Jackson Jones and the Puddle of Thorns (8 page)

“I know you didn’t cut those flowers.”

Blood stepped back. His big face seemed to deflate. “I never touched your stupid garden.”

“I know,” I said.

“So apologize.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Jackson, you fool,” Reuben wailed.

Blood glared at me. “Is this a joke?”

I shook my head.

Blood peered into my face. “Are you scared?”

“Only a little,” I said honestly.

Then Blood doubled back and—Wham!—punched me.

But on the arm. And not too hard.

“See you don’t make that mistake again.” He sauntered off.

Reuben grabbed me. He pawed me like I
was that guy in the Bible, Lazarus, come back from the dead. “You okay, man?” he kept asking.

I straightened my arm. It worked just fine.

I stepped into my walk, the one Miz Lady calls my Mr. Cool style.

“That boy’s just wanting,” I said.

I wish I could say Blood never bothered me again. But he still cawed “Boo-kay” over the garden fence, and once in a while he’d punch my arm, for old times’ sake. His meanness continues to be one of life’s mysteries. Maybe someday he’ll find out what he wants.

The flowers grew back, just like Mailbags said they would. And with three people—Reuben, Mama, and me—working that garden, I had more time for other things.

Hanging out.

Writing three Captain Nemo strips.

Slam-dunking my new b-ball.

Yes, the day finally came when I trimmed twenty-five zinnias. Reuben tied up their stems with a precise bow. And Mailbags bought the whole bunch. Just slapped twenty-five
bucks in my hand and lifted those zinnias high. “These flowers are perfect,” he said, and smiled his buffalo smile.

Reuben and I stepped down to Harvey’s Sports and tapped, poked, and softly dribbled each basketball. Then we tapped, poked, and dribbled them all over again. I’d waited for this basketball for a long time. I wanted to make sure I bought the best.

Finally, I laid down my flower money and picked up the best basketball. I spun it, tossed a fast one to Reuben.

Thonk
, my man caught it. Tossed it back.

Thonk
, the ball slapped my palm. Ahh! That felt good.

And don’t you know, when I got home those same flowers were sitting in Mama’s blue vase.

“Did you buy those zinnias from Mailbags?” I asked.

“They were a gift,” said Mama.

“Mailbags
gave
you those flowers?” I couldn’t believe it. “Those flowers cost him twenty-five dollars—and he just gives them away. The man
wastes
money.”

“Maybe not,” said Mama.

After that I noticed that Mailbags tended to mosey over to my garden every time Mama was around. I also noticed Mama would stop weeding and chat.

“What kind of role model inclines a mama to laziness?” I grinned at Mama one day as we weeded the lettuce.

“Boy”—she grinned back—“you trying to grow trouble in this garden?”

But I knew better. Mixed in with trouble was some good garden stuff. I coolly yanked a weed.