Jackson Jones and the Curse of the Outlaw Rose

Jackson Jones and the Curse of the Outlaw Rose Read Free Page B

Book: Jackson Jones and the Curse of the Outlaw Rose Read Free
Author: Mary Quattlebaum
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I ask you something? About my mama?”
    Mailbags looked surprised. “Maybe.”
    “You've said she has a gift, a way with plants.” I rushed the words out. “You told her she should go back to college—”
    “Wait a minute,” said Mailbags. “I don't see me telling your mama what to do. She made up her own mind.”
    “Well, you gave her the college catalog.”
    “A small thing.”
    “Anyway, that gift she has. With plants.” Iglanced up at him, then down at my shoes. “You think I have it, too?”
    “Ah,” Mailbags said. “The green-thumb gift.” He considered my question. “Not sure yet what I think, but this is what I see: a boy who's on the blacktop more than at Rooter's.”
    “That what you see?”
    Mailbags nodded. “That boy, he's a quick dribbler. But come planting? Oh, he's sloooww.”
    I felt relief course through me. “So you think b-ball is my gift?”
    Mailbags palmed my head. “That boy is fast on the court. Got lots of fancy moves. Course, he
could
use some work on the hoops.”
    “Hey!” I grinned, punching the elevator button.
    “This boy, the one we're talking about—”
    I stepped into the elevator.
    “Well, he does have a way with … weeds.” Mailbags winked. “For him, they grow big as sequoias.”
    I continued grinning as the elevator shot up. Huh, that Mailbags. Mama was always saying how we kids bugged him. Asking thisand that, following him around. “A full-time mail job and night college, too”—she'd shake her head—”the man doesn't have time to breathe, and you kids dogging his heels.”
    Wait till Mama heard about Mailbags and the worm house.
    When I opened the door, Mama gave me a hug and immediately felt my forehead. “You feel okay?” she asked. “You look tired.”
    Yeah, well, a curse (even if it's not) can wear a boy out.
    I wiggled away and held out the cutting. “Can you root this for Mr. K.?”
    “How's he doing?” she asked, settling the cutting in a pot.
    “When Reuben and I stopped by, he was bossing his nurse.”
    “Then he's feeling better.” Mama laughed. “When he's quiet and mouse-meek, that's when I worry.”
    Mama checked several small bags of soil, chose one, and tucked its contents round the cutting. “This little guy will soon feel good about growing and start putting out roots,” she said. “Pick a spot at Rooter's with goodsun. You can probably transplant in a few weeks.”
    I watched as Mama gently touched the cutting. Mama and Mr. K. sure treat their green things differently. Mama chats to them softly, encouraging blooms. Mr. K. barks them into bigness.
    “Mama,” I said suddenly, “do plants have feelings?”
    She turned to me in surprise. “Not feelings like humans,” she said slowly. “And yet …” Mama brushed her cheek, leaving a dirt smudge. “Plants seem to sense the feelings of other species and respond. Scientists have done studies.”
    “What kind?”
    “Let's see, they've discovered that plants tend to withdraw and wither in places with shouting and loud noises.” She smiled. “But other scientists claim these studies prove nothing.”
    “So plants can't really get angry, right? They can't, you know, take revenge?”
    “Only people seem to do that.” Mama paused. “Sometimes, though, I can sensewhat a plant might need—different light, more water. And I try to help.” She laughed a little. “As you know, the plants sometimes respond so well that the green takes over….” She waved at our living-room jungle. “Hey, why this sudden interest in plant feelings?”
    “Just curious.” I hesitated, then touched the cutting myself. It was a little stick. An ordinary twig.
    Nothing to worry about. I was just jumpy from Reuben's doom-and-gloom curse talk.

CHAPTER SEVEN

    For the next few weeks, the cutting sat peacefully on the window ledge in the kitchen. I pictured roots forming, tiny white shootlets. A little stick, doing what it should. An ordinary twig.
    Blood, though, was the opposite of

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