Free Beat the Turtle Drum by Constance C. Greene Page A

in with lots of blankets and go over the fields to Grandmother’s house for dinner.”
    Joss was reading The Little House on the Prairie for the third time. It was against her principles to read anything but a horse book, but I talked her into it.
    â€œI wish I’d lived in those times,” she said after she read it for the first time. “Life was much nicer then. For instance. Think of Paul Revere riding to warn the Americans that the British were coming. Imagine how that would’ve been if he’d hopped into his car to sound the alarm.” Joss put her hands on her hips. “You’ve got to admit that would make a very different kind of story, right?”
    Paul Revere and the little house on the prairie were about one hundred years apart, but I knew what she meant.
    â€œLet’s walk Prince on the road and turn him into Pemberthy’s yard,” Joss suggested. “Maybe I can get him to look in her window and scare the daylights out of her.”
    I talked her out of that. We decided instead to pack a lunch to take up in the apple tree. Joss, Jean-Pierre, and I used to build a fort up there way back when we were small and the tree was in bloom. We’d take some old blankets to make soft sitting and hide behind the flowers to spy on people. I’ll always remember the way Joss used to select the best and biggest hard-boiled egg, peel it carefully, put salt on it, and say, “Here, Jean-Pierre.” In the flick of an eye, she’d eat it herself.
    â€œJean-Pierre,” Joss would say, picking olives out of her sandwich and tossing them down to the birds, “you really must learn to clean your plate. Give him another helping, Kate.” I’d give Jean-Pierre another helping of mashed potatoes and gravy. We’d eat daintily, chewing with our lips tightly closed, little mincy ladies at the tea table. Once Joss wore a pair of white gloves up into the apple tree. She drank tea with her gloves on. We thought that was a most elegant thing to do.
    â€œSay ‘excuse me,’ Jean-Pierre,” Joss said after somebody, presumably Jean-Pierre, burped. Jean-Pierre didn’t have very good manners.
    We went to the refrigerator to see what there was to eat. Not much. It was my mother’s day to food-shop. We made some cucumber sandwiches, took a bag of pretzels and two cans of soda. Joss tied Prince to a tree not far from where we were going to picnic.
    â€œSo he can’t run away,” she said. I figured the chances of Prince’s running away were about one in five hundred thousand. Joss liked to pretend he was much more wicked and unmanageable than he was.
    She tied two huge knots in the rope. Prince was as happy grazing there as he’d been before. As long as he had grass to eat, he was content.
    â€œNow you stay there,” she commanded. She threw her arms around his neck.
    â€œYou are so beautiful,” she crooned, “so beautiful.” She kissed him on his nose and we climbed into the branches.
    After we’d eaten our lunch, Joss said, “That was a very tasteful repast.” She sounded like my father. He’s very appreciative of good food.
    The scent of apple blossoms was rich and strong. The bees hummed a noisy tune.
    â€œI love it up here,” Joss said. “It’s so private. Do you remember, Kate, how we used to make Jean-Pierre eat everything? What a little fink I was then.”
    â€œKeep your voice down,” I warned. “We don’t want the enemy to know our hiding place.”
    Joss leaned down to check on Prince.
    â€œI can’t see him,” she said. “You don’t suppose he got loose, do you?” Before I could answer, she started to climb up and out to a branch that offered a better view.
    â€œBe careful,” I said. “That’s a long way to the ground.”
    She kept on going. I heard a loud, sharp crack. I saw the branch split and fall. Joss went with it. She