The Luck of the Buttons Read online

  Tugs looked down at her pants. “Mechanics wear coveralls,” she muttered.

  “What’s that?” snapped Aunt Mina.

  Tugs had seen her father work on the car a hundred times. He’d chattered while he worked, telling her everything he knew about the engine and how cars worked.

  “We’re out of gas,” she said simply.

  Harvey Moore smiled even more broadly and snatched his Panama off Ned’s head, settling it back on his own.

  “Truth be told, I was always better with a football than a wrench,” he said. “Played for Purdue, back in . . . But you’re not interested in . . .”

  “Yes, we are!” said Ned. “Did you ever play Iowa?”

  “Ned,” said Aunt Mina. “Let the man finish.”

  “As missy was saying, you’re out of gas,” said Harvey. “Look how long you have had the hood open. I actually just assumed you knew you were out of gas. I am checking the safety of the valves and the . . . well . . . as soon as I have a little fuel myself, as they say, I’ll skedaddle to fetch you lovely ladies a can of gas so you can be on your way.”

  Gladdy thrust two sandwiches out to Harvey, and Aunt Mina reached into her skirt pocket and pressed some coins into his hand.

  “Hope he brings you the change,” snapped Granny as they watched Harvey saunter off. “That looked to me like more than enough for a can of gas, Mina, and now we’ve given him Ned and Gladdy’s sandwiches.”

  “Hey!” said Gladdy and Ned together.

  “The sandwiches are all the same. How do you know they were ours?” said Ned.

  “Well, I’m an old lady. It wouldn’t be my sandwich, now, would it? And your mother is driving. Couldn’t be her sandwich or Auntie Corrine’s, now, either, ’cause she’s doing the navigating. Can’t be Tugs’s sandwich, because Tugs helped Mr. Moore solve the mystery of the automobile. So it must be your and Gladdy’s sandwiches. Now, go make yourselves scarce. Tugs and me want to dine in relative tranquility.”

  Tugs accepted the sandwich Granny handed her, but as she took a bite, she felt a little guilty. She tore it in three parts and handed a piece each to Gladdy and Ned.

  They didn’t have to wait long for help. Lester Ward’s roadster came speeding along presently, with Harvey Moore in the passenger seat. Tugs slid down in the backseat, hoping desperately that Lester wouldn’t see her there.

  “Rescued!” she heard Harvey bellow. “I flagged down this fine fellow, and isn’t he the good Samaritan, picking up a stranger in need and buying a can of gas for you lovely ladies besides. There. And look, he’s filling it for you, too.”

  As Lester finished, Harvey clapped him on the back. “Let’s go, my friend. We’ll leave the ladies to their journey.”

  “Wait!” Ned hollered. “Can I ride with you?”

  Tugs peered over the seat. She saw Harvey take a long drink of lemonade from a bottle in Lester’s car as they sped off, Ned waving from the center of the road until they were out of sight.

  “Isn’t he just the most amazing young man?” said Aunt Mina.

  “He’s dashing,” gushed Gladdy.

  “Imagine,” continued Aunt Mina. “Bringing the newspaper back to Goodhue. It’s about time.”

  “Harvey Moore,” said Mother Button. “That’s the name of someone who can get something done.”

  “He dresses too fancy for a mechanic or a football player,” said Tugs.

  “Tugs, where have you been? He’s a newspaperman,” said Aunt Mina. “Now, everyone back in the car. Granny’s exhausted.”

  Aggie’s birthday party would be a whiz-bang affair, Tugs was certain, much fancier than her own parties, which were always just family and usually ended with something or someone breaking. Last year Granddaddy Ike fell off the front porch with a plate of cake in his hand. He landed on Gladdy, which broke his fall but bruised her up something awful and shattered one of Mother Button’s five remaining china plates.

  Tugs combed her hair for the occasion of Aggie’s party and put on her other pair of overalls. She tiptoed into the living room, where Granny was napping.

  “Are you sure you’re invited?” whispered Mother Button as Tugs laced her shoes.

  “Sure I’m sure.”

  “I suppose I’ve got something you could wrap up for a gift.” Mother Button rooted around in her whatnot drawer and pulled out a nearly new pincushion.

  “Does Aggie do handwork?” she asked.

  “Don’t think so,” said Tugs.

  “Hmm . . .” said Mother Button, continuing to search. She opened cupboards and drawers, then looked between the sofa cushions.

  “She likes active things,” said Tugs. “She’s good at running and jumping. I know what to do,” she said, and ran out to the shed, coming back with a coil of twine. “Can you help me braid real fast? I always get it twisted.”

  “Well . . .” said Mother Button, but Tugs was already laying down a long line of twine across the kitchen floor. She went for the scissors, cut it, and measured out two more the same length.

  “See?” said Tugs. Her mother did not see.

  “We’ll just braid this up and tie some big loops at the end and it will be a brand-new jump rope. She’ll love it.”

  Mother Button looked at the clock. “You’re going to be late, Tugs. And I don’t know . . .”

  “Please,” begged Tugs. “I’ll even let you braid it. You braid your hair every blame day. I’ll hold the end.”

  “OK, then,” sighed Mother Button as she picked up the three ends and knotted them together. “Hold tight.” So Tugs sat in one kitchen chair holding one end while Mother Button sat in another tossing one edge strand over the middle strand and then the other.

  “Left, right, left, right!” cheered Tugs.

  “You’re going to wake Granny,” said Mother Button, and Tugs hushed. She was going to Aggie Millhouse’s birthday party. There would be cake and games and girls all her age. For a moment she felt uncertain; a little flutter rustled in her stomach, but then Mother Button stood up.

  “Done. One jump rope made to order.” She went to her room and got a hair ribbon, wound up the jump rope, and tied it with the ribbon. “There you go. Now, do you want me to walk you to Aggie’s?”

  “Mother!” gasped Tugs. “No! Everyone knows where the Millhouses live.”

  “Well, OK, then. Steer clear of hooligans. Say thank you. And please. And don’t be the last one to leave.”

  “I won’t!”

  Tugs paused on the front step, looking down the street both ways for signs of G.O. Lindholm. The street and sidewalk were quiet, but there was Harvey Moore, walking out of the Dostals’ next door in a snappy navy suit, straightening his tie as he whistled his way down the front walk. He stopped to check his reflection in the window of Mr. Dostal’s Model T and would have whistled his way right past Tugs had she not spoken up.

  “Mr. Moore!” she called, walking toward him. “What are you doing at the Dostals’?”

  Harvey kept walking.

  “Mr. Moore!” Tugs called again. This time he turned around.

  “Oh! Guess I didn’t hear you. Hi there, uh . . . Helen?”

  “Tugs,” said Tugs. “Tugs Button. You . . . helped us with our car yesterday.”

  “Right! Right-o. Yes, siree. The car. Running fine now, is it?”

  “I guess,” said Tugs. She was torn between wanting to know what Mr. Moore was up to and wanting to get to Aggie’s on time.

  “Right. Right-o,” repeated Mr. Moore. “Yes, well. I better be getting on, then. Run along.”

  “Why were you at the Dostals’?” said Tugs.

  “They’ve rented me a room until I find my own place, if you must know,” said Harvey. He pasted on a grin. “That Mrs. Dostal is a sweetheart, yes, siree.” He turned and walked down the sidewalk.

  “First time I’ve heard her called that,” Tugs said, catching up with him as he was walking her way.

  “Where are you going now?” she asked.

  “To the newspaper of
fice, of course.”

  “We don’t have a newspaper office. People here read the Cedar Rapids Tribune. I’ve got pictures from it on my wall.”

  “The Cedar Rapids Tribune. That’s just the problem. Goodhue folks should be getting Goodhue news.”

  “If you’re headed downtown, you’re going the wrong way,” said Tugs.

  Harvey stopped and looked at Tugs. He wasn’t smiling.

  “I . . .” he started, then stopped and grinned, all teeth. “Right you are, missy. You are quite the know-it-all, aren’t you? A fellow new in town has to feel his way around. I’ll just be on my way, then,” he said, and turned abruptly and walked the other way.

  “Turn right at the corner!” Tugs hollered after him, but Harvey just waved without looking back and continued straight on.

  Behind the screen, the door with its brass lion’s head knocker stood open. Tugs didn’t know if she was supposed to open the screen to reach the knocker or if she should knock on the screen door itself or simply shout yoo-hoo, as was her habit when she was running into familiar houses. There was a doorbell, but she couldn’t make herself press it. She could hear squeals and laughter.

  She moved over to the window and peered in. A stack of beautifully wrapped gifts, all in boxes with bows and with cards in envelopes, was piled on the dining-room table. She supposed the largest, prettiest box was from Felicity Anderson. The Marys were probably there, too.

  Tugs looked down at the braided twine in her hand. She took a step backward. What if Aggie was already regretting having invited her? What if Tugs had understood it all wrong and Aggie hadn’t really invited her? That had to be it. She could leave now and no one would have to know she’d even been there. She’d tell Aggie that a bee had stung her — no, that she’d stepped on a bee and it had stung the bottom of her foot, so she couldn’t walk for twenty-four hours.

  But as she reached the steps, she heard Mr. Millhouse bellow, “Aggie, there’s another girl here! Go welcome her in.”

  Tugs was caught. She dropped the jump rope over the porch rail into the bushes and put on her company face. “Hiya, Aggie!” she said. “Happy birthday. Just swinging by to say that. Happy birthday, that is. Twelve. Huh.”

  “Come on!” said Aggie, opening the door and pulling Tugs inside. “You’re late, but never mind. There’s still cake. And we just started games.”

  Tugs ate a piece of cake, sitting on the edge of a kitchen chair. The other girls were in the backyard, and Mrs. Millhouse was at the sink, washing the cake dishes, one eye on Tugs. Tugs was surprised to find that the cake was actually pretty dry and not as good as the cakes her own mother made. It was a revelation. Tugs had assumed that tastier food came out of fancier houses. When she stood up, a shower of crumbs fell from her lap to the floor.

  “Thanks for the cake, Mrs. Millhouse,” Tugs said, bringing her plate to the sink. “You might try an extra egg next time. That’s what my mother does, and her cake doesn’t leave as many crumbles.”

  “Well, I never!” gasped Mrs. Millhouse as Tugs stepped out the back door to the yard, where the games were under way.

  Tugs hesitated, then nudged her way into the circle of girls.

  The girls had already played pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, which featured a genuine store-bought paper donkey, and were about to begin the beanbag toss. Aggie put one hand over her eyes and with the other reached into a large basket and chose a bright gingham bag.

  “Red!” she cried. “I was hoping for red. Everyone gets to keep their beanbag, so I hope you get the color you like.” She passed the basket to Felicity, who drew a yellow beanbag, and on around the circle.

  Tugs giggled with nervous excitement. She hoped she’d get a red one, like Aggie. She would impress Aggie by tossing her bag in the hole on the first try. Aggie would say, “That’s my friend Tugs. Isn’t she good at party games? I asked her to race the three-legged with me.” And a prize. Maybe there would be a prize. A whistle.

  Tugs watched as Mary Louise and Mary Helen each drew pink bags and squealed with the thrill of drawing the same color, never mind that Mary Helen had peeked to ensure the match. Tugs rubbed her damp hands on her pants leg. Couldn’t they hurry it up? Was there another red bag?

  Then it was just Mary Alice and Tugs left. Mary Alice barely had her hand out of the basket before Tugs grabbed it from her, more eagerly than she’d intended, causing Mary Alice to drop her beanbag on the ground. Aggie’s dog, Mitten, scampered over, grabbed it in his mouth, and trotted off.

  “Well!” exclaimed Mary Alice. “Isn’t that just typical? Remember when Tugs knocked you into that coat hook in third grade, Felicity? You’ll have that scar over your eye forever!”

  Tugs flushed and dropped the basket as she jumped up to help Aggie chase Mitten. But Mitten was under the fence and off down the block, and Aggie turned back with a shrug.

  “Don’t worry, Aggie — I’ll get him!” Tugs hollered as she flung open the gate and followed Mitten.

  Mitten ran a straight line down the block, then rounded the corner and ran catty-corner across the street and into Liberty Park. Tugs slowed to scoop up the lavender beanbag that was leaking beans through the hole Mitten’s teeth had punctured, waited for a car to pass, then stopped, one foot off the curb.

  There was Mitten, barking and running circles around Luther Tingvold, Bess McCrea, and Walter Williams. The Rowdies. Tugs lifted her foot out of the street and backed behind a tree. Had they seen her?

  She peered through the low branches. Finn and Frankie Chacey were there, too, sitting atop the jungle gym, tossing a ball back and forth to Walter, who was a moving target on a swing. Mitten yelped and weaved around the Rowdies. Bess lit up a cigarette and passed it to Luther. G.O. wasn’t there, but Tugs was sure he’d soon show up and try to join in. She looked down at the beanbag, now nearly empty of beans and damp from her sweaty hand.

  “Mitten,” she whispered. With one last glance to be sure the Rowdies weren’t looking her way, Tugs ran back around the corner, then slowed to a walk toward Aggie’s, where the girls had gathered in the front yard to watch for Mitten’s return.

  Tugs stuffed the lavender beanbag into her pocket and said, “You can have my beanbag, Mary Alice.”

  “I already used it,” replied Mary Alice, holding up a red bag. “And I won, so thank you very much.” She held up her prize, which hung around her neck, a whistle on a thin red ribbon.

  “You’re welcome,” said Tugs weakly.

  Aggie’s mother came out on the porch just then. “Time for presents,” she called. “Come inside, girls. Mitten will come home when he’s ready.”

  Tugs stood in the yard and watched the girls tromp up the steps.

  “Aggie, I got to go,” Tugs said. “Sorry I ruined your party.”

  “You didn’t . . .” Aggie started, but Tugs was already to the sidewalk and off at a trot.

  “Don’t forget the three-legged!” Aggie called after her. “We need to practice!”

  It was too soon to go home. Granny would quiz her about the Millhouse home and why was she back so fast and did something happen? Her feet found their way to the library.

  The Goodhue library had the largest dictionary Tugs had ever seen. It sat on its own small table on a high pedestal. There were pictures next to some of the words. A girl could learn the most amazing things.

  Like that a goat was not only an animal, but also the person who caused their team to lose. You wouldn’t think Ralph Stump would have much of a vocabulary, but he had called Tugs a goat when she tripped over third base in the end-of-the-school-year kickball game in May, costing the sixth grade the tying run against the fifth grade.

  And that a bonbon was a candy with a creamy center and a soft covering (as of chocolate). Granddaddy Ike was like a bonbon, with his silky, deep old-man voice and his soft, wrinkly skin. Milk baths, he said, were the key to soft skin.

  Tugs used to think that everyone’s name was in the dictionary, and when she had realized it was only hers, both Tugs and
Button, she felt suddenly fond and possessive of it, as if this book were put here for her guidance alone. She found herself occasionally miffed when other people were using it. This afternoon, though, it was available for her perusal.

  In the last two days, Tugs had gotten on the wrong side of G.O., broken Ben Franklin, been reprimanded by Harvey Moore, ruined Mary Alice’s beanbag, and lost Aggie Millhouse’s dog. Lester had called her a rapscallion. Maybe if she knew exactly what that was she could change her course before the Independence Day picnic.

  Rapscallion: a rascal; a scamp; a good-for-nothing fellow.

  Rascal was on the next page: a mean trickish fellow; a cheeky child; a rogue; a scoundrel; a trickster.

  Tugs colored, lifting a hand to her face. She was not a cheeky child. She flipped to rogue.

  Rogue: a vagrant; an idle, sturdy beggar; a vagabond; a tramp.

  “What’s the word?” asked Miss Lucy in her quiet library voice, coming up behind Tugs.

  “Oh!” said Tugs a little too loudly. “Nothing!” She slapped the book shut and hopped off the stool.

  Miss Lucy, the librarian, was the most exotic person of Tugs’s acquaintance. Unmarried, yet not a widow or an old maid, taller even than Uncle Elmer, with wavy sunset-orange hair skimming her belt and a warm whispery voice, she seemed completely unaware of Tugs’s lack of academic prowess whenever she chose books for her.

  “The Independence Day patriotic essays are due tomorrow,” Miss Lucy said. “How is yours coming?”

  Tugs looked around to see whom Miss Lucy was talking to, and when she realized she was addressing her, Tugs Button, about writing an essay for a contest, she laughed. Out loud. In the library. No fewer than six people shushed Tugs, but Miss Lucy put her arm around Tugs’s shoulder and led her to the library office.

  “Here,” Miss Lucy said. “You can use my desk. Just write a page on what you think about our good old U.S. of A. First thing that comes to mind. Oh, and a word to the wise. Our judges, Mrs. Winthrop and Miss Potter, are quite excited about the idea of progress, after talking to the man from Chicago who is going to start up a newspaper right here in Goodhue, once he raises the funds for a printing press. Imagine that, Tugs. It will be called the Goodhue Progress. Progress. Now, that would make a nice theme for an essay, wouldn’t it?”