CHAPTER 5
BEING ON THE LAM was a whole lot of fun ... for about five minutes. Every
time my heart beat I could feel the blood pushing hot and hard on the inside of
my sting spots and the bite on my hand. But I couldn't let that slow me down, I
had to get out of this neighborhood as quick as I could.

I knew a nervous-looking, stung-up kid with blood dripping from a fish-head
bite and carrying a old raggedy suitcase didn't look like he belonged around
here. The only hope I had was the north side library. If I got there maybe Miss
Hill would be able to help me, maybe she'd understand and would be able to
tell me what to do. And for now I could sneak into the library's basement to
sleep.

It was a lot later than I'd ever been up before and I was kind of scared of the
cops catching me. I had to be real careful, even if it was the middle of the night,
even if I was crouching down, sneaking along the street like Pretty Boy Floyd.
At the library I walked past a row of giant Christmas trees that were planted on
the side of the building. There was a door on the side with a light burning
above it so I kept walking in the shadows made by the big trees. When I got to
the back windows, I almost busted out crying. Somebody had gone and put big
metal bars on the windows.

Even though I knew it was useless I tried tugging at the bars but they were the
real McCoy, solid steel.

I headed back to the Christmas trees. They were low enough to the ground that
no one could see me unless they were really looking, so I started opening my
suitcase. Most folks don't have sense enough to carry a blanket around with
them, but you never know when you might be sleeping under a Christmas tree
at the library so I always keep mine handy.

I untied the strange knots that the Amoses had put in my twine and opened the

suitcase. I could tell right away that someone had been fumbling through my
things. First off, whenever I put the blanket in, I always fold it so that it stops
all the other things from banging up against each other, but those doggone
Amoses had just stuffed it in without paying no mind to what it was mashing
up against.

I lifted the blanket out and saw that everything else was still there. You might
be able to say that the Amoses were some mean old nosy folks, but you
couldn't call them thieves.

I picked up the old tobacco bag that I keep my rocks in. I could tell by the way
the drawstring was pulled that the Amoses had been poking through this too. I
jiggled it up and down in my hand a couple of times and it felt like none of the
rocks was missing but I opened it to count them anyway. None of them was
gone.

Next I pulled Momma's picture out of the envelope I kept it in and held it so the
light from the Library's side door would shine down on it. It looked like the
Amoses hadn't hurt it. This was the only picture of Momma in the world.
Running across the top of it was a sign that was writ on a long skinny flag, it
said,

BOYS AND GIRLS--FOLLOW THE GENTLE LIGHT TO THE MISS
B. GOTTEN MOON PARK.

Underneath the sign, between two big wagon wheels, was Momma.

She was about as old as I am now and was looking down and frowning. I can't
understand why she was so unhappy, this park looked like the kind of place
where you could have a lot of fun.

In the picture Momma was sitting on a real live little midget horse. It looked
tired and dragged out like those big workhorses do, but it had a teeny-tiny body
with a big sag where most horses have a straight back.

Momma was sitting right in the middle of the horse's back, riding him
sidesaddle, except there wasn't any saddle so I guess you have to say she was
riding him side-sag. She had two six-shooter pistols in her hands and the way
her face looked you could tell she wished she could've emptied them on
somebody. And I know who that somebody was. Momma told me it was her
father, my granddad.

He'd gone and ruined everybody's fun that day by getting in a big fight with my
mother about the gigantic white twenty-five-gallon Texas cowboy hat that she
was wearing.

Momma used to tell me, "That hardheaded man insisted, insisted mind you, that
I wear that horrible hat."

The hat was almost as big as Momma and you could see it was fake because as
tall as it was no real cowboy could've wore it without getting it knocked off his
head every time he rode under a tree or some telegraph wires.

Momma told me that some man used to drag the midget horse all through her
neighborhood with a camera and if your momma or daddy signed a piece of
paper he'd take some pictures of you, then come back in a couple of weeks so
you could buy them. Momma wasn't looking like she had rocks in her jaw
because the hat was so fake that a real cowboy would've laughed you out of
town for wearing it, she was mad because the hat was so dirty.

When she used to tell me about it her eyes would get big and bunny, like the
whole thing happened the day before yesterday instead of all those years ago.
She'd start moving around our apartment real quick, picking things up and
putting them back in the exact same spot.

"Filth!" she'd say about the hat. "Absolute filth! Why, the thing was positively
alive with germs! Who knows what type of people had worn it?"

I'd say, "I don't know, Momma?"

She'd say, "Who knows how many years it had been worn by who knows how
many sweaty little heads?"

I'd say, "I don't know, Momma"

She'd say, "The entire band on the inside was black and I'm sure it was
crawling with ringworm, lice and tetters!"

I'd say, "Yes, Momma."

She'd say, "And that horrid little photographer didn't care, do you imagine it
ever occurred to him to wash it?"

​

I'd say, "No, Momma."

She'd say, "Of course not, we meant less to him than that horse he mistreated
so."

I'd say, "Yes, Momma."

She'd say, "But your grandfather insisted. To this day I cannot understand why,
but he insisted, insisted ..."

I'd say, "Yes, Momma."

We had that conversation a lot of times.

Me and Momma having the same conversations lots of times is one of the main
things I can remember about her now. Maybe that's because when she'd tell me
these things she used to squeeze my arms and look right hard in my face to
make sure I was listening, but maybe I remember them because those arm-squeezing, face-looking times were the only times that things slowed down a
little bit when Momma was around.

Everything moved very, very fast when Momma was near, she was like a
tornado, never resting, always looking around us, never standing still. The only
time stuff didn't blow around when she was near was when she'd squeeze my
arms and tell me things over and over and over and over.

She had four favorite things to tell me, one of them was about the picture and
another one was about my name.

She'd say, "Bud is your name and don't you ever let anyone call you anything
outside of that either."

She'd tell me, "Especially don't you ever let anyone call you Buddy, I may have
some problems but being stupid isn't one of them, I would've added that dy onto
the end of your name if I intended for it to be there. I knew what I was doing,
Buddy is a dog's name or a name that someone's going to use on you if they're
being false-friendly. Your name is Bud, period."

 

I'd say, "OK, Momma."

And she'd say, every single time, "And do you know what a bud is?"

I always answered, "Yes, Momma" but it was like she didn't hear me, she'd tell
me anyway.

"A bud is a flower-to-be. A flower-in-waiting. Waiting for just the right
warmth and care to open up. It's a little fist of love waiting to unfold and be
seen by the world. And that's you."

I'd say, "Yes, Momma."

I know she didn't mean anything by naming me after a flower, but it's sure not
something I tell anybody about.

Another thing she'd tell me was, "Don't you worry, Bud, as soon as you get to
be a young man I have a lot of things I’ll explain to you." That didn't make me
calm at all, that was Bud Caldwell's Rules and Things to Have a Funner Life
and Make a Better Liar Out of Yourself Number 83.

RULES AND THINGS NUMBER 83
If an Adult Tells You Not to Worry, and
You Weren't Worried Before, You Better Hurry
Up and Start 'Cause You're Already Running Late.

She'd tell me, "These things I'm going to explain to you later will be a great
help for you." Then Momma'd look hard in my face, grab a hold of my arms
real tight and say, "And Bud, I want you always to remember, no matter how
bad things look to you, no matter how dark the night, when one door closes,
don't worry, because another door opens."

I'd say, "What, it opens all by itself?"

She'd say, "Yes, it seems so."

That was it: "Another door opens." That was the thing that was supposed to
have helped me. I should've known then that I was in for a lot of trouble.

It's funny how now that I'm ten years old and just about a man I can see how
Momma was so wrong. She was wrong because she probably should've told me
the things she thought I was too young to hear, because now that she's gone I’ll
never know what they were. Even if I was too young back then I could've
rememorized them and used them when I did need help, like right now.

She was also wrong when she thought I'd understand that nonsense about doors
closing and opening all by themselves. Back then it really scared me because I
couldn't see what one door closing had to do with another one opening unless
there was a ghost involved. All her talk made me start jamming a chair up
against my closet door at night.

But now that I'm almost grown I see Momma wasn't talking about doors
opening to let ghosts into your bedroom, she meant doors like the door at the
Home closing leading to the door at the Amoses' opening and the door in the
shed opening leading to me sleeping under a tree getting ready to open the next
door.

I checked out the other things in my suitcase and they seemed OK. I felt a lot
better.

Right now I was too tired to think anymore so I closed my suitcase, put the
proper knots back in the twine, crawled under the Christmas tree and wrapped
myself in the blanket.

I'd have to wake up real early if I wanted to get to the mission in time for
breakfast, if you were one minute late they wouldn't let you in for food.