I lived in eight houses before I graduated high school. I was the fourth and smallest child, the unplanned, the unexpected, the oops, and the first couple of moves, I worried my parents might leave me behind. Later moves left me wishing they had. Each house came with a new neighborhood full of strange faces, unexplored places, and its own set of rules which Dad delivered like Moses coming down from the mountain. All designed to keep us safe, or so he said. They weren’t complicated—it was the 50’s after all—but according to Dad, the world was a dangerous place, full of crime. I couldn’t imagine any crime. The only crime I knew about happened in Gotham City or Metropolis. I didn’t watch the news on our 3-channel set or read the paper. It disappeared into dad’s briefcase before I left for school.
One rule always made the list. A yard that I and my brother, number three, the next step up on the sibling staircase, weren’t allowed in. Dad never explained why. When we moved to house number two in Arkansas, that yard was right next door and it belonged to Judge Holt. To me, the Judge was a mythical figure. I’d never really seen him. If I was quick, I could catch a glimpse of a hunched figure, more hat than man, inside a white whale of a car as he rumbled down the driveway by the kitchen window at breakfast. I never saw him return. By the time I got home from school, I could see the glint of a grill grinning from the darkened depths of the outbuilding on the back of his property. Sometimes, number three and I would stand just at the edge of the forbidden front yard and dare each other to step across the Twilight Zone line, our hearts racing, wondering what would happen. But I never crossed over until the day the gang dared me.
The gang was a little tribe of ragtags that we formed in each new neighborhood. Fort builders, kick-the-canners, co-conspirators—brave, resourceful, and loyal—ready to produce an alibi. They stood beside me that fateful late spring day when I accepted the dare. The grass was green-glowing, fuzzy yellow and black bumble bees as big as my thumb spiraled in and out of the blooming jasmine vines, and overhead, the God-is-smiling-down-on-you blue sky. We lined up along the 4’ chain link fence separating my backyard from the land of unlikely return. A land of grass and gravel, split by a sidewalk that snaked from the outbuilding and buried its head in a tangled tunnel formed by the jungle of overgrown bushes strangling the foundation of his two-story planked house.
After I understood the conditions that would constitute compliance, I breathed in fresh courage and quickly scaled the fence, thinking this would be easy. Knock and run. As soon as my red rubber-tipped Keds hit the ground, I was off, aimed at what I hoped was the back door. My heart thudded, my feed pounded. Behind me a cheering crowd. I cleared the yard and dashed down the sidewalk. The goal was near and jubilation filled my body until an impossibly tall walking-stick emerged from the tunnel and stalked toward me, beady eyes glaring from beneath caterpillar brows. I stumbled, arms Ferris-wheeling, and landed on my hands and knees. When I raised my head, a face as craggy as the Ozarks blocked the sun. I focused through skint-palm tears, and a buzzing filled my ears. I couldn’t breathe and awaited the doom that was sure to follow.
A long-fingered hand reached down and gently lifted me to my feet. “Now, now. You’ll survive.”
I withdrew like a turtle.
“I’m Judge Holt. Who are you?”
“Uh, um…Ginger,” I squeaked.
“Well, Miss Ginger. You should be more careful. Why don’t you run on home and get those hands looked at.”
I glanced up and his once fearsome face transformed. Wrinkles smoothed, eyes softened, and his lips curled upward. But what happened next was truly a miracle. He reached into his jacket then held out his hand. Resting in his palm were shiny wrapped golden disks of butterscotch.
“Go ahead. Take them all. I’m sure your friends will appreciate it.” He tipped his hat and stalked off toward his car,
I left my whispered thank you hanging in the air, ignored the owl-eyed bunch by the fence, and casually strolled down the driveway toward the street. One did not return from visiting a friend by climbing over the fence.
My gang greeted me in the front yard with the awe and respect that I deserved. The returning hero. The slayer of the dragon. The bearer of butterscotch.