Free House of the Red Fish by Graham Salisbury Page A

barefoot, as always.
    Mama stood and watched us walk off.
    The deep jungle up behind the Wilsons’ house was still wet from that morning’s rain. Grampa’s khaki pants grew dark to the knees. I knew by the way he’d stopped complaining that he was curious about where we were going. Hiking wasn’t something we did together. But he wouldn’t ask questions about what I was up to. He’d rather gag on American milk than give me an ounce of anything over him.
    I made sure to stay clear of Keet’s house, not wanting to stir up any curiosity. But once we were deep enough in the jungle, we cut back over that way, forging our own trail. When we hit the mashed-down grassy path the truck had made, we followed it deeper into the shadowy vine-bearded trees.
    We hadn’t gone far before we stumbled on what I was looking for.
    Grampa scowled at the pile of boat parts. He squatted down to lay his fingers on the long shaft of the tiller, recognition growing on his face.
    “From Papa’s boat,” I said.
    It took a moment for Ojii-chan to form his question. “How come this stay here?” he finally said, breaking his unspoken rule of never asking me anything.
    “Keet Wilson and some guys … they stole it from down by the boat and brought it up in a truck.”
    Grampa frowned deeper, still confused.
    I squatted down next to him and told him what I was doing, step by step. “I know I can bring it up, Ojii-chan. I’m not sure how, but somehow I’m going to do it.”
    Grampa squinted, his eyes slits.
    Said nothing.
    “Grampa?”
    For the first time in all of my life, Grampa Joji, looking straight into my eyes, into my brain, even—for the first time, he grinned at me.
    His old stubby gray head bobbed.
    “Unnh,” he grunted. “Good, good … maybe you not so dumb as you look, nah?”
    I had never received such a compliment from him in my life. A warm swelling in my chest rolled up into my throat.
    Grampa tapped the tiller with a hand. “We take this, hide um.”
    “That’s what I was thinking,” I said. “Me and my friends are kind of worried, though.” I lifted my chin back toward Keet’s house. “He threatened to have me arrested. If we’re not careful he could make big trouble for us, Ojii-chan.”
    “Unnh.”
    We were silent a moment, both of us thinking.
    “Maybe I should just forget it,” I whispered.
    Grampa popped my knee with the back of his hand and glared at me.
    “Ow!” I said. “What’d you do that for?”
    “Kessite akirameruna!”
he spat. “You can say that one time, but no more.”
    I studied him, rubbing my knee. “Okay, Ojii-chan. I won’t give up.”
    “No worry.”
    Uh-oh. Now he had that rascal dancing in his eyes. “Don’t worry? If we get caught, we could—”
    Grampa Joji held up a hand. “You got
me
now, boy,” he said. “I going help you.”

Around noon the next day, Sunday, I sat in Billy’s yard with his dog and the key to Sanji’s truck, waiting for the Davises to get home from church.
    I rubbed the key between my thumb and finger.
Wa s
this for Sanji’s truck? Or was it was for something else? Maybe the pants weren’t even Sanji’s. But who cared about the pants? It was the truck I couldn’t get out of my mind. In all this time, how could I not have thought about it?
    “I’m losing it, Red,” I mumbled, and Red thumped his tail on the grass. I stuck the key into my pocket and scratched his upturned belly.
    Minutes later the Davises drove up and parked outside the garage. The black Ford Jake had been working on was still jacked up in there. Mr. and Mrs. Davis waved at me and headed into the house.
    I lifted my chin, hello.
    Jake went straight into the garage, still in his clean white church shirt. He squatted down to look at the underbelly of the black car.
    Billy strolled over, undoing his tie. “What’s up?” he said, stretching his neck to unbutton his collar. He folded his tie and stuck it in his back pocket.
    I held up the key.
    “Ahh,” he said.
    “Want