“What are you afraid of? Comic-book monsters?” I teased him. “Creatures from the muck?” I laughed.
“You’re a riot,” Clark muttered, scowling.
We walked a few steps. The sun filtered through the treetops, casting leafy shadows along the trail.
“Snakes,” Clark admitted. “I’m afraid of snakes.”
“Don’t worry,” I told him. “I’ll watch out for snakes. You watch out for gators.”
“Gators?” Clark’s eyes opened wide.
“Yeah, sure,” I replied. “Swamps are filled with man-eating alligators.”
A voice interrupted us. “Gretchen. Clark. Don’t stray too far.”
I turned and saw Grandpa. He stood a few yards behind us.
What was that in his hand?
A huge saw. Its sharp teeth glinted in the sunlight.
Grandpa headed toward a small, unfinished shed. It stood a few feet off the side of the path, tucked between two tall cypress trees.
“Okay!” I shouted to Grandpa. “We won’t go far.”
“Want to help finish the shed?” he yelled, waving the saw. “Building things builds confidence, I always say!”
“Um, maybe later,” I answered.
“Want to help?” Grandpa shouted again.
Clark cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “LA-TER!” Then he turned back toward the path.
And tripped.
Over a dark form that rose up quickly, silently from the muddy grass.
“Gator! Gator!” Clark shrieked.
Grandpa waved his saw wildly. “Later? Later? Okay!”
“Help me! Help me! It’s got me!” Clark wailed.
I peered down.
Down at the dark shape in the grass.
And laughed.
“Cypress knee,” I said calmly.
Clark turned, his mouth still open in fright. He stared at the knobby form in the grass.
“It’s a cypress limb, poking up from the grass,” I explained. “It’s called a cypress knee. I showed you one yesterday. Remember?”
“I remembered!” he lied. “I just wanted to scare you.”
I started to crack a joke, but I saw Clark’s whole body trembling as he picked himself up. I felt kind of sorry for him. “Let’s go back to the house,” I suggested. “Grandma is probably waiting for us. To make her sweet-as-sugar rhubarb pie.”
On the way back, I told Clark about seeing Grandpa upstairs, and the huge tray of pancakes he carried. But Clark didn’t think it was all that strange.
“He probably likes to eat in bed,” he said. “Mom and Dad always like breakfast in bed.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I agreed. But I wasn’t convinced. I wasn’t convinced at all.
“Well, you two look as if you’ve had fun!” Grandma chirped when we walked through the door.
Clark and I glanced at each other and shrugged.
“Are you ready to bake?” Grandma smiled. “Everything is ready.” She waved at the counter, at the pie ingredients all lined up.
“Who wants to roll out the dough,” she asked, staring straight at me, “while I slice the rhubarb?”
“I guess I will,” I replied.
Clark sighed. “Uh, maybe I’ll go into the living room and read my comic,” he told Grandma, trying to escape. “Mom says I just get in the way when she cooks.”
