Bud, Not Buddy Read online

  Just like there’s a time that a smart person knows enough is enough, there’s a time when you know you’ve got to fight. I wasn’t about to let this vampire suck my blood dry without a war, he could kiss my wrist if he thought that was going to happen.

  I got up off my knees and picked up the gray rake. I walked over to the woodpile cool as a cucumber. But inside, every part of my guts was shaking.

  I stood up on the woodpile and held the rake like it was a Louisville Slugger. I eyed where the bat was sleeping and revved the rake like I was going to hit a four-hundred-foot home run. Just before I swung I remembered another one of Bud Caldwell’s Rules and Things for Having a Funner Life and Making a Better Liar Out of Yourself.

  RULES AND THINGS NUMBER 328

  When You Make Up Your Mind to Do Something, Hurry Up and Do It, If You Wait You Might Talk Yourself Out of What You Wanted in the First Place.

  Shucks, I couldn’t remember for sure if you killed a vampire by driving a stake in its heart or by shooting it with a silver bullet!

  If I was wrong and didn’t kill the bat right away I was going to be trapped in the shed with a vampire who was probably going to be real upset that someone had woke him up by whacking him with a rake.

  I took my jackknife out of my pocket and pulled the blade open. That way if I didn’t kill him with the rake and it came down to the two of us tussling on the floor maybe a silver blade in his heart would be just as good as a silver bullet. Unless that was what you had to do with werewolves.

  I raised the rake over my head again, closed my eyes and swung it like I was Paul Bunyan chopping down a tree with one blow. I felt the rake jerk a little when it hit the bat and I opened my eyes just in time to see the vampire get cut right in half. I was kind of surprised it didn’t scream or cry or say, “Curses, you got me!” Instead the only sound I heard was a kind of rattling like a couple of pieces of paper rubbing together or like dry leaves blowing around in the wind.

  The next sound I heard was even worse than if the vampire had said, “Aha, you doggone kid, that hurt, but now I get my revenge!”

  It sounded like I’d turned on a buzz saw in the shed. All of a sudden it felt like someone had stuck a red-hot nail right into my left cheek. My hand reached up to grab my cheek and I felt something creepy and prickly there. I brought my hand back down and it was holding the biggest, maddest hornet I’d ever seen. I squeezed my hand shut to crush it but it got in another sting on my palm.

  What I’d thought was a vampire bat hanging on the ceiling was really a hornets’ nest and now there were about six thousand hornets flying around in the tiny shed and each and every one of them was looking for me!

  Another fire-nail went into my knee and a second one went into my sock. Maybe this was why the other kid that they’d found in here had been as big as a whale, he was swole up from all the hornet stings!

  I dropped my shoulder down and charged at the door with all my might. The door banged against the lock but didn’t budge a inch. All that happened was the rag I’d covered the fish heads with came off and I got bounced back and landed square on the floor. I jumped up again. This time when I charged at the door I put my hand out like Paul Robeson running down the football field. This wasn’t a real good idea, I forgot all about the fish-head door guards. My fingers went right into the mouth of the biggest one and his little needle teeth cut me like a razor. I pulled my hand back and screamed.

  Another hornet buzzed into my ear and it felt like someone had poured hot wax right down into my brain.

  The only thing I could think to do was jump on the woodpile and bust the glass out of the window. I grabbed the handles of the window and gave them one more jerk. I guess being scared gives you a lot of strength because this time the window flew open with a loud bang. Three hornets found me at the same time and all four of us fell out of the window.

  As soon as we hit the ground I rolled as far away from the shed as I could go. I smacked and whacked the hornets that had taken a ride on me and just laid there until I could catch my breath.

  After while the stings and the fish-guard bite quit hurting so much. I started getting madder and madder. I was mad at the Amoses, but most of all I was mad at me for believing there really was a vampire in the shed and for getting trapped like this where there wasn’t anybody who cared what happened to me.

  I simmered down and started thinking about getting even. I wondered how hard I’d have to pull the trigger on that double-barrel shotgun for it to go off. I sneaked up the back porch steps to get inside the house. Maybe the vampire bat didn’t say it, but the only thought on my mind was, “Aha, you doggone Amoses, that hurt, but now I get my revenge!”

  THEY HADN’T LOCKED the kitchen window. It slid open with just a couple of squeaks, then I was inside the Amos house crouched down like a cat burglar. Quick as a rabbit I looked under the table to see if they’d moved my suitcase. It was still there.

  I got a whole lot calmer when I picked it up and it was the right weight, I didn’t think they’d taken anything out of it. I couldn’t be sure until I looked inside but I could do that later.

  I took in a deep breath and looked over at the icebox to see if the shotgun was still there. I let all the air out in a big puff when I saw it. Shucks, you’d think that with the Amoses being so doggone mean they’d worry about leaving a big old gun like that out in the open. What if one of their visitors got real mad at them about something?

  I unlocked the back door and set my suitcase on the first step of the porch, so I could make a quick getaway after I was through paying these Amoses back.

  I opened the screen door real quiet and went back into the house. Fair is fair. The Amoses deserved what they were going to get.

  I can’t all the way blame Todd for giving me trouble, though. If I had a regular home with a mother and father I wouldn’t be too happy about other kids living in my house either.

  Being unhappy about it is one thing, but torturing the kids who are there even though they don’t want to be is another. It was my job to make sure other kids who didn’t know where their mothers and fathers were didn’t have to put up with Todd.

  My heart started jumping around in my stomach as soon as I reached out for the shotgun.

  It was a lot longer and heavier than I thought it would be.

  I lifted it and felt how solid the smooth brown wood was against my shoulder. With it up close to my face like this I could smell the gray metal of the barrel and the gun oil Mr. Amos used on it.

  I aimed the gun at the stove and pretended I was shooting at a elephant or a dragon or a tiger, or best of all, Todd!

  I imagined how it would feel to creep up to his bed while he was sleeping and put the shotgun barrel right in his nose.

  After that I’d have to do some quick moving to get the grown-up Amoses. Unless they were real sound sleepers the shotgun going off in Todd’s room would give them a clue that something was going on.

  I lowered the gun. These things were just too dangerous to play with or to take chances with, that’s why the first part of my revenge plan was to get this gun out of the way.

  If something went wrong and the Amoses woke up I didn’t want them rushing down to the kitchen to get the gun. I knew they’d shoot me in a flash and tell the Home it was a accident.

  I took the gun outside and put it on the back porch in a corner where they wouldn’t be able to see it until daytime. I felt a lot better when it was out of my hands.

  When I was back in the kitchen I started opening cupboards looking for the drinking glasses. The first one I opened had the jelly jar they’d given me to drink out of at suppertime.

  I walked over to the sink and turned on one of the spigots. These Amoses had hot water running right into the house! I let it run for a second to warm up and put a dishrag in the bottom of the sink so the splashing wasn’t too loud.

  When the water was good and hot I stuck the jelly jar underneath until it was filled to the brim.

  I started down t
he hall. Todd’s door came open easy as anything.

  I tiptoed over to his bed. He was deep asleep and his hands were crossed on his chest like he was ready for the graveyard.

  I dipped my middle finger in the water. It felt like the perfect temperature.

  I held my breath and picked up one of Todd’s chubby hands.

  One of the older boys at the Home told me if you dipped someone’s hand in a warm glass of water whilst they’re asleep they don’t have any choice but to pee the bed. It’s something about chemistry and biology making some valve in your guts open up and . . . woop, zoop, sloop . . . you got a wet bed.

  I started to dip Todd’s fingers in the water. But I couldn’t dip more than two fingers at a time. Todd’s bed stayed as dry as the desert.

  I tried holding Todd’s hand flat and pouring water over it but he still didn’t wet the bed.

  Finally I decided to just pour the water on his pajama pants.

  I pulled the blanket and sheet down and emptied the jar.

  His face twitched a couple of times and for a minute it looked like his eyes were going to come open but they stayed shut. He smiled and the warm water from the jelly jar opened that little valve up and . . . woop, zoop, sloop . . . he soaked his sheets!

  I tiptoed out of the room and down the hall and out the door.

  My favorite saying in the whole world is “He who laughs last laughs best,” so I put my hand over my mouth and whispered, “Ha-ha-ha.”

  I picked up my suitcase and walked to the street.

  Man! I was on the lam, I was just like Public Enemy Number One. If J. Edgar Hoover and the FBI saw me now I’d be in some real serious hot water!

  BEING ON THE LAM was a whole lot of fun . . . for about five minutes. Every time my heart beat I could feel the blood pushing hot and hard on the inside of my sting spots and the bite on my hand. But I couldn’t let that slow me down, I had to get out of this neighborhood as quick as I could.

  I knew a nervous-looking, stung-up kid with blood dripping from a fish-head bite and carrying a old raggedy suitcase didn’t look like he belonged around here.

  The only hope I had was the north side library. If I got there maybe Miss Hill would be able to help me, maybe she’d understand and would be able to tell me what to do. And for now I could sneak into the library’s basement to sleep.

  It was a lot later than I’d ever been up before and I was kind of scared of the cops catching me. I had to be real careful, even if it was the middle of the night, even if I was crouching down, sneaking along the street like Pretty Boy Floyd.

  At the library I walked past a row of giant Christmas trees that were planted on the side of the building. There was a door on the side with a light burning above it so I kept walking in the shadows made by the big trees. When I got to the back windows, I almost busted out crying. Somebody had gone and put big metal bars on the windows.

  Even though I knew it was useless I tried tugging at the bars but they were the real McCoy, solid steel.

  I headed back to the Christmas trees. They were low enough to the ground that no one could see me unless they were really looking, so I started opening my suitcase. Most folks don’t have sense enough to carry a blanket around with them, but you never know when you might be sleeping under a Christmas tree at the library so I always keep mine handy.

  I untied the strange knots that the Amoses had put in my twine and opened the suitcase. I could tell right away that someone had been fumbling through my things. First off, whenever I put the blanket in, I always fold it so that it stops all the other things from banging up against each other, but those doggone Amoses had just stuffed it in without paying no mind to what it was mashing up against.

  I lifted the blanket out and saw that everything else was still there. You might be able to say that the Amoses were some mean old nosy folks, but you couldn’t call them thieves.

  I picked up the old tobacco bag that I keep my rocks in. I could tell by the way the drawstring was pulled that the Amoses had been poking through this too. I jiggled it up and down in my hand a couple of times and it felt like none of the rocks was missing but I opened it to count them anyway. None of them was gone.

  Next I pulled Momma’s picture out of the envelope I kept it in and held it so the light from the library’s side door would shine down on it.

  It looked like the Amoses hadn’t hurt it. This was the only picture of Momma in the world. Running acrost the top of it was a sign that was writ on a long skinny flag, it said, BOYS AND GIRLS—FOLLOW THE GENTLE LIGHT TO THE MISS B. GOTTEN MOON PARK. Underneath the sign, between two big wagon wheels, was Momma.

  She was about as old as I am now and was looking down and frowning. I can’t understand why she was so unhappy, this park looked like the kind of place where you could have a lot of fun.

  In the picture Momma was sitting on a real live little midget horse. It looked tired and dragged out like those big workhorses do, but it had a teeny-tiny body with a big sag where most horses have a straight back.

  Momma was sitting right in the middle of the horse’s back, riding him sidesaddle, except there wasn’t any saddle so I guess you have to say she was riding him side-sag. She had two six-shooter pistols in her hands and the way her face looked you could tell she wished she could’ve emptied them on somebody. And I know who that somebody was. Momma told me it was her father, my granddad.

  He’d gone and ruined everybody’s fun that day by getting in a big fight with my mother about the gigantic white twenty-five-gallon Texas cowboy hat that she was wearing.

  Momma used to tell me, “That hardheaded man insisted, insisted mind you, that I wear that horrible hat.”

  The hat was almost as big as Momma and you could see it was fake because as tall as it was no real cowboy could’ve wore it without getting it knocked off his head every time he rode under a tree or some telegraph wires.

  Momma told me that some man used to drag the midget horse all through her neighborhood with a camera and if your momma or daddy signed a piece of paper he’d take some pictures of you, then come back in a couple of weeks so you could buy them. Momma wasn’t looking like she had rocks in her jaw because the hat was so fake that a real cowboy would’ve laughed you out of town for wearing it, she was mad because the hat was so dirty.

  When she used to tell me about it her eyes would get big and burny, like the whole thing happened the day before yesterday instead of all those years ago. She’d start moving around our apartment real quick, picking things up and putting them back in the exact same spot.

  “Filth!” she’d say about the hat. “Absolute filth! Why, the thing was positively alive with germs! Who knows what type of people had worn it?”

  I’d say, “I don’t know, Momma.”

  She’d say, “Who knows how many years it had been worn by who knows how many sweaty little heads?”

  I’d say, “I don’t know, Momma.”

  She’d say, “The entire band on the inside was black and I’m sure it was crawling with ringworm, lice and tetters!”

  I’d say, “Yes, Momma.”

  She’d say, “And that horrid little photographer didn’t care, do you imagine it ever occurred to him to wash it?”

  I’d say, “No, Momma.”

  She’d say, “Of course not, we meant less to him than that horse he mistreated so.”

  I’d say, “Yes, Momma.”

  She’d say, “But your grandfather insisted. To this day I cannot understand why, but he insisted, insisted . . .”

  I’d say, “Yes, Momma.”

  We had that conversation a lot of times.

  Me and Momma having the same conversations lots of times is one of the main things I can remember about her now. Maybe that’s because when she’d tell me these things she used to squeeze my arms and look right hard in my face to make sure I was listening, but maybe I remember them because those arm-squeezing, face-looking times were the only times that things slowed down a little bit when Momma was around.
r />   Everything moved very, very fast when Momma was near, she was like a tornado, never resting, always looking around us, never standing still. The only time stuff didn’t blow around when she was near was when she’d squeeze my arms and tell me things over and over and over and over.

  She had four favorite things to tell me, one of them was about the picture and another one was about my name.

  She’d say, “Bud is your name and don’t you ever let anyone call you anything outside of that either.”

  She’d tell me, “Especially don’t you ever let anyone call you Buddy, I may have some problems but being stupid isn’t one of them, I would’ve added that dy onto the end of your name if I intended for it to be there. I knew what I was doing, Buddy is a dog’s name or a name that someone’s going to use on you if they’re being false-friendly. Your name is Bud, period.”

  I’d say, “OK, Momma.”

  And she’d say, every single time, “And do you know what a bud is?”

  I always answered, “Yes, Momma,” but it was like she didn’t hear me, she’d tell me anyway.

  “A bud is a flower-to-be. A flower-in-waiting. Waiting for just the right warmth and care to open up. It’s a little fist of love waiting to unfold and be seen by the world. And that’s you.”

  I’d say, “Yes, Momma.”

  I know she didn’t mean anything by naming me after a flower, but it’s sure not something I tell anybody about.

  Another thing she’d tell me was, “Don’t you worry, Bud, as soon as you get to be a young man I have a lot of things I’ll explain to you.” That didn’t make me calm at all, that was Bud Caldwell’s Rules and Things to Have a Funner Life and Make a Better Liar Out of Yourself Number 83.

  RULES AND THINGS NUMBER 83

  If a Adult Tells You Not to Worry, and

  You Weren’t Worried Before, You Better Hurry

  Up and Start ’Cause You’re Already Running Late.