Book 4: Convictions
Jimmy and Susanna lay together on the playroom floor propped up on elbows studying a battered copy of Boy Mechanic. “Can you build them?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Will they work?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. There wouldn’t be instructions if they didn’t work.”
Using the stub of a fat pencil Jimmy printed bamboo poles, canvas, glue, varnish, twine, and leather straps on a Big Chief Tablet. The list solidified their convictions.
A few hours later they made their way through a bamboo thicket. It had sprung up beside a waterhole close to their house without any explanation that made sense to anyone who lived in Amarillo, Texas. Susanna had dropped back several feet after a bamboo stalk Jimmy had pushed out of his way snapped back and hit her in the face. He stopped amid a stand of canes that were ten feet tall. “These should work.”
He readied the machete he had taken from his dad’s tool shed and unleashed an assault on the bamboo, but after five minutes the bamboo won.
Susanna said, “You should’ve gotten the saw.”
Earlier when they were in the shed, he had ignored her suggestion. Being reminded goaded him to assault the bamboo again. Then he dropped to the ground. “Go and get it.”
By the time Susanna returned he had gathered a pile of small canes, but the tall ones still towered above them. He jerked the saw out of her hand and applied it to the base of a cane, but together the bamboo stalk and the saw wobbled uncontrollably. He pulled the top of the cane down to Susanna’s level and shoved it into her chest. “Bend that to the ground and sit on it.”
While she did what he said, he straddled the cane, stabilized it between his knees, and began to saw. The saw worked just fine, but as soon as the top came loose the short stump popped him in the crotch. Susanna got up to help, but he pushed her away. The next time he worked smarter, and within an hour they had collected all the bamboo they needed.
Most other items on the list came from the tool shed. Jimmy had no qualms about taking things without permission until his mother saw the tarp his dad used for camping spread on the ground in the backyard. His head jerked up when her voice rang through the screen on the backdoor.
“What are you doing?”
“Marking a pattern for wings,” he hollered back.
“Wings?”
“Yes.”
“Wings?” Her inflection questioned his sanity.
“Come see,” Susanna called out. “Jimmy’s making wings, so we can fly.”
