope you plan on keeping this mutt outside.”

  “No, ma’am. He’s staying in our room, ain’t that right, Sook?”

  Sook nodded.

  Bud was clearly in favor of Queenie. “Never had a proper coon-huntin’ dog before,” he said, petting the mutt.

  “Please. Queenie’s a bloodhound and must save his nose for more important things, like solving cases.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ more important than hunting coon, Little Chappie,” said Bud. Still, he liked having Queenie around, and the dog became a member of their family of misfits.

  Soon, Callie took to practicing her school lessons on the dog. Queenie was the only one who would listen to her.

  12

  Something Fishy

  Nelle loved having Queenie around. No detective agency was complete without a bloodhound of its own. Now if only they had a case to solve.

  One day, Truman and Nelle took Queenie for a walk. They were minding their own business, bored as usual, when they spotted Ed the egg man peering in through Mrs. Ida Skutt’s window.

  “Now, what do you suppose he’s doing? Is he a peeping Tom?” asked Truman.

  Nelle was not one to beat around the bush. “Heya, Ed! Whaddya know?” she said.

  Ed looked over at them, concerned. Queenie suddenly started sniffing up a storm, pulling them up onto the porch. “Queenie, stop it!” Truman said.

  Ed took off his white cap and scratched his head. “Well, yesterday I delivered eggs to Mrs. Skutt, and I smelled something downright awful. And now I come back and her eggs are still sitting there unopened, and the stench—”