Hold Zero!

by Jean Craighead George

  Suddenly he noticed the car had slowed down. Johnny looked out the window. Fog was obscuring the road. Then, as his father turned off the ridge and started down the hill to their house, they were plunged into what seemed like a glass of milk. The road was all but invisible. Johnny felt his dad’s right leg quicken as his foot went on the brake.

  “This is impossible!” Mr. Cooper said and eased the car down the hill. Carefully they crept around the bend and into the drive. They were both relieved when they were in the garage. The lights from the house shone warmly under the kitchen door. Johnny two-stepped it up the stairs and into the room.

  “Hi, Mom,” he called and threw his mitt across the kitchen, through the living room, and onto the Dutch sideboard.

  “Johnny, stop it. This is not a stadium. Pick that up and put it away.”

  “I’m sorry.” He skidded through the door before she could say anything else. But he need not have worried. Her attention was already on his father.

  “John,” she said, “tonight’s the night we have that discussion with the children. We must discuss going to Aunt Mary’s. Remember?”

  “Oh, yes!” he said and washed his hands in the sink. “I enjoy these family discussions.” He kissed her cheek. “It’s a horrible night. I almost missed the drive and hit the mailbox.”

  “I’m glad you’re home, dear,” Mrs. Cooper said.

  Johnny threw himself belly-first on the couch. Penny, his younger sister, screamed at him to get off her new jumper. He barely heard her for he was thinking of the rocket. However, his older sister Karen rushed to Penny’s aid and shoved him to the floor. His father came into the room, sat down, and opened the newspaper. He read while the children argued. Suddenly the paper went down.

  “Johnny,” began Mr. Cooper. “This is the night we’re going to discuss whether or not we go to Aunt Mary’s for Columbus Day.”

  “Okay,” Johnny said. “And then can we talk about coming to see the rocket? We’ve gotta have a committee to approve it, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. Mr. Brundage has called me. But, you know, afternoons and evenings are my busiest time in a town like this. Most of the committees have to meet when the men are home from work.”

  “Oh, sure, I know that.”

  Dinner was announced, and the Coopers sat down in silence. Mr. Cooper carved the lamb. When everyone was served he sat down quietly.

  “Now, children,” he said. “Let’s have everyone’s viewpoint on whether or not we visit Aunt Mary this Columbus Day.”

  “Okay,” said Johnny brightly. “I don’t want to go. I don’t like just sitting around and doing nothin’.”

  “I don’t want to go either,” said Penny and cut her meat firmly.

  “Me neither,” said Karen.

  “Now that’s not a discussion,” said Johnny’s father firmly. “You’ve given opinions. We must have better reasons. More air.”

  “Well, frankly then,” said Johnny, and he heard his voice weaken, “she always makes us rake leaves, or wash windows, or sit without making a mess. And that’s hard to do.”

  “And you, Penny?” said Mr. Cooper with an edge of irritation.

  “I think she’s too old for me. She doesn’t like frilly petticoats.”

  “Karen?”

  “Well—” Johnny saw her glance at him for courage. “If she wouldn’t always make me keep my feet on the floor I might say yes. Would you tell her it’s hard to keep your feet together on the floor when you’re sitting? Then maybe I’ll go.”

  Johnny saw his father put down his knife and fork. “Now, I’ve heard what you have to say. Let me speak. She’s family, she’s very old, and she loves you children.”

  “No she doesn’t!” said Penny.

  Johnny tried again. “Well,” he said, “I think Penny is right, and I don’t want to go.”

  “We must.” Mr. Cooper picked up his knife and fork. Johnny dropped his.

  “Go?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has this been a discussion?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then ... ” He hesitated. “I’m real mixed up about discussions. What I am trying to say is, why ask us? We’ll go if we have to.”

  Johnny did not hear his father’s answer. He had leaned back in his chair to think and had inattentively poked a forkful of lamb in his mouth. And then he heard a voice!

  “—Batta Com— Bat— Com—ead me?” He sat up.

  “Thanks, son”—his father was smiling again—“for your silent apology.”

  “—Batta —ing Police —ment.” Johnny dug the fork further into the filling.

  His father reached out and touched his hand. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to upset you, it’s just that we must go to Aunt Mary’s.”

  Johnny looked at him and wanted to say, “I’m not upset,” but his tooth was talking.

  He leaped up. “Dad,” he said, “something’s wrong. Something’s wrong at Batta.” The white fog swirled at the picture window. “Dad! I think Craig and Phil and Steve are calling for help. They’re stuck in the fog.”

  “Help? What is this? Johnny, are you all right?”

  Briefly he explained the tooth. Mr. Cooper pushed back from the table and rushed to the phone.

  “Alice!” he said to Mrs. Brundage, “is Phil home?” He exchanged a few more exclamations, hung up, and called the Police Department. Johnny, still holding the fork on his tooth, followed him into the kitchen. After speaking briefly, his father turned to him. “What’s their call number?”

  “KX2BAT.”

  “KX2BAT.” He listened and looked back at Johnny. “Is Officer Ricardo with them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He’s missing and his wife is frantic.”

  “I’ll bet he went out to see the rocket. Well, tell the chief he’s okay. Tell them they have food, water, even electric lights. Tell them to try KX2BAT and they can talk to him.” Johnny sat down on the kitchen stool as his father passed on his messages. Then Mr. Cooper hung up and they both waited in silence. Presently the phone rang again.

  “Thank heavens,” said Mr. Cooper. He turned to Johnny. “They’re all fine!”

  When he had put back the phone, Mr. Cooper surveyed Johnny.

  “And now,” he said, “let’s have a real discussion. What is this Batta?”

  10 THE PROTEST

  STEVE AWOKE FIRST because Officer Ricardo had rolled over on him. He kicked Craig. Craig awoke.

  “I’m hungry,” he said.

  “I’m sad,” Steve whispered. “It was a great night. A really great night. But our secret’s no more.”

  “Yeah,” sighed Craig. “And now it’s morning and we’ve gotta go home.”

  Steve lay silently.

  “I’ll go get the water,” Craig finally said and stepped over Phil. He had no need to dress because he had never taken his clothes off. By the misty light coming in from a small window above the transceiver he found his way to the stairs. He walked outside.

  The fog was lifting and the air smelled good. Craig took a deep breath. Tentative birds, confused by the mist, chirped sleepily in the bushes. Craig was amused for he realized they were uncertain as to whether to get up and face the bad weather or to clutch their night roosts tighter. He filled the galvanized can from the slow stream and went back to Batta.

  Phil was cooking breakfast. Officer Ricardo was still sleeping, a great hunk of relaxation. “He had a pretty scary day,” Craig observed to Phil.

  Phil took down the four heavy plates and cups that Craig had made in school. “These are durn good,” he said.

  Craig picked up one of the cups and turned it over. “Miss Pierce sure wanted this to be an animal,” he said. “She wanted a good exhibit for the PTA. But I didn’t wanna make animals, cause we didn’t have dishes for Batta. Still,” he mused, “when I told her I really wanted to make dishes, she let me. She said something about art couldn’t be dictated. ’Sfunny thing to say, don’t you think, Phil?”

  “I du
nno. I get all mixed up about what they want you to do and what they don’t. So I go along with them.” He tilted and swirled the fry pan. “But I do know this much, hash is a durn sight easier to eat on your plates than on my ceramic giraffe.”

  They laughed.

  Officer Ricardo awoke with a snort. He sat up and looked around, saw the boys, and grinned. “Good morning, good knights,” he called. “I’ve always wanted a chance to say that.” Everyone laughed.

  Steve went to the sink to wash his face. As the cold water hit him he began to chuckle. He looked at the transmitter-receiver.

  “All this fancy equipment,” he said. “And Johnny gets us on a durn filling.” Craig wondered about the possibilities of silver and mercury as he spooned out the food.

  When the dishes were washed and put away, Craig, Phil, and Steve were ready to go. Officer Ricardo was not. He was contemplating the far wall and suggesting that a heating plant for winter might be installed there.

  They waited for him, then walked up the steps. The sun had broken through the white mist.

  “How’re we gonna get home?” Officer Ricardo asked. “We have no gas.”

  “Paddle like geese,” said Phil.

  As the bulky swamp buggy inched along, the wheel dragging hard against their efforts, Phil suddenly pushed up on his elbows.

  “Gee, it’s Sunday,” he said. “I’m gonna miss Dad’s sermon if we don’t hurry.”

  “Ya won’t miss it,” boomed Officer Ricardo, “if you paddle instead of back water.”

  Phil laughed at himself.

  11 THE SPIDERLINGS

  TWO DAYS AFTER THE fog-in Steve reported to Craig that Mr. Smith had gone to Europe. Steve joined the PTA dancing class, and Phil and Craig and Johnny signed up for the basketball team. Craig tried hard to develop “sportsmanship” and enjoy himself, especially after Johnny’s father had told him that he should learn to compete when he was young, for he certainly would have to when he grew up. He could see how that might be true.

  Nevertheless, he preferred to go to the island and learn the plants and watch the animals. The afternoons inventing gadgets at Batta with Phil and Johnny were restful and wonderful. This bothered him, for he did want to enjoy what he was supposed to.

  A month passed.

  Then Steve came into the school locker room one day shouting exuberantly that Mr. Smith was back. Craig relayed the good news to Phil and Johnny.

  Three more days passed.

  On the fourth day Craig called Officer Ricardo and asked tentatively whether the committee was ready to come to inspect the rocket.

  “Craig,” the officer sighed, “it’s almost impossible to find a moment when one or the other of those men aren’t busy.” He paused. “And frankly, I’ve been busy, too.”

  “Oh, well,” Craig heard himself say, “I understand. It’s just that the weather is getting cold now, and the winter’ll be hard on the rocket. If they don’t inspect it soon, we’ll never get ’er off.”

  “I know, Craig. Everyone wants to do what’s best for you boys, believe me. Don’t worry; the committee will get there.”

  Suddenly Craig wanted to go to the island. It had been a long time since he’d been there. The confusion of whether they had done something wonderful or something awful had dampened his interest in Batta. He noticed that the other boys were not so enthusiastic either, and, like him, they were all trying hard to take advantage of what the community offered. At this moment, however, nothing could replace the island and the ammunition shelter, the faucet and the bunks. It was Friday, and in half an hour the basketball team would play a practice game. Craig decided the heck with it. Today, at least, he was going to do what made him feel at ease with himself. Besides, the good players could stay in the whole game if he didn’t show up. He pulled on a sweater and ran down the steps.

  At the dock he made numerous tries before he started the long-idle swamp buggy. Eventually the engine caught and the craft plowed out among the cattails.

  The island looked deserted. Leaves had fallen from the trees. Only seeds and berries remained. These, Craig thought, were not jubilant like the flowers and leaves, but hard and small—full of sleep and purpose. Craig opened a bittersweet berry and squeezed the yellow seed between his fingers.

  He walked to the hollow where the raccoon slept. A bat hung inside the hole, upside down, and quiet. Suddenly a chickadee sang. It was a wistful call. The bird did not sound like spring although the notes were the same. He wondered why.

  Slowly he sat down and crossed his ankles. His hand rested on a flat stone and idly he lifted it. White eggs of the ants clung to the underside, and a salamander slept, eyes open, too cold to know it had been disturbed. Craig put the stone back.

  He felt better. He didn’t feel rushed anymore; and then, because everything around him was waiting, he decided that’s how things were. Sometimes you had to wait.

  Happily he stretched out in the leaves. A jimson weed, dried and angular, touched his cheek. He observed it casually, and then not so casually, for the tip was as active as a hive. He sat up. The jimson weed was covered with tiny spiders that had emerged in the warm sun. They were crawling over each other in an effort to get as high as they could on the gray-brown stalk. Craig concentrated on a single spider of the hundreds that moved so hastily.

  The spiderling was pale and yellow, but determined. It attained the highest point on the weed and paused, turned its head into the autumn wind, and threw up its back feet. A thin thread of gossamer drifted out from its spinnerets. Craig rolled to his knees. The thread billowed in the breeze until it grew so long it had more strength than the spiderling. Then the spiderling let go and the thread bowed in the breeze and lifted the minute creature into the air. Craig stood up and saw the drifter turn and clutch its web with its front feet. It reefed in to the right as it sailed around a thistle. He followed the glitter of the sun on the web. It became entangled in a hackberry limb. The spiderling climbed it, reeling in its silk as it went. Then it turned its head into the wind again and spun out another balloon of thread. On this it rode out of sight.

  “So that’s how they get free,” he said to himself. “They sail away and reel in their threads, sail away and reel in their threads.”

  Suddenly he knew that was what he was going to do, too. He jumped on the swamp buggy. It started immediately. Twenty minutes later Craig was running up the hill to his home when he saw his friend.

  “Steve!” he called. “Hold it!”

  The angular Steve turned, distributed his weight on both feet, and waited for his friend.

  “Listen, I know how to get the rocket launched!” Craig gasped. “We sail away!” He drew a wide course with his arms. “We just sail to Batta and we reel in all the threads and wait.”

  “What are you talking about, Craig?”

  “Well.” He laughed at himself. “Let’s go to the island tonight and not come back until the committee comes to find us. Let’s just sit there until they look at the rocket.”

  “Well, I can’t tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m going to the Soph Hop.”

  “Oh, well, just hop around for a few minutes. We’ll wait for you.”

  “No, don’t. I guess I’ll stay all night.”

  “You mean you want to dance?” Craig asked incredulously. He couldn’t believe what he had heard.

  “Yes. I’m taking Cathy Smith to the dance, and I think I’ll stay—and dance.”

  Craig stared. “But, Steve,” he said, “we all said no girls, Steve. We promised we wouldn’t bother with them.”

  “Well, it’s different now,” Steve said firmly.

  “But, Steve!” Craig pleaded. “If we go out there—all of us—if we wait long enough ... they’ll come.”

  Steve turned away. “You fellows go. I won’t tell.”

  Steve went up the road whistling. Craig clenched his fists and jabbed the air. Not Steve, he thought to himself. Not Steve. He can’t let us down too. Then he was angry.
He hurried home and called Johnny and Phil.

  He was able to sway Johnny almost immediately, and Phil in about three animated sentences. They were going to wait at Batta until they got some action.

  Craig threw a few things in a knapsack and ambled downstairs. His mother was working in the kitchen. “I’m going out,” he called.

  She called back, “Don’t go far, dinner’s almost ready.”

  He sauntered down the hill. The early November day smelled of walnuts and wild crab apples. The light was clear, the air warm. At last, he thought, we’re going to do something about all this.

  Phil, all grins and bravado, was at the wharf when he got there. “My folks are gonna blow their tops,” he said and threw his sack onto the swamp buggy. “I may stay forever. On the other hand,” and Phil’s voice sounded forlorn, “they may not even miss me. They’re going to a meeting tonight.”

  Johnny snapped the dry joe-pye weed stems as he jumped off the road and ran down the path. He was in a fine mood, braces gleaming behind his smile, arms swinging loosely. He jumped on the swamp buggy.

  “Hey,” Phil said as Craig started the engine, “where’s Steve?”

  Craig turned his back and yanked the cord. His anger came back to him. “He’s got a girl!” he shouted.

  “You’re kidding!” Phil said. “Not Steve. Steve’s gonna be a real scientist.”

  “Well, he isn’t now. He’s taking Cathy Smith to a dance.”

  Craig put the engine in gear. Phil and Johnny were too stunned by the news to say any more. After a time Johnny shrugged, looked toward the island, and shouted, “To shreds with them all! And now to victory!” The craft sailed out beyond the reeds and across the sleeping waters of the slow stream.