Skinny-Dipping at Monster Lake (17 page)

She sighed and stared off through the window.

“For the life of me, I don't know why I got such a problem with that. I can't farm it. Jeb and I never had any children, so there's nobody to leave it to.
Its just . . . just . . . well, its my home. I grew up here. When he retired, Jeb and I had twelve of the best years of our life—right here. Just hate the thought of selling it and moving to a little apartment in town.”

Something clunked me on the knee. It wasn't hard enough to hurt, but it made me jump. Then it clunked me again. This time it did hurt.

I peeked under the table. Dad's boot came flying at my leg a third time. I managed to move just in time to keep from getting kicked again.

Frowning, I looked up at him. He winked and nodded toward my backpack, which I had laid carefully in the corner. I smiled, realizing what he was trying to tell me, then hopped up and went to get it.

“Maybe this will help, Mrs. Baum.”

I put the pack on the table and unzipped it. Then, using both hands, I reached inside.

Mom and Dad smiled when I put the heavy jar on the table. Mrs. Baum, Mr. Aikman, and Ted just sat there with their mouths gaping open.

When I brought it to the house, early this morning, Dad told me it was a gallon-size Mason jar. Part of the rubber seal was still around the top. The rest had rotted and fallen away. The wire bale that latched it was so rusted that it would probably fall
apart if you so much as blew on it. But inside . . .

“Oh, my gosh!” Mrs. Baum gasped.

She let out a little laugh. I glanced at her and saw the big smile on her face. I also saw a tear roll down her cheek. Ever so slowly, as if nearing something magic or forbidden, she reached out a trembling hand and touched it with the tips of her fingers. Then she drew her hand back and reached again.

“It's Grandpas silver dollars.”

The jar looked like it was ready to fall apart, but the coins inside were just as bright and shiny as the day they were made. Mrs. Baum wiped her cheek.

“Where on earth . . .”

“It was all wrapped up in the roots of that old cottonwood tree that fell on the sub.”

“No wonder we couldn't ever find them.” She gave a little laugh. “I bet that tree was just a sapling when Grandpa buried them. Big as it is, we would have had to dig the whole tree up. I'll be . . .”

Dad reached over and patted Mrs. Baum's hand. “There's not just silver dollars in that jar, Emma. Greg Ratcliff, a man who works with me at the fire department, used to collect coins when he was a kid. We didn't open it because we wanted you to be the first. But just from looking through the jar, he said there are silver dollars, five-dollar gold pieces, twenty-dollar gold pieces, and something he called
a Double Eagle. He told me to make sure you knew not to spend so much as a penny of it until he brought his book out and went through them with you. He also said . . .” Dad wiggled her hand in his. “Emma, you listening?”

“Yes, Simon.”

“He also said you need to put them in a safety-deposit box at the bank—
today\
Just from looking through the jar at the dates and what little he could see around the sides, Greg said you probably had over a hundred thousand dollars' worth of coins in there.”

Mrs. Baum's mouth fell open. But she didn't say anything. Instead, she started crying, then laughing, then crying some more.

“I don't think you'll have to worry about keeping your husband in the nursing home anymore,” Mom said, giving her a big hug.

Mrs. Baum hugged her back. Then she hugged Dad. Then she turned to me. “Thank you, Kent. Thank you so much.”

I let her hug me.

“Remember when you asked me what Krissi and I were talking about the other night?” She whispered it right in my ear, making sure no one else could hear.

“Yes,” I whispered back.

“We were talking about you. She thinks you're really cute. But don't tell anybody I told you.”

I felt the heat rush to my cheeks. I hugged her back and smiled.

• • •

The more I thought about it, that hug from Mrs. Baum was probably one of the nicest, best hugs I ever had in my life.

I remember thinking what a grouch she was—just a nasty old lady who did nothing but scream at little kids for riding across her land. I remember being about halfway scared of her. So scared that I was afraid to tell her off or call her names like I wanted to. I remember Mom practically dragging me to her house that day, and how I decided she wasn't quite as bad as I thought. Besides, she made great chocolate chip cookies. She had a mischievous side, too. Her eyes sparkled when she told me the secret about Krissi.

When she hugged me, her cheek was wet. The sleeve of her blouse was damp from her crying.

But it was totally awesome.

I mean . . . never been hugged by a monster before.

It wasn't too bad.

B
ILL
W
ALLACE
grew up in Oklahoma. Along with riding their horses, he and his friends enjoyed camp-outs and fishing trips. Toasting marshmallows, telling ghost stories to scare one another, and catching fish was always fun.

One of the most memorable trips took place on the far side of Lake Lawtonka, at the base of Mt. Scott. He and his best friend, Gary, spent the day shooting shad with bow and arrows, cutting bank poles, and getting ready to go when their dads got home from work.

Although there was no “monster” in Lake Lawtonka, one night there
was
a “sneak attack” by a rather large catfish tail. Checking the bank poles was not nearly as fun or “free” after that point, but it was the inspiration for this story.

Bill Wallace is now a full-time author, but for many years he was the principal and physical education teacher at an elementary school in Chickasha,
Oklahoma. He has won nineteen children's state awards, and been awarded the Arrell Gibson Lifetime Achievement Award for Children's Literature from the Oklahoma Center for the Book.

Aladdin

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2003 by Bill Wallace

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ISBN 978-0-6898-5150-6 (hardcover)

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ISBN 978-1-4814-3148-4 (eBook)