A Plague Year

“Or a sailor afraid of water.”

“Right. So then Jimmy and Warren bought the flatbed truck. They hauled pine trees for the government, to make turpentine. They were supposed to haul a hundred trees at a time. They hauled maybe sixty, but they still got paid for a hundred. Jimmy used to say it was close enough for government work.

“Then they started moving college kids in and out of frats and dorms. They moved them in in September and moved them out in June. But you can’t work for just two months a year, so they came up with the idea of the Christmas-tree run.”

Arthur’s eyes lit up. “And they let me in on that deal! On the day before Thanksgiving, we load up with Frasier firs and Douglas firs for seventeen dollars each,” he explained. “Then we drive to a lot in Orlando and sell them for eighty to a hundred dollars each.”

“Florida—that’s cool. That’s a cool profit, too.”

“It can be, yeah. Unless there are problems. Last year, a Boy Scout troop staked out a lot next to us and really hurt our business. These Boy Scouts had an air horn that they blew whenever somebody bought a tree. That must be some kind of Florida thing. I never heard of blasting a damn boat horn over a Christmas tree. That horn was getting on my last nerve.

“One night, right before closing, Jimmy fell asleep in a chair tipped back against the truck. Two Boy Scouts crept over and blasted that air horn in his ear, making him crash to the ground, hurting his neck and ear something serious. Then they ran away, laughing.

“Jimmy and Warren and me all walked over and complained to the Scout master, some fat dude. A buncha Scout mothers started yelling that it wasn’t true, like their precious little darlings would never do that, so the Scout master started saying it wasn’t true, too. Then a bigmouth woman asked us, ‘Why don’t you go sell your trees someplace else? Let the Scouts make their money. They need it for camping and equipment and stuff.’

“Warren said, ‘We rent this lot every year from Mr. Peterson. We pay good money for it, so we have a right to be here.’ Then Warren called this Peterson dude and told him what was going on and told him to get out there and talk to the damn Scout mothers.

“Well, when Peterson arrived, he got all scared of the Scout mothers because they all had big mouths and they were all yelling and calling us liars and out-of-staters and crap. He backed down right away. He told us, in front of them, ‘Y’all will just have to make the best of the situation. Let these boys sell their trees. It looks like they’re about to run out. Then you can sell yours.’ ”

Arthur shook his head. “Well then, don’t another shipment of Boy Scout trees arrive the next day?

“Warren called Peterson back. Peterson told him he was sorry again. He said it would never happen again, because a Jiffy Lube was going up on the Boy Scout lot. So we decided to let it slide, but it did hurt our business. Near the end, we were selling those trees for forty bucks each.”

“That’s tough.”

Arthur assured me, “God will visit his wrath upon the infidel, upon those damn Boy Scouts, wherever they are.”

I looked at him curiously. “Arthur, do you really believe all those things you say about God and heaven and hell and all?”

He seemed confused. “Of course I do. I live in Caldera, cuz. I know there’s a hell. I grew up with it under my bed.”

It was dark when we arrived back at the school. Mrs. Weaver was parked there, waiting. So was a guy who turned out to be Ben’s father. (At least Ben got in the car and left with him.)

Arthur was giving me a ride home, which was a major concession from Mom. I was heading for his car when I heard a voice behind me.

Wendy’s voice.

She hadn’t even looked at me the whole trip, but now she was standing next to the idling Suburban, demanding to know, “Hey! What’s going on with you?”

I mumbled, “Not much.”

“Are you not talking to me or something? I thought we were good.”

I answered as evenly as I could, “I thought you weren’t talking to me.”

She shook her head no. Then she shrugged in a Whatever gesture. She pointed over my shoulder toward the Geo Metro and said, “How about poor Mr. Giles, huh?”

I turned and looked. Wendy said, “Catherine has been working with him, trying to desensitize him, but I guess he wasn’t ready. It was too much too soon.”

I watched Jimmy talking to Arthur at the car. I finally answered, “Yeah. That was rough.”

Wendy sounded empathetic. “It’s so sad. He takes two field trips, and he has two breakdowns. If I were him, I wouldn’t take a third.”

I actually considered correcting her grammar, “If I were he,” but I didn’t. Instead, I said, “Well, they say you have to take it one step at a time.”

She frowned at my cliche of an answer, but I didn’t care. Then Catherine Lyle beeped the horn, causing Wendy to turn and glare at her. She wasn’t even looking at me when she said, “Okay. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I didn’t answer. I watched her climb into the passenger seat and ride away.

By the time I got over to the Geo Metro, Arthur and Jimmy were sitting inside with the engine running. Arthur opened his door. He leaned forward and unlatched the seat so I could squeeze into the back. He pulled me into their conversation right away. “So, cuz, I just talked to Jimmy, and we got a proposition for you.”

“Really?”

“The Christmas-tree run this year is gonna start on November twenty-first.”

“The day before Thanksgiving?”

“Correct. We will drive down to sunny Florida in the big truck. Jimmy and Warren will stay for twelve days”—he turned toward me—“but I won’t. We are going to tow the Geo Metro, so that I can leave after five days. I’ll be back on November twenty-fifth, the following Sunday, in time for school on Monday.” Arthur paused for dramatic effect. “And Jimmy here says you can join us if you want.”

I was astounded. “Me?”

“Yep. Jimmy says they will even pay you for your labor.”

Jimmy confirmed this. “Three hundred dollars for five days’ labor.”

“Wow! Really?”

Arthur said, “Yeah. And it ain’t hard labor, cuz. People point at a tree; you pick it up and tie it to their roof.” He smiled and asked, “What do you say?”

I was thrilled. Three hundred dollars! Florida! But I must admit, I was a little scared, too. I didn’t really know Jimmy and Warren, except as people my parents kept me away from. I asked, “Are you sure we would be back in time for school?”

“Yep. Most trees get sold the first few days after Thanksgiving. That’s when they need our help. Jimmy and Warren will keep selling trees for another week after that. What they haven’t sold at eighty bucks by then, they’ll sell at forty and skedaddle.”

Jimmy repeated, “Skedaddle.”

Then I heard myself say, “Okay. Yeah. Count me in. Absolutely.”

It all sounded really really great to me.

Of course, it would not sound great at all to Mom and Dad.

Mom tries to do a traditional Thanksgiving at our house. But here is how it usually goes: Dad, Lilly, and I work late at the Food Giant on Wednesday night. Dad goes in for a few hours on Thursday morning, too, to catch up on Centralized Reporting System stuff.

I get up early and play video games on the TV in the parlor (like Banjo Kazooie on my old Nintendo, or Super Mario Brothers on my N64). Mom has her portable TV in the kitchen, blaring the Macy’s parade as she cooks. I’m not sure what Lilly does, but it probably involves hair and makeup.

Dad times things so he arrives at home just as Santa arrives at Macy’s. We gather in the kitchen. We fill our plates with food and carry them into the dining room. We hold hands (which is always a bit awkward), and Dad