Free A Thousand Never Evers by Shana Burg Page B

Kuckachookians. We can do anything we set our minds to.”
    “Well, of course,” Mr. Mudge says. “I don’t mean to imply we can’t, but…”
    Ralphie squirms. I know I should read him a story but I can’t stand to miss a word. So I pick up his doggie, wet its nose in the tap, and stick it in the sugar bowl. Then I hand it back. Just as I hoped, Ralphie stuffs his sweet doggie’s nose into his mouth and chews on it like a pacifier, while I wait to hear what Miss Springer will say next.
    But the minutes pass and Miss Springer doesn’t say “boo.” It’s so quiet I can hear the bubbles burst in the pot.
    At long last the mayor asks, “Just what do you propose, Miss Springer?”
    “Just this,” she says. “We, the Garden Club, accept Mr. Mudge’s most kind offer of hiring field hands to plant our garden.”
    Mr. Mudge snarls.
    “After that,” Miss Springer says, “we’ll call on the bored, potbellied men this side of town. They’ll meet up at the garden a couple evenings a week to pull weeds and water. They’ll shed pounds and revitalize themselves by reuniting with the land. They’ll form a weeding-and-watering committee.”
    Miss Springer stops and stares at Mrs. Tate and Mrs. Worth. “Your husbands will be the committee leaders,” she says.
    “Well, how on earth am I gonna get my husband to work our garden?” Mrs. Tate asks.
    “You just tell him you see his waistline growing faster than his hothouse bulbs, and I guarantee you one hundred percent, he’ll be weeding the acres by hand every night of the week.
    “And as for your husband,” Miss Springer says to Mrs. Worth, “ever since he switched from firefighting to lumber, he’s lost that gleam in his eye. You get him to show up at the garden just once, and I promise, you’ll find a changed man!”
    Mrs. Tate and Mrs. Worth nod like Miss Springer could be on to something.
    Then Miss Springer takes her pencil off the table and slides it back behind her ear. “So you see,” she says to Mr. Mudge, “that’s the way it’s fixin’ to be.”
    “You sure make a lot of noise for a librarian!” Mr. Mudge says.
    Miss Springer huffs out such a strong breath it knocks the curl dangling in front of her forehead off to the side of her face.
    “Oh, I’m just joking,” he says. “But there is one problem you’ve overlooked.”
    Miss Springer raises her eyebrows.
    “Weedin’ and waterin’ is Negro work!” he says.
    Now Miss Springer’s fuming! “I’ll have you know,” she says, “my daddy and his daddy before him did that work. So did your daddy. If he hadn’t, you wouldn’t be where you are today.”
    And that’s when I hear the sizzling sound. I run to the stove. Each noodle’s the size of a live oak trunk. I’ve got just enough time to feed Ralphie supper before the Garden Club meeting finishes and it’s time for Mama and me to head back home.
    Later, when me and Mama get outside, I see the milk in Flapjack’s dish is almost finished. Mama waits while I clean out the bowl with the Tates’ hose. Then I
tweet, click, click,
and wouldn’t you know it, Flapjack leaps over the neighbor’s fence into the Tates’ yard. The milk worked! I kiss his furry head and together, we all walk home.

CHAPTER 11

    August 3, 1963
     
    Mama, me, and Uncle Bump meet up with Bessie in Kuckachoo Lane. What with Elias still missing and us going to plant this garden that should be ours, no one’s got to say a word for all of us to understand things couldn’t be worse.
    Last week, the week after the Garden Club meeting, Bessie carried us a message from Mr. Mudge. She sat at our kitchen table and took out a receipt from the Corner Store. Then she turned it over to show us what he wrote on the back:
    Keep the faith. You’re all invited to help plant Saturday.
    Good wages. Tell Bessie if you’ll work.
    “Mr. Mudge is reaching into his own pocket to pay us, ’cause he wants to hire help he knows is good,” Bessie told us. “Plus, he knows y’all