Jackson Jones and the Curse of the Outlaw Rose (6 page)

Mama pulled up and gave another
toot-toot

The door flew open, and out hobbled Mr. K., chased by his nurse. He looked like a skinny gerbil pursued by a stethescope-wearing cat.

“Don't fuss,” he barked, scrambling into the front seat. He arranged his cane and waved gleefully to the nurse, who smiled and shook her finger.

“Step on it, Grace,” he cried to my mama. “Before the old cat crams another pill down my throat.”

The zuke mobile puttered into action,
weaving up the street like a squash stuffed with seeds. Rowdy seeds named Gaby and Ro.

“Ta-da.” Mr. K. pulled yellow roses from a brown paper bag.

Small, frilly old-time yellow roses.

The roses the ghost had tended.

“What a beautiful bouquet!” Mama exclaimed.

“A good-luck present for your booth.” Mr. K. beamed. “Cut 'em myself this morning. That do-nothing nurse fixed the vase.” His gnarly old hands flicked a petal. “Bet those garden-show folks have never seen roses like this.”

Good-luck present, ha. Who knew what the ghost might do now?

“Speaking of roses, Jackson.” Mr. K. suddenly turned to me. “How's that cutting from the cemetery? Have you planted it at Rooter's?”

Reuben and I exchanged glances. In all the worry about the ghost, we had completely forgotten our reason for clipping the rose twig in the first place. Mr. K.: rose rustler.

“Speak up, boy.” Mr. K. frowned. “How's that cutting?”

Luckily, at that moment, a terrible stink distracted the man.

“Ro!” Juana complained.

“But my worm is lonely,” whined Ro. “Let me talk to him. Just for a minute.”

“The lid goes on
now,”
Juana ordered.

Quickly Mama let down the windows and we gulped city air.

“See what I have to live with?” Gaby moaned. “A rotten worm.”

“He's healthy,” Ro assured her. “He's just making—”

“We know,” said Juana.

Ro mournfully stuck his thumb in his mouth. “My worm needs a friend,” he murmured.

I closed my eyes against the hot breeze from the window. Saved by a worm. Maybe Mr. K. would forget about the cutting, at least till we had returned it to the cemetery. Then it would be too late for him to plant it at Rooter's himself—and to try bossing it into growth. Now I had a ghost
and
Mr. K. to deal with. Talk about stress.
No bees, no broken
bones, no poison ivy.
I made a silent song with the words.
No questions from Mr. K.

“Oh, look,” Mama called. “Isn't that Howard Green? But what's he doing?”

“Strange boy,” barked Mr. K.

My eyes snapped open.

Blood was scurrying down the sidewalk. Not swaggering. Not sauntering.
Scurrying.
His head swiveled constantly. Right, left, up, down.

“Maybe he's searching for something.” Mama slowed the van,
toot-tooted
the horn at Blood. “Can we help?”

Blood glanced at the zuke mobile. His eyes locked on mine. Widened with fear.

Then he bolted down the sidewalk.

“Look at him go,” Mr. K. said admiringly. “Big—but he runs like a deer.”

“Did you see the bee?” Reuben whispered.

Juana shook her head. “But the way Blood is acting, he must be listening for it,” she whispered back.

I got a mind picture of Blood's face. Scared. Constantly searching. Waiting for that bee to
strike. Yeah, maybe that bee was giving Blood a bit of what he'd been giving other kids for years.

“That poor boy,” Mama murmured. “He looked so scared. Maybe we should follow—”

“Won't do any good,” Gaby declared from the back. “He's cursed.”

“Cursed?”

“Haunted by a ghost,” Gaby explained loudly while we tried to shush her. “And it serves him right.”

“He tried to kill my worm,” Ro spoke up.

“Ghosts? Nonsense!” Mr. K. snorted. “That's the trouble with kids today. Too much imagination.”

No bees, no broken bones, no poison ivy
, I sang silently all the way to the garden show.
No questions from Mr. K. No bad business for Mama.

Those words sang through my mind while we unloaded Mama's signs and spades and Ro's stinky worm.

But when we stumbled through the convention center door, my singing suddenly stopped.

“A-ma-zing,” murmured Reuben.

An indoor garden spread before me. The scene was as pretty as one of Mama's magazines. Bright as Oz in the movie.

I stared. The garden stretching over the huge floor was actually made up of many little gardens. Like Rooter's, but without weeds. Pansies lined teeny lawns as smooth as green felt. Lilies raised high their trumpet flowers. Fountains trickled and tinkled a watery music. No waterfalls, though, probably due to the drought.

Everything was lined up just so, the way Mr. K. liked his plot. But the old man snorted when he read the sign on a gleaming bench.
FOR DISPLAY ONLY.
“Fancy-pants garden,” he barked. “No place to sit.”

“Come help me set up.” Mama took his arm kindly. “You can man my booth.”

Though small, Mama's booth managed to look “festive” (her word) once we set out the spades and hung the Green Thumb signs. Reuben arranged Mama's business cards on a table.

“Those yellow roses sure catch the eye.” Mr. K. nodded at the vase beside them.

We lined up across the front of the booth, ready for business. Gaby smoothed Ro's hair.
“Keep the lid on that worm,” she advised. “Or the stink will drive off customers.”

“My worm's gonna help.” Ro smiled serenely.

Mama surveyed our line. “Could be there's more helpers than booth space. Why don't you take turns?”

Of course, Gaby, Ro, and the worm disappeared immediately, with Juana in pursuit. Reuben wandered off to sketch; Mr. K. had to hunt down the bathroom. Finally, Mama asked if she could attend a class on arranging cattails.

“Go,” I said.

And that's how I found myself an hour later, the only man manning the booth.

I leaned back in the metal chair. Ah, I felt as fine as a big-shot business guy. I chatted to the lady in the next booth, who gave me a tulip-shaped pot holder. I straightened Mama's business cards. This time the next day, the haunted rose twig would be back in its proper place. No more trouble. “You look great,” I murmured to Mr. K.'s yellow blooms.

Suddenly a voice boomed: “Young man!” I jumped.
Whoosh
went the vase. Water all over. I grabbed the pot holder, frantically mopped.

“Young man,” the voice boomed again, “where did you get those roses?”

I felt like an outlaw for sure. “I didn't st-steal them,” I stammered. “Mr. K. took them. From his garden, I mean. He gave them to my mother.”

“Where is your mother?”

The man loomed over me. His gray eyebrows bristled like two caterpillars.

“Where is your mother?” he repeated, scooping up a soggy flower.

The curse was reaching beyond the garden. Would Mama and Mr. K. get in trouble?

“Those roses came from Texas,” I rushed to explain. “In a potato. A long time ago.”

“What's the name?”

“JACKSON!”

Ro rounded a corner, raced for the booth. “GUESS WHAT?”

“Hey, the floor's wet.” Gaby slid to a halt beside her brother. “And so are your mama's cards! Boy, will she be mad.”

“JACKSON!” Ro tugged at my shirt.

“Don't pay any attention to him,” Gaby informed the man. “He's excited 'cause—hey, who are you?”

“I'm a judge.”

“Like Judge Judy on TV?” Gaby asked. “Do you put people in jail?”

The man chuckled. “Actually, I'm a judge of—”

“WORMS.” Ro continued tugging. “Come see, Jackson.”

“He found a worm farm.” Gaby sighed.

“Oh, those are great.” The man's eater-brows wagged happily. “I have a little one.”

“Are you a worm judge?”

“Roses,” said the man.

“Well, anyway,
please
tell my brother an important fact: Worms are NOT pets.”

Ro beamed. “My worm will have
hundreds
of friends,” he said.

“Indeed,” said the man, looking confused.

He waved the yellow rose at me, scattering drops. “May I take this, young man?”

Gaby perked up. “What for?”

“I want to identify it.”

“We'll sell it to you,” said Gaby.

“Shhh.” I poked her, then turned back to the man. “I guess you can take it. But why?”

The man's brows wagged again. “I can't make any promises,” he murmured, “but this rose may be rare. Very rare.” He wiped one of Mama's wet business cards on his shirt and tucked it into his pocket. “I'll call when I find out.”

“Jackson,” Gaby wailed as the man strode down the aisle. “You let him
steal
your mama's flower. Five bucks down the drain. Maybe ten. I bet we
never
see that man again.”

Mama said pretty much the same thing when I told her the whole story. “We'll probably never hear from that man,” she said as we headed home in the zuke mobile. “What could he possibly discover?”

“Nothing fancy-pants about that rose,”
Mr. K. barked. “Good, hardy stock. My grandmother brought the cutting from Texas. In a potato!”

“I mentioned that to the judge,” I said.

Mama hummed as she drove. Lots of folks had stopped by and picked up her (wet) business cards. Ro hummed to his worm, now tucked in a non-stinky farm with some wiggly friends. The small contraption was a present from Mr. K. “You can start your own business,” he had told the little boy. “I'll buy your worms for my plot.”

Business? Gaby IMMEDIATELY got involved. Miss CEO announced she would help feed the worms for a cut of the profits.

I hoped to be humming soon. The haunted plant preyed on my mind. I had promised to take it back to the graveyard after the show. I couldn't rest till then.

No bees, no broken bones, no poison ivy. No trouble.
Those words sang in my head all the way home. All the way to where that rose twig waited for me.

At six o'clock, that twig was still waiting.

The zuke mobile had made a looonnng stop at the Space Shuttle Grill. Mama wanted to treat everyone to ice cream for helping with her booth.