(R is for recluse, respectful, rhubarb, and risqué)


Holding the warped board aside, Marvin motioned Brian and Alex through the wooden fence. “Quiet,” he warned. “Old George has ears like an owl.”
With Marvin in the lead, the three boys crept, low to the ground, through the corn stalks, the rhubarb, and then the wooden trellises lush with grape vines and leaves. They kept to the back of the garden, which covered nearly every inch of the half-acre yard, and slid beneath a protective arbor of blackberry canes.
“Watch the stickers,” Marvin warned. He carried a slim backpack. Settling himself on the grass under the canes, he pulled several magazines out of the pack. The other two boys glanced around fearfully, as if expecting to see Old George peering down at them from above.
“We’re safe here,” Marvin said, grinning. “As long as we don’t make much noise.” He reached over his head for a fat, ripe blackberry and popped it into his mouth. Brian and Alex began pulling berries from the canes, and their hands and lips were soon stained blue-black from the juice.
“How did you find this place?” Alex said, finally sated. He wiped his hands on his legs, leaving streaks of color.
Marvin, too, had had his fill of berries. “Ted dared me to sneak in. I guess he figured I was too chicken to take on Old George. But the old man was clueless, so Ted had to pay up.” The matted grass and footprints told of Marvin’s numerous return trips.
“But Old George found you, didn’t he?” Brian inched farther back under the canes until he felt the stickers pressing through his T-shirt.
Marvin smirked. “Not here. He found me sneaking in. He didn’t know where I was headed ‘cause I’d just come through the fence.” He turned solemn, remembering the reprimand his father had given him when Old George brought him home, holding him tightly by the shirtsleeve. He had been forbidden from returning—and bothering “that recluse,” as his father called Old George. “He wants to be left alone. I expect you to be respectful.” The warning hadn’t stopped Marvin from coming back. He’d just been careful, waiting for the old man to hang up his hoe and straw hat, and shut the back door before daring to enter the yard.
“What’d you bring?” Alex said.
Marvin spread out the magazines on the ground, and the Alex whistled softly. Beyond risqué, the cover photos were raw and disturbing. “Where’d you get these?”
“From my uncle.” As the boys gaped at the pages, Marvin was excited by the images but troubled, too. The grownup women he knew were nothing like these women. Why did they pose like this? Why did his uncle want them?
The boys heard the back door slam. When the back porch squeaked, they scooped up the magazines and stuffed them hurriedly into Marvin’s pack. “Let’s go!” Marvin shoved Alex out of the cane canopy and quickly followed him into the sunshine. Brian’s shirt was caught in the stickers, and when he pulled to free himself, his shirt ripped. “Help,” he called. Marvin turned back, but Old George loomed up before him. With a grunt, Old George clapped a hand on his shoulder. His grip was strong, and his blue eyes fierce.
“Stealing my blackberries,” the old man thundered. “Trespassing in my garden.”
“No, no,” Marvin stammered. He was surprised to see that Brian was free of the canes, his shirt stretched and torn. Both he and Alex stood transfixed by Old George. “We didn’t take any blackberries.”
The old man’s eyes traveled the length of Alex’s stained legs.
Marvin opened up his pack. “No berries. Look.”
Still holding Marvin by the shoulder, Old George’s eyes widened at the magazines. He looked at the three boys, their faces tense and wary. What would he do?
“Come with me,” he ordered. They could have fled then, but they followed him obediently through the garden, up the steps to the porch, and inside the house. Despite the summer heat, he lit a fire in the fireplace, and burned the magazines, one by one. The pages glowed red, curled black, and wafted up the chimney.
Marvin was relieved. The magazines were history now—nothing for Old George to show his parents. “Are you going to tell my dad?”
Old George gave him an intent look. “We’ll see.” He motioned for the boys to follow him into the kitchen. Marvin was surprised to see the floor clean and bright, the counters uncluttered. Old George took three bowls from a cupboard and handed one to each boy. “The birds are eating all my berries. You help me pick them, and you can take home what I don’t want.”