Jake and the Giant Hand (8 page)

Chalk and Cheese Sandwiches

C
hris
and Kate left with a roar of the mini-bike. This time it was loud enough to wake up his grandpa, who came down to the kitchen with Gus, looking hungry.

“When's dinner there, Jake?” his grandpa said with a stretch.

“I'll start the grilled cheese sandwiches,” Jake answered. He really wanted to ask his grandpa about the flies, but he'd have to time it. He didn't want his grandpa to get all quiet again. Or upset.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I made grilled cheese sandwiches for the Queen of England?” his grandpa asked. He was sitting at the kitchen table, looking well-rested and happy, while Jake stood cooking at the stove. Jake didn't turn around.

“No, Grandpa. You didn't.”

But you
could
tell me about the giant fly tornado!

His grandpa started a long story about how he was once a short-order cook on a riverboat in Ottawa. He was cooking for a summer, the same summer that the Queen of England came to visit. She wanted a grilled cheese sandwich; she'd never had one, and she'd heard that it was a Canadian delicacy. On and on the story went.

Jake was barely listening. How was he going to talk to his grandpa about the giant hand? About the flies? His grandpa said he didn't want to talk about it. Jake was concentrating hard, trying to come up with a plan, and stopped paying attention to what he was doing. He was making the first grilled cheese sandwiches of his life. He thought if he had to eat spaghetti or hot dogs one more day, he'd die.

But he stared out the window at the horse-head pump a little too long.…

“JAKE! Watch what you're doing!” his grandpa yelled. Jake came back to his senses and clicked off the smoking stove. He burned one side of the sandwiches and undercooked the other, and the cheese didn't melt inside. But his grandpa didn't even seem to notice. They both sat at the table and ate in silence since his grandpa had finished his unlikely story about the queen's grilled cheese sandwiches.

Jake drank a glass of milk with his dinner. His grandpa had a root beer. Gus lay at their feet, biting his paws.

It all seemed pretty normal. But Jake was wiggly. He wanted to talk. He
needed
to talk about the swirling cloud of giant flies. About the white stone.

And the picture in the archives with the horse-head pump.

Finally he blurted out, “Grandpa, where'd those flies come from? And what's the white stone at the bottom of the post hole?”

His grandpa put one cheek on a fist and leaned against the table. “Have you heard about the time I discovered the sacred white wishing stones?” his grandpa said. He had a glint in his eye.

“No, Grandpa, no more stories! I'm serious. What's that white stone? It reminds me of something.”

“Or did you ever hear my story about the great Fly Spirit that visits people with hordes of flies that clean up unwanted manure?” His grandpa was still grinning, but Jake was getting mad.

“Grandpa, it's really time to stop telling me stupid stories! I want the truth! Is it so hard to tell me the truth about what's going on around here?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about, Jake,” his grandpa said, sitting up straight. He had an innocent look on his face. But Jake also thought he looked maybe a little … worried. Or possibly sneaky.

“Yes, you do know what I'm talking about. You filled in the hole. You must have known there was something down there, something you didn't want me to see. Something white and creepy.”

“I didn't want you to fall into any more holes, Jake. And I didn't see anything down there, just dirt, although the soil is chalky around here….” His grandfather trailed off. But he turned away and wouldn't look at his grandson.

He really looked like someone who was hiding something.

“But what about the flies, Grandpa? You can't deny those exist. You almost got carried away in a whirling cloud of them out in the field, and they're everywhere. Big, awful flies that buzz like a chainsaw.”

“I only saw a cloud of bugs, Jake, not enormous flies,” his grandfather answered quietly. But he kept his eyes down.

Jake nodded slowly, then said, “You tell stories all the time, Grandpa, but this is one story you
don't
want to tell me. Why?”

“I have no idea what you mean,” his grandpa said again. Boy, could he be stubborn.

“I think you know, Grandpa. I think you know exactly what I mean.”

They looked at each other for a moment. Jake couldn't read the expression on the old man's face. He didn't like upsetting his grandpa, but he had to find out the
truth
. He was beginning to figure it out … he had a terrible idea he already KNEW the truth.…

After a long silence Jake spoke again. Everything was suddenly perfectly clear, and he spoke like a grown-up who knew the beginning, middle, and end of the story. “There are gross, enormous flies disturbed from a long rest swarming all over the place. And it's not a white stone down there. I know exactly what it is, though. I've seen it before.”

Jake held his grandpa in a long stare then finally said, “It's
bone
at the bottom of the hole, isn't it, Grandpa?”

Fourth Cold Room on the Left

J
ake
's grandpa opened his eyes wide and guffawed. “Bone? BONE? Where'd you get a crazy idea like that, Jake? Do you think that I've got bodies buried all over the field?”

“No,” Jake said quietly. “Not
bodies
.
Bod-y
. Just one. Or part of one. The skeleton of a giant hand.”

Jake's grandpa fell silent and suddenly wouldn't look up.

Jake went on. “It was
this
field, wasn't it?
Your
dad and grandpa woke up to loud buzzing.
They
had to cover their faces because of the giant flies.
They
buried the rotting corpse hand to hide it forever.”

“That's ridiculous, Jake! Where'd you come up with such a crazy idea?”

But Jake was barely listening. He stood up and started pacing around the kitchen, figuring it out.

“It makes perfect sense! The story is a hundred years old. The McGregor family has lived on this farm for over a hundred years, so the timing is right. Maybe you didn't know exactly
where
the giant hand skeleton was buried in the field, Grandpa. Maybe you even thought it was just a story too, but I bet you always wondered if it was true. Now you know. We found the tip of one of the bones when we dug the post hole for the shed! You were surprised at what I found at the bottom of the post hole.
That's
why you filled it in!”

Jake was breaking into a sweat.

“It explains the FLIES! You disturbed them when you laid out the shape of the shed with stakes. They came up out of the ground!”

“Sit down, Jake,” his grandfather said quietly. “Calm down. You'll get yourself all worked up again. A giant hand, son? Where would it have come from? Really? I mean, just think about that.”

Jake was breathing hard, trying to catch his breath.

“But the giant flies, Grandpa! The white stone at the bottom of the hole.…” Jake didn't want to stop, now that his grandpa was at least
listening
to him.

“Maybe those were cicadas, Jake. It's cicada season. They have been known to swarm. And the white … stuff …
if
it exists, maybe it's chalk.”

“No. Not cicadas, not chalk! You know it, and I know it. They were FLIES! They've been chasing me for days. And it's BONE!”

Jake was getting upset now. He could feel himself close to tears. He started shouting.

“Why won't you tell me the truth, Grandpa? I know bone when I see it! The Cuthberts have a moose skull outside their new cabin. The bone at the bottom of the hole is just like it — white and grainy and strong!”

Jake's eyes were wild and he was leaning on the kitchen table, nose-to-nose with his grandfather. Gus was up on his feet, ready to bark.

His grandpa sighed and pushed away his dinner plate. “Sit down, Jake. Calm down, for heaven's sake. It's true this farm has been in our family for over one hundred years. Strange stories get told and passed down, but you should remember this: they're
stories
. No one knows for sure if they happened or not. Like poor old Edwina Fingles wanders off and disappears, and suddenly she becomes the swamp creature. Or a huge old prehistoric tree, or ancient animal bones or something, turn up in a field and someone makes up a story about a giant hand. People have huge imaginations, Jake, especially bored people.”

“But Grandpa, I went to the library. Mrs. Cody knew who I was. She was nice until I asked her about the giant hand, then I saw her take a clipping from the wall. I know I did. She probably wanted to protect you and hide the truth.”

His grandpa stayed silent, so Jake went on.

“And … and … at the library, Kate and Chris and I found a picture of the farm with the hand. There was a
horse-head pump
in the background! It has to be here, Grandpa! THE GIANT HAND IS ON THIS FARM!”

Jake and his grandpa looked at each other for a long time. Jake could hear his heart beating, could hear the farmhouse kitchen clock ticking on the wall … heard a fly buzzing somewhere nearby … time stood still.

Anything could happen next. Truth or fiction, lies or tall tales, Jake was sure his grandpa was about to tell him something that would change everything.

He waited. And waited. Finally, his grandfather sighed and rubbed his chin. He looked up at Jake. When he spoke, he suddenly sounded to his grandson like an old, old man.

“I didn't know about the horse-head pump in the picture.” Jake's grandpa hesitated, then went on, slowly. “I always hoped that one day this farm would be yours, Jake. I don't know about a giant hand. I've heard the stories, yes. I've wondered. There's no way to know the truth, not for sure. Not unless we dug up the field. And what would be the point?”

His grandpa looked so old, so tired and sad, that Jake suddenly felt bad. Like maybe he should just forget it and stop bugging his grandpa about the truth.

Maybe the truth didn't really matter after all. The story was as good as the truth would ever be or maybe better. If it hurt people to get to the truth, maybe he should just leave it alone.

Jake would have. At that moment, looking at his tired old grandpa, he would have let it be right then and there. But his grandpa went on quietly, like something needed to be said and now no one could stop him.

“But there
is
something you should know, Jake. You may not like it.” His grandpa paused and sighed like he was carrying a heavy weight on his shoulders.

He continued. “Just remember, there are different kinds of stories. Some are true, some are lies, and some are in-between. You have to decide for yourself what's true … and what isn't. And for what it's worth, I'm not sure what I believe myself.”

He got up and walked slowly to a table in the hallway.

He looks so old!
Jake thought sadly. He watched his grandpa yank open a drawer and pull out a huge old key. He shoved the key across the table at Jake.

“Here. The fourth cold room on the left,” his grandpa said. “And I hope you'll forgive me,” he whispered.

Then the old man turned his back. Jake wasn't entirely sure, but he thought before he turned away, his grandpa's eyes shone with tears.