The Year Money Grew on Trees (4 page)

"Thanks," I whispered.

I turned and started toward my house. I really wanted to ask my dad for advice. Even if he didn't know specifically about apples, he always seemed to figure out every problem that popped up around the house. Talking to him would be tricky. I had to first tell him I couldn't work at Slim's scrap yard and then convince him that trying to raise apples for Mrs. Nelson was a good idea. He would have to be in the right mood, and I would have to warm him up slowly. Just springing a new idea on him always ended badly for me. Once, I had interrupted an argument he was having with my mom about the way she ironed his shirts. I announced I was growing my hair long and feathering it like the kids on the TV show
Eight Is Enough.
We immediately left for Farmington and drove around until we found an open barber shop. Dad told the barber to give me a "going into the army" cut.

***

Over the next two days, I watched for the right opportunity. By Friday night I was getting desperate because I knew Dad was planning to drag me to Slim Nickle's the next day. I found myself alone with him as he tried to fix our washing machine. It was a risky environment because his mood basically depended on how the repairs were going. If the reported leak wasn't located and fixed within an hour, even if I told him Mrs. Nelson was giving me a million dollars, he would think it was a bad idea.

I prayed for the best and started in. "So how does it look?"

Dad rattled off his theories on what might be wrong and his plan of attack as I repeated "uh-huh" after every explanation.

"Dad, what did Mom mean when she said that Mrs. Nelson used to keep to herself a lot?" I asked after a couple minutes of silence.

The question caught him a little off-guard, but he grinned and seemed happy to discuss the topic. "Don't tell your mom I told you, but when we first moved in here, Violet Nelson was not happy about it at all," he said in a quiet voice, as if he were explaining a government conspiracy. "Why not?"

"Well, the Nelsons used to own all of this property,
including our lot and your uncle's lot. Then they had some financial crisis and had to sell off a chunk. That's when we moved in and built these houses. Old Lady Nelson acted like we were really trashing up the place."

"How about Mr. Nelson? What was he like?"

"Jack Nelson? He was okay. He would stop and talk to me if he saw me, but only if he was by himself. Pretty quiet."

"What did he do for a job?"

"Oh, sold insurance or something like that. Why?"

"Just wondering why he planted that orchard in front. To make extra money?"

"I doubt it. Probably more of a hobby. Always trying to get his son to help him with it, but I think he liked sitting in the house more."

"You mean Tommy?"

"That's the one. The baby boy. Hand me that screwdriver."

"So did you ever watch Mr. Nelson in the orchard? I mean, do you know what kind of things he had to do to get the apples to grow?"

"No, not really. I never wanted to be a farmer."

My heart sank. He probably wasn't going to be much help in terms of advice.

"Ha-ha!" Dad yelled out. "I tell you what I am, a mechanical genius! It's fixed! No more leak. I'll bet that saved us fifty bucks," he said with a toothy smile on his
face and arms in the air. He looked down at me and then remembered our conversation. "So why you asking about that orchard?"

This was my chance. He was never in a better mood than after having saved some money.

"Mrs. Nelson asked me to help raise some apples this year. It would be like a job."

Dad gave me a long look. "Oh yeah? How much is she going to pay you?"

"I'd get a part of everything we sell."

"Which part?"

"Depends on how many we sell, I guess, but it could be a lot of money. And I would be working after school, too, not just during the summer."

Dad let out a little "hmm," which meant he liked the idea of me sitting around as little as possible.

"And I'd be close to the house all the time, in case Mom needed me for something."

"I hate for you to miss your shot with Slim." Dad looked thoughtfully at the washer. "I guess it'll be all right," he finally drawled. "As long as this orchard thing is legit. You're not just making the whole thing up to get out of real work?"

"No! I promise. It's real. I was just going to ask you if you knew how I should get started. Mrs. Nelson is not much help."

"Oh brother. A prima donna old lady and a kid who
doesn't know the difference between an apple and his armpit. I'm sure you two will be rolling in money."

I flushed red and looked at the floor. "Well, do you know anyone I could talk to about getting started?"

"You're smart. You'll figure it out. It can't be too hard. There are plenty of people around here raising apples, and no Einsteins in the bunch." Dad started putting his tools away and mumbling about me "giving up a perfectly good job to sharecrop for some old lady." We then walked triumphantly into the kitchen together to fish for compliments from my mom for fixing the washing machine.

Even if he wasn't any help, at least Dad had accepted the idea. Maybe that was the best I could hope for. If everything worked out, he would probably be proud of the great deal I negotiated. Still, it was scary to not be able to rely on my dad for answers. I couldn't remember a time when that had ever happened. It felt like I had been driven out into the desert and abandoned.

For the entire weekend, I thought about everyone I knew and whether they might have a history with apples and, more importantly, whether they'd be willing to help. As I sat staring blankly at the bookcase in our living room, an idea finally bubbled up from somewhere in my brain. What about a book? In sixth grade I had to do a research report on a subject picked out of a hat. I got the Roman Empire and was told I had to use
two books besides the encyclopedia. If there were books about something like the Roman Empire, maybe there were books with useful information, too, like how to raise apples. I checked my A—AR encyclopedia volume where I had filed the contract but didn't find nearly enough apple-growing details. I would have to try to find a whole book on the subject somewhere at the library.

***

On Monday I noticed that none of the kids at school carried any books besides their class textbooks. In elementary school we used to have scheduled library times, and some people would constantly check out books. Percy Collyer read every Hardy Boys book there was. In junior high, though, he was bookless.

"Hey, Percy, why aren't you carrying around a book, reading all the time like you used to?" I asked him as we walked between classes.

"I dunno. Never been to the library here, I guess," he said, shrugging.

Come to think of it, neither had I. I didn't even know where the library was, or if one existed. It was time to find out. Since we didn't have any library time in our schedules, I decided I would ask to leave one of my classes early to go find it. The most likely time would be during history.

After the opening bell, I raced through the reading
and ditto handout Mr. Clafton had given us. I grabbed my textbook and made my way up to the front of the room, where Mr. Clafton was sitting casually behind his desk.

"There he is! Mr. Jones! Working hard or hardly working?" he asked with a big smile and his feet up.

"Working hard, I guess," I replied, wondering if this was a real question and whether I was supposed to answer it.

"So what's up? Is this new tie awesome or what?" he asked, lovingly stroking a shiny, very thin tie.

"Pretty cool. Mr. Clafton, I'm done with my reading and questions, so I was wondering if I could get a hall pass to go somewhere."

"Sure, if you're all done. Where do you want to go?" he asked, reaching for a stack of hall passes inside his desk.

"I was hoping to get a book from the library."

His feet fell from the desk, and his smile turned into a squinty-eyed stare. "Well, Mrs. Vance, the librarian, doesn't like kids leaving class to go there."

"When are we supposed to go, then? During lunch?"

"No, she's closed during lunch."

"Before school?"

"No, and she closes after school too. If you want something to read, why don't you go check my shelves? I've got some cool books and magazines."

"But I wanted to get something specific. Maybe some
thing about history." I thought throwing in that last line might appeal to him as a teacher. I could see the struggle going on inside Mr. Clafton's head. His face was a mixture of fear and recklessness. After staring me down for a few seconds, he finally responded.

"Okay, but don't tell her whose class you're from."

His anxiety was contagious, and I second-guessed my plan as I took the hall pass from his hands. "So where exactly is the library?"

He explained quickly and then looked away from me. I walked through the maze of hallways that led to the secret location. It was well hidden, near the end of what I thought was an unfinished part of school.

I paused after grabbing the door handle, trying to imagine what was inside that had Mr. Clafton so spooked. I thought of turning back, but then remembered the scrap yard and pulled hard.

The door opened into a huge, brightly lit room with rows and rows of books along every wall stacked up to the ceiling. There were no posters or signs anywhere. Every book seemed to be filed on a shelf. In the middle of the room, a woman with large, gray and black hair looked up from a book. She narrowed her eyes over her small glasses and demanded, "What do you want?"

I walked toward her and said feebly, "I have a hall pass."

"From whom?" she almost shouted.

"Umm, from my history teacher. Could you help me find a book on apples or apple farming?"

"What? Of course not! Don't you know what a card catalog is for?" She glanced over at a wooden box with lots of wooden drawers, and I quickly moved toward it.

With nervous fingers, I thumbed my way through the drawer that started with AP until I reached a section that seemed to have books about apples. Out jumped a card for the perfect book:
The Growth and Care of Apple Trees,
by Jeffrey Haslam. Nonfiction, 348 pages, illustrated, 634 H64.

What did those numbers mean? I knew they must somehow tell me where the book was. I looked up at Mrs. Vance. She had one eye on me, her expression cold. I memorized the number and moved over to the nearest stack of books. I had fifteen minutes until the class period was over. My eyes darted back and forth. I realized I might never get another chance at this. The numbers on the sides of the books were all in the 400s. I changed rows, moving toward the far wall, and realized the numbers were getting smaller. I moved in the other direction, skipping a few rows. The whole time I felt Mrs. Vance's icy stare. I ended up in a 600 row and scanned down the shelves until I saw 634. I moved my fingers over the books until I had the exact call number and pulled the book from the shelf. It looked like it had
never been opened. I thumbed through it, looking at some of the pictures. There were diagrams and charts, even illustrations on how to do things. I couldn't believe my luck!

Clutching the book to my chest, sweat pouring down my back, I walked toward the desk in front of Mrs. Vance. The clock behind her said there were five minutes left in the class period.

"I would like to check out this book, please ... ma'am," I squeaked, holding the book out in front of me. She snatched it from my hands and inspected it carefully. She looked up at me, thinking of a reason to say no. Finally, she opened a drawer and pulled out a set of cards. She selected one and wiped off the dust.

"Name?" she barked.

"Jackson Jones ... ma'am."

She wrote my name on the card, pulled out another card in the little envelope inside the front cover of the book, and wrote my name on that one too. She stuck the first card back in the book and held it up. Then she yanked it away before I could grab it and growled, "Have it back here in two weeks."

"I will," I said as she finally let go of the book. I turned and walked quickly toward the exit, not wanting to look back in case she changed her mind. I threw the doors wide open just as the bell rang for the next period.

Cool relief filled my whole body. Looking down at the book, I exhaled loudly through my mouth, as if I'd been holding my breath for the last fifteen minutes. I held the book high over my head like a trophy and walked victoriously to my locker.

The afternoon after my library visit, I ran all the way home from the bus stop and shut myself in my room. I cracked open the apple book and only stopped reading grudgingly to eat dinner. I did a lot of skimming so I could get through it quickly. As I got closer to the end, panic gripped me. There was much more to raising apples than I had thought. The book explained a lot, but I could only keep it for two weeks. I needed that copier I saw in Mr. Palmer's office but decided I would do the only thing available to me. I grabbed a spiral notebook and started hand copying important sections.

At first I copied whole paragraphs word for word, but then moved on to writing down titles and important sentences. I woke up the next morning with my face pressed on top of the book and my written pages scattered all over the floor. By the next night, I forced myself to stop copying. There was so much to actually do that I didn't think I should spend any more time just reading about it. I tried to organize all the necessary work into categories and even drew out a calendar of what needed to be done and when. It was a mess of chicken-scratch writing and crooked lines, but phenomenal compared to what I would usually turn in for homework.

According to the book, the first thing you needed to do was prune, and you were supposed to start during the winter. It involved cutting off part of the branches on a tree. This didn't make a lot of sense, but by then I completely trusted Mr. Jeffrey Haslam and everything he had written about apples. My calendar allowed for six weeks of pruning starting right then.

Three hundred trees in six weeks would mean fifty trees every week. I could probably only work three hours after school before it started to get dark and then maybe twelve hours on Saturday. There was no way my mom would let me work on Sunday, since it was against the Ten Commandments, so I knew that day was completely out. That meant twenty-seven hours per week
or about two trees an hour! Thinking back on how big and wild the trees looked, and how many branches I'd have to remove, I knew it would be impossible for one person. And there were a ton of things to do after pruning too! Maybe my friends were right to laugh at me without even knowing why. At some point during the summer, my dad would figure out how hopeless it all was and drag me down to be Slim's slave.