Jasper and the Riddle of Riley's Mine Read online

  I stand on shaky legs. There’s too much sadness in this house. More ugliness than I can bear. How I itch to be anywhere else.

  Pa looks past the window, unblinking. There ain’t no trace of the caring fellow he used to be.

  • • •

  The wool mill hisses and clatters the morning me and Cyril walk past, loud as Mel’s been quiet since last month’s fight with Pa.

  Cyril peers again at the fish in my bucket. “You’ll eat fine tonight.” Three perch and a smallmouth bass, their sides splotched gray and yellow, flop against the bucket’s sides. Cyril grins. His chapped lips don’t fit too good around his crooked teeth. “Sure beats my scrawny trout.”

  “Mel better be home before suppertime if he wants to eat tonight. Pa don’t let me keep food out for him no more.”

  Since that awful morning him and Pa fought, Mel’s kept to himself. He leaves early for the mill and gets home long after I’m in bed. Every night I take Mel’s newspaper from under my pillow and read through the gold story one more time. I’m set to ask Mel about our Klondike plans—what we’ll bring and when we’ll leave and how we’ll work around Pa—just as soon as I catch him alone.

  “Meet you at the lake tomorrow morning?” Cyril asks.

  I nod. “See you then.”

  Cyril swings his bucket as he goes.

  The August sun ain’t reached its full height, but already it blazes like it means business. My footsteps ring hollow on the porch steps. The house is dark and still. Could be Pa’s already left to work at Hansen’s.

  “Wondered where you were,” Pa says as I open the door. He tucks in his ragged shirt and pulls up his suspenders, like he’s just made a start to his morning when the day is pushing toward noon.

  “I caught four fish for supper.” The water slops in the bucket as I lift it to the cupboard.

  That’s when I see the letter propped against the empty flour jar. The letter’s in Mel’s hand. There ain’t no reason for him to write a note unless something’s wrong.

  Pa leans in to study his supper. Quick as that, I push past to grab the letter.

  “What was that for?” Pa growls. “You could have knocked over them fish.”

  “Just checking to see if there’s enough flour for biscuits.” I reach for the empty jar and give it a shake. “Nope.” When Pa ain’t looking, I work Mel’s note into my pocket.

  Pa starts in on how tired he is of perch, how any decent man deserves a bit of variety from time to time when it comes to his supper, but I don’t really listen. I’m thinking about that letter.

  Pa grips my shoulder, squeezes awful hard. “You hear what I said? I want them fish fried up when I get home. No saving some for Melvin, either. If he wants to eat, he better get back at a regular hour.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  The place where Pa’s hand pressed aches long after he lets up.

  Pa eases himself into a chair to lace his boots. That letter feels like it’s burning a hole clean through my trousers. Maybe I could hold it low behind the kitchen counter so Pa don’t notice.

  I slip it from my pocket, try to smooth it across my leg to work the wrinkles out. Dear Pa, it begins, it’s time for me to go.

  I don’t read no more. I can’t because my head don’t make sense of them words. It’s like each one’s been flipped over and turned around.

  Time to go. The letter says.

  For me. Not “me and Jasper.”

  My name ain’t mentioned at all.

  “Boy, have you listened to a word I said?” Pa’s on his feet again. He motions to my hand. “What’s that you got?”

  “It ain’t nothing.” I cram Mel’s letter deep in my pocket. “What did you say?”

  “I said you’d better see to them fish.” Pa chews the inside of his cheek, eyeing me. “Mind yourself, Jasper. I’m low on patience.” Pa tugs on his cap, and then he’s out the door.

  I wait and wait to be sure Pa’s truly gone before I try Mel’s letter again.

  Dear Pa,

  It’s time for me to go.

  Since I brought home that newspaper, all I’ve thought about is the gold that’s been found in Canada. This is my chance, and I’m going to take it.

  I know a sixteen-year-old boy’s old enough to be on his own. You’ve said as much a hundred times. But I’ve stuck around to help out. Mainly I’ve kept on because of Jasper. He’s acted strong since he got over the influenza, but he’s eleven, Pa. A kid. Be good to him. That’s all I ask. If not for me, then for Mama.

  Your son,

  Melvin Johnson

  An awful feeling squeezes my middle. Melvin’s gone. After that talk we had last month, after two years of promises we’d make our way together, he’s up and left without me.

  What was he thinking to leave me like that?

  This is his chance, Mel says. His alone. It don’t take long before my blood runs hot. I crumple up that letter, swing my arm hard as I can. The paper ball bounces off the door, rolls under Melvin’s bed.

  So I’m just some little kid. Oh, that Melvin thinks he’s something special, how he holds a job and knows what’s happening in the world outside of Kirkland. Miss Stapleton still loves to talk about what a perfect student he was, but that don’t mean he knows everything.

  I got more sense than ten Mels put together plus a couple more. He thinks he’s practically a man, can do what he pleases. But what kind of a man makes promises, then runs off the first chance he gets?

  As I reach for Mel’s note, the loose floorboard beneath his bed jiggles. I pry it back, and there’s the cigar box, where it’s always been. Except it’s cleaned out. Empty. The crate of clothes Mel stores under there, that’s empty, too. His two books are missing. The knapsack he keeps on a hook is gone.

  But there’s one real important thing he’s left behind.

  His extra pair of underdrawers sits right on top of yesterday’s clean laundry, the red union suit with the worn-through elbows and the baggy knees. Serves him right to be stuck with only one set of underwear. Old Mel ain’t as clever as he thinks he is.

  Up there in the Klondike in his one pair of underclothes, how’s he gonna get along? With the newspaper map under my pillow, he won’t be able to find his way.

  And then I remember. Pa’s pocket watch.

  Mama showed it to me and Mel one winter afternoon while rain streamed down the windows and thunder shivered the walls. It was a few months after Pa lost his job. Mama told us to sell the watch if ever me and Mel found ourselves in a tough spot. We didn’t ask how come she could decide about something that belonged to Pa. She knew how hard things were for us. I’m glad she ain’t seen how bad it’s gotten.

  I lift the corner of the quilt on Pa’s bed, dig around beneath his straw-tick mattress until my hand closes on a lump of flannel. The gold watch is wrapped inside, all smooth and shiny.

  So Mel didn’t take it. That was always the plan. When the two of us lit out, we’d take that watch with us in case we ever got in any trouble. We meant to sell it if we were in a pinch and needed money quick.

  Mel’s heading to Canada on his own. Sure, he’s got some money, but he don’t got this. I’m the one who can bring it to him. The truth is Melvin needs me. And more than anything, I’m owed an explanation on why he up and left without me.

  It don’t take long for me to pack. All I’ve got is a change of clothes, a coat, my green muffler, three pairs of Pa’s woolen socks, the fifty-seven cents I won from Cyril on a dare, my school pencil, the front page of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, and the last hunk of bread from me and Mel’s secret stash. That red pair of underdrawers Mel’s forgotten sits folded up real nice on top of yesterday’s laundry. I can’t wait to see his face, all grateful and embarrassed, when I hand them over.

  But it’s not the underdrawers my hand goes for first. It’s Mama’s washboard. Every
time I hold it, I can’t help but run my fingers over its middle, which zings with a sound almost like music. This washboard’s one of the only things we still own that once belonged to her, and I ain’t got the heart to leave it behind. Pa ain’t partial to cleanliness. He won’t notice it’s missing, anyhow.

  I drop Pa’s watch in my pocket, grab those underdrawers, and strap the washboard to my pack. Mel’s got a good head start on me. If I’m gonna catch up to him, I best be going myself. I’m halfway across the porch before I turn around. Pa may be a mess and is as mean as they come, but I took his watch. Sure, I got Mama’s blessing, but that don’t mean he knows it. The least I can do is tell him what’s going on.

  The front page of the newspaper’s in my pocket folded around my pencil, but I’ve left the rest on the table. I write a note down one side.

  Pa,

  That gold up in Canada. Me and Mel are gone to get some.

  Jasper

  PS – I got the watch.

  Then I hightail it out of there.

  Chapter 2

  The dirt road runs long in front of me, soft from yesterday’s rain. I turn at Hansen’s and hope Pa don’t see me through the front window. It ain’t Pa who notices, but the tabby with the broken tail. He brushes up against me, twines himself around my legs with a purr that rumbles through his sides.

  “Bye, old Tom.” I stroke the cat’s bony back. “You’ll tell Cyril I’ve left, won’t you?” He nudges my trousers with his nose. I take it as a yes. “And don’t you listen to him if he invites you to chase them mice that live in the schoolroom wall.” Ever since Cyril dared me to let that rooster loose, Miss Stapleton’s been uptight about the smallest things.

  • • •

  It ain’t but a mile from here to Lake Washington, where the ferry runs between Kirkland and Seattle. Even if I didn’t hear him say so, I know it’s where Mel’s headed. That’s where them Klondike miners docked. That’s where a body’s gotta start to take a boat up north.

  At the shore a crowd already waits to board the ferry, talk of gold a solid hum. Klondike outfits. Sailing down the Yukon River. How long it takes to get to someplace called Dyea. I ain’t familiar with the half of what I hear. Me, a near expert on the Klondike after my nightly reading.

  “When’s the next ferry run?” I ask a man who looks like he should know by the way he checks his watch, a gold one like Pa’s but not nearly as fine.

  “At one o’clock, about forty minutes from now.”

  “I must have got here just in time,” I say.

  The man nods. “Miss this one, and you’ll sit here till tomorrow. The ferry makes one trip out and one trip back each day. The ticket booth should open soon.”

  One boat out means Mel’s still here in Kirkland. I don’t want him to catch sight of me till at least Seattle. The farther from home we get, the harder it’ll be for him to send me back. But it don’t look right for a boy my age to travel alone. It’s always best to have a plan, and mine is to blend in with other folks.

  I make sure Mel ain’t anywhere nearby, then wave at a man under a shade tree. “One o’clock’s when it leaves, Pa,” I shout. “We’re right on time.”

  The man’s face scrunches up, confused, but I keep on with my smiling. A body can’t just quit when he tries to act ordinary. It’s important to follow through.

  The window in the ticket booth slides open, and them that haven’t lined up yet move in to claim a spot. That’s when I spy Mel near the front, his brown coat folded over one arm and his knapsack strapped across his shoulders. I join the end of the line, stick near that man I called to, but not so close he realizes I’m pretending he’s my pa.

  I’m mighty grateful Cyril’s rooster stunt, when he dared me to bring it to class last spring, earned me fifty-seven cents. I couldn’t hardly hold on to that ornery bird as he flapped and scratched before he took off squawking around the schoolroom. Sure, Miss Stapleton swatted me with her ruler, but it weren’t so bad. Not when the whole school turned silly for the rest of the afternoon. Seeing it costs a half dollar to buy a ferry ticket, that prank was worth every penny.

  As many times as I’ve passed the ferry, I ain’t never been on board. I’ve paddled around Lake Washington before, but that was in a rowboat. I ain’t never been on a boat so big as this one. Once I pay for my ticket, it’s just three steps across a narrow gangplank, and I’m a genuine passenger. I clomp my heels on the deck, as confident as a sailor. The line to board stretches on behind me. I bet with the gold talk these last few weeks this ferry’s been crammed with folks, more than it’s ever carried before.

  Once, when Mel was a schoolboy and I was a little kid, Mama surprised me with a picnic. She packed some biscuits and preserves in her egg basket and tucked a clean cloth over the top. The two of us walked to Lake Washington and spread a quilt on the shore. As the ferry puttered across the water, we shared them biscuits still warm from the oven and piled high with blackberry jam.

  I try to find the spot me and Mama picnicked all them years ago, when we had food aplenty and home was a happy place, but I ain’t able. Maybe it’s just as well. Them days are long gone.

  The engine thrums like the ferry’s ready to get going, and sure enough, it lunges forward. Water slaps the boat’s sides. The floorboards shift and shiver. It’s like trying to stand on the lake itself, but I plant one wobbly foot next to the other and watch for Melvin as the dock gets smaller. The road to Hansen’s all but disappears.

  “Goodbye, Kirkland,” I whisper. “I got somewhere else I need to be.”

  Two men huddle around a newspaper, fight to hold it open as the wind whips around. Behind them I spot a pair of green socks, ones I’ve scrubbed a whole bunch of times. Old Melvin sits near the railing on his pack, his long legs folded up, his face gloomy, like he ain’t sure where he belongs. Well, if he’s lonely, that’s his own dern fault.

  The ferry lurches, and I grab on to a bench where a beefy gent talks lively with a codger nearby. I slide in next to the gent, near enough on his other side so it seems the two of us belong together. His shoulders block my view of Mel, and I figure if I can’t see him, he surely can’t see me. The rocking ferry tries to lull me into sleep, but I ain’t having that. There’s too many things to notice. How the ferry cuts through the water smoother than a farmer’s plow. How at the shore it was right calm, but now the breeze is sharp enough I gotta hold on to my cap. The clouds race us overhead, but we’re the faster ones.

  Just as quick as Kirkland disappeared, Seattle’s shoreline comes into view, a city so big it covers every inch of land. We near the dock and the whistle blows. I about jump out of my skin. The beefy gent’s eyes grow wide, like he’s noticed me for the first time. All around folks gather their things. The bustle gives enough cover for me to watch for Mel unseen and fall in step behind him when he passes.

  I almost lose him because the dock’s so clogged with folks, but I’m small enough I can weave through the whole lot of them. Keep focused on Melvin, I tell myself, on his sandy head as it bobs through the crowd. My eyes don’t quite know how to make sense of so many folks.

  Looks like gold talk has brought in ferries from everywhere.

  Melvin walks down the middle of the street with short, quick steps like he knows where he’s headed. I stick as close as I can. Buildings stretch high above us on either side. Fish and trash stink up the air. Fellows strut about in woolen coats and big fur hats, never mind the summer heat. A cable-car bell clangs and clangs, tells folks to clear off the tracks. No one pays it any mind. Lines and more lines of men snake outside shops with signs so new, the paint shines wet and oily.

  KLONDIKE-APPROVED APPAREL! they say.

  PIONEER OUTFITTERS!

  GENUINE ARGONAUT WARE!

  Seattle. This city’s huge and full and noisy and fevered up with gold.

  Mel picks a line to join. What he’s after, I don’t know, unless he�
�s realized he’s got but one set of underdrawers and has left his map at home.

  I stand off to the side, pretend to study an apple cart, but near enough that a fellow, if he tilted his head and squinted a little, might see me as part of the line. It inches forward painfully slow. From the same door folks enter, other men haul out load after load. Fur coats. Sacks of flour and coffee and beans. Boots and blankets. Pickaxes and pans. Enough gear to last a lifetime. Everyone in line acts like it’s natural to buy more than a man can carry all at once. Is this what’s meant by a proper Klondike outfit? Must be, because when Mel leaves that store an hour later, a clerk helps pile his gear in a wagon parked right behind the apple cart.

  “You plan to leave soon?” the clerk asks my brother. He tucks Mel’s payment in his canvas apron pocket.

  Mel nods as he hugs a little sled to his chest. “On the steamer called Queen.”

  “You’d better get a move on, then. Tickets go fast.”

  The horse hitched to the delivery wagon shifts on his feet as Mel climbs in. I hustle around to the apple cart’s other side, wait for Mel’s wagon to roll by. With people everywhere, I can follow behind, hidden right out in the open.

  • • •

  If the city streets are bad, the wharf is worse, a lot more crowded than where the ferry docked clear on the other side of town. The mixed-up jumble of folks feels like parade day plus Christmas plus one of them all-nighters Pa sometimes pulls—the loud kind where things get broken. Seems like everyone in Seattle’s marched through the city to end up here. Some are bent on boarding the Queen, others on living off the excitement of them leaving their old lives behind.

  The ship’s a whole lot bigger than that ferry we took from Kirkland. Its bottom half is gray, and its top half is painted white. Bold letters spell out Queen along the steamer’s side. Thick smoke drifts from a smokestack at its middle. Ropes lash it to the dock, like an animal that ain’t yet tame.

  Mel stands in line again, this time to pay his fare. He takes a book from his pocket and slowly turns the pages. It’s one I ain’t seen him read before. I’m down to seven cents, which ain’t gonna get me nowhere. I pull out Pa’s watch. It rests snug and perfect in my palm. He’s never worn it, least not that I remember. Pa sure don’t live like he knows the time. And even when he was at the mill, he never could afford something so fancy. Now he’s only got money for liquor.