Swear to Howdy (4 page)

He turned to face me, and I buttoned my lip quick. I couldn't tell
what
was going through that boy's head, but it didn't look good.

Finally he stood up and said, “Rusty-boy, sometimes you're smarter'n I give you credit for.”

No one was home at Joey's house, and the fish in the bowl was still gulpin' around. So we parked the backup Goldi under Joey's bed, then got busy cleaning the fishbowl like the yellow sheet instructed. And when we were all done, we put in some water conditioner, slipped the goldfish back in, and waited.

“Seems fine,” Joey said at last.

“Better'n fine. Why don'tcha feed him?”

We read the instructions about that, too, and sprinkled in just a little.

“Looks happy,” I told him when the food was mostly gone.

“We'll see,” he said, and hid the conditioner and instructions under the sink.

The next morning when I picked him up on the way to school, I asked, “Well?”

“Still kickin'.”

A week later it was
still
alive. Joey was in a fine mood about it, too, 'cause during class he sketched a fish with an X for an eye and a talkie bubble that said, “I'm trying to croak, but I can't!”

Joey was all the time sketching goofy things and holding them up at me when the teacher wasn't looking. Half the time they cracked me up so bad I'd get scolded, or once even thrown out of the room. How are you supposed to “Control yourself!” when someone flashes you a picture of a monkey's butt that's labeled TEACHER'S BRAIN?

Anyway, from his fish picture, I could tell he was feeling pretty confident about Goldi, so on the walk home from school, I asked, “Whatcha gonna do about the backup?”

He shrugged. “Guess I can flush it.”

“Is it still in the bag?”

He nodded. “I put it in a bigger one and I've been
feeding it, just in case. But it gasps around for air, and I reckon it's about through anyway.”

“Why don'tcha put it in the bowl with the other one?”

“Nah.”

“Rhonda won't mind. Just tell her Goldilocks had a baby.”

“It's bigger'n Goldi!” he said.

“Don't matter.”

He thought about it, then said, “Nuh-uh. I'm flushin' it.”

“Joey!”

“Don't be a wuss.”

That shut me up, but only for a minute. “Why don'tcha just give it back to Wet Pets?”

“Look, Rusty-boy I don't want to be caught with the thing, and I ain't walking it clear back to Wet Pets. I'm flushin' it.”

Joey's dad's truck was in the drive, so we slipped in the back way to do the deed. I thought it'd be better to go in front like everything was normal, but Joey was all obsessed with flushing the fish before anyone knew we were even around. So we snuck the backup into the bathroom and shut the door.

Now I told Joey to dump the water
and
the fish together, but he said he didn't want to. “I always drain it first,” he told me.

“Why?”

“Just hush up, would you?”

So I watched him open the bag and drain the water into the sink, then clamp a hand over the fish as it was flopping around. But just when he was moving for the toilet, the door burst open and his dad came barging in.

Mr. Banks jumped back, and so did we. But he recovered first, growling, “Where'd the two of you come from?”

“School …, ” Joey said, backing away.

“What you got there, boy?” I was between the two of them, so he shoved me aside, saying, “Out of my way, Cooper!” then moved in on Joey, who was hunched over with his back to us. “Stand up!” Mr. Banks said, yanking Joey up by his shirt and spinning him around.

Joey's face looked watery and red.

“What are you two up to in here?” his dad yelled.

“Feedin' the fish!” Joey said. “We's just feedin' the fish!”

Joey's dad looked at him, all ruddy-faced and squinty-eyed. “Let's see your hands, boy.”

Joey put out his hands.

They were empty.

His dad kept right on squinting and said, “Spread yourself.”

So Joey turned to face the wall, then planted his hands above the towel rack and his feet apart. His dad frisked him over good, then turned to me. “You, too.”

It felt hot as the hinges of hell in that bathroom. But there was no escapin', so I did like Joey'd done and put my hands on the wall. Joey's dad kicked my feet apart, the
smell of beer sweating from his pores as he frisked me over twice.

When he was done, he spun me by the shoulder and said, “I'm beginnin' to think you're a bad influence on my son, Cooper.”

I swallowed hard and said, “Yes, sir,” 'cause it felt like no other answer would get me out alive.

“Get! Both of you, get!” he hollered, pointing at the door. Then he grumbled, “What a man's got to go through to use his own john” and slammed it shut behind us.

The minute we were safe outside, I whispered, “Where's the fish?”

Joey pointed to his stomach.

My eyes bugged out. “You didn't!”

He nodded. “And it's still alive.”

“What? Can't be!”

“I swallowed it whole.”

“No!”

“I wasn't gonna take time to
chew
.” He pulled a face and dragged me along. “Man, it's floppin' around in there!”

“Where we goin'?”

“To your house.”

“What are we gonna do there?”

He held his stomach. “Oh, man! I gotta get this thing outta me!”

We went straight to the bathroom and locked ourselves
in. Joey flung up the toilet seat, got on his knees, and stuck his finger clear down his throat. And he gagged and choked and gave sort of a half heave, but no fish came up.

“I need something longer.” He looked over his shoulder. “Hand me your toothbrush!”

“My
tooth
brush?”

“Hurry! It's floppin' around!”

I gave him Sissy's toothbrush instead.

It worked like a charm, 'cause thirty seconds later that fish came flying out his throat and landed in the bowl.

Joey recovered and wiped his face, then we watched Goldi's backup floating on its side in the middle of chunks of food and acid.

“It's
dead
?” Joey said. He poked it a bunch with the end of Sissy's toothbrush. “
Now
it decides to go and die?”

We stared at it another minute. Then Joey gave me a loopy grin and flushed it down the toilet.

I never actually saw a gun before I met Joey Banks. Not up close, anyway But it turned out Joey
owned
one. His very own .22 rifle. Got it for his twelfth birthday.

The first time I saw him with it, it scared me a little, 'cause Dad had always told me to turn tail and
run
should any of my friends be brandishing weapons. But Joey wasn't exactly brandishing. He was sitting cross-legged on the ground, plinking at cans set up in front of the Bankses' big ol' blackberry patch.

Joey must've seen my face, 'cause he said, “You never shot a gun before?” and when I shook my head, he said, “Shoot, there ain't nothin' dangerous about it. You just need to treat it with respect.” So I didn't turn tail and run. I stood behind him and watched.

After a few more shots he said, “Come
on
, Rusty-boy It ain't gonna bite.”

So I moved a few steps closer to where he was sitting.

“Right
here
,” he said, patting the ground beside him. “Watch and learn.”

I just stayed put, but after he'd knocked over all his
cans, he lay the gun down next to him and said, “Help me set 'em up again, would you?” And while we put the cans back up, he said, “Whatcha worried about? It's just good clean fun.” I didn't say anything, so he tried again. “Look here. If I miss a shot—even if one goes completely
wild
— ain't nothin' gonna get hurt.”

I watched him plink down all the cans again, and dust the ground a few times besides. “See?” he said when the gun was empty. “Safer'n watchin' TV.”

I laughed. “Nothin's safer'n watchin' TV, Joey.”

“Oh, I don't know 'bout
that
,” he said, casting a look over his shoulder. But before I could ask what he meant, he said, “Are you gonna try this, or what?”

“I don't know …, ” I told him.

“Shoot, come here. I'll give you an official lesson.”

So we set up the cans again, then sat in the dirt with the rifle across both our laps. “Geez, quit shakin', Rusty-boy You're actin' like a wuss.”

“Sorry,” I told him.

“It's a
tool
, is all. Like a shovel or a car. Won't hurt nothin' unless you point it in the wrong direction.”

I nodded.

“Okay, then. This here's the muzzle. You never want to point it at anybody, even if the gun's not loaded. This here's the stock. You know that much, right?”

I nodded.

“The ammo goes in here …” He started feeding .22s into the side of the gun. “This rifle'll take about ten
rounds.” When he had it loaded, he said, “The empty shells pop out here when you cock the lever forward.” He put all four fingers in the lever and pushed forward, then pulled back.

“But nothin' came out,” I told him.

“That's 'cause we ain't shot off a round yet. But now we got a round in the chamber.” He looked at me. “See how the hammer's pulled back like that?”

I nodded.

“Means it's ready to fire.” He laughed. “Assumin' you put your rounds in right, that is.”

I wasn't ready to laugh about anything yet, so I just waited.

“At
this
point you don't want to be waggin' this thing around,” he said, wagging the thing around. “At
this
point you could kill something, so keep your finger off the trigger. Got that? No touchin' the trigger 'til you're ready to shoot.”

I swallowed and nodded.

He went on with his lesson. “Now, knowing how to aim makes the difference between knowing how to shoot and just messin' around.” His face moved in close to mine, and he whispered, “You ready for the secret?”

“There's a secret?” I whispered back.

“Uh-huh,” he said, then pointed to a little bead at the front of the barrel. “And this here is it.”

“That there's the secret?”

“Uh-huh. The secret to actually hittin' something.”

I looked at it closer. It was just a little black bead of metal. Barely even there. So I sat back again and said, “Quit messin' with me, Joey.”

“I ain't messin' with you, Russ! I'm dead serious. I'm a sharpshooter, and the reason's simple: I pay attention to my front sight.”

“That's what that speck is? Your front sight?”

“Uh-huh. And here's the secret,” he said all excited-like, then started drawing in the dirt. “What you want to do is take your front sight and line it up like so. So it's smack-dab in the middle of the little saddle of your back sight.”

“Where's the back sight?”

He pointed to a little nick in the middle of a half-inch piece of metal on the back part of the barrel.

“That don't look like much.”

“But the two of them together's everything.” He held the gun up for me. “Here, have a look.”

So I pinched one eye closed and looked down the top of the barrel, trying to line up the speck and the nick, just like he'd drawn in the dirt.

“Got it?”

“Uh, yeah. I think so.”

“Look at the
front
sight, Rusty. Not the close one. That's what you focus on—the front sight.”

“You don't look at the can?”

“Should be nothin' but a blur when you press the trigger.”

“I didn't know that.”

“Well remember it, 'cause that's the secret.” He took the gun back and wedged it against his shoulder. “Okay now. This is how you hold it. Nice and firm. Only kicks a little, but still, hold it nice and firm. Then find yourself a can, line up your sights, focus on the front one, and”— he pulled the trigger back—“press.”

The gun fired and jerked back a little, and the first can tumbled. Then he cocked the lever out and back, ejecting the empty shell into the dirt. He smiled at me. “You ready to give it a shot?”

I was over being scared. So I nodded and said, “Yeah, I think so.”

“Attaboy, Rusty! Aim for the stew can. It's biggest.”

The gun was heavier than it looked, and at first the tip of it wobbled around something fierce. I kept losing track of the can, then the sight, then the can … But finally I pulled the trigger—which was actually
easier
than I thought it'd be—and felt the butt jerk against my shoulder.

“Nice try, Rusty,” he said.

The can was still standing tall.

“Shoot!”

“Hey, it was your first shot,” he said. “At least it went downrange. Try again.”

So I cocked the lever out and back. It felt firm and strong. Powerful. I raised the gun, lined the sights, pulled the trigger, then looked.

One stew can, still standing tall.

“Shoot!”

“You was closer that time,” he told me. “It dusted right in front. Try again.”

I cocked the hand lever back with more confidence this time, raised the gun, and pulled the trigger.

“Shoot!”

“Don't jerk the trigger, Rusty. Squeeze it nice and easy. A little jerk on this end sends the barrel way off target.”

I pushed the lever out and back, fast and steady. “All right, y'stupid can …, ” I muttered, then lined up the sights and pulled the trigger back, nice and easy.

Plink!

“Ya did it! Rusty-boy, ya did it!”

Snap-clack!
I cocked the next round in. Nice and steady …
Plink!
I grinned and did it again. And again. And pretty soon the gun was empty and I was reloading and plinking down the next round of cans.

“You're
good
,” Joey told me when we'd run out of ammo.

“It's
fun
,” I said.

“See? Nothin' to be scared of. Nothin' at all.”

That night at supper when Dad asked what was new with everyone, I didn't volunteer about my plinkin' session with Joey. I just let Mama chatter on about the high school and how the copying machine had jammed and printed a bunch of tests upside down and backward, and how she had to do them all over twice.

“Tests?” Sissy asked, tuning in. “What tests?”

Mama raised an eyebrow at her. “None of your business what tests, Jenna.”

“It's the sophomore Civil War exam, ain't it?”