Raising Rufus Read Free Page A

wrestling with a very stubborn bolt.
    “Get loose, you little bugger…”
    “Hi, Dad. I got your spare keys.”
    “Huh?…Oh, great. Thanks, buddy.” He slipped the wrench into his tool belt and got set to come down the ladder. “Y’know, I had those things when I got out of the truck this morning—”
    “Hey, Gordo! Think fast!” a voice boomed out.
    Martin’s dad looked down just in time to see Ben Fairfield fire a football in his direction. Instinctively, he reached through the fish’s mouth and made a smooth catch.
    Mr. Fairfield grinned impishly. “Still got those great hands.”
    “Tell it to this bolt.”
    “Ha haaa!…Hey there, Murphy! What’s the good word?”
    “Hi,” Martin mumbled. In his head he was bemoaning his bad luck, but even more than that he felt a little embarrassed for his dad, because he knew that football was kind of a sore point for him. Years ago his “great hands” had made him a star wide receiver on the Menominee Springs High football team. He was so good that he had earned a full scholarship to the University of Wisconsin. But it all came crashing down when a serious knee injury in the last game of his senior year put an end to the scholarship, his college plans, and his dreams of making it to the National Football League. He ended up marrying his hometown sweetheart—Martin’s mom—right after high school, and went to work at the Trout Palace.
    Luckily, Mr. Fairfield changed the subject. “Come on down. I want to show you guys something.”
    As Mr. Tinker dislodged himself from the fish and descended the ladder, Martin, hoping for a quick escape, edged backward. “I have to, um…”
    His dad quickly shook his head and motioned for Martin to follow. They walked with Mr. Fairfield across the Trout Palace floor, past all the busy workers setting up the game booths, concession stands, and nature displays.
    “Just came in this morning,” Mr. Fairfield said. “This one’s gonna pay your outrageous salary all by itself.”
    Mr. Tinker played along. “I like it already.”
    Mr. Fairfield forced a short cackle that ended quickly as he spotted one of his young employees painting a few last details on a popcorn booth. “Hey! That thing is sticking out too far. I told you that twenty times already!” As the kid struggled to push the booth into a better spot, Mr. Fairfield muttered, “Numbskull,” just a bit too loudly. “Yeah, it’s gonna be a big year, Gordo. Our biggest ever. This place’ll be busting at the seams.”
    “You haven’t been wrong yet, Ben.”
    “Hey, genius is a burden, am I right? Ha ha! Okay. You ready for this?”
    He grabbed the corner of a large tarpaulin draped over something that looked about as big as the Tinkers’ front porch. Then,
swoosh!
He pulled the tarp away to reveal…well, Martin wasn’t sure exactly what. It was a really big box—a room, kind of—open at one end, with a three-dimensional woodland scene at the back and, at the opening where they stood, a toy rifle mounted on a post. A big, arc-shaped sign over the front announced proudly:

    “Geez. Will you look at that,” Mr. Tinker said unconvincingly. He and Martin traded sidelong frowns.
    “You give the man a dollar…and…” Mr. Fairfield stepped up to the rifle, pushed a big red button, and took aim as the forest scene sprang to life—papier-mâché deer and bears popping up and down among the trees, creaky plastic ducks taking off from the brush, smiling cutout fish jumping out of a “stream” that was nothing more than a bunch of tinsel blown by a fan.
    Mr. Fairfield fired away at the animals as they quickly appeared and disappeared, the fake
boom
of the gun sounding more like a cannon blast than a rifle shot. Mr. Tinker could only scratch his head as Mr. Fairfield’s score rapidly mounted on an electronic counter, with a helpful
ding
announcing each hit. Mr. Fairfield was thoroughly absorbed, snickering like a third grader, but as far as Martin was concerned,