The Rules for Lying

by L. A. Kelley

  “What kind of tests?”

  She scrunched her face. “Funny kinds. He made me walk through a room full of furniture to see how long it took to figure where everything was. Pike got real excited when he found out I can memorize a path after one trip. Then he played tricks like spin me around and point me to a staircase to see if I’d fall, but once I’ve been somewhere, I never get lost. He tried to get me mixed up, but couldn’t. I told the Grimaldi’s, but they didn’t believe me. They never listened to a thing I said.” Her voice dropped. “Pike scares me.”

  I scowled. “He’s a dirty liar.”

  “He couldn’t fool you, though.”

  “I reckon I know a lie when I hear one.”

  Esther cocked her head as the little dog yipped. “Mrs. Hart says you freed her when she was trapped in a lie. How did you do it?”

  “I-I’m not sure,” I admitted uneasily. “I told her Pike was a liar and then she believed me.”

  “Good thing.” Esther shuddered. “I was so scared in the carriage house. I didn’t know what Pike planned, so I peeked through Mrs. Hart’s eyes. First she was tall and then everything went black. When Mrs. Hart opened her eyes again, she was short and fuzzy. I could hear her inside Honey Bun. She was real worried about you.”

  Her admission caught me short. “She was?”

  Esther nodded. “She’s sorry she brought you to the carriage house. She should have told you to run. She feels bad about that.”

  Mrs. Hart and I made momentary eye contact before we each turned away in embarrassment. Neither of us was ever comfortable with emotional outbursts. I changed the subject. “Esther, did you ever go inside Pike’s eyes?”

  “No.” Her voice was so low I strained to hear. “H-He doesn’t feel right like other people.”

  The train increased speed, swaying along the tracks with a mesmerizing beat. The rhythm soaked into my bones and dragged the tension away.

  Esther yawned. Her thin shoulders drooped. “I’m tired, Peter.”

  “Yeah. Me, too. We better get some sleep.”

  At one end of the boxcar were the tattered remains of an old soiled tarp. Esther and I lay down and I covered us up.

  Esther pulled at my shirtsleeve. “Honey Bun’s collar bothers Mrs. Hart. It’s too small.”

  I released the buckle. The skin was red underneath. I pitched the leather strap in the corner. Mrs. Hart heaved a little doggie sigh of relief and curled next to Esther. I settled in on the other side. We were all soon fast asleep.

  ****

  A shrill whistle jerked me awake. I blinked. Where was I? After a blurry moment memories rushed in. I was in a train with Esther and Mrs. Hart who was now a dog. I shook my head to clear the remnants of the sleep fog. I must have taken it on the lam from Little Angels last night and had a crazy dream. I lifted the tarp. Esther had one arm wrapped around Mrs. Hart.

  Holy crud. Not a dream.

  Mrs. Hart stretched. Esther opened a sleepy eye. “Peter, are you awake? Is it morning?”

  Sunlight streamed in through a crack. I got to my feet and forced the sliding door open enough to peer out.

  “More like afternoon. We must have traveled over half a day.”

  Esther felt her way over to me. I steadied her against the rocking of the train and she inhaled deeply. “It smells different.” The train rolled past piney woods. Warm humid air held none of the late spring chill of New Brunswick.

  I squinted at the sun. “We hopped a southbound freight last night and must have kept heading that way.”

  Esther tugged on my sleeve. “I’m hungry and Mrs. Hart says she would kill for a cup of coffee.”

  At the mention of food, my stomach rumbled. “Me, too.” Beyond the door, the landscape barreled past. Exiting wouldn’t be easy. “Esther, once the trains slows we’ll have to jump off.”

  “Okie dokie.”

  I eyed her askance. “Aren’t you scared?”

  “Nope. Mrs. Hart said you’ll catch us both.”

  “Mrs. Hart has a lot of confidence in me.”

  “She sure does.”

  I stared at Mrs. Hart in surprise, but as I didn’t have expertise in reading dog faces, couldn’t tell if she lied. We rode along for another hour or so and then Mrs. Hart’s ears pricked up.

  “She said the train sounds different,” explained Esther. “The engine is slowing.”

  There was a downturn in the swaying rhythm. Outside, the forested embankments gave way to roads and industrial buildings. The train approached a city.

  “We’re headed for the rail yard,” I said. “Get ready.”

  Exiting a train in broad daylight is a lot harder than sneaking on in the middle of the night. The yards were patrolled by bulls, private security guards hired by the railroad to keep off hitchhikers. The men were armed with shotguns and billy clubs. If caught, a person would either be killed or beaten senseless and thrown in jail. Alone I wouldn’t think twice about hopping aboard a moving boxcar, but toting along a blind girl and a small dog was no easy job.

  The train lurched. The brakes squealed under applied pressure. Mrs. Hart pushed her nose outside and sniffed.

  “Ears up, Mrs. Hart,” I warned. “The bulls are everywhere.” She tensed and uttered a low growl.

  The brakes let loose a violent hiss of steam as the boxcar jerked to a halt. I cautiously rolled back the door. We were in the middle of a noisy yard surrounded by other trains. Voices shouted outside. Mrs. Hart cocked her head.

  “She hears men coming this way,” whispered Esther.

  I dropped to a crouch and peered beneath the train. Several set of feet were visible on the other side of the rails. One man stopped to tie his shoe and placed a shotgun on the ground. Pinned to his jacket lapel was a badge stamped Security.

  I helped down Esther and Mrs. Hart. “Bulls—we have to hurry.”

  Without discussion, Mrs. Hart took point. I didn’t think twice about her judgment. Mrs. Hart was always sensible and being a dog and all, she had a better chance of seeing, hearing, or smelling a threat first. We edged across the yard, freezing now and then when Mrs. Hart issued a growly warning.

  A flurry of shouts erupted behind us. I didn’t need Mrs. Hart to know we had to move. Ushering Esther by the elbow, I dashed around the corner of a building and collided with a disheveled young man toting a rucksack.

  “Oof—watch it!” I yelled.

  “Run!” cried the hobo. “The bulls are right behind me.”

  I grabbed Esther and we bolted down the alley after the stranger. He turned right, but Mrs. Hart skewed left and Esther and I followed. Behind us came an order to halt. The hobo had run right into a bull toting a shotgun. Although, he raised his hands in surrender, the bull hit him with the rifle butt. The hobo dropped to his knees.

  Mrs. Hart snarled and took off. I ordered Esther to stay put and ran after her. Mrs. Hart tore into the bull and chomped hard on his ankle. He bellowed a howling curse and lifted the barrel stock to bash Mrs. Hart’s head. I tackled his knees. He hit the ground hard.

  “This way,” I yelled to the hobo.

  He didn’t need encouragement. With Mrs. Hart in the lead, we raced to Esther. The little dog darted around a building to a hole in a chain link fence. Mrs. Hart wiggled through. I followed and pulled Esther after me. The hobo came next.

  “Merci, doggy.” His speech carried an odd lilt. He reached to pat Mrs. Hart, but she growled and he snatched his hand away.

  “She’s not a dog, she’s Mrs. Hart,” Esther tartly informed him. I shushed her, but she cheerfully rambled on. “Pike’s glowing eyes put her inside Honey Bun. She doesn’t like being touched unless you have her permission, ‘cause she’s a lady.”

  The young man must have been used to running into the mentally unbalanced on the road. His bright green eyes twinkled in amusement and he doffed his hat with a flourish. “I meant no disrespect. My apologies to Mrs. Hart—and thanks again.” He shouldered his rucksack and sprinted off.

  We skirted the fenced
area and left the yard behind. Fifteen minutes of walking brought us to a business district. As we passed a newsstand, I spied the local paper. “Hey, we’re in Atlanta.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Georgia—the South.”

  “Oh. Where are we going, Peter?”

  “To find something to eat.”

  I first thought to use my lying routine in one of the markets, but soon realized we needed more than a loaf of bread. Unless I scrounged traveling funds, the three of us would be stuck here. An idea came how to score a few bucks from the locals. I explained the plan to Esther and Mrs. Hart to gauge their reaction. Esther was enthusiastic. She seemed downright anxious to play fast and loose with the law. Mrs. Hart didn’t bite my ankle, so I took that as approval.

  A well-dressed older woman waited at a bus stop. I sauntered up escorting Esther by the elbow. We pretended to wait for the bus. The woman noticed Esther’s cane and flashed an oh-you-poor-child smile.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am,” I said politely.

  “Good afternoon to you.”

  Esther tugged at my sleeve. “I want to show the lady my trick.”

  “Now, Sister,” I admonished, “the nice lady doesn’t want to be bothered by your tricks.”

  “Please, please, please,” she begged. “She’ll like it. I’m sure positive. She’ll like it so much she’ll give me a quarter.”

  I pretended to be shocked. “Sister, you can’t ask people for money.”

  “I’m not asking. The quarter will be a gift.”

  By this time the woman was amused. “What is your trick, young lady?”

  Esther’s blind eyes stared straight in front of her. “I can tell you how many fingers you hold up.”

  The woman shot me a piteous look, “Dear boy, she can’t possibly…”

  “Go on,” Esther insisted. “Please, please, please.”

  Badgered into compliance by Esther’s ceaseless nagging, the woman raised one finger.

  “One.”

  “Good guess,” she admitted, a little surprised.

  “Do more,” Esther ordered.

  The woman raised four.

  “Four,” Esther stated with assurance.

  The woman next raised three, five, two, and then in continued amazement used two hands to raise seven, ten and finally eight fingers. Esther nailed the correct answer every time. This was no surprise, as she had a front row view through my eyes.

  The woman gasped. “How does she do that?”

  “Honestly,” I admitted with absolute truth. “I have no idea.”

  “She liked my trick,” said Esther with glee. She held out her hand. “Twenty-five cents, please.”

  I acted embarrassed when the woman good-naturedly placed a quarter in Esther’s palm. I ordered her to say thank you which she did ever-so-graciously. The woman patted Esther on the head. “Very well done, my dear. You two are not from around here. The accents...?”

  The lie dropped effortlessly off my tongue. “We’re from Chicago, visiting Aunt Minnie. Come along, Sister. You can buy yourself an ice cream.” I took Esther’s hand and led her away before the woman grilled us on the non-existent Minnie.

  Over the next two hours we cleared $7.25; a fortune for two starving souls with an equally hungry dog. Esther would have kept going, but I couldn’t stand the hollow feeling in my stomach a second longer. A man with a pushcart sold hot dogs and soda pop for a nickel apiece. We sat under a tree and I devoured eight hot dogs without slowing. Esther managed four. Mrs. Hart’s smaller dog stomach, three.

  I leaned against the trunk and sipped my soda pop. I’m not much given to deep philosophical thoughts, but pondered how everything takes a turn for the better on a full stomach. Yesterday, I ran for my life. Today, Pike was far behind me. The sun shone bright and I filled with a new feeling of optimism, free to make my own rules and live life as I saw fit.

  Next to me came a sigh of contentment, followed by a burp. Mrs. Hart nudged Esther’s leg. For her, even being chased by an unthinkable evil was no reason for bad manners.

  “Excuse me,” Esther said.

  “You’re excused.”

  “That was a good trick, Peter.”

  “Thanks. You’re a natural.”

  “I know.” She giggled and then grew serious. “What do we do now?”

  My optimism nose-dived into the ground. Alone, I had options. I could ride the rails and disappear into America. Plenty of teenagers did the same in these tough times, but what about Esther? I couldn’t dump her in Atlanta, but life on the road was hard enough. Dragging a little blind girl around was downright impossible. By some miracle we made it this far. And Mrs. Hart? I discretely studied the little terrier stretched out in the shade. The reality of her situation hit me at once. The woman who took care of me all my life was a dog.

  Mrs. Hart tilted her head as if she had complete understanding of my dilemma. I reckoned she did. Next to me, she was the best person I ever met at reading people.

  Esther confirmed my suspicions. “Mrs. Hart says she’s fine for the moment. She’s not in pain. Actually she feels better than before. Lotsa energy, no more aches, probably on account of Honey Bun being a young dog and all.”

  “I’m glad because honestly, Esther, I’ve no idea how to change her back.” I peered at Mrs. Hart, overcome with guilt. “I’m sorry. Maybe I should have tried to force Pike—” Mrs. Hart yipped.

  “She says no. We couldn’t fight him. Running was our only choice. Anyhow, she doesn’t mind. Being a dog is her punishment.”

  “For what?” Mrs. Hart nipped at my ankle. “Hey!”

  Esther snickered. “She doesn’t want to talk about it, so you better hush. She thinks we should keep moving and put more miles between us and Pike.”

  I jingled the coins in my pocket. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. Hopping a train again is risky. We have enough money now to catch a bus from Atlanta. I could check the schedule at the depot, but…”

  “But what?”

  I shifted uncomfortably. “They won’t let a dog on the bus.”

  Esther tilted her head toward Mrs. Hart, obviously listening. “Okay, if you’re sure you don’t mind.” (These one-sided conversations were mighty peculiar.) “Mrs. Hart has an idea. We passed an Army-Navy Store. You could buy an old rucksack. She’s small and will hide inside so we can all get on the bus.” The plan was sound. I left Esther and Mrs. Hart in the park to rest.

  The Army-Navy store sold second-hand military equipment. I spotted an old canvas rucksack for fifty cents big enough to hold Mrs. Hart comfortably. At the counter, my eyes zeroed in on a box of used penknives for ten cents apiece. My fingers itched with desire. I always wanted one and told myself since we were now on the run, a weapon was an absolute necessity. Never mind the blade was two inches long and couldn’t cut cheese. I paid the shopkeeper and jammed the penknife in my pocket. Instantly, my shoulders squared. Peter Whistler, hard-boiled tough guy, was armed and dangerous.

  The store owner pointed me in the direction of the bus depot. Once there, I studied the fares posted outside on a board. We had the money for tickets to either Chattanooga or Birmingham. We’d pick one and then stay long enough in town to pull our little act again for more traveling funds. Then on to the next stop and then the next, eventually reaching California. Pike could never track us that far.

  The bus to Birmingham left at six that night, the one to Chattanooga an hour later. Before settling on a destination, I decided to talk the plan over with Esther and Mrs. Hart. My excitement grew with each step forward. We’d been running scared since last night, but with Pike behind us, full stomachs, and the semblance of a plan, the future brightened.

  I ambled to the park, one hand in my pocket happily fingering the penknife. Every now and then I whipped it out to practice my quick draw. I was pretty good. I only dropped it twice.

  Nearing the park, I passed a man leaning against a building reading a newspaper. He glanced up, stared intently in my direction, and then h
is gaze returned quickly to the newspaper. An uneasy feeling rippled through me, so I upped the pace. Mrs. Hart and Esther were right where I left them. We sat in the shade of the tree to discuss our options, but I couldn’t get the strange behavior of the man out of my head.

  Esther tugged at my sleeve. “Mrs. Hart wants to know what’s bothering you.”

  “Just the jitters,” I said. “Maybe we should take the earliest bus.” Mrs. Hart jumped to her feet.

  “She says trust your instincts.”

  We headed for the bus depot. The departure time wasn’t for several hours, but the urgent need to get off the street increased. I hurried them along.

  “What is it, Peter?”

  “It’s nothing. Keep moving.” No one seemed to pay attention to us, but I couldn’t shake the sensation of being followed. I steered clear of the main roads and cut back and forth, running a zigzag path designed to bring us to the rear of the bus depot. From there, I could scout the area before boarding.

  Approaching an alleyway, the squeal of an air break shattered the quiet. I gulped. We were at the other end of the train yards. I’d been going in the wrong direction. Before I could turn around, a police siren wailed down the block.

  Across the street someone called, “Wait!”

  I yanked Esther into the alley. My stomach lurched. I made another awful mistake. The alley dead-ended in a brick wall. As the siren closed in, I pushed Esther behind several empty cardboard boxes. Mrs. Hart huddled at our feet. Seconds later footsteps approached and stopped in front of our hiding place. I clutched the pitifully small blade in my pocket.

  A man hoisted one of the empty boxes to his shoulder and retreated down the alley. Ever exchange puzzled glances with a dog? Mrs. Hart and I must have had the same thought. No way could he have missed us.

  “You there!”

  A squad car pulled next to the man and an officer leaned his head out the window. “I’m hunting for two kids—a boy about fifteen with a little blind girl. Have you seen them?”

  “What did they do? Skip school?”