Swear to Howdy (3 page)

'Course Sissy and Amanda Jane both accused
us
of being behind the bugs and hated us extra hard after that,
but we swore up and down that we hadn't done it, and there wasn't a thing they could do to prove it.

Except maybe get one of us to fess up, but that was hopeless. Joey and me'd made a pact on the walk home.

Another secret, sealed for life.

So my family and Joey's were alike in a lot of ways. But looking back on it, it seems we were similar in ways that didn't matter, and different in ways that did.

Not different like Joey having a baby sister while I didn't. Different deeper down than that. Though Joey's little sister
was
something else.

Joey said Rhonda was like a booger that you couldn't flick off, but I thought she was cute. Shoot, her being a girl with only one name was enough right there to make me like her. But it was more the way she was always so happy to see me that I liked. She'd squeal, “Russy!” any time I'd walk through the door, then patter over and jump up and down. “Horsey! Horsey!”

So I'd give her horsey rides all over the house, kickin' and neighin' and acting like a crazy wild mustang. And of course Amanda Jane would turn her nose up and head for
our
house, but Mrs. Banks didn't seem to mind the racket, and Mr. Banks just turned up the TV and drowned us out.

Then one day after giving Rhonda the best mustang ride ever, I collapsed on my belly and said to Joey's mama,
“Ma'am, you really got to get this girl a pony.” Rhonda was bouncing on me, kicking my ribs. “I can't take it no more.”

“A pony? Shoot,” Joey's mama said. “We can't even keep goldfish from dying. How we gonna keep a horse?”

“Horsey, horsey!” Rhonda swung off me and started tugging on her mama's sleeve. “I want a horsey!”

Mrs. Banks rolled her eyes, then stopped and said, “But that reminds me—Joey? Clean out the fishbowl, would you?”

“But, Mama! It's Rhonda's fish, not mine!”

“Joey, you help around this house, just like everyone else.”

“But I just cleaned it!”

“Don't sass your mama!” Mr. Banks yelled from over by the TV.

“But I just did it. Yesterday!”

Joey's dad slammed down his beer and was out of his easy chair in a flash, heading straight for Joey. “Then why do them fish keep on dyin'?”

“It ain't my fault!” Joey said.

“It ain't my fault,
sir
,” his dad corrected him.

Joey was backing away. “It ain't my fault,
sir
.”

“Then whose fault is it? The fish?”

“Well … yes. Yes, sir.”

Mr. Banks scowled at him. “
Yes
, sir?” He sucked in air, and his belly seemed to lift right into his chest. “Don't you make me open a can of whup-ass on you, boy. You go
clean that bowl, and make it sparkle. And the next time a fish dies around here, I'm holdin' you responsible. You hear me?”

“But—”

“
Do you hear me
, boy?”

Joey cowered. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. 'Cause from this minute on, every fish that dies earns you a lickin'.”

“But—”

Mr. Banks gave him the most shrivelin' look I'd ever seen.

“Yes, sir,” Joey choked out.

Joey's mama went up to his dad and whispered, “Bobby, maybe we should talk about this some …?”

“What's there to say?” he growled at her. “You want him to help out, he's helpin' out. End of discussion.”

So while Joey's dad went back to his easy chair and Joey's mama took Rhonda into the kitchen, Joey and me shuffled down to the bathroom to clean the fishbowl.

“I ain't heard him mad like
that
before,” I whispered when we were out of earshot.

Joey snickered. “That was nothin'.”

Now, it's funny. You go through life thinking people are pretty much alike. That the folks on your left are pretty much like the folks on your right, and that they're all pretty much the same as you. And you reckon that what goes on inside your house is pretty much what's going on inside every house on the street.

But hearing Joey's dad yell like that made the whole inside of Joey's house feel different. Strange. And I could tell it made Joey feel strange, too, but I couldn't tell if that was because I was there to hear it or if it would've felt strange to him regardless. So I tried to ease the strain a little by saying, “My dad gets pretty fried at me some times, too.”

“Yeah?” he said, and he sounded hopeful.

“
Real
fried,” I said, trying to remember the last time Dad had yelled at me.

“Does he make you get your own switch?”

“Yeah,” I lied.

“Hurts like hell.”

“No kiddin'.”

The bathroom light was already on, and there were little blue streaks of toothpaste smeared all over the counter. “That stupid Rhonda,” Joey said, taking a worn washcloth to the toothpaste. “I catch it for this all the time, too.”

“Just tell him it's Rhonda's.”

“He don't care.”

“Well, try tellin' him when he ain't heated.”

“It'll just
get
him heated.”

Then I noticed the goldfish bowl. “Uh-oh.”

“What?” he said, wiping down the sink.

I closed the door tight.

“What you doin'?”

I pointed to the fish, floating on top. “It's already dead.”

“It
can't
be.” Joey hung his face over the bowl. “Maaaaan!”

“Just
tell
him. It can't be your fault … you just
got
here. And look—the water's clean as can be.”

Joey shook his head. “Don't matter what I tell him, he don't
listen
.”

We stared at the fish, all bug-eyed on his side.

“What're we gonna do?” I asked him.

“Flush it.”

“And
then
what?”

“Shoot, I don't know. Get another?”

“How?”

Joey scratched his head. “You up for a hike?”

“I reckon we better
run
.”

So we did. Out the back door, around the blackberry bushes, behind the neighbor's yard, then down Pickett Lane and clear into town. And when we got to Wet Pets all out of breath and sweaty, Joey didn't even slow down. He just jingled through the door and headed straight for the goldfish tank, where there was a sign boasting, SALE: 25¢

“Afternoon,” said the man behind the cash register, and after a minute he made his way out to us. “After a wet pet?”

There must've been a zillion goldfish in the tank, some brown, some spotted, and some pure orange. “That one,” Joey said, tapping on the glass.

The man laughed. “Can't guarantee I can catch that pa'
ticular
one, but—”

“Oh, no, sir,” Joey said, all wide-eyed. “It's gotta be that one.”

“Which one?”

“That one right there,” he said, tapping like crazy.

So the man lowered in a net and caught about six others before snagging the right one.

“That's it!” Joey said.

The man freed the fish in a baggie of water and tied it off. “Need food? A bowl? Rocks? Maybe a little sea grass?”

“Got everything we need!” Joey said, slapping down a quarter.

We charged out of there, jostling that goldfish the whole way back. And when we slipped it in the bowl, its little brain must've been mighty scrambled 'cause it spun around like crazy for a few minutes before settling in.

Joey shook in some food and whispered, “
Live
, you stupid thing, live!”

Two days later we were charging back to Wet Pets.

“I don't
get
it,” Joey said on the run home. “What am I doin' wrong?”

“Got me,” I said. “I think you'd have better luck with a horse.”

Rhonda noticed, all right, only she didn't understand what she was noticing. “Oh, look! Goldilocks grew an extra spot!”

“Where?” Joey said, looking in the bowl. “Where?”

“Right there! On her tail!”

“You sure?”

“Uh-huh.”

Two days later, Goldi was floating on her side.

“Shoot!” Joey cried, and this time he got himself two fish—one new Goldi and one backup Goldi.

“Where you gonna keep the backup?” I asked him.

“Under the bed.”

“You can't keep doin' this forever.”

“
You
want to take my switchin'?”

“Just
talk
to him about it.”

“Dad don't
talk
, Rusty, he switches and he yells.”

“But—”

“Don't
even
,” he said, stopping me. “It only makes things worse.”

So I let it be. But it didn't seem fair. Not fair at all. And it bugged me that I couldn't do something about it.

So one night at supper I asked Dad, “How come Joey and me are friends, and Sissy and Amanda Jane are friends, but you and Mama don't ever do nothin' with their parents?”

“Don't ever do anything,” Mama corrected.

Dad was just studying me from across the table, so I added, “Lots of folks get together for barbeque. Maybe sit on the porch? The river's right there, why don't you and Joey's dad ever go fishin' together?” I turned to Mama. “Or shoppin'. Lots of ladies do that.”

Mama looked at her plate; Dad looked straight at me, bobbing his head a little. Finally he said, “Adults tend to get caught up in the running of their families.”

“But … we could run our families together, or something.”

He just stared at me.

“From time to time?”

“Would you like that?” Mama asked.

I shrugged. “Joey might.”

“Well,
I
wouldn't,” Sissy said.

Dad looked her over a minute. “Why's that, Jenna Mae?”

“He scares me.”

“Joey does?” Mama asked her.

“No!” she said, looking at Mama like she was dumber than a mud fence.

“Jenna …,” Dad warned.

“But, Daddy, how could that little twerp possibly
scare me
?”

“Do not use that tone with us, young lady,” he said.

She sighed and turned to Mama. “I was referrin' to their daddy, Mama.”

Dad nodded a little.

Mama did, too.

And no one said a word after that until dessert.

Joey swapped out goldfish for weeks. Every few days he got himself a backup. Every few days he flushed another Goldi down the toilet. We were becoming real regulars at the fish store, but no one ever questioned what we were doing with all those fish.

Then one day we stopped in at Wet Pets after school, and the girl behind the counter said, “You boys would be money ahead to get yourself some conditioner.”

Joey pulled a face at her. “That stuff's for girls!”

She stared at him a minute, then laughed. “Not
hair
conditioner, dummy.
Water
conditioner.”

Joey puffed out his chest. “Who you callin' a dummy?”

“You,” she laughed. “You're Amanda Jane's little brother, ain'tcha?”

I slid a look Joey's way, thinking, Uh-oh.

“So?” he said, puffing up even bigger.

“So she told me all about you swapping out fish.”

“She … did?”

“To avoid a switchin'?”

We both just stared at her.

“You … you friends with her?” Joey finally asked.

“Sure. And don't worry. I ain't gonna tattle. Neither's she.”

He shook his head. “You don't know Amanda Jane.”

“Sure I do. Now here. Let's get you a fish, and let's get you some conditioner.” She put the net in and kept on talking. “Ain't you read your goldfish care sheet?”

“What care sheet?”

“The care sheet everybody gets when they buy their first goldfish!”

“We didn't get no care sheet!”

She scooped up a nice, healthy gold one with just the right amount of white. “Sure you did—unless you were in too hot a hurry to take one.”

Joey and me looked at each other, then I said, “Well, what's the sheet say?”

She set the fish free in the baggie of water. “It says if you use tap water, which I'm guessin' you do …” She raised an eyebrow at Joey, and when he nodded she went on, “And you don't have aeration, which I'm guessin' you don't …”

“Aeration?”

“A bubbler? Do you have one of those?”

He shook his head.

“Then you need a few drops of water conditioner, and maybe a pinch of aquarium salt to keep off diseases.”

“Salt?”

“Well, the salt's optional.” She tied off the bag. “How much money you got?”

“Not much. How much for the conditioner?”

“Oh, five bucks or so.”

“That's twenty fish worth!”

She shrugged. “You can keep runnin' back and forth your entire life, I don't care.” She carried the fish over to the register, asking, “How you been cleanin' the bowl?”

“Real, real good!” Joey said.

“With soap?”

“Tons of it!”

She slapped a yellow goldfish care sheet in front of us and circled the line that said, “do NOT use soap,” then pulled a small bottle of water conditioner off the shelf behind her. “Here. This one's only three bucks.” She grinned. “Or twelve fish, if that's how you want to figure it.” Then she added, “But as of next week, it'll only be six fish.”

“Huh?” Joey said, looking up from the sheet. “How come?”

“Mr. Huber told me the sale's over on Monday. Price is goin' back up to fifty cents a fish.”

Joey dug deep for cash.

On the walk home, Joey was quiet for the longest time. And when we reached the corner of Pickett and Lee, he sat right down by the side of the road, even though the light was steady green.

I stood over him. “What's wrong, Joey?”

He shook his head. “I don't get it.”

“About the fish?”

“Nah, about Amanda Jane.”

I sat next to him. “You mean that she didn't tattle?”

“Uh-huh. I'm dumbstruck, is what I am. Amanda Jane
hates
me.”

I tried to imagine Sissy keeping a secret like that from our dad, and just couldn't. “It's a wonder,” I told him. “A real wonder.”

“She ain't even tried blackmailin' me.”

I nodded. “Come to think of it, it's more like a miracle.”

“But
why
didn't she?”

“Maybe she's savin' it up.”

“Hmm.” He nodded. “More'n likely.”

“Or maybe she likes you better'n she likes your dad.”