The Fantastic Secret of Owen Jester (11 page)

As if he hadn’t gotten into enough trouble already, now that submarine guy was probably mad as all get-out. He was probably going to yell at Owen. Maybe he was going to call the police. Maybe he had
already
called the police. Maybe Owen would have to go to jail.

Owen didn’t feel too good.

Earlene shook the phone at him.

Owen’s hand trembled a little as he reached to take it.

“Hello?” His voice came out kind of wobbly.

Owen listened.

And then his heavy heart lightened and his worried stomach settled.

This man wasn’t mad.

This man wanted to shake his hand!

This man thought it was wonderful that Owen and Viola had managed to take the Water Wonder 4000 down under the water in Graham Pond and drive around and look at frogs and turtles and come back up to the surface and right on over to the dock, where all those angry folks had been waiting for them.

This man wanted to come to Owen’s house and meet him and Viola and even Travis and Stumpy.

After Owen hung up, he raced past grumpy old Earlene and ran downstairs to tell his parents.

“He’s the
owner
of Water Wonder Technologies!” Owen said, beaming at his father.

“He’s coming all the way from Canada to meet me.” Owen grinned at his mother.

“Can I go tell Viola?” Owen hopped from one foot to the other.

Please. Please. Please.

He could feel Earlene’s disapproving glare behind him.

His father chuckled and flapped his hand. “Aw, go on,” he said. “But come right back.”

Owen was out the door before Earlene could blink.

Owen and Travis and Stumpy and Viola sat on Owen’s front porch and stared up the road.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Owen had been allowed out of the house for one day and one day only. But what a day it was going to be!

That man from Water Wonder Technologies would be arriving any minute.

His name was Ron.

He was bringing a reporter from the Macon
Telegraph
to interview them.

They were going to tell the reporter how Owen had found the submarine and how they had cleared the way to the pond. They were going to explain how they had
used water pipes the way the Egyptians had used logs to move the stones when they built the pyramids. (And Owen would be sure to tell the reporter that they had taken the water pipes back to Sycamore Road. But he would probably leave out the part about how much his father had hollered at him about those pipes.)

After a little arguing, Owen and Travis and Stumpy had agreed that they would tell the reporter that Viola was the one who figured out how to drive the submarine.

And
then
, they were all going over to the railroad freight yard to have their picture taken with the Water Wonder 4000.

Owen raced up the stairs, waving the newspaper. He burst into his grandfather’s room and hurried over to the bed.

“Look!” He held the paper in front of his grandfather and jabbed a finger at the photograph.

There he was, Owen Jester, standing stiff and proud beside the Water Wonder 4000, his hand resting on the bubble-shaped window.

Viola posed on the other side of the submarine, grinning, her eyes looking big and wide through her thick
glasses. Travis and Stumpy stood slightly behind her, Stumpy making a peace sign and Travis looking a little irritated to be standing in the back.

Printed in big bold letters above the photograph was the headline

CHILDREN TOUR LOCAL POND IN SUBMARINE

Beside the photograph was an article all about Owen and Viola (and a little bit about Travis and Stumpy).

Owen read the article to his grandfather—the whole story, right there in the Macon
Telegraph
. . .

Starting with the night Owen had heard the thud.

The crack of wood.

The tumble, tumble, tumble sound . . .

And ending when he and Viola had maneuvered the little submarine through the murky water of Graham Pond and then had managed to get safely back up to the surface.

“A spokesman for the railroad reported that the Water Wonder 4000 is once again on its way to the Sun and Sand Tropical Resort in Miami, Florida,” Owen read.

He folded the newspaper and grinned at his grandfather. He felt a little guilty that he hadn’t told him about the submarine when he had first found it. Owen hoped his grandfather wouldn’t be mad that he had kept such a fantastic secret from him.

Owen’s grandfather lifted a hand off the bed and gave Owen a shaky thumbs-up.

When his week of punishment was finally over, Owen raced downstairs and burst through the screen door with Earlene hollering after him about staying away from the hayloft and the train tracks and the pond.

Owen went straight down to the pond and sat on the dock. The morning sun felt warm on his arms. A dragonfly flitted around in front of him and then settled on the dock beside him. Owen rested his chin on his knees and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Each time he saw a bullfrog poke its head out of the water or climb onto a log, Owen didn’t move a muscle. He squinted over at the frog to look for the heart-shaped red spot.

Finally . . .

. . . it happened.

A green frog head poked up through a cluster of rotting oak leaves near the edge of the pond.

And right between the bulging yellow eyes was a heart-shaped red spot.

Owen’s insides flipped with excitement.

He lifted his chin slowly, slowly, slowly off his knees so he could get a better look.

Yep.

That was a heart-shaped red spot, all right.

The frog swam lazily toward the dock and stopped, floating on the surface of the water with its long froggy legs stretched out behind it.

That frog was happy.

Owen was sure of it.

That frog didn’t want to live in a perfect cage.

That frog didn’t want to be mayor of Frog Town.

That frog didn’t want to be Tooley Graham.

The short, sad life of Tooley Graham was over.

That night, Owen sat by the window and took a deep breath of the summer night air. It smelled like pine and grass and honeysuckle.

Far off in the distance, the train whistle blew. Owen waited, listening for the faint clatter of the train on the tracks to get louder and louder as it got closer to Carter.

In a blink, the train was whooshing down the tracks behind the house.

Clatter, clatter, clatter.

Then the
clatter, clatter, clatter
grew fainter and fainter until the only sound left was the chirp of the crickets in the garden beneath the window . . .

. . . and the
r-u-u-u-m-m-m
of the bullfrogs down in the pond.