Read Online Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy by Gary D. Schmidt - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gary D. Schmidt
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toss over for the anchor, felt the boat quiver a bit as she stood, balanced lightly, and finally jumped out the bow, her feet sending up a frothy splash. She turned and gripped the dory and pulled it higher, Turner pushing, and then she stood, hands on hips, and smiled.
"You coming?"
I'm coming.
Maybe her granddaddy was right.
He pulled the pail of clams from the dory, and when she reached out a hand to him, he took it, and so stepped onto Malaga Island for the first time: the sounds of the water rushing through the rounded stones, the salt-pine scent of the air, the gaggling cry of a single gull flopping around with its head lowered, the sea breeze coming up suddenly against his back, the warm feel of Lizzie's hand as she led him farther up into it all. Lord, thought Turner. Lord.
Together they climbed up to the center of the island, where the trees were thick and high. She showed him the graves, and they stood quietly together and were careful where they set their feet. Then back up the shore and to the south end of the island, where shingled one- and two-room houses clamped themselves to the rocks like oysters, glad to be there and not needing anyone's say-so. In front of almost all of them was a dory or two, some overturned, some pulled up long ago for caulking or patching. Near them, half-moon lobster traps bleached under the heat of the sun, the salt dried to white streaks along their boards, their rope netting stiff and a bit ragged. High dune grass hid the paths up to the houses—in fact, almost hid the chopping block one man was using to split his cordwood.
"Hey, Mr. Eason," Lizzie hollered, and the man stopped for a moment and waved at them.
Turner shifted the pail of clams to his other hand, and they followed the curve of the beach past the schoolhouse—the trimmest building on the island—past more shingled one-room homes, where there was always someone at the window to wave to Lizzie and nod to Turner—the kind of nod you might give to someone who didn't belong but might, in time, come to belong—and then back around to the point where Lizzie's home and its tottering picket fence looked on up the New Meadows. And there was her granddaddy, sitting by the front door, a Bible in his hand. He closed it as they came up.
"This the boy never talked to a Negro before?"
Lizzie nodded. Turner nodded, too. He thought Lizzie's grandfather must be older than Methuselah. He looked like a white-haired, fiery-eyed, God-haunted Old Testament prophet without the robes.
"How's he doing now?"
"Fair to middling."
"Fair to middling," her grandfather repeated. "Let's see, then. Boy, why don't you go ahead and say something?"
Turner had no notion of what to say to an Old Testament prophet. He had figured they were all dead.
"Maybe not quite middling," said Lizzie's granddaddy.
Turner opened his mouth and shut it again.
"Maybe not quite fair. How about something from the Bible? You know something from the Bible? I've just been reading in Philippians here."
"I do know something from the Bible."
"That's good to hear. Good to hear." He emphasized the "good" as if it really meant something. "Go on and say what that is."
Turner began. '"Abraham begat Isaac; and Isaac begat Jacob; and Jacob begat Judas and his brethren; and Judas begat Phares and Zara of Thamar; and Phares begat Esrom; and Esrom begat Aram; and Aram begat Aminadab; and Aminadab begat Naasson; and Naasson begat Salmon.'"
Lizzie's granddaddy put his hand to his cheek. Lizzie stared at Turner.
"I can keep on going," said Turner.
"No," said Lizzie's granddaddy slowly. "I expect you've gone on enough."
"Zara of Thamar?" said Lizzie.
"Maybe we should start with names." He put his hand to his chest. "Reverend Griffin."
"And he's Turner Ernest Buckminster," supplied Lizzie.
"Just Turner," he said.
"Turner. That's a fine name."
So's yours.
"Well, thank you, Turner Ernest Buckminster. Now, if you're done with your begats, I'll go on ahead and shake
"You coming?"
I'm coming.
Maybe her granddaddy was right.
He pulled the pail of clams from the dory, and when she reached out a hand to him, he took it, and so stepped onto Malaga Island for the first time: the sounds of the water rushing through the rounded stones, the salt-pine scent of the air, the gaggling cry of a single gull flopping around with its head lowered, the sea breeze coming up suddenly against his back, the warm feel of Lizzie's hand as she led him farther up into it all. Lord, thought Turner. Lord.
Together they climbed up to the center of the island, where the trees were thick and high. She showed him the graves, and they stood quietly together and were careful where they set their feet. Then back up the shore and to the south end of the island, where shingled one- and two-room houses clamped themselves to the rocks like oysters, glad to be there and not needing anyone's say-so. In front of almost all of them was a dory or two, some overturned, some pulled up long ago for caulking or patching. Near them, half-moon lobster traps bleached under the heat of the sun, the salt dried to white streaks along their boards, their rope netting stiff and a bit ragged. High dune grass hid the paths up to the houses—in fact, almost hid the chopping block one man was using to split his cordwood.
"Hey, Mr. Eason," Lizzie hollered, and the man stopped for a moment and waved at them.
Turner shifted the pail of clams to his other hand, and they followed the curve of the beach past the schoolhouse—the trimmest building on the island—past more shingled one-room homes, where there was always someone at the window to wave to Lizzie and nod to Turner—the kind of nod you might give to someone who didn't belong but might, in time, come to belong—and then back around to the point where Lizzie's home and its tottering picket fence looked on up the New Meadows. And there was her granddaddy, sitting by the front door, a Bible in his hand. He closed it as they came up.
"This the boy never talked to a Negro before?"
Lizzie nodded. Turner nodded, too. He thought Lizzie's grandfather must be older than Methuselah. He looked like a white-haired, fiery-eyed, God-haunted Old Testament prophet without the robes.
"How's he doing now?"
"Fair to middling."
"Fair to middling," her grandfather repeated. "Let's see, then. Boy, why don't you go ahead and say something?"
Turner had no notion of what to say to an Old Testament prophet. He had figured they were all dead.
"Maybe not quite middling," said Lizzie's granddaddy.
Turner opened his mouth and shut it again.
"Maybe not quite fair. How about something from the Bible? You know something from the Bible? I've just been reading in Philippians here."
"I do know something from the Bible."
"That's good to hear. Good to hear." He emphasized the "good" as if it really meant something. "Go on and say what that is."
Turner began. '"Abraham begat Isaac; and Isaac begat Jacob; and Jacob begat Judas and his brethren; and Judas begat Phares and Zara of Thamar; and Phares begat Esrom; and Esrom begat Aram; and Aram begat Aminadab; and Aminadab begat Naasson; and Naasson begat Salmon.'"
Lizzie's granddaddy put his hand to his cheek. Lizzie stared at Turner.
"I can keep on going," said Turner.
"No," said Lizzie's granddaddy slowly. "I expect you've gone on enough."
"Zara of Thamar?" said Lizzie.
"Maybe we should start with names." He put his hand to his chest. "Reverend Griffin."
"And he's Turner Ernest Buckminster," supplied Lizzie.
"Just Turner," he said.
"Turner. That's a fine name."
So's yours.
"Well, thank you, Turner Ernest Buckminster. Now, if you're done with your begats, I'll go on ahead and shake
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