Free Neverland by Douglas Clegg Page B

very back—because I didn’t want to be up with Sumter and Uncle Ralph—and my father baiting his hook.
    I popped the top of a chocolate Yoo-hoo and took a swig. The drink was warm. I leaned back, resting my head against one of the life jackets, and gazed out over the small lake.
    Dragonflies whizzed around us as mosquito larvae giggled in aquatic swarms around the edge of our boat. Cattails and reeds swiped at the oars, but we stayed still, and except for the droning sound of Uncle Ralph’s voice and my father’s trying to get him to shut up, we floated like the moss in the Cayman tank, waiting for something to bite. Every now and then Sumter would make a growling noise and pretend it came from his bear, and each time Uncle Ralph looked like he was ready to bite his own boy’s head clean off.
    Around eight we broke open the breakfast basket that Julianne had packed the previous afternoon: cold fried-egg sandwiches; cold blackened bacon; thick slices of ham, each with a generous lacing of fat around its edges; a thermos of coffee; and apple juice in bottles shaped like apples. After we’d devoured these, Uncle Ralph said, “Why’n’t you boys go exploring? We can row you over to the island and you can play for a while.” You could see through Uncle Ralph like a pair of binoculars: Sumter had been making too much noise out in the boat, and his father wanted to ditch him so he could catch some fish. Uncle Ralph was a glutton for catfish, and all morning he’d mutter under his breath whenever Sumter began shouting—things like “Land Ho!” or “Thar she blows!” Uncle Ralph didn’t remember that he kept up his own steady stream of vocal noise by telling his off-color jokes. If anyone had scared fish off, he had.
     
    THE ISLAND we jumped off at was barely an acre in size. I waved good-bye to my father and my uncle, but Sumter was already cursing his luck.
“Dang it all, I sliced my toe open.” He plopped to the yellow summer grass, squatting in the mud, turning his foot over so he could view the damage. Blood had bubbled up onto his muddy foot. He plucked a hook out of it, tossing it onto the ground. He wiped his blood-muddy toe onto Bernard’s shaggy stomach. “Sorry, Bernard.”
    “If you leave it here, somebody else’ll step on it,” I scolded, picking up the fishhook after him.
    “Good,” he replied. “Maybe it’ll hook into you and get inside your greasy grimy gopher guts because you squealed.”
    “I did not.” I brushed the fishhook off and caught it into the edge of my short-sleeved shirt, carefully twisting it through the cotton to dull the sharp point.
    “I lied to my folks, but before supper the Weenie grabbed me and she went and slapped me on the fanny with that abomination of hers that she calls a brush. She said we were doing naughty things in the shack. What exactly did she mean, Beauregard Burton Jackson? What kinds of lies did you make up to get me in deep doo-doo? You tell her we were fornicating or somethin’?”
    My face felt hot and red. The heat of the day was sneaking up on us slowly. “I didn’t say nothing .”
    “Oh, huh, you didn’t, you’d do anything to save your own skin. I bet she made you bawl out loud and you told her. That witch. Well,” he said, calming, “I forgive you, Beau, because I know you knew not what you did.”
    “You’re a blasphemer, Sumter.”
    “And I’m a rambling wreck from Georgia Tech and a helluva engineer!” He trumpeted, his fists up to his lips. He had mood swings the way Uncle Ralph had cans of beer: one after the other, no matter the time of day. He stopped singing, swatted his hands out like a referee calling foul, and said, “Beau, I think we got company.” He pointed toward a crowded thicket of dried grass. He put a finger up to his lips. “Bernard,” he whispered, “you stay here.”
    Something moved, there in the sprawl of dried-up grass and prickers.
    Two long, white, fluffy ears perked up, and a pink nose sniffed at