Free A Place to Call Home by Deborah Smith Page B

and as we sidled up to its edges, a familiar sense of awe settled on us, too.
    Mr. Tobbler rolled the crank handle on an apple corer. Curlicues of red apple peel dropped to a mountain of apple peelings that covered his shoes and climbed halfway up his pants legs. He popped the peeled apple from the corer’s clamps, deftly sliced it into pieces with a razor-sharp paring knife, spread the slices on a paper plate, and dribbled liquid caramel over them.
    Then he presented the plate to a waiting member of his audience, a man who stood way back as he tucked a dollar into the coffee can on a stool in front of the table, a man who reached for his caramel apple very carefully, becausenobody had the courage to stand inside Boss Tobbler’s circle of helpers.
    Hundreds of yellow jackets flitted around him. They crept over the apple peelings, they swarmed lazily around the corer, they perched on his shirt and his hands, they clung to the wiry tufts of brindled hair on his thi ck forearms.
    But they didn’t sting him. They never did, according to local legend. He’d made some kind of magical, dignified peace with the small, hurtful creatures and they knew it. And they respected him.
    “Granddaddy,” Tula said softly. “Will you fix us some candied apples?”
    Mr. Tobbler nodded solemnly. “But I’m not gonna let y’all stand back like babies anymore.” He slid a fresh apple into the coring vise. The yellow jackets hovered over his hands like the tiniest fairies. “Y’all are half grown now. You know there’s nothing to be afraid of. Fear is what stings. Come on. Come close.”
    Rebecca and Violet refused to budge, but I edged forward and Tula did, too, because I guess she knew we had a double dose of magic between us. I moved in slow motion, my heart in my throat. Yellow jackets feathered our wrists, our hands; one lit on the nail of my forefinger and sat there calmly, rubbing its head with one tiny front leg, like a cat cleaning itself.
    I expected to feel needle-hot stingers at any second.
    “Now there, they know you got good hearts,” Mr. Tobbler whispered as he handed us two filled plates. “They know you’ll share with ’em.” Victory! I sighed with relief as we backed away. My personal yellow jackets left my skin delicately.
    “Wow,” Rebecca murmured.
    Violet had her hands clamped to her mouth. She just stared at us. We said our thank-yous and dropped two dollars in the can because Mr. Tobbler donated the money to the school’s booster club.
    And then the four of us retreated hurriedly. Even Tula looked happier once we were out of yellow-jacket range. “No problem,” I lied proudly. “I wasn’t scared a bit.” I popped a caramel-soaked slice of apple into my mouth, chewed it, swallowed, and looked around to see who might be admiring me.
    There was Roanie, standing just inside the shadows on the side of the grassy hill above the concession stand.
    I halted. Whether his gaze was admiring or not, I couldn’t tell. I could never quite tell what he was thinking behind those gray wolf eyes, his scrutiny as sharp as a ten-penny nail. He stood with his hands in his pockets, one long leg angled out to the side.
I like the shadows, I want to be right here, don’t mess with me
, everything about him warned.
    At fourteen he was as tall as a grown man and about as wide as a board. He was stuck with cast-off jeans and work shirts from the Dunderry Civitans Thrift Shop, and his enormous, patched, red-flannel shirt was instantly familiar. Grandma Dottie had donated a bag of Grandpa’s work shirts to the Civitans. It looked like a tent on Roanie, but I considered it a good sign.
    “Come on,
come on
, Claire,” Violet urged nervously, tugging at my arm.
    “Why’s he looking at you?” Rebecca whispered. “He oughta know better than to look at a Maloney.”
    “He knows I’m not gonna sting him.”
    Tula grabbed my sleeve. “He sure might sting
you
.”
    But I knew that wasn’t true. Hypnotized, I climbed the hill