Fat Caterpillars: Terry's Garden, #1

Chapter One

A WISE FRIEND ONCE told me childhood was like a garden. Some seedlings become strong plants, and some attract every disease and pest known to the gardener. Weeds are a constant problem, and unless a gardener is careful, every little seedling gets choked out and the garden becomes useless and unrecognizable. And of course, drought years come when a gardener just about has to sell his soul locating water to make anything come up at all.

But my story isn’t about a garden. Not exactly. It’s about growing up in a normal neighborhood with normal parents and normal friends. And yet, as everyone knows, nothing about growing up is normal. It’s all personal, and it depends a lot on the level of work a gardener is willing to invest. I got lucky. I had some great gardeners. One in particular should get the credit for teaching me the most important lessons of my life: how to live, how to take chances, how to love with everything I had, and how to say goodbye.

Okay, yes, the story might have something to do with a garden. But it’s secondary. Really.

As I stand in front of Bud’s house, a paintbrush in one hand and a pacifier in the other, I realize I’ve done it. I am an adult. And if it hadn’t been for Bud, I’m not sure I’d have made it. I do know I wouldn’t be the man I turned out to be. In my generation it seemed the most well-intentioned parents failed left and right, but a crazy old man raised two kids to be adults that could make the Good Lord look down and smile. It amazes me, as I look at the old house, the home neither of us had had in our conventional lives, that this run-down place and one ancient person could have made such a contribution to our lives. I look up at the tower room windows and smile, almost able to see him there smiling at me, telling me it certainly won’t be easy, but we are equipped for whatever God tosses in our direction. The seedlings have grown into strong plants, and we understand the basics of weed control and drought. It’s time to live our lives.

I WAS A WEEK SHY OF eight when we moved into the neighborhood and already angrier than a little kid had a right to be. For my birthday I’d asked for a puppy. Instead we were moving into a big old creepy house in a big old creepy neighborhood. My favorite companions, a stuffed frog and a rubber cockroach, were hopelessly buried in a stack of boxes. And worst of all, Mom had just brought home triplets. Girl triplets. Stephanie, Sally, and Sarah. They weren’t identical, but I couldn’t tell them apart and didn’t care to. They definitely weren’t a puppy.

As the movers and Dad unloaded furniture, I crept away. I wandered into our backyard, overgrown with trees and shrubs and vines, and pressed deeply into the foliage, imagining I’d entered a jungle. Sounds muffled in the leaves, but the buzzing of a fly near my head sounded loud, and I slapped at it, suddenly panicked, thinking I was under attack by something huge and unknown and not sure how to get out of the yard and away from it.

G’day, lad, a friendly voice said. I stopped moving and looked around, but I didn’t see anyone.

Who’s there?

Over here, lad. I’m your neighbor.

I backed up a few steps and looked at the man on the porch next door. He sat on a wooden lawn chair in a Scottish kilt, tasseled knee socks, and a strange hat. He held a bright blue mug, and as he sipped from it he smiled at me. To my eight year-old eyes he was ancient, his hair white and his skin wrinkled, but his steel blue eyes were friendly and young.

Do you drink coffee? he asked me, tapping his mug.

No, I’m only eight.

"No, sir."

What? I said. Yes, I’m really only eight.

No, no, lad, he said, laughing. "I believe you’re eight. When you address an older person, especially someone with white hair, you say No, sir. It’s polite."

Oh.

He spoke with an accent, and he smiled at me as I stared at him.

I see your mother has a handful of wee ones.

The triplets? Yeah, they keep her busy. It’s almost my birthday, and I wanted a dog, not sisters.

He chuckled and beckoned with weathered hands for me to join him.

Come sit with an old man, lad. I’m not quite as fun as a pup, but I assume I make better company than sisters.

Having been raised in a city up to this point, I was nearly deafened as every stranger alarm in my head screamed to run away from this man. He’d offered me a forbidden adult beverage and invited me to come to his house, and that could only mean trouble. But, as I was eight and really mad at my parents for their let’s-move-to-a-big-house-in-a-small-town-for-the-babies’-sake plan, I went without hesitation to his porch and sat down in another wooden chair.

You need a name, the old man said, tapping his mug. He had long fingernails with dirt under them.

I have one. It’s Terry Kenton. Terence John Kenton.

That’s a very nice name. But to visit my home you need a name with pizzazz. A name you can use when you’re a spy or a space explorer or you go on safari. A code name.

Do you have a code name? I asked. I didn’t think old people could talk like this.

"Yes, I do. I’m Blue Dragon. Bud for short. If you address me in public it has to be Mr. McDonough, but in private it’s Bud. Now we must name you, Mr. Kenton. When you were moving through those trees, you looked like a spider, cautious and yet confident. Green Spider. Gus for short. Yes?"

Yes. I wrinkled my nose. Yes, sir.

Ah, good lad, he said, laughing.

For a long time we sat on the old porch under the shade of giant elm trees. He asked question after question about things I liked to see and do and eat and dream, and I answered every one. Mom had been sick at the end of her pregnancy, and Dad had tended her, and I was starved for attention and the chance to talk and laugh and even jump up and down a few times without being shushed because somebody—mother or babies or both—had to rest.

I notice, Bud said a far distance into our conversation, you walk with a limp. You don’t have a war wound, do you?

No. I took a deep breath. I hated my leg. I got hurt being born.

Ah. That’s a war in itself, I think. You live in comfort and quiet for all those months, and then you find yourself expelled. And not for any wrongdoing on your part, either, but just because you grow too big. You must be a fighter, lad. A soldier at heart.

Yeah, I said. I’d never thought of my limp as a sign of battle. I guess I’m a warrior.

Yes, sir, you are. I limp a bit myself. I got shot in a small battle over the seas. We men of war must stick together.

Mom showed up soon after this, breathless and angry.

Terry Kenton, you were not given permission to leave our yard.

Bud—Mr. McDonough asked me to sit with him, I said, growing angry myself. If I’d thought anyone had time to give me permission, I would have asked.

Mrs. Kenton, I’m pleased to meet you, Bud said, standing and reaching out a hand. I noticed his accent was gone. Mom shook his hand and smiled, brushing dark hair off her cheek. I’m Henry McDonough. I’m retired, and it gets a mite lonely here sometimes. I hope you don’t mind if Terence joins me on the porch for a chat every now and again. He says he isn’t much for coffee, but I make a mean lemonade and enjoy having someone to share it with.

She looked at his outfit and then glanced at me, the struggle clear in her eyes. I knew her stranger alarms were screaming, too, but she’d told me two hundred times that we’d moved because it was safe out here, safer than in the city. To make me leave would be to admit she had lied to me.

If he starts to bother you, just send him home, she finally said, looking strangely defeated. She disappeared around the side of the house, and my life with Bud officially began, with all the blessing it would get for a long time. For that matter, I wouldn’t get much more blessing from her in any capacity. I wouldn’t understand her distance for many years, but even back then, with the limited insights of an eight year-old, I knew my parents pulled away from me. The triplets were showered with love and attention, but I was treated with caution and uncertainty.

I thought it was because of my leg.

I had no idea how much deeper it could possibly be.

DAD’S NEW JOB KEPT him away most daylight hours, and the triplets had colic and cried at night, so while Mom and the babies slept all day, I was free to visit Bud. Throughout the month of June we spent many afternoons either on his porch sipping lemonade or in his gardens weeding. He didn’t mind when I spent too much time on the ground and my leg locked up. He simply pulled me to my feet, led me to the porch, and massaged a bit until I could move. He showed me his wound, a scar on his left calf, and I played with his cane sometimes, pretending to be him. He laughed when I did, and then he rolled his eyes and stood with his hands on his hips and pretended to be me.

In July the old man who lived on the other side of Bud died, and within two weeks a family moved in. I wanted someone my age to move in, and one did. Unfortunately, I wanted a boy, but instead a little girl peeked into the yard one day as we were weeding the herb garden.

Bud, is this a weed, or did some of the thyme get over here?

Looks like basil, Bud said, crawling from his spot to mine. Today he spoke with an Australian accent and wore khaki shorts, and when we tired of gardening we pretended to be shepherds in the outback.

The basil and thyme are taking over the garden, I said.

True. The basil should go, but you can never have too much thyme. He laughed at his pun, and I just shook my head. He never ran out of thyme puns.

I tugged the basil from the lemon grass patch, and Bud suddenly shushed me and grinned.

Master Gus, don’t look now, but I believe we have company.

Where? I whispered.

He thumbed over his shoulder, and I peered around his head. The girl stood at the edge of Bud’s yard, just to the far side of the berry bushes, wearing yellow shorts and a white top, red rings of hair blowing everywhere in the breeze.

That’s your new neighbor, I whispered. I watched her move in. She has a pink bicycle.

Shall we invite her into the garden?

A girl? I have enough girls in my life.

Not just a girl. A new girl. A lovely new girl.

Fine, I muttered. It’s your yard.

Bud patted my shoulder and used his cane to push to his feet.

Up, he said to me. We stand in the presence of a lady, even a very young one.

I frowned, and he offered me a hand. I pulled myself up and stiffly walked to the berry patch.

G’day to you, lassie, Bud said, retaining his accent. I’m Bud, and this is Gus. May I ask your name?

Molly, she said, looking at Bud’s hat and then my leg, her green eyes wide and curious. Are you his grandpa?

No. Bud laughed. Gus is my friend. We get together and complain about war wounds.

He doesn’t have a war wound, she said, gesturing toward me. He’s just a kid, like me.

His war started early, Bud said. How old are you, miss?

Eight. Almost eight and a half.

She was older than me. I wanted to choke.

Aye. Master Gus is eight, as well. Would you care to garden with us? The herb garden isn’t easy, but I think you’ll get it.

Maybe she should start in the vegetable garden, I said. It’s a lot easier.

I can do whatever you were doing, she said, fire in her eyes. Her hair bobbed around her face, and she pressed her hands on her waist in a pose I would see many times in my life.

Well, lass, we’ll give you a chance, Bud said. Gus, sir, please help her weed the lemon grass and peppermint while I get us some lemonade. I also managed some brownies last night, if you’re interested.

I am, I said quickly.

I’m not supposed to eat food at a stranger’s house, Molly said. I think I can drink lemonade, though.

Go bring your mother, Bud said. If we meet, then I won’t be a stranger any longer.

She trotted off, and Bud looked at me and laughed.

"She isn’t that bad," he said.

She’s a girl and she’s older than me and she thinks she knows everything. I like it better when it’s just you and me.

Things change, Master Gus, he said, a touch of sadness in his voice. It’s one of the few things in life you can count on. That and the Good Lord’s care, even when we don’t understand it.

Who?

You’ve not heard of the Good Lord? God?

Oh. A little, I guess.

We’ll talk about this later, young Gus, he said, the sadness gone. Oh, the stories I have for you. Don’t worry about Miss Molly. Just remember how hard it is to be new.

I tried. As her mom and Bud sat on the porch chatting, Molly and I weeded the peppermint and lemon grass and started the oregano. More than once Molly pulled up a big herb, and I made her replant each one just as Bud had made me when I’d first started. She pouted at first, when I told her to put the plants back in their spots, but eventually she simply laughed and did it.

So, what happened to your leg?

I thought about hitting her, but I knew Bud wouldn’t approve.

It was hurt when I was born.

Does it hurt now?

Not really. It gets stiff.

Can you ride a bike? she asked.

No. Did you know you missed all those weeds in the peppermint?

Oh. She turned back to her work and stopped asking me questions, and we weeded in silence for several minutes. It was a relief.

After a while Molly had to go shopping with her mom, and she offered me a hand, which I didn’t take, getting to my feet myself.

Thank you for letting me garden, she said to Bud. Then she turned to me. See, I can do it. I’ll see you later.

And she was off. Just like that, my life had changed forever, and I had no idea.

ALTHOUGH I CLAIM NOT to believe in magic, Bud’s yard felt magic. The gardens were neat and straight and well-tended: vegetables in the center; herbs near the house; perennials growing wild in the back, always full of birds; berries on the right near Molly’s house; grape arbors near my house. A ring of flowering trees surrounded a fountain in the back right corner, and cobblestone paths and benches joined all the gardens. My teacher read Alice in Wonderland in school, and Bud’s yard was always my Wonderland. If a Cheshire cat had appeared in the plum tree, I would not have been surprised.

In August the berries and grapes ripened, and Molly and I sat on a bench beneath an arbor and ate blueberries from a pail. Bud’s sister’s husband had just died, and he’d asked us to take care of the garden while he was gone.

Do you ever wonder what it’s like in there? Molly asked, kicking her legs and looking at the house. Where the gardens were perfectly tended, the house was not. White paint flaked from all three stories, and roofing material occasionally blew down from the tower roof. Shutters had fallen off some of the upper windows, and those that remained groaned in the wind. We had discussed this before and had no doubt the upper floor and tower were haunted.

Sure. But our moms don’t want us to go in.

I didn’t say we were going in, Molly said impatiently. I just asked if you wondered.

I wonder why he keeps all the curtains closed. It must get dark in there. Bud loves sunshine, so why keep it dark inside?

My mom says it’s cooler in the dark, and it’s been a hot summer. Anyway, the only time he goes in there is when it’s dark everywhere.

True.

Molly had turned out to be pretty smart, which wasn’t always a good thing, and she was full of adventure. Also bad. I saw bad things brewing in her head right now and decided to stop her before we were hopelessly in trouble.

Is your mom napping with the babies? she asked.

I don’t know. Molly, we aren’t sneaking into Bud’s house.

But aren’t you curious?

Sure, but we can’t go in with him gone.

What do you think Miss Margaret will be like? Will she like us?

Molly was also able to shift mental gears without taking a breath. Bud’s sister was coming to live with him now that her husband was dead, and we were worried.

Bud says we’ll like her. Anyway, we start school soon and won’t be here so much.

We’ll still be here. The fall flowers aren’t even blooming yet, and you still have triplets at your house, and my parents still fight. If Miss Margaret will let us, we’ll be here.

I hope so. I’m not ready to go to school yet, I said.

Me, neither. We’ll be new.

We can be new together, I said, shifting my bad leg and wondering how long it would take before kids stopped staring and whispering about it. Usually it didn’t take long, but I hated it.

"I bet I’ll forget and call you Gus instead of Terry, Molly said. Will you ever tell me why he calls you Gus?"

Maybe. I grinned, loving that I had a secret. Someday, if we’re Bud’s age and still know each other, I’ll tell you.

You’re hopeless, Molly huffed, her eyes giving away that she wasn’t angry. She looked at the house and popped another berry into her mouth. Our fingers and lips were stained purple. Maybe Miss Margaret will let us go inside.

Maybe. I bet she’s real sad. Have you ever been to a funeral?

When I was little my grandpa died, but I don’t remember.

Me, too. I wonder how long Miss Margaret will be sad.

Hey, that gives me an idea, Molly said, jumping up. Let’s find a pretty vase and fill it with flowers when they get back, to tell her we’re sorry she’s sad and we’re glad to have her here.

Are we glad? I asked.

I don’t know, but we’ll tell her we are. And if she’s not nice, it’s probably because she’s sad.

If she’s still mean by Christmas, it’s because she’s mean, I said. Molly rolled her eyes at me, but I ignored her. Let’s pick tomatoes. We’ll be sick if we eat all these blueberries.

Molly kept looking at the house, but she didn’t try to go in, and when our moms called us in for dinner, we brought them each a pail of berries and tomatoes.

Tomorrow I’ll bring the vase, Molly said.

Okay. And stay out of the house.

I know, I know.

Mom waited at the door and closed it behind me, offering me a glass of juice at the table while she washed the tomatoes. I knew something was up.

Are you worried about school? she asked.

Not really. Molly and I decided to be new together.

Your dad and I are thinking about sending you to another school, one with kids like you.

Kids like me?

Kids with physical problems. Isn’t it hard that you can’t always participate in gym or take basketball after school?

I’m not going to a different school. My leg isn’t that bad, and after a few days everyone gets used to it. Molly likes me.

It isn’t that people don’t like you. We just thought you might be more comfortable—

I’m not going, I said. Molly and I will be new together. Did you know Prince Jonathan had a son like me, and after Jonathan died, King David let him live in the palace? He never tried to hide him away.

Terry, Mom scolded. We aren’t trying to hide you away. Is this one of Mr. McDonough’s stories? Did he tell you we were hiding you?

It’s a Bible story. He likes to tell Bible stories, and he never said anything about you.

I think you need to calm down and spend some time alone, she said, pointing to the steps. I obediently went to my room and flopped onto the bed. The room was painted a dark red—mom called it maroon—and I hated it. The triplets’ room had been painted yellow and decorated before we’d moved in, but with Dad’s job and the babies’ colic, they hadn’t gotten to my room yet.

My room had a great view of Bud’s yard, though. His yard was always full of birds, butterflies, and squirrels, even when we were there making noise. Dad had taken a lot of the scrub out of our yard and had started to work back there, but it was nothing like Bud’s yard. I missed him. Even though he was bringing Miss Margaret back, I was ready for him to come home. I didn’t understand my parents. They didn’t want me to try anything or go anywhere, always afraid I would get hurt or be embarrassed. I didn’t know how to convince them they made me feel worse than falling did.

Bud didn’t care. He’d seen me fall. Molly had seen me fall off her jungle gym—my parents had no idea I climbed it—and she just laughed and pulled me back to my feet like Bud did.

I sat and stared out the window for a long time. Mom called for dinner, and the babies cried while we ate, so she ate with two on her lap, and I ate with one on mine. We talked about them and not about me, which was fine with me, and after dinner I ran back to Bud’s house and sat with my feet in the pond. This was the most peaceful, magical spot in the entire yard. I wasn’t surprised when Molly dropped down beside me and splashed with her feet, too.

My parents want to send me to another school, I said.

Why?

I patted my leg and then kicked the water with it.

But what does a different school have to do with it?

"I don’t know. She thought I’d be more comfortable with people like me."

I don’t want to start a new school alone, Molly said. She sniffled, and I looked at her, surprised to see her crying.

Hey, I said, not sure what to do now. Don’t cry. I told her I didn’t want to go.

But will that matter?

I think so.

I can’t go without you. She sniffled again.

Of course you can. You’ll have lots of friends.

My dad didn’t come home last night.

Ah, I thought. That’s what the tears were really about.

They yelled a lot, and he slammed the door hard, and he just came home tonight.

Are they fighting now?

No, they seem better. I think she was scared when he left. I know I sure was.

You just moved, and your dad has a new job. Bud says some people take a long time to adjust to changes. They’ll adjust.

Maybe. She wiped her nose and stood up. She automatically offered her hand now, and I no longer thought twice about taking it and pulling to my feet. Gus, we have to go into Bud’s house. We know where he keeps the extra key. Why would he tell us that if he never intended for us to use it?

For emergencies, Moll. Curiosity isn’t an emergency.

Yes, it is.

She waited until I was up, and then she ran toward the house and got the key out of the flowerpot by the back door.

I won’t touch anything, she said. We won’t even go in. We’ll just open the door and look.

I don’t think it’s a good idea, but okay.

She opened the heavy wooden door, and we stared for a long time. The walls were covered in dark flowered wallpaper. Big furniture sat in the middle of the room, covered in sheets like ghosts. It smelled old but not bad. From here we could see only the family room and a bit of a wood-paneled hallway.

Look at the pictures, Molly whispered, pointing. I followed her finger, stretching my neck to see a large portrait of a woman and two children on a side wall. The picture was mostly black and white, with the faintest touches of rose visible in the dim light. The people weren’t smiling, and I shuddered.

Close the door, I said. Molly obeyed, and we sat down heavily on the closest bench.

It looks abandoned, she said. Who do you think the people were? Do you think those people are now ghosts upstairs?

Molly, I scolded. Maybe he had a family. Maybe one of those kids was him. Maybe it’s him and his sister with their mother.

Why do you think everything’s covered up? It’s spooky. Something’s weird in there.

Don’t go in there alone.

I won’t, she said. I raised my eyebrows, and she laughed. Honestly. I’m not wandering around some haunted house alone.

It’s not haunted. Bud said there are no ghosts.

It smelled haunted. She wrinkled her nose. Dad said I only had a few minutes. We’re going to a movie. Is your dad home?

No.

So you haven’t eaten.

We ate. Dad never gets home in time to eat.

She grinned. Wait right here. Don’t move, okay?

She dashed home, returning seconds later to ask if I’d like to go to the movie with them. It sounded great, and I went home to ask, surprised to find Mom on the sofa crying.

What’s wrong? I asked, suddenly so scared I had to sit down.

Nothing. I’m just tired. I honestly thought the triplets would make things better.

What things?

Nothing. Everything’s fine. Sometimes mothers get weepy a few months after having babies. It doesn’t mean anything. You looked like you wanted to ask me something.

Molly’s family is going to the movies, and they asked me along.

Really? Um, okay. The babies are asleep, so let me walk you over.

We almost never walked alone together. She glanced at me once from the side of her eyes, and I wondered if something was really wrong. She still looked sad.

Mrs. Smith met us at the door and asked us in. Mom said she could only stay a minute, and Molly and I sat on the floor in front of the TV while they talked in the kitchen.

I’m glad you’re coming,