A Summer of Sundays (12 page)

He frowned and his eyes filled with tears. “Please, Sunday? Please? I won’t get in the way.”

“Maybe next time, okay?”

Mom picked him up and gave him one of her squeezer hugs, the sort that takes the breath right out of you. He laughed. “Besides,” she said, “I need you here to help me today.” She winked at me. “Just be home for dinner.”

Jude came back out on the porch with another donut in his hand. This one had the entire top eaten off of it, but he didn’t seem to mind. He smiled and followed me down the stairs. “I guess Emma isn’t up yet.”

I walked faster, jealousy nipping at my heels. “Nope. She sleeps most of the day. She’s almost like a zombie and looks like one when she wakes up. It’s pretty gross.”

JUDE’S
house was on the other side of Main Street. It was painted bright white, and a small fence circled a yard that was cleaner than any of our rooms. The inside was even neater. There were no magazines, paper airplanes, toys, tools, peanut butter smears, or bits of dried browned apple left on the end table. I kept my hands to my sides like I was on a field trip to a museum.

“My mom likes it clean, and when Wally’s around he picks up around the house, too.”

“That’s nice of him.”

“Yeah, but now it’s
too
clean.”

I followed him down a hallway. Jude’s room was slightly better. His bed was crisply made, like a hotel bed, and there wasn’t anything on his floor. The books on the bookshelf were like soldiers all in a row, and the mirror had no fingerprints or dog-nose smudges. But there was a shirt hung over the frame of his bed and a poster of a surfer careening down a wave, loose on one corner.

“All right,” Jude said, sitting down on a spin-ny chair, pulling out the keyboard, and clacking away. “What did you want to look up?”

“Is this your own computer?” There were only a few things that were actually mine. The rest fell into three categories: things I had to share, things I had been given as hand-me-downs, or things I was allowed to borrow.

He nodded. “I got it from my grandparents last Christmas. I want to be an architect. You have to know how to use a computer if you’re going to do that.”

The book
Hoot
—one of my favorites—sat next to a framed picture of Jude, slightly younger, on the desk. He stood on a surfboard in a bathing suit and surf shirt, though the wave was only a giant cutout, and the board was a sleek plastic. “I take it you like surfing, too?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. I’ve never done it, but Mom promised me that someday we’d go someplace where I could learn.”

“Cool.”

“Now, what did you want to look up?”

“Type in the
Alma Gazette
.”

“The newspaper? Why do you want to look at that?” He tapped at the keys without even looking at the letters and hit
ENTER
. A list of websites filled the screen.

I shrugged. “I just want to see if there are … any old newspapers that mention … Ben Folger.”

He whirled around. “Sunday, are you serious?”

“Wait, before you go crazy. I really think that maybe if I befriend him …”

“What?!”

“Or if I have proof that he’s a criminal, then … this could be my chance to do something to get noticed.”

We stared at each other in silence.

“Come on, Jude, please. We tried baking a giant cookie. I tried jumping rope. My mom and Miss Jenny are planning a reopening party, and I have no more leads on the manuscript. Just search Ben Folger’s name. Maybe nothing will come up. But if there is something, then we could be heroes. Think about it.”

He shook his head and muttered, “Think about getting killed.”

“Please.”

“Okay, okay.” He clicked on
ARCHIVES
and then typed
BEN FOLGER
into the search box.

I smiled when a series of articles popped up.

LOCAL LIBRARIAN WINS GRANT FOR TOWN LIBRARY

LIBRARIAN STARTS UP READING PROGRAM FOR KIDS

FUND-RAISER TO BENEFIT LOCAL LIBRARY

LIBRARY TO HOST FAMOUS AUTHOR LEE WREN

“You never told me he was a librarian,” I said, knocking Jude with my elbow.

He shrugged. “I didn’t know he was.”

“Do you see what this could mean?”

“That crazy Ben Folger used to be crazy Ben Folger, the librarian?”

“No, Jude. He was a librarian. I found the story in the library. That means he could’ve written the story I found.”

The headline flashed in my head:

LOCAL RECLUSE WINS PULITZER PRIZE FOR STORY HE HID AWAY. TWELVE-YEAR-OLD GIRL HONORED FOR THE DISCOVERY.

Jude clicked out of the window and slid the keyboard back under the desk. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Well, he could have.”

“Yeah, but you said my mom could have, too.”

I straightened my shoulders. “And I still think she might have. But it’s okay to have more than one potential person.”

Jude spun the chair around and around. “I guess you’re right. But Ben Folger—it’s just not—”

“It is possible,” I interrupted, plopping onto his bed. “But since we’re at your house, why don’t we search for clues and see if your mom was the author?”

“Okay. What should we look for?”

“Well, I guess anything that she’s written.”

I followed Jude into the bedroom across the hall. Like his room, everything looked as if it been washed, dried, and ironed to perfection. A long-stemmed rose in an elegant glass vase sat on the nightstand. I bent down and sniffed the petals, the sweet scent reminding me of the
rose Dad gave my sisters and me each year on Valentine’s Day. “Did Wally give her this?”

He turned and rolled his eyes. “Probably.”

“That’s sweet.”

“I guess. Now, help me look.”

I glanced around the room but other than her dresser drawers, which Jude was opening and closing, I couldn’t see any places to hide something. There were no dust bunnies under the bed, and her closet held neatly hung clothes and shoes sitting side by side.

“Here’s something,” Jude said, pulling out a few pages from the nightstand drawer. “ ‘The Modern Professional,’ ” he read aloud. “ ‘Chapter One. Clothes. If someone wants to become a secretary someday, he or she needs to make sure to have nice clothes. What are nice clothes? For a woman, they are: skirt (not too short but not too long, either), high-heeled shoes, nylons, and a nice blouse. Jewelry is always an option. Maybe some nice pearl earrings. For a man, they should be—’ ” Jude stopped reading and looked up at me with a smile. “I love my mom, but from what you’ve told me about the story, I don’t think she’s the one who wrote it.”

I shrugged. “Yeah, I don’t think so, either. But who knows, maybe there are people out there who want to read about what to wear if they ever start working at a bank.”

Jude tucked the papers back in the drawer. “I guess this means you want to search Ben Folger’s house?”

I grinned. Even though we had only known each other for a little while, Jude already knew me well enough to know that’s exactly what I was thinking.

“Before we go waltzing up to the local lunatic’s house, which, by the way, we probably won’t ever return from, and ask if we can look inside for clues about a story he might have written and locked away in the library, I think we should ask around about him.”

We stood on the corner of Main Street. I pretended I didn’t hear a word Jude said. Every day that I spent not trying to make my mark was another day that I remained just one-of-the-six. Hermit, lunatic, or writer, I needed to find out something about Ben Folger.

“So, do you have any idea who we can to talk to?”

Jude sighed and started down the sidewalk toward the thrift store. “We’ll talk to Muzzy first. She knows almost everything that goes on in Alma.”

We pushed through the door, a small bell dinging above our heads and announcing that we had arrived. The store was filled with everything you could think of. Old dishes, scuffed shoes, used clothes, scratched furniture, unpolished jewelry, and worn books. I’d started on
The Life and Death of Birds
but couldn’t bring myself to turn down a copy of
Princess Academy
for fifty cents. I unzipped my backpack and fished out my loose change. Two quarters, two dimes, and one penny. After grabbing the book off the shelf and tucking it under my arm, I smiled and reached for an old belt with the name
JOHN
pressed into the leather.

“Muzzy? Papa Gil?” Jude called out.

We heard the big dog before we saw him, his bark echoing from the back of the store. Then there was a clatter of nails on wood and he came bounding toward us, all fur, paws, slobber, and tail.

“Oh, Mr. Castor,” a woman said, fluttering out from the back. “Down, Mr. Castor. Down.” She had short white hair and pointed ears that reminded me of a fairy.

Mr. Castor didn’t listen. Instead he jumped up, put his heavy paws on my shoulders, and licked my cheek. I gently pushed him off, wiped the slobber on my T-shirt, and scratched his ears.

“Hi, Mr. Castor.” His tail swooshed back and forth, swiping pens and pencils and papers off one of the displays.

“I’m sorry,” the woman huffed, tugging at Mr. Castor’s collar. But she might as well have been a flea trying to pull a tractor. She gave up and wiped her forehead. “He just gets so excited, and he’s still just a puppy.”

I raised my eyebrows. If he was a puppy, I could hardly
imagine what he’d be like when he was full grown. He was already the size of a small polar bear.

The man I had seen walking up the library stairs a few days ago smacked red suspenders against his chest. “He’s not a puppy, Joanne! The dog’s about five years old.”

“Oh, age means nothing,” the woman said, brushing him off. “He’s young at heart.”

“He’s young at something. Discipline maybe. Manners. All the characteristics that make it a joy to own a dog. Man’s best friend, he is not.”

“Hush, Gil,” she said, then turned to Mr. Castor, who was gnawing on a table leg that looked to be about chewed through. “He doesn’t mean it, Mr. Castor. You’re a good boy.”

The dog’s tail thumped loudly on the floor, sending up tufts of snow-white fur.

The man rolled his eyes. “Well, now that Mr. Castor is occupied with destroying our business, we can find out what brings Jude into the store with a pretty young girl.”

“Buying jewelry for your girlfriend?” the woman asked.

Jude’s face turned the color of a red lollipop. “No. This is Sunday. She and her family are the ones fixing up the library this summer.”

“Oh, yes,” the man said, rubbing at the gray stubble on his chin. “I met your mom and dad and your sisters. Call me Papa Gil. It’s nice to meet you, Sunday. Interesting name.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Everyone names their kids something interesting these days,” his wife said. “I’ve read about all sorts of names that were unheard of back in my day.” She turned to Papa Gil. “I read the other day how someone named their child Rocket.” She smiled. “Can you imagine?”

“I like it,” Papa Gil said. “It has purpose. Maybe I’ll start going by Rocket.”

Muzzy shook her head and nudged him gently on the arm. Then she turned to me. “I’m Muzzy.” She wrapped her arms around me, squeezing harder than I thought she could. “It’s nice to meet you, Sunday.”

Papa Gil squinted and glanced out the window at something, then smiled. “So what can we do for you two since you’re not buying jewelry? Need any shoes?”

“Maybe a set of dishes?” Muzzy cut in, her face serious.

Jude nudged me forward. I felt my cheeks heat up. “I’m … well, Jude and I were wondering if you know anything about … about Old … I mean, Ben Folger.”

Muzzy reached up to a shelf for a large basket overflowing with candy. “Oh, Ben, yes. Well, no, I don’t actually. Not really. He keeps very much to himself and seems to like it that way, though I can’t imagine why. I just love meeting people and talking with people and watching people. Though I suppose there are times when I—”

“Joanne, dear.” Papa Gil gave her a look.

Muzzy smiled. “Yes, well. I’ve stood behind him in line at the grocery store a couple of times. I gathered from his cart that he eats quite a lot of deli ham, he loves mini chocolate cupcakes, and he eats an obscene amount of yogurt. I mean, I’ve never seen so much yogurt in all my life. It made me wonder if he has bad bones.” She turned to Papa Gil, who was smiling down at her with the same puppy dog–eyed look I sometimes saw my parents give each other. “Isn’t yogurt good for the bones?”

Papa Gil shrugged. “I’m not sure, dear.”

“Anyway, he eats a lot of it.”

Yogurt, ham, and chocolate cupcakes. Not much to go on.

“Do you know if he likes to do anything?”

Papa Gil shook his head no. “I wouldn’t know about that, but he must like flowers. His yard is the prettiest in town. If I’m ever out by his house, he’s always bent over one of the beds, or planting or watering.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Muzzy said. “His flowers are the most beautiful I’ve seen. But what woman doesn’t love flowers? I know I do, though Gil hardly gets them for me anymore.” She said this last part under her breath but still loud enough for him to hear.