A Summer of Sundays (17 page)

He nodded. “You’re welcome. I’m … I’m not used to making lunches for kids.”

“It was good. And we finished tilling one of the new flower beds. And—”
Think, Sunday, think
. I peered behind him into his house and noticed the bookshelf I had seen last night. “Books!” I blurted out.

“What?”

“Um … I see you like books. I do, too. I read all the time. I even won a contest in my school for reading the most books. I’ll probably win this summer, too. Since we’ve been here I’ve already read
The Secret Garden
again, a Nancy Drew book, and
Princess Academy
.”

“That’s nice.”

“Could I … could I look at them?”
Did I really just say that?
I must’ve, because there he was, opening the door wider so I could come in.

“I suppose. Just be careful.”

I gulped, turned to look at Jude, whose face was pale, and then stepped inside. It smelled like pine trees and cinnamon. I walked past the piano and the small table where a cup sat alongside an empty cellophane wrapper. Maybe he’d just eaten one of the chocolate cupcakes that Muzzy said he liked. There was also a book, flipped over with a small bookmark sticking out from the top of the pages.

I recognized the back cover because it was the same as the one that sat on the nightstand in my room. Lee Wren’s
The Life and Death of Birds
.

“I just started reading this book,” I said, reaching for it.

Ben Folger rushed forward and grabbed it.

I jerked my hand away. “Oh, sorry.”

His wrinkled cheeks flushed red and he looked down at the book, tucking the bookmark inside the pages so that it disappeared. “I … don’t want to lose my place.”

I could tell he was embarrassed. “I’m the same way. I hate it when my brothers lose my place.”

He didn’t look up but nodded with a hint of a smile.

“I like the book so far. What part are you on?”

His smile grew. “When Hunter’s father finds the bird in the backyard.”

I nodded. “Hmm, I’m not there yet. I’m only on chapter two, when Aunt Sierra arrives at the house.”

Ben Folger gave me a quick smile. Without the scowl plastered on his face, he looked almost kind. Sort of like a face that loved stories like I did. And one that I bet had stories to tell.

The dinner triangle clanged from across the field. My mom had been forgiving the other day but probably wouldn’t be a second time.

“Sunday!” Jude called from the doorway.

“I’m coming.” I turned to Ben Folger. “I better go.”

“Yes,” he said, and followed after me to the front door. “I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

Jude and I walked quietly down the walkway and out of the gate. From there, we burst into a run, dashing through the tall weeds in the field and flushing out a flock of small blackbirds.

“So what in the world did you do in there?” Jude pushed out through gasps of air. “See any bones?”

“No. I talked to him about books,” I said. “He’s reading the same book I am right now, isn’t that crazy?”

“He’s crazy.”

We stopped in front of my house. “He isn’t,” I said.
“And I’ll prove it to you. Tomorrow we’ll both go in and talk to him. Unless you’re scared.”

Jude started off toward his house. “I’m not scared. I just have more brains than you do.”

I laughed. “Tomorrow, Jude!”

Bo dashed out from behind the house and wrapped his arms around my waist. “Sunday’s here. See, CJ! I told you she’d make it back alive.”

“Of course I’m alive,” I said.

He pulled away and grabbed on to my hand, leading me into the backyard. “CJ was making a grave for you.”

“Really?”

“Henry and me were in charge of taking away the dirt.”

We reached CJ, who was streaked with mud and looking a little disappointed to see me.

“I told you,” Bo said. “And look, Sunday, I picked that piece of wood for your gravestone.”

“Don’t worry,” CJ said, digging his shovel into the ground again. “I was gonna write something nice.”

I examined the large hole—more deep than it was long. “Wow, thanks, CJ.” I let the sarcasm drip off my words.

He shrugged and pressed the shovel into the earth. “Sure thing.”

“You know you still have a lot of digging to do, right? I mean, no one can fit in there.”

“Well, I thought that maybe we’d bury you feetfirst. You know, have your head sticking up out of the ground. It would completely freak people out.”

I rolled my eyes. “Come on, guys. Mom rang the triangle a few minutes ago. If we don’t hurry, we’ll have more graves to dig.”

After dinner, standing on the porch, I found myself torn between sneaking away to my room to read or dancing around in the cool grass, catching fireflies.

“Come on, Sunday,” Bo said, pulling me down the stairs. “Let’s see who can catch the most.”

I glanced up at my bedroom window imagining myself sinking onto my pillow, book in hand, surrounded by nothing but quiet and words. I sighed. I didn’t want to dash around in the dark right now. It seemed … silly.

I started to sneak away, unnoticed by Bo, who I could barely see in the deepening dusk, when a firefly blinked in front of my eyes. Smiling, I reached for it, plopping it into my jar as I had done every summer since I could remember. “I caught one!” I called out.

But watching the bug crawling up the sides of the jar didn’t feel exciting like it had every other summer when
I caught fireflies. Instead of placing my hand protectively over the lid, I watched as the small bug perched on the lip of the jar, spread its wings, and then buzzed off. I followed it for a moment as it blinked once or twice more until it blended in with the rest of the flashing lights.

The screen door creaked, and Mom and Dad walked out, sitting on the stairs with steaming cups of coffee.

My brothers’ giggles and shouts echoed around me as I stood once more in that unfamiliar place between too old and too young. After a few more moments, I slipped away into the house and up to my bedroom.

Picking up
The Life and Death of Birds
, I went to the window and looked out, my brothers’ shadows dancing and the fireflies blinking around them. I plopped onto my bed and let myself drift into the pages.

“SO,”
Jude asked the next morning. “Any letters from the authors yet?” He was pouring syrup on a small stack of pancakes slathered in butter, even though he said he’d already eaten gluten-free granola and homemade nonfat sugar-free yogurt before coming over.

I shook my head, flipping through the
Alma Gazette
. “Nope. They probably just need more advance warning.”

He mumbled through a bite of pancake.

“When you finish eating, we should head over to Ben Folger’s house.” I’d just gotten to the part in
The Life and Death of Birds
where Hunter went against her aunt’s wishes to take care of the injured bird, and I wanted to see what Ben thought about it.

Jude looked out at the gray sky and the puddles that were starting to form in the grass. “I don’t think we’ll be able to work in the rain.”

“I think we should go over and at least ask.”

Jude stuffed another bite in his mouth and shrugged.

My eyes landed on a short article on the fourth page of the paper. “Hey, look at this.” I turned the paper toward Jude and pointed at the bold title:
ALMA LIFE
. “It says it’s by Joanne ‘Muzzy’ Hopkins.”

Jude stopped mid-chew and squinted his eyes at the paper. “Wow, I never knew she wrote for the newspaper.”

I read the article aloud, hoping to find a clue:

“ ‘Monday was a sunny day, though a few clouds passed over in the mid afternoon.

‘Mrs. Fielding’s son, Aaron, who has been in California for the past two years, came for a long-awaited visit. To celebrate, she made one of her delicious apple pies, which was always Aaron’s favorite. It’s good to see Aaron applying himself, as I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Svently still remember the year he put toilet paper in their maple tree. In other news, Mr. Goldfine, an English teacher at Alma Area High School, has finally decided to cut his long braid and donate it to an organization that makes wigs. Scott O’Deary has informed me that because of the recent aches in his knees, we are in for a low-pressure system. Until next week, keep smiling.’ ”

Jude laughed. “Was that it?”

I looked up. “Maybe she wrote the story I found?”

“No way, Sunday.”

I licked the blob of syrup hanging off the end of my fork and shrugged. “Well, it definitely doesn’t seem like
the same writer, but who knows? Maybe she’s brilliant and undiscovered.” I ignored Jude’s snort. “Besides, we need to check out all the possibilities.”

By the time we finished with breakfast, the rain was just a drizzle. Jude and I started across the wet field.

Ben Folger must’ve been watching for us, because he stepped out onto the porch just as we pushed through the front gate. Jude sucked in his breath.

“Relax,” I whispered. “If he was going to kill us he would’ve done it yesterday. We’re fixing his flower beds.”

“Yeah, that’s probably where he’s planning on burying us. I thought I found a cat bone yesterday.”

I rolled my eyes and glanced at our work. The dirt was a deep chocolate brown, rich and healthy looking. I imagined deep green leaves poking out from the surface.

“It’s raining,” Ben Folger said from the porch.

“Yep,” I said.

Jude didn’t say anything, but I felt him step closer to me, his arm brushing against mine.

Ben Folger took his glasses off and wiped them on his plaid shirt. “I don’t think it’ll last much longer. I suppose you should come inside and wait it out.”

I said “All right” at the exact time that Jude said “No thanks.”

I glared at him. “Jude,” I said through clenched teeth.

Ben Folger turned and stepped inside. “It’s up to you.”

I reached for the door, catching it just before it closed, and then stepped inside. Jude stood on the other side of the screen. I motioned him with my hand. “Come on.”

He rolled his eyes, opened the door, and followed me into the living room. Ben Folger was nowhere in sight, though I heard a cabinet being opened and closed, and the sound of glasses clinking together.

“Sit anywhere,” he called out.

“I’ll sit here, next to the telephone,” Jude whispered. “That way I can dial 911 in case he turns on us. You sit closest to the door and make a run for it if he does.”

It was my turn to roll my eyes at him. “Jude, you’re being ridiculous. How many times do I have to tell you that he isn’t going to kill—”

The whistling of a teapot interrupted our whispering. “I’m just saying that we should be prepared.” He sat next to the telephone, resting his hand on the small end table so that his fingers brushed the phone’s base.

I walked around the room, my eyes settling on a stack of records on top of the cluttered piano—something I hadn’t seen since I was probably Henry’s age, standing in front of my grandparents’ record player.

“Have you ever listened to a record?”

“What?!” I jumped at the sound of Ben Folger’s deep
voice behind me, the record sleeve clunking to the floor. “I … I’m … I’m sorry,” I said. “I—”

He waved his hand and picked up the record. “Please, it’s … it’s okay.”

He smiled as he looked down at the record.

“It’s just about finished raining out there,” Jude said, standing. “Come on, Sunday. I think we better—”

Ben Folger went to the record player. As he busied himself with clearing it off, I grabbed Jude’s arm.

“What’s he doing?” he mouthed.

“I don’t know,” I whispered back.

“Well, I think we should make a run for it.”

“No. Don’t run.” Ben Folger turned around and held out the record. “This was always one of our—one of my favorites. I haven’t listened to it in years.”

He sat down as the needle skimmed the record, crackled, and then filled the room with music.

“I’ll go and get our hot chocolate. I know it isn’t lunchtime yet, but I made brownies this morning. I’ve never tried to make them before, but they seem to have turned out. Maybe you want to try one?”

That was all the persuasion Jude needed.

Ben Folger handed me a steaming mug.

As he set the plate of brownies and three plates onto the coffee table, I couldn’t help but wonder how relaxed, yet awkward, he seemed.

Jude reached for one of the dark chocolate squares and took a generous bite. Clearly he wasn’t worried about being poisoned anymore.

I did the same. “These are really good.”

“Sure are,” Jude mumbled.

Ben Folger took a sip of his hot chocolate, looking pleased.

“I’m on chapter six in
The Life and Death of Birds
,” I said, hoping to get him talking.

“And what do you think?” he asked.

“I really like it. The main character, Hunter, is funny and I like how the book has a little bit of everything in it: mystery, funny lines, and sad parts.”

He nodded and smiled. “Some say it’s the best book written this century. I’ve read it ten times.”

“Ten times?” Jude said, reaching for another brownie. “I don’t think I could ever read a book that many times.”