A Summer of Sundays (24 page)

We walked back to the van and took our seats.

“Is everyone ready to go?” May asked from her place behind the wheel.

I gulped and stole a glance at Emma.

May turned the key and the van rumbled to life. “See, it’s going to be a smooth ride.”

But smooth wouldn’t be the word I’d use as we jerked our way out of the driveway and down the street, the van stalling twice as May tried to switch gears.

“It-it-it just takes me a minute to-to-to get it.”

“That’s okay,” I said, the van hiccuping one last time before she shifted and we smoothed out.

“See?”

Mom clutched the armrest with white knuckles. “A rough start, May, but you got it.”

Emma whispered something under her breath, and May shot her a look of death in the mirror.

The rest of the drive to town went relatively well. A renegade rabbit crossing the street gave us all a little whiplash, but we arrived intact and alive.

May idled the van, not pulling into the space. “I think I’m going to practice my parallel parking.”

“That’s a good idea,” Mom said, yanking the handle and stepping onto the sidewalk. “I’ll make sure you don’t hit anything.”

“Not with me in the van,” Emma said. She unlocked her door and slid it open. “You three have fun. I’ll walk the rest of the way to the high school.”

I was about to get out, too, but was interrupted by a heavy sigh.

“At least I know you’ll always stick with me, Sunday.”

I settled back against the seat. “Yeah, of course I will.”

For the next five minutes, May heaved us forward, the car jerking almost constantly, and then slid the stick into reverse, whipped the steering wheel every which way, and hiccuped us backward. I could see her frustration as
she clutched the steering wheel with a death grip, and her cheeks reddened. Unfortunately she never made it close enough to the curb to actually consider it “parking,” and the van was anything but parallel.

May slid the stick into
PARK
, turned the key, and then slumped her forehead against the steering wheel.

“What are you doing, May?”

“I’m the worst driver on the entire planet. I will never get my stupid license and then I’ll always have to get a stupid ride whenever I want to go somewhere and everyone will know that I’m a stupid driving failure.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” I said. “You’ll get it.”

“No I won’t!” she said, looking up at me with a line of snot pouring out of her nose.

“Sure you will. I’ve heard that automatic cars are super easy. You need to try and convince Mom and Dad to let you drive one of those.”

Taking a napkin from the cup holder, she blew her nose.

“And there are lots of people who can’t drive that well.”

Sob.

“No, I’m serious. And some people don’t even need or want to drive. In this book I read there was a girl whose family lived in a big city. Her mom didn’t have a license. The family didn’t even own a car because they always took the bus and the subway and taxis and stuff.”

I knew mentioning taxis and subways would convince
her. May had been to New York City on a class trip last summer and spent two months trying to talk our parents into moving. Her room was covered in posters of Broadway shows and the New York City skyline.

“Yeah, I guess that’s true,” she said, stuffing the soaked tissue back into the cup holder.

“Of course it’s true. And not driving is also good because … because of the environment. It’s very ‘green conscious’ to not have a car.”

She looked up at me, her eyes puffy and red. “I learned about that last year in science class.”

I nodded. “You’ll get the hang of it, I’m sure. Besides, even if you don’t, it’s not that big of a deal.”

She turned and looked at me. Her smile was small but hopeful. “You really think I’ll get it?”

I unlocked the door, hopped out, and then peered in at her. “Definitely.”

She took a deep breath and slid the key in the ignition. “Thanks, Sunday,” she said.

I waved as Mom got back inside. The van jerked to a start and May whipped back out onto the street, the tires squealing on the pavement.

Ms. Bodnar hailed me from down the street. “Hi, Sunday!” she called.

“Hi, Ms. Bodnar.”

“I’ve missed you and Jude at the café. When are you two going to come by and visit? Crepes are on me.”

“We’ve been busy at the library. But I’ll tell Jude.”

“Well, I better get back to the café. Enjoy your day.”

“You, too. See you later.”

I watched her as she crossed the street, stopping momentarily to wave at a woman who barreled past her without a smile or a hello. The woman’s mouth was set in a deep frown, and her white knuckles clutched the collar of none other than Mr. Castor.

Mr. Castor trotted along oblivious to his dirt-covered muzzle and the partially eaten stem that hung out of his mouth. I pulled open the thrift store door just as she barged through. Maybe I’d wait out on the sidewalk until she left.

The door was flung open a few minutes later, the bell above dropping to the cement with a hollow clang. “This is ten times too many, Joanne!” the lady yelled.

Muzzy stood in the doorway, casting worried glances at Papa Gil, who seemed to be trying to calm the lady down.

But she wasn’t about to give him a chance. “If I catch that beast in my yard again I’m calling the police, the pound, and anybody else who might be able to keep him under control.” Then she turned on her heels and stomped out onto the sidewalk.

“Oh dear. What are we going to do, Gil? We can’t have the police take away our sweet Mr. Castor.”

Just then sweet Mr. Castor lunged at the front window, leaving drool dripping down the glass.

Papa Gil shook his head. “I don’t know, Joanne.”

Muzzy buried her head in his chest and began to cry.

“It’ll be all right, Muzzy. Maybe you could take him to obedience school.”

“We tried that already,” Papa Gil said. “He did well for a while. He knows how to sit and give you his paw, but then he takes off running the moment he gets loose and tears up anything he can get his mouth around.”

I remembered when Butters had run off a few times, her ears flapping and her little meatball legs carrying her faster than I ever thought possible. We had to pick her up at the pound twice. It was only when I started—

I thought about how I’d started taking her on two long walks a day after that. She came home and conked out for the rest of the night, barely opening up an eyelid she was so tired. “Maybe all he needs is more exercise?”

Muzzy lifted her head, sniffed, and tried to smile. “We take him on walks, really we do. But Gil and I can’t go as far or as fast anymore.”

“You could take him with you when you mow the library lawn, Papa Gil,” I said. “It’s fenced in. That’ll get him some exercise. Or ride your bike and hold on to his
leash so he has to jog next to you. I’ve seen people do that.”

Papa Gil looked down at Muzzy, who snuffled again and swiped at a tear. “You think that could work?”

“It’s worth a try. I’ve heard that’s one of the main reasons why dogs misbehave. They just need more exercise.”

“Really?”

I nodded. “And I know how to teach him to leave something alone. I saw it on a show. It worked for Butters.”

“We’ll try just about anything.”

For the next half hour, I ran my own obedience school in between a rack of ugly Christmas sweaters and stacks of old, scuffed-up shoes. Mr. Castor wasn’t fully trained by the end, but he looked like he was getting the hang of it.

Muzzy and Papa Gil were thrilled.

“Oh, Sunday, thank you!” Muzzy said, kissing me on the cheek. “I’m just sure this’ll work. I know it will.”

“You’re an angel, Sunday Fowler,” Papa Gil said, and held out the basket of candy.

“No thanks. I should probably get going.” I started toward the door.

“But wait,” Papa Gil called. “Did you come in here looking for something?”

The tape recorder. I’d almost forgotten. I did an about-face. “Yes, actually. I’m looking for an old tape recorder. Do you have one?”

Muzzy went to a shelf against the back wall lined with video tapes, old cameras, phones, and cassettes identical to the two in my backpack. She scanned the shelves, then pulled a big silver box down. “Will this work?”

I looked at the big buttons and the large speakers. “It’s perfect. I’ve never actually used one, though. Does the tape go in here?”

Muzzy took the tape recorder from my hands. “Here, let me show you.” She taught me how to put the tape inside, then how to rewind, fast-forward, and stop.

“Thanks,” I said. “It seems easy enough.”

“Compared to the contraptions you young people use nowadays, I’d say it’s about as simple as you could get.”

I flipped over the recorder and noticed the white sticker on the bottom. Seven dollars. “Um … I don’t really—”

“That’s on us,” Papa Gil said. He held up his hand as I started to protest. “I won’t take no for an answer. You’ve saved us from having to bail our dog out of the pound. The least we can do is give you that old tape recorder.”

I hugged both of them. “Thank you so much,” I said.

They walked me to the door, Mr. Castor drooling on my heels. “Our pleasure, Sunday.”

I WAS
convinced that the letters and the manuscript were Lee Wren’s, but I knew that it probably took a lot more than a few coincidences to prove it to reporters.

I didn’t have anything else.

“I bet there’s something on the tapes,” Jude said when we met up at the gate leading to Ben’s house.”

I sighed. “Yeah, maybe.”

We found another tray of flowers waiting for us by the porch steps along with Ben Folger, who was sitting out on his porch swing. He stood up and grabbed his gardening hat, meeting us on the walkway.

“Hi.”

“How was your trip with Wally?”

“It was so cool. His friend has this huge table where he draws the plans. That’s architect lingo for a drawing of a house. I got to see some of the plans and then a picture of what it looked like once the house was built. Then he let me draw something on my own with his rulers and
protractors and tools, and he said that he thought I had natural talent and to call him when I got older.”

“Cool,” I said. “And you had fun with Wally?”

Jude nodded. “Yeah, he was awesome. He took me out to a burger place afterward, and they weren’t organic burgers, either. We’re going to play some more catch so that we’re ready for the fair tomorrow.”

“That sounds like a great time,” Ben said. He turned his gaze toward me. “And how is the library coming along? The reopening party is in a few days, right?”

“Yeah, on Saturday,” I said. “It looks really good.”

Ben Folger nodded. “I spoke to your dad this morning about coming over once the library’s finished to take a look at the work I’d like done. And at the grocery store yesterday, I mentioned your dad’s name to Mr. Simmons, who is looking to add a deck onto his house.” He shrugged. “I’m not sure if anything’ll come of it. You might not even be able to stay in Alma longer, but maybe.”

“Thanks, Ben.”

He nodded, his cheeks flushing red.

A half hour later we stopped and went inside to make lemonade and bring out a plate of brownies. Then we took our glasses onto the porch.

After a few quiet moments, Ben got up and went inside. He returned, holding a deck of cards. “Why don’t we quit for today and play some cards?”

Jude shrugged, and we each pulled up one of the porch chairs to the small table.

“Sure,” Jude said. “I don’t know too many games, though.”

I held out my hands for the deck. On a trip to visit my cousins, I had spent the entire car ride perfecting my ability to shuffle.

“Crazy eights?”

Both Ben and Jude stared at me with open mouths.

“When did you learn how to shuffle like that?” Jude asked. He took the remainder of the deck and attempted to splay the cards together and then form a fluttering bridge. I laughed when they
thunked
lifelessly in his hand.

“Last summer,” I said. “So do you want to play?”

Ben Folger picked up his eight cards. “I’m ready.”

We played three rounds of crazy eights (I won two and Jude won the other), and then Ben and I taught Jude how to play spades (Ben won all four games).

I took the deck and started shuffling again.

“Do you have a chessboard?” Jude asked.

Ben’s face lit up. “Sure do. I haven’t played chess in years.”

He went to get up, but I beat him to it, the empty brownie plate in my hand. “I can get it. Just tell me where it is.”

Ben sank back into the chair. “I think it’s in the right-hand drawer of the coffee table.”

Chess was not one of my favorite games. It moved along slower than dripping honey, and I didn’t have the
patience for it. But maybe this was my chance to talk to Ben about Lee Wren.

I walked into the kitchen, set the plate in the sink, then pulled the wooden chess box out of the drawer and carried it out to the porch.

Ben and Jude were talking about their favorite foods, so I lifted the lid and pulled out the small pouch filled with pieces, then the board. A photograph fluttered out and landed on the ground.