The Trouble with Tuck (8 page)

A
bout that time, the “Colonel Bogey” march was being played on all the Los Angeles radio stations because of the 1957 Academy Awards. The music is from the movie
The Bridge on the River Kwai
, starring William Holden and Alec Guinness, about prisoners of war in a Japanese camp and the blowing up of a bridge they'd built over the River Kwai.

I'd seen it.

The troops whistled as they strutted along, their arms swinging the way British soldiers always do it when they march to a big brass band.
Whee-who, whow, who, whow, whee-whee, who …

I loved it, especially the whistling
whee-who
part.

Anyway, having set my clock-radio, I woke up to all the tweeting and brass band from the
Kwai
movie the
next morning, and I got out of bed quicker than on most weekends.

Immediately I said to the two dogs, who were sitting patiently side by side on my rug, gazing up at me as if I were queen of Cheltenham Castle, “Do you understand that today is the most important day of your whole lives? Of mine too?”

I was talking about Tuck getting off the chain forever, of course.

Naturally, neither one of them knew precisely what I was saying, but their tails wagged just the same, and I have an idea that they knew something sensational was about to happen.

While in my nightgown, I took them out in the yard for a short johnny session and then brought them back inside, having planned, to the hour, what I'd do that morning.

Maybe I'd felt better in my lifetime, but I couldn't remember when, and the day outside matched it all. The California sky was cloudless and desert blue, and the strong sun was already warming everything, drying the dew.

Looking at myself in the bathroom mirror that morning, I remember deciding I wasn't so hideous after all in this thirteenth year on earth. I still wasn't any raving beauty, but I'd improved somewhat, I thought. Even my mouth didn't seem so much like the Grand Canyon any-more, and I think some of my freckles had gone off wher-ever they go.

I dressed and was having cold cereal when my mother padded down to the kitchen in her robe, heavy-lidded and yawning. There'd been a party the night before. She
mumbled a good morning, surprised to see me up and around and in street clothes this early on a Saturday. I was always the sleeper.

I said a cheery good morning to her and then asked casually, “Are you going anywhere today?”

She was foggy. Heating water for coffee, she turned, frowning as if she didn't understand me. She was always one of those people who seem to float out in space until they have their first cup of coffee. After that, they are sharp.

I repeated myself and said, “It's important that you're here at ten-thirty.”

“What's happening?”

“You'll see,” I said, refusing to say more.

She yawned. “Aw-right.”

I awakened Luke and told him to have our parents, along with himself, out on the front lawn at ten-thirty sharp.

“Do you hear me?” I asked.

“Um. Yeah. Yeah.” He rolled over but was awake now.

So, in high spirits, I departed 911 West Cheltenham a few minutes later with Tuck and Daisy, bound on a trot for Montclair Park and what I hoped was the finale of two months of hard and dedicated labor.

Wasting no time once I arrived, I knelt down to take off both dogs’ leashes. This was it, I vowed. Freedom for Tuck Day!

To him I said, “Okay, no more leash. You're on your own, baby cakes. Put your yellow head up against Daisy when she starts off, and don't you dare do otherwise.”

Those sightless eyes were riveted on me, and I think he understood.

I added, “No more fooling around, Tuck. Today's the day.”

I had to be positive with him. Pity never worked. Maybe positivity would.

Daisy was watching us, and I simply said to her, “You know what to do, big mother.” No question about that.

Then I maneuvered Daisy up beside Tuck, so that his head was near hers. Without bothering to cross my fin-gers, which I'd learned gets you nowhere, I stood back and shouted, “Forward, Daisy.”

She began to move, the little bell on her collar rang, and Tuck trotted after her, at last placing his head firmly against her rump.

I let out another yell. I'd won! I'd finally won!

If I'd had angel wings and pearly toes, I would have taken off across the lake. Instead, I just ran after the dogs, a lot of sticky stuff suddenly in my throat. But it was cer-tainly no time to cry.

They were truly a sight to see—Lady Daisy, her head held high, ears up, and Friar Tuck Golden Boy, matching her step for step, guiding on her flank. That's the way we went jingling across the park, and the early morning onlookers applauded.

I practiced with my students for almost an hour and then checked my watch. It was twenty minutes after ten, time to head home.

The “Colonel Bogey” march was still rattling around in my head, and I said to them, “We're going to do this like a parade.”

Soon, we went whistling past Ledbetter's, and I thought Mr. Ishihara was going to throw his tomatoes up into the sky in celebration.

At Denham we waited for the stoplight to change and, almost a block ahead, I could see my mother and father out on the lawn by the sidewalk. Luke was there too.

Then we stepped off, and I said to my troops, “Pass in review,” and began to whistle the march from
Kwai.

I was swinging my arms the way Colonel Alec Guinness did in the movie, and suddenly I realized I wasn't walking—I was strutting.

I began to feel that I wasn't just a girl with two dogs walking behind me, but a whole victorious army with flags flying. A full brass band was there marching up Cheltenham, the sun spanking off the tubas and trum-pets, the drums booming and rolling. Jets were screaming in from above in salute.

I heard Luke's yell, “She did it!”

Up the street we came, the dogs moving at a steady pace, Daisy heeling behind me. I looked back at Tuck. His head was high too. He was not about to lose his dignity.

I noticed something else. Tuck wasn't just smiling. The dog with the Dudley nose and gooshie gray eyes was grinning.

Soon, Luke began to yell. “Yea, Helen, yea! Yea, Tuck! Yea, Daisy!”

I'd never felt so good. So confident. So beautiful.

0-385-07906-0

Now available from Delacorte Press

Excerpt from The Cay by Theodore Taylor
Copyright © 1969 by Theodore Taylor

Published by Delacorte Press
an imprint of Random House Children's Books
a division of Random House, Inc.
1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036

Reprinted by arrangement with Delacorte Press

All rights reserved

The bow tilted downward, and the next thing I knew we were all in the water. I saw my mother near me and yelled to her. Then something hit me from above.

A long time later (four hours I was told), I opened my eyes to see blue sky above. It moved back and forth, and I could hear the slap of water. I had a terrible pain in my head. I closed my eyes again, thinking maybe I was dreaming. Then a voice said, “Young bahss, how are you feelin’?”

I turned my head.

I saw a huge, very old Negro sitting on the raft near me. He was ugly. His nose was flat and his face was broad; his head was a mass of wiry gray hair. For a moment, I could not figure out where I was or who he was. Then I remembered seeing him working with the deck gang of the
Hato.

I looked around for my mother, but there was no one else on the raft. Just this huge Negro, myself, and a big black and gray cat that was licking his haunches.

The Negro said, “You 'ad a mos’ terrible crack on d'ead, bahss. A strong-back glanc’ offen your 'ead, an’ I harl you board dis raff.”

I sat up, asking, “Where are we? Where is my mother?”

The Negro shook his head with a frown. “I true believe your mut-thur is safe an’ soun’ on a raff like dis. Or mebbe dey harl 'er into d'boat. I true believe dat.”

Then he smiled at me, his face becoming less terrifying. “As to our veree location, I mus’ guess we are some-whar roun’ d'cays, somewhar mebbe fifteen latitude an’ eighty long. We should 'ave pass dem til’ dat mos’ treacherous torpedo split d'veree hull. Two minute downg, at d'mos’.”

I looked all around us. There was nothing but blue sea with occasional patches of orange-brown seaweed. No sight of the
Hato
, or other rafts, or boats. Just the sea and a few birds that wheeled over it. That lonely sea, and the sharp pains in my head, and the knowledge that I was here alone with a black man instead of my mother made me break into tears.

Finally the black man said, looking at me from bloodshot eyes, “Now, young bahss, I mos’ feel like dat my own self, Timothy, but 'twould be of no particular use to do dat, eh?” His voice was rich calypso, soft and musical, the words rubbing off like velvet.

I felt a little better, but my head ached fiercely.

He nodded toward the cat. “Dis is Stew, d'cook's cat.
He climb on d'raff, an’ I 'ad no heart to trow 'im off.” Stew was still busy licking. “ ’E got oi-ll all ovah hisself from d'wattah.”

I looked closer at the black man. He was extremely old yet he seemed powerful. Muscles rippled over the ebony of his arms and around his shoulders. His chest was thick and his neck was the size of a small tree trunk. I looked at his hands and feet. The skin was alligatored and cracked, tough from age and walking barefoot on the hot decks of schooners and freighters.

He saw me examining him and said gently, “Put your 'ead back downg, young bahss, an’ rest awhile longer. Do not look direct at d'sun. ’Tis too powerful.”

I felt seasick and crawled to the side to vomit. He came up beside me, holding my head in his great clamshell hands. It didn't matter, at that moment, that he was black and ugly. He murmured, “Dis be good, dis be good.”

When it was over, he helped me back to the center of the raft, saying, “ ’Tis mos’ natural for you to do dis. ’Tis d'shock o’ havin’ all dis mos’ terrible ting 'appen.

“We 'ave rare good luck, young bahss. D'wattah kag did no bus’ when d'raff was launch, an’ we 'ave a few bis-cuit, some choclade, an’ d'matches in d'tin is dry. So we 'ave rare good luck.” He grinned at me then.

I was thinking that our luck wasn't so good. I was thinking about my mother on another boat or raft, not knowing I was all right. I was thinking about my father back in Willemstad. It was terrible not to be able to tell him where I was. He'd have boats and planes out within hours.

I guess the big Negro saw the look on my face. He said, “Do not be despair, young bahss. Someone will fin’ us. Many schooner go by dis way, an’ dis also be d'ship track to Jamaica, an’ on.”

After a bit, lulled by the bobbing of the raft and by the soft, pleasant sounds of the sea against the oil barrel floats, I went to sleep again. I was very tired and my head still ached. The piece of timber must have struck a glancing blow on the left side.

When I next awakened, it was late afternoon. The sun had edged down and the breeze across us was cool. But I felt very hot and the pain had not gone away. The Negro was sitting with his back toward me, humming something in calypso. His back was a great wall of black flesh, and I saw a cruel scar on one shoulder.

I asked, “What is your name?”

“My own self? Timothy!”

“Your last name?”

He laughed, “I 'ave but one name. ’Tis Timothy.”

“Mine is Phillip Enright, Timothy.” My father had always taught me to address anyone I took to be an adult as “mister,” but Timothy didn't seem to be a mister. Besides, he was black.

He said, “I knew a Phillip who feesh out of St. Jawn, but an outrageous mahn he was.” He laughed deep inside himself.

I asked him for a drink of water.

He nodded agreeably, saying, “D'sun do parch.” He lifted a hinged section of the raft flooring and drew out the keg, which was about two feet long. There was a tin
cup lashed to it. Careful not to spill a drop, he said, “ ’Tis best to 'ave only an outrageous smahl amount. Jus’ enough to wet d'tongue.”

“Why?” I asked. “That is a large keg.”

He scanned the barren sea and then looked back at me, his old eyes growing remote. “D'large kag 'ave a way o’ losin’ its veree size.”

“You said we would be picked up soon,” I reminded him.

“Ah, yes,” he said instantly, “but we mus’ be wise 'bout what we 'ave.”

I drank the tiny amount of water he'd poured out and asked for more. He regarded me silently a moment, then said, his eyes squinting, “A veree lil’ more, young bahss.”

My lips were parched and my throat was dry. I wanted a whole cup. “Please fill it up,” I said.

Timothy poured only a few drops into the bottom.

“That isn't enough,” I complained. I felt I could drink three cups of it. But he pressed the wooden stopper firmly back into the keg, ignoring me.

I said, “I must have water, Timothy. I'm very hot.”

Without answering, he opened the trap in the raft and secured the keg again. It was then that I began to learn what a stubborn old man he could be. I began to dislike Timothy.

“Young bahss,” he said, coming back under the shelter, “mebbe before d'night, a schooner will pass dis way, an’ if dat 'appens, you may drink d'whole kag. Mebbe d'schooner will not pass dis way, so we mus’ make our wattah last.”

I said defiantly, “A schooner will find us. And my father has ships out looking for us.”

Without even glancing at me, he answered, “True, young bahss.” Then he closed his eyes and would not speak to me any more. He just sprawled out, a mound of silent black flesh.

I couldn't hold the tears back. I'm sure he heard me, but he didn't move a muscle of his face. Neither did he look up when I crawled out from under the shelter to get as far away from him as I could. I stayed on the edge of the raft for a long time, thinking about home and rubbing Stew Cat's back.

Although I hadn't thought so before, I was now begin-ning to believe that my mother was right. She didn't like them. She didn't like it when Henrik and I would go down to St. Anna Bay and play near the schooners. But it was always fun. The black people would laugh at us and toss us bananas or papayas.

She'd say, when she knew where we'd been, “They are not the same as you, Phillip. They are different and they live differently. That's the way it must be.” Henrik, who'd grown up in Curaçao with them, couldn't understand why my mother felt this way.

I yelled over at him, “You're saving all the water for yourself.”

I don't think he was asleep, but he didn't answer.