Jillie

by Olive Balla

  Doors slammed, the pickup engine roared to life, and a cloud of dust testified to the Elliotts’ departure.

  Long after the engine noise receded into the distance, Jillie sat deep in thought.

  She’d have to avoid the roads—especially highway forty-seven that ran north from Belen to Los Lunas. No doubt the Elliotts as well as the police would be patrolling that route.

  The day was turning out to be overcast—an unusual occurrence in the high desert. The good news was that clouds never hung around long, and she’d soon be able to use the sun for direction. The bad news was, other than the roads she’d memorized, she was completely unfamiliar with the area.

  Eyes and ears alert, she walked along the arroyo until it intersected the raised sides of an irrigation ditch. Leaving her luggage in the arroyo, she climbed out, stood atop the berm, and scanned the area—only fields and pasture land as far as she could see.

  For the next several hours, Jillie hauled her luggage over barbed wire fences and slogged her way across soggy, irrigated fields in the direction she hoped was north. The day wore on, but low, darkening clouds refused to give her even a glimpse of the sun. Then the little daylight sifting through the clouds dimmed.

  Panic drove away the hunger grinding in Jillie’s stomach as her eyes scoured the area. No houses, not even a dirt road. Nothing looked familiar.

  She was lost, and a storm was brewing. She’d always loved New Mexico rain storms, but just then, the idea terrified her. A storm meant lightning, and lightning could put an end to anyone who got caught out in it. Jillie had to find shelter, and she had to find it fast.

  Chapter Ten

  Muddy, exhausted, and so hungry she could hardly think straight, Jillie plodded on in the direction she hoped lay Los Lunas. With every step, the suitcase bumped against her legs. Blisters raised on her hands, the stitch in her side had developed into a full-blown, stabbing pain, and her breaths came in gasps. Sweat plastered her hair against her forehead, dripped down her face, and ran stinging into her eyes. Her T-shirt was sweat-soaked while her mouth was dry, and the blisters on her heels had popped, making every step hurt so badly she sobbed.

  At some point, the clouds evaporated, and a full moon lit up the terrain. Jillie could hardly believe her eyes at the sight of a sign announcing she was nearing the village limits of Los Lunas.

  Giddiness made her lightheaded. She’d find a place to rest, then get to the station early the next morning. Hopefully, Beth would still be at the hospital waiting to be autopsied.

  With renewed energy, she stashed her bags beside the road and covered them with dead tree limbs and leaves. Watchful of traffic but unwilling to stray very far from the road, she walked toward the village.

  Just outside of town, she spotted a small trailer house, not much bigger than the playhouse Pops had built for her in their back yard. Tall weeds grew undisturbed around the trailer’s base. No light or sound came from inside.

  If abandoned as it seemed, the trailer might be the perfect place to stash her suitcase. Not only would it allow her to save the money she’d have had to use for a locker, but she’d be able to move much faster. She could come back for it after she got Beth’s ashes.

  Unable to see through the windows made opaque by dirt, she climbed the two creaky wooden steps and went in. Wadded paper and plastic bags, newspapers, and empty cans littered the floor. The scurrying of tiny clawed feet as well as the smell told her no one had lived here for a long time.

  What appeared to be a small rug lay just inside the door, but the rest of the floor was cracked, dark linoleum. Tattered floral fabric oozed cotton batting from a sofa attached to the wall at one end of the trailer.

  Jillie returned to her luggage and carried it up the small hill. Once inside the trailer, she heaved the backpack and suitcase onto the sofa. Dust flew from the ragged fabric, and she coughed.

  With garbage crunching under her feet, she stepped into a short, dark hallway leading to a built-in wooden platform that must have once served as a bed. The mattress was nowhere to be seen, but at least the platform would keep her off the floor.

  She’d taken a couple of steps into the gloomy hallway, when a sudden gust of air wafted upward, ruffling her hair and cooling her face. She looked closer at a dark oval in the center of the hallway and goose bumps broke out on her arms.

  Just a few inches further, and she’d have stepped into a gaping hole in the floor. While the fall probably wouldn’t have killed her, she could have wound up with a broken arm or leg. Because the trailer was so isolated, most likely no one would have heard her screams for help. By the time she could get free, the Elliotts could have got hold of Beth’s ashes.

  Jillie swallowed hard and looked around the trailer’s interior as her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. She picked up a small, empty cardboard box on the floor next to the sofa, tore off a side panel and placed it over the hole. It wouldn’t be strong enough to hold her weight, but at least it would be a reminder of where not to step.

  She wouldn’t be here long. A few hours’ sleep was all she needed.

  But gusts of wind kept lifting the cardboard over the hole and then dropping it. There was no way she’d be able to sleep with all that whoosh-plop stuff going on. And a hole that size would allow critters to come and go as they pleased. Though she loved animals, Jillie shivered at the thought of a raccoon or family of rats somehow finding their way up that hole with the intention on nestling next to her while she slept.

  She returned to the small rug she’d seen by the front door, picked it up, and spread the threadbare thing on top of the cardboard. Once satisfied that the added weight would hold steady against further wind gusts, she threw her backpack past the rug onto the platform. Too heavy to heave over the hole, the suitcase would stay on the sofa.

  Taking what running jump the tiny confines allowed, Jillie leaped over the rug. She sat on the platform edge and pulled her backpack toward her. Only two biscuits, an orange, and a squashed banana left. She should have made more sausage for the trip, no matter how much Margo yelled.

  After giving thanks for her food, she ate every bite then allowed herself a few sips from her second bottle of water. The remaining bottle would have to be rationed until she could find someplace to refill it.

  At the urgent tugging of her bladder, Jillie stepped outside and walked toward a large bush. She squatted, her eyes drawn down the hill.

  Headlights from cars carrying people home from work meandered down streets polka dotted by streetlights. Lighted homes sparkled like jewels across the valley below.

  Families were eating supper in those houses. Moms and pops were hugging their kids goodnight, and brothers and sisters scrapped with each other before going to bed. There would be food in those houses, clean clothes, warm baths and beds. There would be people who loved each other.

  Jillie swiped at the tears welling up in her eyes, pulled up her britches, and returned to the trailer. After spreading her coat on the wooden platform, she lay down and rested her head on Mickey’s tummy.

  “God,” she whispered, “I don’t know if Beth can hear me from Heaven, but would you please give her a message? Tell her I love her and that I’m going to find her no matter what. Amen.”

  Jillie tried to make herself go to sleep. But her eyes kept popping open, drawn upward to an oblong window in the wall above the platform.

  About a foot wide, the dirt-encrusted pane ran nearly the width of the trailer. And though its metal clasp seemed tightly locked, she couldn’t make herself stop imagining a hideous, distorted face staring at her like the ones she’d seen in horror movies.

  Standing on the platform, she twisted the locked clasp and pushed the window open, wincing at the resulting squeal. Good thing the trailer was so isolated, otherwise she might as well have sent a telegraph to the world that she was there.

  She pulled the window closed, twisted the clasp, then shoved against the mechanism to test the lock’s strength. But even after it became obvious no one
could open the window from the outside, she couldn’t calm down.

  Her ears perked up at every sound and her imagination played tricks on her while hunger shoved bitter-tasting acid into her throat. Outside, the wind moaned, making the little trailer creak and shudder. Finally, exhaustion won, and Jillie fell asleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  Early morning light fighting its way through the window above her brought Jillie’s eyes open. Relieved to see even a bit of sunshine, she glanced at her watch. Nearly six o’clock.

  She sat up, picked up her backpack, and retrieved her money pouch. Time to take stock of her finances.

  Less the train fare to Albuquerque, she had forty-eight dollars and change. That sounded like a lot of money, but she’d have to be careful. Especially now that her food was gone.

  By that time of the morning, Beth would have been cooking their breakfast. Jillie’s mouth watered at the remembered smells of bacon and biscuits, the sizzle and pop of eggs frying in bacon drippings, even the glorious aroma of her sister’s fresh coffee. Beth had said it probably wasn’t the healthiest breakfast, but it was what Grandma Ross ate every morning of her life, and she lived to be ninety-five.

  Jillie did some mental math. If she watched what she spent, and ate only two meals a day, her money should last long enough to get Beth’s ashes and take them home on the train.

  She refused to think about what she’d do after that. One day at a time, that’s what Pops always said. And right then, she had to get something to eat.

  Using her fingers as a comb, she poked at her hair a few times, gave up the brief fight with a rat’s nest of tangles, and pulled on her baseball cap.

  She jumped over the hole in the floor, opened her suitcase, and took out a small wooden box. A gift from Pops on her ninth birthday, the box was a rectangle of about five inches wide, eight inches long, and three inches high. She ran her fingers over the tiny roses carved into the hinged lid of what she called her treasure chest.

  She opened the lid and smiled at the brightly colored beads, crystalline stones, bits of colored plastic and glass, and one of the most recent gifts left by the crows—a crusty nickel. Useless stuff really, but she couldn’t bear to leave it behind. She closed the box and stuffed it into her backpack.

  Beth had made her memorize the street names of all the train stations in case they got separated during one of their days out. Sometimes, after Digger had fallen asleep, the two of them would pour over a road map of New Mexico. Beth’s spirit would radiate equal parts happy anticipation and sadness as they made plans to leave the only home they’d ever known.

  Jillie said a quick prayer for help remembering the directions, kissed the top of Mickey’s head, and stuffed him into her backpack. With any luck, people would think she was just another kid going to school.

  About half an hour later, as she neared the station, she spotted a neon sign atop a twenty-four-hour fast food café. Saliva filled her mouth at the smells of bacon, sausage, eggs, and pancakes that poured through the door as a couple of people exited. She adjusted her backpack and made a beeline for the café.

  A woman stood behind the counter. The name tag pinned to her shirt identified her as the manager. Someone standing at the grill laughed and said something to a young man wearing a hairnet and carrying a box out of a huge refrigerator built into the wall. Jillie was relieved to see there were no other customers.

  The woman behind the counter smiled. “How can I help you?”

  “How much for a plain biscuit?”

  The woman eyed Jillie. “This must be your lucky day. We have a special on our sampler breakfast platter. It comes with a little of everything.”

  “How much can I get for a dollar?”

  “Enough for two people. You want orange or apple juice?”

  “Apple.” Jillie pulled one wadded-up dollar out of her pocket and put it on the counter. Something about the way the woman looked at her tugged at her insides, but she was too hungry to deal with it. “May I use your restroom?”

  “Left at the end of the counter.”

  Jillie was startled to see her image in the mirror above the bathroom sink. Though pleased that the hair coloring completely changed her appearance, she was shocked at how dirty and bedraggled she looked. The good news was she didn’t think even her sister would have recognized her.

  She washed her hands and arms up to her elbows, tidied her hair as best she could, and replaced her baseball cap. When she returned to the dining room, the manager smiled and motioned toward a red plastic tray upon which sat a white Styrofoam platter piled high with scrambled eggs, two sausages, two pieces of crisp bacon, and three pancakes. Two little square containers of syrup, a packet of butter, and a box of apple juice sat next to the food.

  “If you’d like more juice,” the woman said, “Just let me know.”

  “Thank you.” Uncomfortable with the woman’s scrutiny, Jillie kept her head bowed. But something about the way the woman’s eyes kept shifting back and forth between her and the door set her adrenaline pumping.

  She carried her tray to a booth and slid into its built-in seat. After gobbling most of the food, she nonchalantly wrapped the sausages in a napkin, stuffed them into her backpack then headed for the front door.

  But just as she was about to step outside, a police car pulled around the corner. Its driver looking intently toward the café, the car slowed then pulled over to the curb.

  Had her description already been put on the radio? Had someone in the café recognized her and called the police?

  She glanced at the manager who was edging around the counter while pretending to be interested in something else.

  “Actually,” Jillie said, “if you’re sure it’s okay, I would like another box of juice.”

  The woman smiled, a relieved look on her face. “Good,” she said. “Another apple juice coming up.”

  As soon as the manager disappeared behind the counter, Jillie hurried toward the rear door beneath a red-lighted Exit sign. Another sign taped to the door said it was for emergency use only and an alarm would sound if it was opened.

  With all the strength she could muster, she pushed the bar on the door down and shoved. True to the sign’s promise, the alarm whooped loud enough to shatter the eardrums of anyone in the vicinity.

  But instead of running through the exit, Jillie stepped back into the café and ran toward an attached indoor playground. She climbed a ladder to the top of a huge tube-slide and hunkered down inside a red, solid plastic square cube barely large enough for her and her backpack.

  Her stomach flip-flopped as voices floated up to her.

  “She used the emergency exit,” the manager said. “I tried to keep her here, but she must have seen you coming.”

  “Where does the exit lead?” a man’s voice said.

  “To the alley. But by now, she’ll be long gone.”

  “What makes you think she was a runaway?”

  “I have three daughters,” the counter woman said. “That poor kid was half starved. And she looked like she hadn’t washed or changed clothes in a month.”

  “Can you describe her?”

  “About four and a half feet tall, maybe seventy pounds. She was wearing a baseball cap, Broncos, I think. She looked about eleven or so. At first, I wasn’t even sure she was a girl because of the way she was dressed and the short hair.”

  “Hair color?”

  “Brown, from what I could see under her cap. “

  “Was there anyone with her, maybe someone she seemed to be afraid of?”

  “No, she was alone.” Pause. “At least I think she was.” Pause. “You think someone could have been waiting outside for her, someone who made her come in for food?”

  “It’s possible—”

  “Oh,” the woman interrupted, “she had really pale skin, almost white, and pretty eyes. Violet, I think you’d call them. It’s the first thing I noticed about her.”

  “Violet eyes?”

  “Yeah, nearly pu
rple.”

  There was a pause, as if the officer was writing down the description. “We’ll check missing persons. If she comes back—”

  “I’ll call,” the manager said. “It’s sad, you know. People don’t watch their kids anymore, too busy or just don’t care. I don’t leave mine by themselves, not with the way things are these days.”

  After a couple more questions, the policeman thanked the manager for the call and left.

  When sounds in the café returned to normal, Jillie scooted a few feet down the tube attached to the cube and peeked through a round hole. Customers came and went. Groups laughed and joked with each other, taking time with their food, while single folks sat alone, ate quickly and left.

  A bus load of kids piled through the door and into the playground. Screaming, pushing, and shoving, they converged onto the slide.

  By this time, someone other than the manager stood behind the counter. A different cook slapped raw burger patties onto the grill.

  Taking advantage of the sudden mob of kids, Jillie took a turn down the slide then walked toward the front door. No one called to her, and no police were in sight.

  After making sure the coast was clear, she stepped onto the sidewalk and walked as fast as she could toward a park she’d passed on her way into town. She’d refill her water bottle at the drinking fountain there and wash up as best she could. Then she’d eat the sausage and head back to the trailer for a clean outfit from her suitcase.

  She’d have to be more careful.

  Chapter Twelve

  A worried look carefully pasted on his face, Mort spoke to the woman behind the counter at the fast food joint. “We’re her only family. My mother’s worried sick; she hasn’t been able to eat or sleep since our Jillie ran away.”

  The woman whose badge proclaimed her the assistant manager looked thoughtful. “Our manager said she saw a kid this morning. Her hair wasn’t white, though, it was brown.”