The Secrets of Tree Taylor (18 page)

Jack and I cleaned up the Wahoo game. I gathered marbles while Jack folded the board and put it back into the box.

He walked the game over to the game closet. “Top shelf?”

“Right.” I folded the card table and slid it into the hall closet.

Jack called from the living room, “Tree, what’s this?”

He held up my typed poem, “Ode to a Lifeguard.”

“I forgot about that. It’s just something I wrote after that woman complained that we closed the pool early.”

“So can I read it?” He looked like he was already reading it.

I shrugged. “I don’t care. It’s pretty awful, though. Then let’s go outside. I want to see if Cassiopeia shows up tonight.” I waited at the door while Jack finished my silly poem.

“I really dig this, Tree. Did you show it to D.J.? I was afraid they’d bump him from being manager after that letter got printed. The woman sure did a number on him.”

“I know. It really shook him up. I’m hoping things have blown over. And no, I didn’t show the poem to D.J. or anybody else. It’s not any good. It sounds like those rhymes what’s-his-name makes up before a big fight.”

“Cassius Clay, that boxer?”

“Yeah. He’s pretty full of himself.”

“Bragging in rhyme is great PR,” Jack said. “Nobody would know who he is if he didn’t drive them crazy with those rhymes of his—‘I’ll battle and rattle his bones.’ ”

“Well, this ode sounds like his crazy rhymes.”

“Are you kidding? This is classic!” Jack insisted.

Jack wasn’t the best judge of writing. Music, yes. Writing, no.

“The band’s stopped playing. You’ll have to go pretty soon. Let’s get outside.”

Not only was Cassiopeia clear as could be, but the Milky Way striped the night like a carpet of stars. We walked across the road to get away from the lights shining through the windows. Crickets and cicadas were singing. Lightning bugs flirted with each other. A dog barked so far away I couldn’t tell whose dog it was.

“I could never live in a city, could you?” I asked.

Jack took his sweet time answering. “I could if I had to. But I know what you mean, Tree. I’d miss this.”

I stared up the road, where the Kinney house lay in darkness. I couldn’t make out the shape, but it didn’t seem scary now. I didn’t miss Old Man Kinney frowning down from the porch. “Jack?”

“Hmm?”

“I think I need to talk to you about something. But you have to promise not to say anything about it.”

“Do I ever, Tree?”

I knew I could trust Jack. But I wanted to make sure this wasn’t the Butch-and-Laura kind of secret that people just pretended to keep secret.

Jack must have sensed I needed more from him. “I won’t say anything if you don’t want me to. What’s up?”

“It’s about the Kinneys.”

Jack didn’t jump in and ask questions. He waited on me.

“That morning, when the gun went off, I was there.”

“You were there?” he said, too loud.

“Shh! Not
there
there. I was outside, here, trying to write. I heard the gun go off. It sounded so close.”

“Man, Tree! Were you scared?”

“I didn’t have a chance to be scared. Next thing I knew, Dad came tearing out of the house. He ran up the road and told me to stay put.”

“Which you didn’t.” It wasn’t a question. Jack knew me.

“Which I didn’t. Dad didn’t see me follow him, but he knows now. It was a pretty bad scene when I told him.”

“I can imagine. Could you … did you see anything?”

“Not inside the Kinney house. Not where the gun went off.… But I could see Dad and Mrs. Kinney on the porch.”

“Go on.”

“Right after Dad got there, Mrs. Kinney stood in the doorway of the house. Dad was at the bottom of the steps, staring up. Then she came out on the porch carrying that rifle and—”

“Wait a minute. Mrs. Kinney was carrying the rifle? Tree, are you sure?”

I gave him a look that said I was sure, all right. “Dad turned his back on her and sat down on the top step. I was scared to death she’d shoot him in the back.”

I felt Jack’s big hand on top of my head. I couldn’t see his face, just a shadow, like a silhouette. But it felt safe having his hand there.

“She sat down next to Dad. They sat on the step together, staring straight ahead. It was creepy.”

“I’ll bet,” Jack muttered.

“Dad went and looked inside the house, then came back out and sat beside her.” I stopped then. Jack had grown so intense—his body stiff, his gaze never leaving my face—that I started to get nervous. I’d always been able to trust Jack. But he was older than me. And sometimes older people thought they had to go back on their word and talk to parents. Eileen did it all the time.

“Tree, why did you stop? What aren’t you telling me?”

“I don’t know,” I said, backtracking. “Maybe I imagined some of this.”

“I know you, Tree. You imagine plenty. But you didn’t imagine this.”

“Well, you can’t tell anyone, Jack.” I looked up at him and wondered if he could see my face any better than I could see his. The moon was down to a sliver, so the only light came from stars.

“I said so, didn’t I?”

We were quiet for a while. Then I went on. “Right before Sheriff Robinson showed up, Dad slid the rifle out of Mrs. Kinney’s hands.”

“You’re sure?” Jack asked. “He did that before the sheriff got there?”

I nodded. “Then when the sheriff came, and after he took his own look inside the house and talked to Mr. Kinney, who screamed at him, he asked Dad what they ought to do about it. And Dad said, ‘Accidents happen.’ Only the deal is, Jack …” I took a breath, then let it out. “I don’t think that shooting was an accident. And I’m pretty sure
Mrs
. Kinney did the shooting.”

Jack waited.

“I told Randy Ridings I’d get to the truth and write it all up for him before the steam engine show. I promised. And he said he’d publish
my
article in the
Hamiltonian
. Only now, I’m getting to know Mrs. Kinney a little, and I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“Did Mrs. Kinney tell you she shot her husband on purpose?”

I shook my head. “But I didn’t ask her.”

I still couldn’t see his face that well, but I could tell he
wasn’t shocked by anything I’d said. Eileen would have been. She’d have been horrified. Mom too. They’d both have been furious with me for going behind Dad’s back and then as much as calling him a liar.

And still, Jack didn’t say anything.

Finally, I was the one to break the silence. “Jack, I think my dad got it wrong … on purpose.”

Jack and I traipsed back to the house. I hadn’t planned on talking to him about Mrs. Kinney, but I felt better for it.

When we opened the front door, I heard shouting coming from the kitchen.

“Frank, you don’t know what you’re talking about!” Bob Adams said.

Jack and I exchanged frowns. Our parents never argued. Well, maybe about whether Glenn Miller was better than Tommy Dorsey or whether the Cards could win the Series. But never like this. Besides, Bob Adams was the most easygoing man I knew. He didn’t say much—maybe a result of having Donna for a wife. And when he did talk, he always sounded like he was finishing up a joke you just missed.

“Come on, boys,” Mom pleaded. I could tell she was trying to smooth things over, like she did when Eileen and I fought.

“You’re naive!” Bob insisted. “If we really are sending our
boys over to Southeast Asia, then there’s a dang good reason for it and—”

“If?”
Dad cut him off. “Open your eyes, Bob! We
are
sending soldiers. And we’re dropping bombs on innocent people!”

“Innocent?” Bob fired back. “They’re all Commies over there! If we let them take over Vietnam, other countries will fall like dominoes.”

“Who made us the world’s policeman?” Dad demanded.

“Somebody’s got to be!”

Dad said something I couldn’t catch.

But Bob wouldn’t let him finish. “The whole thing will be over in two years, tops. McNamara says we’re winning. You want us to quit? Americans aren’t quitters. At least
I’m
not!”

“Bob!” Donna finally took over. “I’ve had enough out of you two. You should be ashamed.” She kept talking, and at least it stopped Bob and my dad from continuing their shouting match.

It shook me up to hear our dads so angry. I whispered to Jack, “Why are they fighting? They never argue.”

“This is different, Tree,” Jack said quietly, like he was listening for more rants from the kitchen. “Vietnam matters.”

Jack cared about what went on in Vietnam? “You’ve never said a word to me about Vietnam.”

“I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to argue with you. I figured you thought the same way your dad does about Vietnam.”

“But why do they care so much? Why do you? It doesn’t really have anything to do with us, does it?”

“Yeah, it does, Tree!” With that, he left me and headed for the kitchen.

But Bob was already storming out, aiming for our front door.

“Bob, please,” Mom pleaded. “Don’t go like this.”

“Let him go, Helen.” Dad stayed where he was.

Mom and Donna trailed after Jack’s dad, trying to get him back, have another drink, play another song.

“Bob! You’re acting like a little boy!” Donna must have given up pretending that she could fix everything. She tied her net scarf around her head and tucked sheet music under one arm.

Bob didn’t stop or turn around. Without a word, he brushed past Jack and me. His cheeks were the color of cherry Kool-Aid. I was afraid he’d have a heart attack.

Jack ran outside after his dad.

Donna stood in the doorway a few seconds, watching them. Then she turned to Mom and shook her head. “Boys … they can act like two-year-olds. It’ll be all right. I’ll talk to Bob. Don’t worry. He’ll be fine. Then no more politics!” She stomped out to their car, where Jack and his dad were loaded and ready to go.

“Well, that was fun.” Mom turned to Dad, who’d crept out into the hall. “I’m going to bed, Frank. Are you coming?” It wasn’t a warm invitation.

Dad passed. “Not yet. I’ve got something I want to work on.”

“Another letter to our senators?” Mom sounded like she was accusing him of something, though I couldn’t imagine
what. I thought it was great that Dad wrote to our senators. And not just senators. He’d written every president since FDR, sometimes to congratulate them on a vote that helped put people to work on roads and highways or to encourage them to vote no on funding things he didn’t like.

“Get to bed, Tree,” Mom said.

She disappeared before I could argue with her.

Dad headed for his den, but I stopped him. I didn’t care if he was still mad at me. “Dad, what’s it really about? Vietnam? Are we going to war?”

He frowned at me. “War? Yes, I think we’re getting there, Tree. And it’s a war we can’t win. Even if we win it, we won’t be proud of ourselves. It’s not like Germany attacking and taking over the world and us getting in to help our allies. Bob’s right about one thing. It’s tough to quit. And I’d hate to see Communism spread. But this is a civil war, and we’re trying to worm our way in where we don’t belong.”

He changed directions and plopped onto the couch. Mom and Eileen had picked it out, and it was fancy, but not very comfortable. I sat beside Dad. He and I had done a lot of talking on that couch. Only not so much lately.

He slumped, resting his head on the back of the sofa. “I get so tired trying to talk to people who think I’m un-American just because I don’t want to see our boys die over there.”

I hated to think anybody would consider my dad un-American.

He squinted up at our beige ceiling, streaked with shadows from the single light still on. “Do you want to know what
the newspaper said on Friday, when four U.S.
advisors
were killed near Saigon?”

I nodded.

“ ‘Over twenty of the enemy were killed, and our casualties were light today.’ What does that even mean? ‘Light’? I’ll bet it didn’t feel
light
to those four families. Or to the Vietnamese families, either. And even that tiny report was buried on page thirteen.”

“But why, Dad? Why would we go there if we don’t have to?” I really wanted to know. It had to be important to make my dad fight with his best friend, to keep Jack from even mentioning it to me.

“People are afraid,” he answered at last. “They’re afraid of Communism, especially after finding those missiles in Cuba pointed at us. And there’s no doubt about it, Tree. Communism is nasty business. If Communists ever attack us, I’ll lie about my age and sign up to fight for America.

“Only that’s not what’s going on in Vietnam. The Vietnamese are fighting themselves, and we have no idea who to support. But that doesn’t stop us from sending bombs and weapons. It’ll take decades for that country to recover.” He looked down at me, his face tired and saggy. “I’m afraid you’re going to be hearing more about Vietnam, honey. A lot more.” He got up.

“Are you going to bed?” I wanted him to stay and talk to me longer. It felt like the cold war between us had thawed. Did I have Vietnam to thank for that?

“No. I can’t sleep yet. I need to
do
something. Talking isn’t getting me anywhere. I can’t get anybody around here to
listen—except you, of course.” He almost smiled, but his lips wouldn’t turn up. “So I’m taking a page from your playbook: I’m going to write.”

A stream of warmth shot through me like hot chocolate on a snow day.

Dad had always written—not only letters to politicians but also poems for our birthdays and funny Christmas letters. He was secretary for the American Medical Association in Missouri, and they kept reelecting him because his reports were the only things worth reading in their newsletters.

But he said he was taking a page from
my
playbook. Like
I
was the family writer.

After Dad left, Eileen got home from her date and went straight to bed. She’d missed the whole fight. To make things worse, Midge chose to follow Eileen and sleep at the foot of her bed. The traitor.

Any other time, I’d have called Jack to see what he thought about everything. But something kept me from doing that.