by Betsy Byars
“No’m,” he answered.
Now Johnny walked across the living room, opened the screen door, eased it shut, and went onto the porch. Leaning against the banister, he put on his shoes.
Inside the house Retta was getting out of bed. She was already dressed in her jeans and shirt, and she slipped noiselessly into the hall. She waited a moment in the darkness until she heard Johnny going down the steps.
As he turned onto the sidewalk, he began to pick up speed. Retta moved quickly onto the porch. She went down the steps and stood in the shadow of an elm tree. It was eleven o’clock, and the moon was full and bright, weaving in and out of the clouds.
Down the street, her brother was at the corner. A car passed on Hunter Street and Johnny waited, then crossed quickly and broke into a run.
Retta glanced right and left to see if any snoopy neighbors were watching. All the houses on the street were dark. Keeping to the shadows, Retta moved quickly after Johnny.
ROY WOKE UP AND knew instantly that he was in bed alone. His side of the mattress was lower than usual. He flipped over and said, “Johnny?”
In the light from the living room he saw that the other half of the bed was empty.
“Johnny!”
He got up. He hated to be alone and he sensed that Johnny had not just gone to the bathroom or the kitchen. He stumbled into the hall, eyes alert, mouth worried, body still clumsy with sleep.
He staggered into Retta’s room and turned on the light. When he saw that her bed was empty too, he began to yell for either of them. “Retta! Johnny! Rettaaaaa!”
There was, as he had feared, no answer. He went out onto the porch and sat down on the steps. He began to cry.
“Why did they leave me?” he asked mournfully. “People shouldn’t go around leaving people.”
He paused to wipe his tears on his pajama top. “I wouldn’t have left them.”
Each statement made him feel worse. He began to cry harder. “Next time I’m going to leave them and show them how it feels.”
Even the thought of this just punishment did not cheer him. He could not bring into focus the picture of Retta and Johnny sitting on the steps, weeping, while he went off to some good time.
His tears came faster. Being left behind was a terrible feeling. He had always had a special feeling for anyone left behind. The night before he had seen a television program where the pioneer family left their old dog behind while they went west. He had wept real tears for that dog.
Later in the show the dog followed the family and saved them from a surprise Indian attack by barking. “I don’t care how many Indians attack Retta and Johnny,” he said wetly, feeling a closer bond with the pioneer dog, “I won’t let out one single bark.”
The thought of Retta and Johnny going down under Indian attack while he waited in the bushes, lips sealed, was pleasant, but it didn’t make him feel any better. He continued to weep quietly in the moonlight.
Suddenly he sat erect. He remembered that Johnny and Arthur had had some kind of secret. He licked at a tear on his cheek. He tasted the salt. And Retta had to be in on the secret too, he thought. Everybody was in on it but him.
“They’ve gone swimming,” he said abruptly.
He remembered that Retta had told him they could never go to the colonel’s again, but that was probably just to throw him off the track. He got to his feet. The tears were drying on his cheeks. He went slowly down the steps.
As he stood on the last step, scarcely breathing, a wonderful plan came to him. He would sneak up to the colonel’s house and spy on Retta and Johnny and Arthur. He was, it seemed to him, the only one who had not done any spying. They would see him in the shadows, he went on, and be terrified. He would feel no mercy. Abruptly he strode down the sidewalk in his striped pajamas.
At the edge of the street he stopped, struck dumb with an even better idea. When he got to the colonel’s and saw that Johnny and Retta and Arthur were in the pool, he would run forward, whooping and yelling as Johnny had done, and dive in with them.
The picture of Johnny running across the lawn, not caring about anything or anybody, had impressed him deeply. It had seemed the kind of grown-up thing that he himself had never been able to do. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never feel more awe and respect for anyone than he had for Johnny as he launched himself off the diving board in that perfect cannonball.
The brilliance of his own plan washed over him. Arthur and Johnny and Retta would be in the pool, swimming quietly, trying not to splash. They would hear the sound of running. They would look up, mouths open, as he dashed forward. Before they knew what had happened, he would be launched off the diving board in the same fearless cannonball.
He hurried down the sidewalk. He no longer felt the twigs and stones beneath his bare feet.
“Ro-oooooy,” Retta would say. He could hear her in his mind. He mimicked her as he walked, wagging his head from side to side. “Ro-ooooy!”
And Arthur—Arthur would be especially impressed because Arthur would not know he was copying something Johnny had done.
The pleasant dream continued. Retta would herd them all out of the swimming pool, and the four of them would run across the lawn, bonded together in their escape. Behind them the lights would be coming on in the colonel’s house.
“Faster!” he would call back to the others. He himself would be in the lead at this point. “Come on!” The thought of being in the lead for the first time in his life made him shudder with pleasure.
The colonel’s house appeared in the distance, big and white in the trees. Roy began to walk slower. He moved closer to the fence. There was a little smile on his face. His heart was beating so hard that he put his hand over his chest to make swallowing easier.
He climbed the fence by the trees as Retta had taught him to do. Overhead, the moon was hidden by a cloud, and he waited in the darkness, so tense and expectant that his knees were trembling. He swallowed again.
Bending, he began to creep toward the pool, a short stooped figure in wrinkled pajamas. He paused, lifted his head. He could not see what was happening in the pool, but he could hear the faint sound of splashing.
Still stooping, he ran forward. He crossed the clearing and paused by an azalea bush. He peered through the foliage with one hand over his eyes.
They were in the pool. He could hear them swimming. He straightened and drew in his breath. He moved his feet back and forth on the lawn, like a cartoon character getting ready to run.
Surprise is everything, he told himself. It’s got to be a surprise. He leaped out from behind the bush and started running for the pool.
Running across the lawn was wonderful. He felt powerful for the first time in his life. He didn’t care about anything or anybody. He surprised himself by leaping up and letting out a whoop of joy.
He crossed the tiled patio, taking smaller steps now. He didn’t want to slip. He headed for the diving board. He had a rush of panic as he ran to the end—he had never even been on a diving board before—but by taking tiny steps he managed not to fall off the side. His excitement carried him to the end of the board.
He had intended to bounce at least once, but he didn’t have time. He fell immediately, curled forward like a shrimp. He hit the cold water and sank.
Roy came up struggling. He sputtered and reached out for Retta. In the excitement of his plan he had forgotten the crucial fact that he did not know how to swim. “Retta,” he gasped. He choked and went under again.
Water went up his nose. He struggled for the surface, pulling desperately. He felt as if he were at the bottom of the sea and would never reach air. He bobbed up. He screamed Retta’s name, choked, and went under again.
Suddenly he felt an arm grab him and pull him to the surface. He gasped for air. He turned blindly, wrapped himself around the arm, and crawled up to clutch the attached shoulder. He gagged on the water he had swallowed and held on tighter.
He felt himself being drawn to the side of the pool. He was li
fted out and stretched out on the patio tiles. He was shivering violently. He gagged and began to cry.
“Retta!” He clutched the empty air, wanting her to hold him again. “Retta, I almost drowned!”
He looked up through his tears and saw that it was not Retta standing over him. He wiped the water from his eyes and saw the stern face of the colonel.
“Where’s Retta?” Roy asked. His voice quivered on the night air like a bird’s.
“Who is Retta?” the colonel asked.
And Roy turned over and gagged so hard that he lost not only the swimming pool water he had swallowed, but his mashed potato volcano as well.
RETTA HAD BEEN FOLLOWING her brother for four blocks. Her eyes were as intent as an eagle’s on its prey.
She was breathing deeply, but she did not smell the scent of night flowers in the air. She was filled with the satisfaction that came from doing right. She was, at last, the mother she should have been all along—strong and purposeful. And it was not easy these days, she told herself, to be a strong and purposeful mother.
She lost Johnny as he went around the corner and she felt a quick anxiety. She walked faster. When she caught sight of him again, hands in his pockets, head up, she let out her breath like a horse.
She was walking quickly now, out in the open, forgetting that she might have to slip into the shrubbery and hide. Then suddenly Johnny turned up a walkway, and she stopped. She moved silently into the neighboring yard, pausing in the shadows when the moon came from behind the clouds.
When she was safely behind a hedge, she stopped. Johnny was waiting at the foot of the steps. He shifted impatiently, glanced up at the house, wiped his hands on his shirt. When the front door opened, he moved back into the shadows, then he came forward as he saw Arthur step out.
Arthur. Retta’s mouth drew into a sneer as she said the name to herself. At that moment she hated her brother and Arthur equally. The boys spoke to each other quietly, heads together. Arthur must be slipping out too, she thought with the same sense of disgust.
Suddenly the boys started walking away. Arthur shifted a bag of equipment from one arm to the other. Johnny offered to carry it. Arthur shook his head.
Retta was so intent on not losing her brother that she plunged through the hedge, coming out on the other side with swimming motions. She barely felt the scratches on her arms and legs. She scrambled to her feet.
Ahead, Arthur was talking and Johnny nodding in agreement. They won’t get away with this, Retta promised herself. Now Arthur was explaining something in a low voice. Johnny lifted his hand and waved it in a wide arc. He was almost skipping with excitement. He laughed.
Every movement, every word, made Retta angrier, and the more excited Johnny became, the more Retta wanted to ruin that excitement. It was all she could do to keep from running forward, grabbing his arm, and shaking away his joy.
“I’ll teach you not to slip out at night,” she would say. “I won’t have this kind of behavior!” She forgot that it was she herself who had taught him to slip out in the first place.
Johnny and Arthur did not glance back. Johnny was walking sideways now, facing Arthur so he wouldn’t miss anything Arthur said or did. Retta was moving through the yards, keeping close to trees and shrubbery even though she felt Johnny would not notice her even if she walked openly in the street.
The street came to a dead end, and the boys cut through a vacant lot. Retta moved closer. Without the street lights it was harder to keep them in sight.
Retta stumbled over a child’s lawn mower that had been left in the weeds. She fell forward. She remained face down for a moment, afraid they might have heard her.
When she raised her head, she saw they were moving up the hill, unaware of anything but themselves. “I could have broken my neck and they wouldn’t notice,” she muttered as she got to her feet. Her eyes were hard, her lips set.
Up the hill the boys were now in the clearing. They moved to the top of the hill and paused. Retta stooped and began to crawl toward them. There were few bushes and no trees, and she was determined not to be noticed until she was ready. Still stooping, she moved around the hill and came up behind them.
Arthur and Johnny were bent forward, backs to her, when she came over the crest of the hill. She eased herself onto her stomach and lay watching them.
Their backs hid what they were doing, but Retta did not dare move closer. They had some sort of plastic dry cleaning bag—she could see that—and Johnny was holding one end in the air.
“Is that right?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Arthur was kneeling, striking matches, shielding them from the evening breeze with his hand. He was lighting something. Retta got to her knees. She had to see what he was doing.
In the opening of the plastic bag was a wire circle with narrow strips of wood across it. The strips of wood were covered with little candles. Arthur lit the candles quickly, lighting new matches from the burning candles. When all the candles were lit, the bag began to fill with hot air.
Retta stood. She was glad they were playing with fire because that was something no mother allowed.
The bag was filled now. The candles glowed eerily in the night. “It’s getting ready to go,” Arthur said. Johnny stepped back, hands clasped together with excitement.
Retta took one step forward as the bag rose into the air. Her shoulders were straight. The fact that what the boys were doing could be dangerous gave her extra strength. With her hands on her hips, she started across the clearing.
The bag was rising rapidly now, shooting up into the cool night air. Both boys’ faces were turned skyward.
Retta moved toward them. She was not running. She had all the time in the world.
“Look how high it is!” Johnny cried. At that moment Retta reached him. She paused a moment, watching him. His hands were clasped beneath his chin, his face turned upward.
Abruptly Retta grabbed him by the upper arm and spun him around. “What do you think you’re doing?” she snapped.
Johnny’s mouth fell open. He drew back instinctively. Retta clutched his arm tighter.
“I said what are you doing?”
Johnny had no answer. His mouth had gone dry. His knees were weak. He drew in a long, shuddering breath as if it were his last.
Retta pointed to the hot-air bag. It was descending now down the hill. It hovered over a tree and then rose as the candles reheated the air. Retta had a renewed flash of anger that the candles had not set the tree on fire. That would have really proved her point.
Arthur moved toward them then, and Retta turned back to her brother. She shook him as fiercely as an animal shakes its prey. Johnny did not struggle. He allowed himself to be shaken.
Suddenly Retta wanted to make his actions look as bad as possible. She leaned forward, including Arthur in her dark glance. “What are you trying to do?” she yelled. “Burn down the whole city?”
“I DON’T SEE WHAT you’re so upset about,” Arthur was saying. The three of them were walking down the sidewalk with Retta in the lead. “We didn’t do any harm.”
“You almost caught a tree and a house on fire,” Retta said. “You don’t think that’s harm?”
She had been determined at first not to speak to Arthur at all in order to show her contempt for him, but she had not been able to do that. She was condescending to answer his questions now, but over her shoulder, as if he were a servant.
“I don’t get it,” Arthur went on. “It’s all right for your brothers to slip out at night with you, but—”
“I don’t start fires,” she said.
“I don’t either. Did I start a fire?” When Retta did not answer, he directed the question to Johnny. “Did we start a fire?”
He turned to look at Johnny, who was trailing behind them, but Johnny did not look up.
“You did not start a fire,” Retta said in what she considered a mature voice, “because you were fortunate enough to have the candles burn out in the air.”
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Johnny was walking slower now. With each step he fell farther behind. His head sank forward in misery. The backs of his legs had a weak feeling that made walking difficult.
Retta’s appearance at the very moment of his triumph had been as shocking and sudden as that of a wicked witch. Indeed, she had been so witchlike in her actions and voice that it had seemed a remake of that scene in The Wizard of Oz when the Wicked Witch of the West appears in a puff of red smoke.
He had a helpless feeling. It was as if he were a puppet, and his sister would always be there, pulling the strings, spying on him, waiting for just the right moment to leap forward and spoil his life.
Ahead, Arthur was saying, “I don’t see why you have to treat your brothers like prisoners!”
“You wouldn’t,” Retta said over her shoulder. Then, realizing she had made a mistake, she added quickly, “Anyway, I do not treat them like prisoners.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I do not!”
She swirled suddenly to face him. Caught off-guard, Arthur almost bumped into her.
“I happen to be in charge of my brothers,” Retta said. Her hands were on her hips now. She felt strong enough, mature enough, to be put on a Mother’s Day card. “I cook for them and I wash their clothes and I see that they go to bed and I even do their homework for them, and they are not prisoners!”
“And do you think for them too?”
Retta turned abruptly. She began walking rapidly down the sidewalk.
“Look, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Arthur said.
“You couldn’t upset me.”
“It’s just that we really weren’t doing anything wrong.”
“Huh!”
“Anyway, what we were doing wasn’t any worse than swimming in somebody’s pool without permission.”
“That’s your opinion.”
Johnny was lagging even farther behind. As soon as he had heard Arthur use the word “prisoner,” he had realized that was what he was. Tears stung his eyes, and he was grateful for the dark and for the distance between him and Arthur.