Read Online Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy by Gary D. Schmidt - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gary D. Schmidt
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above the tide line, and while Lizzie ran to the dory for her rake and bucket, Turner took off his shoes, rolled up his trousers, pulled up his sleeves, and began looking for a place to dig. He picked out a hole that the retreating ripples left bubbling, straddled it, and set to digging with his hands. By the time Lizzie was back, he had a pile of muddy sand but had lost track of where a clam might be.
"Here," she said, "take turns using this." She set her rake mightily in the mud, pulled back a layer, put the rake in again, pulled back another peel, and then once more, until the tines scraped against a shell and the clam lay like an ornery pearl, spitting at them. Lizzie lifted it. "Sometimes they don't mind their manners much," she said.
"I guess I wouldn't, either, if I was being dug up for chowder."
"I guess. Lately, it seems like there might be a whole lot of reasons for not minding your manners."
Turner nodded. He knew some reasons.
They dug clams until the water covered the flats—actually, as Lizzie pointed out, Turner mostly watched her dig clams until the water covered the flats. He held the bucket, leaning away from it to avoid the spitting, and lugged it full back to the dory. Lizzie knelt and packed it with seaweed, sending little crabs scuttling from underneath each handful she dragged up.
Turner was mindful of his toes.
"You want to come over?" asked Lizzie.
"To the island?"
She put her hand on her hip.
"I'll come over," said Turner. And together they waded out and climbed into the dory—it was floating freely now—and Lizzie, with easy hands, oared the boat around and with a few strokes set its bow and Turner toward Malaga.
He had seen the island from the far ledges, standing with his father and Sheriff Elwell and Deacon Hurd and everyone else important in the town. A stony beach, a stony ledge or two, some pines—a few toppled over with their heads in the water, a few tilted, most of them still straight. There had seemed nothing on the island that would set anyone but a gull to wishing that he could live there.
But coming on it now, from the water, with Lizzie stroking and angling her way to the point, Turner felt as if he was on the brink of a discovery. Ahead of him, the beach was covered with stones, their hard outsides rubbed off and smoothed so that they glowed as the waves gathered them up and down. The granite ledges were streaked by a thousand shades of gray and silver, separated by slices of pink quartz that glowed like happiness. And the pines! The pines threw their roots around the shore's boulders, grappling with the living rocks and wrestling them into position. And out of those rocks they thrust themselves into the air as if they might scratch the blue dome of heaven, and as they stretched back and forth trying to reach it, and as the sea stretched itself back and forth up the beach, Turner felt the world moving slowly and anciently beneath him, and he began to sway back and forth with the waves, with the trees, with the rolling globe itself.
"You're not going to throw up?" asked Lizzie.
"No, I'm not going to throw up."
"Good, because if you were going to throw up, I'd be sure to remind you that you'd best lean out over the side of the boat."
"You have a real way about you, you know that, Lizzie?"
"That's what my granddaddy says: a real way about me."
"What else does your granddaddy say about you?"
"That I'm the closest thing to glory he'll ever see on God's green earth. What does your daddy say about you?"
Turner didn't have to answer, since just then the dory scraped up on the beach a little above the point, and he jumped out the stern and began to push the boat in. (He thought just then that sometimes God could get things exactly right.) The rocks were cold and smooth and slippery under his feet and the water lapped up to his knees, but Turner hardly noticed. He watched Lizzie stow the oars neatly along the sides, saw her twist and reach for the hooked rock she would
"Here," she said, "take turns using this." She set her rake mightily in the mud, pulled back a layer, put the rake in again, pulled back another peel, and then once more, until the tines scraped against a shell and the clam lay like an ornery pearl, spitting at them. Lizzie lifted it. "Sometimes they don't mind their manners much," she said.
"I guess I wouldn't, either, if I was being dug up for chowder."
"I guess. Lately, it seems like there might be a whole lot of reasons for not minding your manners."
Turner nodded. He knew some reasons.
They dug clams until the water covered the flats—actually, as Lizzie pointed out, Turner mostly watched her dig clams until the water covered the flats. He held the bucket, leaning away from it to avoid the spitting, and lugged it full back to the dory. Lizzie knelt and packed it with seaweed, sending little crabs scuttling from underneath each handful she dragged up.
Turner was mindful of his toes.
"You want to come over?" asked Lizzie.
"To the island?"
She put her hand on her hip.
"I'll come over," said Turner. And together they waded out and climbed into the dory—it was floating freely now—and Lizzie, with easy hands, oared the boat around and with a few strokes set its bow and Turner toward Malaga.
He had seen the island from the far ledges, standing with his father and Sheriff Elwell and Deacon Hurd and everyone else important in the town. A stony beach, a stony ledge or two, some pines—a few toppled over with their heads in the water, a few tilted, most of them still straight. There had seemed nothing on the island that would set anyone but a gull to wishing that he could live there.
But coming on it now, from the water, with Lizzie stroking and angling her way to the point, Turner felt as if he was on the brink of a discovery. Ahead of him, the beach was covered with stones, their hard outsides rubbed off and smoothed so that they glowed as the waves gathered them up and down. The granite ledges were streaked by a thousand shades of gray and silver, separated by slices of pink quartz that glowed like happiness. And the pines! The pines threw their roots around the shore's boulders, grappling with the living rocks and wrestling them into position. And out of those rocks they thrust themselves into the air as if they might scratch the blue dome of heaven, and as they stretched back and forth trying to reach it, and as the sea stretched itself back and forth up the beach, Turner felt the world moving slowly and anciently beneath him, and he began to sway back and forth with the waves, with the trees, with the rolling globe itself.
"You're not going to throw up?" asked Lizzie.
"No, I'm not going to throw up."
"Good, because if you were going to throw up, I'd be sure to remind you that you'd best lean out over the side of the boat."
"You have a real way about you, you know that, Lizzie?"
"That's what my granddaddy says: a real way about me."
"What else does your granddaddy say about you?"
"That I'm the closest thing to glory he'll ever see on God's green earth. What does your daddy say about you?"
Turner didn't have to answer, since just then the dory scraped up on the beach a little above the point, and he jumped out the stern and began to push the boat in. (He thought just then that sometimes God could get things exactly right.) The rocks were cold and smooth and slippery under his feet and the water lapped up to his knees, but Turner hardly noticed. He watched Lizzie stow the oars neatly along the sides, saw her twist and reach for the hooked rock she would
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