Jillie

by Olive Balla

  “By the way, just in case you decide to call that stupid caseworker and complain, I’ll be keeping Beth’s ashes here.” Margo lowered her eyelids. “You even whisper anything against us and those ashes get flushed down the toilet.” She leaned forward, her index finger jabbing the air toward Jillie’s face. “You heard me, down the toilet. She’ll spend eternity in the sewer with the rest of the—”

  “Why are you so mean?” Jillie ran upstairs to her room. She slammed the door behind her, collapsed onto the closet floor, lifted Mickey from her coat-bed, and buried her face in his fur to muffle the sounds of her crying.

  After a while, something Pops had said floated into Jillie’s memory: People are more than the skin-house other people see. The real person is the invisible spirit that lives inside. He said the Creator made people so that even when the body turns back into stardust, the spirit lives on. He said the spirit’s made of pure energy and although energy can be altered, it can’t be destroyed. Ever. That meant Beth was still Beth, even if her body got burned up.

  She sifted through her memory for the things Beth had to take care of during the days following their pop’s death. But Beth had left Jillie home and gone to the funeral home on her own, so details were sketchy. She’d probably wanted to protect Jillie from knowing what was going on, but that meant Jillie would have to figure everything out for herself.

  You’re still the best big sister in the whole world.

  Jillie ran her palms along her cheeks to wipe away the tears she couldn’t seem to stop. How long would an autopsy take? Would the cremation happen at the hospital, or would they send her someplace else for that?

  But Margo had said Beth had to have an autopsy first. If she wasn’t cremated yet, maybe there was still time for Jillie to see her one last time. She stood at the window and considered her options.

  She’d have liked to just pack up and walk out the front door in the middle of the night, but the stairs squeaked so loudly, anyone in the house would know what she was up to. The only other way out of the house was through Digger’s window, though its small size might make for a tight squeeze. Then there was the steeply slanted tin roof Jillie knew from experience would be slippery.

  But once she’d got past those problems, the plentiful thick branches of the huge dead cottonwood just outside the window would be easy to maneuver. Like climbing down a ladder.

  With the memory of her sister’s smiling face, Jillie went downstairs to cook dinner…dinner that night, breakfast, and dinner the next day—twenty-four hours to set her new plan in motion… Hopefully, that would be long enough.

  Chapter Seven

  That evening, Jillie pooled bits of food from the dinner plates. Pieces of napkin-wrapped dinner roll formed an inviting lump in the nylon fabric of her backpack. For whatever reason, Margo slacked off a bit on her surveillance, and Jillie sneaked a banana and an orange into her cache.

  The next morning, she prepared eggs, sausage and frozen biscuits. But this time she made four extra patties of sausage, two extra hardboiled eggs, and three extra biscuits.

  “You know by now how much food to cook.” Margo bent over to bring her face inches from Jillie’s. “You think I don’t know what you’re up to?”

  Jillie gulped loud enough for anyone within earshot to hear.

  “You think I’ll let you have the extra food rather than let it go to waste?” Droplets of spit peppered Jillie’s face, jettisoned from Margo’s mouth with every “s” and “t” in her rant.

  Jillie wiped the slobber away with the back of her hand then hung her head in what Beth had called her contrite act. “Sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “You got that right. Just because breakfast is one of your meals here doesn’t mean you can eat twice as much as the rest of us.” She pointed at the now-cold sausage and biscuits. “That’ll be your dinner.”

  Smiling inwardly, Jillie hung her head.

  “Honey Buns?” Cleg called from the living room. “It’s time for our show.”

  Margo narrowed her eyes. “Now clean up this mess. Tomorrow morning we’ll go to your farm.”

  “The show’s starting,” Cleg’s whine floated into the kitchen.

  “I’ll be there in a minute,” Margo shouted back. “Lord, why is it I’m the only one in this house with the sense to take care of things.” She glowered at Jillie then left the kitchen.

  In spite of her growling stomach, Jillie folded the food scraps up in a paper towel instead of snarfing it down. She finished the dishes then stuffed the package of food under her baggy T-shirt.

  “I gotta go to the bathroom,” she hollered toward the living room.

  Margo yelled back, “If you miss the bus, I’m not taking you.”

  Music from re-runs of a once-popular crime show meant the Elliotts would be stuck like zombies in front of the tube for the next hour or so.

  Glad that Margo hadn’t followed through with her threat that Cleg would walk her to the bus stop, Jillie ran upstairs and stuffed the latest wad of food into her backpack. Then she pulled the sheets from her bed, along with two more she’d washed and stashed in her closet. As quickly as she could, she tore the faded, threadbare things into strips, which she stuffed under the mattress. She ran out the door just in time to catch the bus.

  Supper was spaghetti. The cooking smells made Jillie’s empty stomach growl, and when Margo left the kitchen for a couple of minutes, she slurped down a spoonful of the tangy sauce and sucked up several strands of half-cooked pasta. The food burnt her tongue and put a blister on the roof of her mouth, but she didn’t care. She kept her mind busy by going over the details of her plan.

  That night, she waited until the household was silent, except for Cleg’s foundation-rattling snore. She retrieved the strips of bed sheet and braided them the way she’d learned in Girl Scouts. Hopefully, the makeshift rope would be strong enough for what she needed. She didn’t let herself think about what would happen if it weren’t.

  After pulling one end of the rope through the handle of her suitcase, she circled it around the handle and tied a square knot then threaded it through the straps of her backpack. She hefted the load a couple of times then congratulated herself when the rope held fast.

  Jillie heaved the suitcase and backpack onto the bed. Ancient, rusty springs squealed, and she froze, holding her breath. When no feet pounded on the wooden floor toward her room and no voice questioned what she was doing, she planted her hands against the wrought iron bed frame and pushed the whole thing toward the window.

  But the bed’s iron legs scraped so loudly against the warped wood floor, Jillie had to bite her lip to keep from panicking. If the Elliotts discovered her trying to escape, they’d probably put bars on the window. Or they might even move her someplace where they could lock her in. She’d die without ever finding her sister.

  She shivered. Help me, Beth.

  For the next several minutes, she moved the bed a few inches at a time, stopped to listen, and moved it a few more inches until it rested just beneath the window sill.

  Careful to put her feet on the iron bedframe under the mattress, she grabbed the wrought-iron headboard and pulled herself up onto the bed. To prevent the rusty springs from squealing again, she slowly moved her feet along the metal frame until she stood under the window.

  After wrapping one end of the braided rope around her waist to keep it from being yanked out of her grasp by the weight of the luggage, she pushed the suitcase and backpack through the window. Once the luggage bumped against the tin roof outside the room, she unwound the rope from her waist.

  Relieved when the cadence of Cleg’s snore continued unbroken, Jillie carefully played out the braided rope. As she’d hoped, the luggage slid down the roof as if the corrugated tin were a water slide.

  But Jillie’s sweat-slick hands lost their grip, and the rope burned her palms as it shot through her fingers. Instinctively, she opened her scalded hands and flapped them as the suitcase and backpack thumped onto the packed dirt b
eside the house.

  Once the pain subsided, she held her palms in the moonlight spilling through the open window. No blood, only the redness and soreness caused by rope-burn.

  Cautiously, she squeezed through the window—arms first, as if she were diving into a swimming pool. When her fingers came into contact with the roof, she carefully pulled her legs and feet the rest of the way through the window and then righted herself. Clutching the window sill, she stood still long enough to catch her breath.

  Her tennies offered little traction on the steeply slanted, corrugated tin, and she nearly slipped several times before managing to inch her way to the roof’s edge. Fear of being caught made a boulder in her throat as she began to shinny down the old tree.

  But when she reached the lowest tree limb, she realized it was still a long way to the ground—a lot further than it had seemed during her earlier reconnaissance. She’d have to hang from the limb by her arms and hope she didn’t hurt herself in the drop.

  After slowly lowering her body off one side of the limb, she dangled for several heart-stopping seconds, then took a breath and let go. She landed with a plop onto the hard dirt next to her luggage, pain like an electrical shock shooting up the leg that’d taken the brunt of the fall. She sat on the ground and rubbed her ankle until the pain lessened, then stood and stepped to her luggage.

  She untied the sheet-rope from her bags, wound it up, and hid it in the gap between the tree and house. Then she slipped the straps of her backpack over her shoulders, lifted the suitcase, and made her way down the driveway’s outside edge toward the road.

  Cool night air washed over her, and she inhaled as deeply as her lungs would allow. The light breeze smelled like dirt, trees, animals, weeds and dried flowers.

  It smelled like freedom.

  But instead of singing and dancing for joy as was her impulse, Jillie moved quietly. As soon as the Elliotts discovered her missing, they’d be out looking for her.

  And she didn’t want to think about what they’d do if they got her back into that house again.

  Chapter Eight

  Avoiding the roads, Jillie headed cross-country. The suitcase and backpack grew heavier with each step, and she often had to stop and straighten her aching back.

  Maybe she should ditch the suitcase. She’d only packed it because Beth told her to.

  At the very least, maybe she could unload the Nancy Drew book, or one of the bottles of water. But the book had been Beth’s, and she’d need the water. Although less to haul would have been a relief, like Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs, anything she left behind would lead searchers right to her. She took a deep breath and tightened her grip on the suitcase handle.

  Cool night air teased its fingers upward under her jacket, and her teeth chattered. She busied her mind with memories of past trips on the train with Beth before Pops died. They’d take sandwiches for lunch and stop off along the route to visit museums and parks, window-shop, and people-watch. By the time they got home, they’d be too tired to do anything but take a bath and go to bed.

  Sudden anger bubbled up from Jillie’s insides. Mommy, Pops, and Beth—all gone.

  Life’s not fair, Chili Bean. We just do the best we can. Beth’s words brought tears to Jillie’s eyes. “I miss you,” she breathed into the silence.

  If all went well, she’d get to the train station before the Elliotts discovered her missing. She’d get off in Albuquerque then board the city bus that stopped in front of the hospital. She’d hunt up the kind-faced nurse who’d patted her shoulder and told her they were doing everything they could for her sister.

  Two problems popped into her mind. One was the question of what to do with her luggage. A kid carrying that much stuff would catch people’s attention. Second, the Belen station didn’t open until five thirty in the morning. And according to her wristwatch, that was still a couple of hours away.

  The luggage problem could be resolved by renting one of the station’s lockers Beth had pointed out during one of their day trips. Depending on the cost, she might be able to rent one for several days. But the only way to deal with the second problem was to wait for the station to open.

  Within a few minutes, the train station came into view. Except for lights dotting the parking lot, the place was dark and empty.

  Jillie dropped her suitcase into the roadside ditch. She sat on the ground in front of it, leaned back against the hard plastic, and glanced at her watch.

  Two hours before the station came to life. She could rest her eyes, just for a few…

  The sun’s warmth on Jillie’s face jolted her awake. Panic-stricken, she looked at her watch.

  Nearly eight o’clock. The Elliotts would be up and ready for breakfast.

  When they found her gone, they’d probably call the police or social services. In no time, every train and bus station in the state would be crawling with police. Her picture would probably be plastered all over television.

  Her eyes scanning in what Pops had called surveillance mode, she hoisted her luggage and hurried toward the station while searching the parking lot for signs of unusual activity. None of the vehicles looked familiar and she didn’t recognize any of the people who bustled in and out of the automatic double doors. No police were in sight.

  She jammed her baseball cap down to cover as much of her hair as possible and stepped onto the asphalt at one end of the parking lot.

  Just then, Mort’s pickup chugged into the lot opposite to where Jillie stood. Alone in the vehicle, his head swiveled from side to side as he slowly drove up and down the lanes.

  Panic sluicing through her stomach, Jillie hauled her suitcase back up the hill, dropped it behind a large sage brush and fell to her knees beside it. She watched through gaps in the bush while Mort parked and went inside the station.

  Her heart pounding and ears alert to every sound, Jillie grabbed up her bag and again headed cross country. If she didn’t stop to rest, she should be able to cover the ten miles to the Los Lunas station by nightfall. She’d stash her suitcase in one of the lockers there and catch the evening train to Albuquerque.

  With renewed determination, Jillie tramped across fields and down turn rows. Ignoring the constant pain in her shoulders and stitch in her side, she adjusted her direction based on the position of the sun.

  Pops, Mommy, Beth, if you can hear me, please help me be strong.

  Exhausted beyond anything she’d ever experienced before, Jillie marched on.

  Chapter Nine

  Over the next couple of hours, Jillie’s elation slowly eroded into the realization that she’d miscalculated how long it would take her to get to the Los Lunas train station. With daylight fading and exhaustion making her breath come in gasps, she had to find a place to hole up for the night.

  The sight of a barn on the horizon brought relief pouring through her. No house nearby meant the place was either abandoned or used only for storage.

  When her careful search for signs of life came up null, she hurried toward the barn. With its wood door standing slightly ajar, the place felt forgotten.

  Jillie pulled her belongings into the darkness. Her ears pricking at every creak and groan the old timbers made in the heightening winds, she hollowed out a nest in a pile of dry, dusty hay, ate a few bites from her food stores, and considered her plan of action.

  If she’d been a typical kid with typical looks, mixing in with a crowd wouldn’t have been all that hard. But everywhere she went, people stared.

  Then she remembered the hair color Beth had insisted she pack.

  After retrieving the box from her suitcase, she read the instructions, put the vile smelling stuff on her head and left it for the fifteen minutes the directions demanded.

  Sacrificing one bottle of her precious water, she washed her hair as best she could. She then tore the hair color box into tiny pieces and stuffed it along with the empty water bottle into her backpack for later disposal.

  Her hair still wet, she nestled into the hay, pulled Mickey
up to her chest, and fell asleep.

  ****

  The wail and whistle of high winds through the gaps between the barn’s walls brought Jillie awake. Temporarily disoriented, she moved her legs, rustling the hay upon which she lay. The not-unpleasant smell of old, dried alfalfa filled her nostrils.

  A glance toward the barn door showed the sun was preparing to come up. Still tired, she yearned to roll over and go back to sleep in her warm nest. But she sat up, pulled on her Broncos baseball cap and quickly packed her things.

  The barn had seemed safe the night before. But from the moment she woke, an ominous feeling in her stomach had been growing in intensity, and she’d learned never to ignore it.

  She grabbed up her stuff and carried it toward the ditch beside the road. No sooner had she jumped into the gully than her ears pricked at the sound of an approaching vehicle. She lifted her head over the berm as headlights approached the barn.

  Dust and pebbles shot out behind the tires as Cleg drove up the overgrown path to the barn. From her perch on the passenger’s side, Margo swiveled her head like a barn owl in search of a mouse.

  As soon as Cleg turned off the engine, Margo threw open her door, jumped out, slammed the door behind her, and headed for the barn. After a short pause, the second pickup door slammed and Cleg ambled after his wife.

  The skin along Jillie’s arms and neck crawled like thousands of fleas were invading her body. Barely breathing, she hunkered down and waited.

  Voices floated on the breeze to her straining ears.

  “I told you she’d hide out here,” Margo said. “Look at that hay. She made herself comfortable while you and Mort chased your asses.”

  Cleg mumbled something.

  “You thought?” Margo shrieked. “That’s the problem, you didn’t think, as per usual. She’ll most likely find another hidey-hole…maybe at the Posey’s old place.”

  “It’s breakfast time, Sweet Lumps. Can’t we grab a bite before heading over there?”

  “No, we can’t grab a bite before heading over there,” Margo mimicked Cleg’s whine. “You could live over a month off the blubber you’ve got stored up. Come on.”