Because of Winn-Dixie (13 page)

O
utside, the rain had stopped and the clouds had gone away and the sky was so clear it seemed like I could see every star ever made. I walked all the way to the back of Gloria Dump’s yard. I walked back there and looked at her mistake tree. The bottles were quiet; there wasn’t a breeze, so they were just hanging there. I looked at the tree and then I looked up at the sky.

“Mama,” I said, just like she was standing right beside me, “I know ten things about you, and that’s not enough, that’s not near enough. But Daddy is going to tell me more; I know he will, now that he knows you’re not coming back. He misses you and I miss you, but my heart doesn’t feel empty anymore. It’s full all the way up. I’ll still think about you, I promise. But probably not as much as I did this summer.”

That’s what I said that night underneath Gloria Dump’s mistake tree. And after I was done saying it, I stood just staring up at the sky, looking at the constellations and planets. And then I remembered my own tree, the one Gloria had helped me plant. I hadn’t looked at it for a long time. I went crawling around on my hands and knees, searching for it. And when I found it, I was surprised at how much it had grown. It was still small. It still looked more like a plant than a tree. But the leaves and the branches felt real strong and good and right. And I was down there on my knees when I heard a voice say, “Are you praying?”

I looked up. It was Dunlap.

“No,” I said. “I’m not praying. I’m thinking.”

He crossed his arms and looked down at me. “What about?” he asked.

“All kinds of different things,” I said. “I’m sorry that I called you and Stevie bald-headed babies.”

“That’s all right,” he said. “Gloria told me to come out here and get you.”

“I told you she wasn’t a witch.”

“I know it,” he said. “I knew it all along. I was just teasing you.”

“Oh,” I said. I looked at him close. It was hard to see him good in the dark yard.

“Ain’t you ever gonna stand up?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

And then he surprised me. He did something I never in a million years thought a Dewberry boy would do. He held out his hand to help me up. And I took it. I let him pull me to my feet.

“I’ll race you back to the house,” Dunlap said. And he started to run.

“Okay,” I shouted. “But I’m warning you, I’m fast.”

We ran, and I beat him. I touched the corner of Gloria Dump’s house right before he did.

“You shouldn’t be running around in the dark,” said Amanda. She was standing on the porch, looking at us. “You could trip over something.”

“Aw, Amanda,” said Dunlap, and he shook his head.

“Aw, Amanda,” I said, too. And then I remembered Carson and I felt bad for her. I went up on the porch and took hold of her hand and pulled on her. “Come on,” I said, “let’s go inside.”

“India Opal,” Daddy said when me and Amanda and Dunlap walked in. “Are you here to sing some songs with us?”

“Yes sir,” I said. “Only I don’t know that many songs.”

“We’ll teach you,” he said. He smiled at me real big. It was a good thing to see.

“That’s right,” said Gloria Dump. “We will.” Sweetie Pie was still sitting in her lap, but her eyes were closed.

“Care for a Littmus Lozenge?” Miss Franny asked, passing me the bowl.

“Thank you,” I told her. I took a Littmus Lozenge and unwrapped it and put it in my mouth.

“Do you want a pickle?” Otis asked, holding up his big jar of pickles.

“No, thank you,” I said. “Not right now.”

Winn-Dixie came out from underneath Gloria Dump’s chair. He sat down next to me and leaned into me the same as I was leaning into my daddy. And Amanda stood right there beside me, and when I looked over at her, she didn’t look pinch-faced at all to me.

Dunlap cracked his knuckles and said, “Well, are we gonna sing or what?”

“Yeah,” Stevie echoed, “are we gonna sing or what?”

“Let’s sing,” said Sweetie Pie, opening her eyes and sitting up straight. “Let’s sing for the dog.”

Otis laughed and strummed his guitar, and the flavor of the Littmus Lozenge opened in my mouth like a flower blooming, all sweet and sad. And then Otis and Gloria and Stevie and Miss Franny and Dunlap and Amanda and Sweetie Pie and my daddy all started to sing a song. And I listened careful, so I could learn it right.

Peter stood in the small patch of light making its sullen way through the open flap of the tent. He let the fortuneteller take his hand. She examined it closely, moving her eyes back and forth and back and forth, as if there were a whole host of very small words inscribed there, an entire book about Peter Augustus Duchene composed atop his palm.

“Huh,” she said at last. She dropped his hand and squinted up at his face. “But, of course, you are just a boy.”

“I am ten years old,” said Peter. He took the hat from his head and stood as straight and tall as he was able. “And I am training to become a soldier, brave and true. But it does not matter how old I am. You took the florit, so now you must give me my answer.”

“A soldier brave and true?” said the fortuneteller. She laughed and spat on the ground. “Very well, soldier brave and true, if you say it is so, then it is so. Ask me your question.”

Peter felt a small stab of fear. What if, after all this time, he could not bear the truth? What if he did not really want to know?

“Speak,” said the fortuneteller. “Ask.”

“My parents,” said Peter.

“That is your question?” said the fortuneteller. “They are dead.”

Peter’s hands trembled. “That is not my question,” he said. “I know that already. You must tell me something that I do not know. You must tell me of another — you must tell me . . .”

The fortuneteller narrowed her eyes. “Ah,” she said. “Her? Your sister? That is your question? Very well. She lives.”

Peter’s heart seized upon the words.
She lives. She lives!

“No, please,” said Peter. He closed his eyes. He concentrated. “If she lives, then I must find her, so my question is, how do I make my way there, to where she is?”

He kept his eyes closed; he waited.

“The elephant,” said the fortuneteller.

“What?” he said. He opened his eyes, certain that he had misunderstood.

“You must follow the elephant,” said the fortuneteller. “She will lead you there.”

Copyright © 2009 by Kate DiCamillo

Kate DiCamillo
is the author of many beloved books for young readers, including
The Tale of Despereaux,
which received a Newbery Medal;
The Tiger Rising,
which was a National Book Award Finalist;
The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane,
which won a
Boston Globe–Horn Book
Award; the best-selling Mercy Watson series; and
The Magician’s Elephant
. About
Because of Winn-Dixie,
she says, “The book is (I hope) a hymn of praise to dogs, friendship, and the South.” Kate DiCamillo lives in Minneapolis.