by Peg Kehret
Grandma Ruth walked until she reached the gate. Two large dogs saw her coming and jumped against the fence as she approached. They acted friendly and she thought she recognized them. Were they T.J.’s dogs? She seemed to remember T.J. feeding them. When she reached the gate, she stopped and looked across it at the empty field.
The field. Of course. She remembered now. Her house was on the other side of that field. Papa and Mama and David were all there, waiting for her to get home so they could eat dinner.
Grandma Ruth reached for the metal bar and tried to slide it, to open the gate, but it didn’t move. She pushed and pushed, until the metal made a deep red mark in the palms of her hands but she couldn’t budge it. She could not get into the field that she needed to cross to get home.
She would have to walk around, through the woods. Maybe she would find David there. Maybe he was waiting for her, with his berry-picking bucket. Or was it T.J. who used to pick those sweet little blackberries with her and then help her make jam?
She wondered why the preacher didn’t come.
She put one hand on her head. Where was her hat? Had she left her hat at home, or forgotten it in the church? Nervously, she opened her purse and felt inside, to be sure she still had her money.
She walked away from the gate, passed the barn, and left the Crowleys’ property. She crossed the lane and started into the woods. Surely she would find David soon. He was probably waiting for her just ahead, with his berry bucket.
As she walked, she hummed softly, “Nearer, my God, to thee. Nearer to thee.”
The old blue truck picked up speed; T.J. could tell by the way the engine whined and the tires hummed.
T.J.’s nerves jangled. He wondered if his parents had found Grandma Ruth yet. He hoped so. She might get scared if she waited in the barn very long and nobody came.
Too bad Grandma Ruth wasn’t the way she used to be. Five years ago, she would have been out of that barn and across the field to call the cops before T.J. and Brody had gone three blocks. Even three years ago, when she was first diagnosed but before she went to live with Aunt Marion, she would at least have been able to find her way home, and could have told his parents what had happened.
Not now. Now, Grandma Ruth lived in a world all her own. Once in awhile, the fog in her brain seemed to lift and she acted as if she understood but most of the time she didn’t seem to know or care what went on around her.
As he had hundreds of times before, T.J. thought Alzheimer’s disease was the most terrible disease there was. It would be better, he thought, to lose your sight or the use of your legs than to lose your mind. At least if Grandma Ruth was blind or paralyzed, she would still know who he was. She would still be able to carry on an intelligent conversation.
As he rode along, memories of Grandma Ruth as she used to be swept through his mind. Grandma Ruth taught him to ride his bicycle by running along, holding onto the seat and yelling, “Keep pedaling!” Grandma Ruth cheered at his grade school basketball games. Grandma Ruth helped him make gifts for his parents for Mother’s Day and Father’s Day: macaroni necklaces and wooden picture frames and herb gardens.
He remembered when she let him stay up past midnight to finish a good book, admitting that she sometimes did the same thing herself. He saw her shaking her fist at the politicians on TV, declaring she could do a better job of running the country than any of them did.
She used to make sandwiches and invite T.J. to have lunch in what she called “The World’s Greatest Outdoor Restaurant.” It was their own special hiding place on the back side of the woods, reached by walking on logs from fallen trees which were laid end to end to form a path across a broad swampy area. The swamp was L-shaped and when they were almost to the far side, the log path turned sharply, revealing a huge weeping willow tree on the other side of the swamp. Its long branches bent downward until the tips touched the ground.
Grandma Ruth and T.J. would part the branches with their hands, as if they were pushing aside strands of hanging beads, and enter The World’s Greatest Outdoor Restaurant.
They always sat on the ground, with their backs against the tree trunk, completely encircled by the hanging willow branches. Sunlight filtered through the leaves as they feasted on peanut butter sandwiches and oranges.
Grandma Ruth told him, “Restaurants try to create atmosphere by hanging a lot of plastic plants from the ceiling. If they really want atmosphere, they should plant a weeping willow tree in the middle of the dining area.”
T.J. used to giggle as he imagined a huge tree growing in the middle of Burger King, taking up all the table space.
He had loved going to The World’s Greatest Outdoor Restaurant and he knew Grandma Ruth had loved it, too. She didn’t go because it was a way to entertain a small boy. She enjoyed it as much as he did.
That was one of the best things about Grandma Ruth—she could always create fun out of nothing.
Where had that bright, inventive mind gone? How could she be content to do nothing but count faded Monopoly money and sing a few old hymns, over and over and over?
One day shortly after Grandma Ruth moved in with the Stensons, T.J. had erupted in rage. “I don’t want her to be this way,” he shouted. “I want the real Grandma Ruth to come back.”
“So do I,” Mrs. Stenson replied, her eyes filling with tears.
“It isn’t fair!” T.J. cried. “She’s too smart to act so stupid.”
“Smart people get sick, too,” his mother said. “It’s a tragedy for Grandma Ruth to be this way but we can’t do anything about it. There is no cure for her, and no treatment. And it doesn’t help her or anyone else for you to scream about it.”
Later, T.J. felt ashamed of his outburst but the shame didn’t change his angry feelings. All his life, T.J. had been proud of Grandma Ruth. Maybe that’s why it hurt so much to see her now. The contrast between what she used to be and what she had become made the loss unbearably painful.
“You can sit up now,” Brody said.
T.J. straightened and looked out the window. He saw a freeway sign, “Echo Glen. Next Right.” They were on Interstate 90, heading east. Brody kept the truck in the right-hand lane and when T.J. glanced at the speedometer, he saw that they were going exactly fifty-five miles per hour. Probably Brody didn’t want to take a chance on getting stopped by the Highway Patrol for speeding.
I wish the police would hurry and find me, T.J. thought. The moment he had the thought, he heard, in his mind, Grandma Ruth’s strong, youthful voice. “Wishing won’t help. You must take action, T.J.”
Her words had been spoken during one of T.J.’s Saturday visits, when he was nine. He had confided to Grandma Ruth that he wished he was a better basketball player.
“Wishing won’t help,” Grandma Ruth replied. “You must take action, T.J. Don’t wait for good things to happen. Take action and make them happen.”
“What kind of action?” T.J. asked.
“Think hard,” Grandma Ruth replied. “What one thing could you do right now that would help you be a better basketball player?”
“I could grow six inches.”
Grandma Ruth laughed. “That’s beyond your control,” she said. “What action can you take, today, this minute, that will help?”
“I could practice my free throws.”
Grandma Ruth grabbed his hand and shook it. She patted him on the back as if he had just made a brilliant speech. “That’s right!” she cried. “Practice your free throws today, and tomorrow, and every day after that, and I guarantee you’ll become a better basketball player.”
That same day, T.J. started spending an hour every afternoon, practicing free throws. Within a few months, he could sink them almost every time. His confidence grew and he decided to practice dribbling the ball, too, until he could dribble with either hand and switch the ball from front to back while he was running.
Make it happen. Take action.
What action could he take in this situation? Escaping from a crazy man with a g
un was not the same as learning to play better basketball. Still, it didn’t help to sit there like a blob of Play-Doh as he rode farther and farther from home.
I’ll try to get him to stop, T.J. decided. I’ll see if I can make him pull off the freeway, where there’s more of a chance that someone will see us. If we stop near other people, I can signal for help.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” T.J. said.
“You’ll have to wait.”
“I have to go bad. Can’t we stop at a rest stop? Or a gas station?”
Brody didn’t answer but at the next freeway exit, he turned off and drove to a gas station. There were no other cars in the station. A large sign said NO CHECKS ACCEPTED. An attendant sat inside, behind a window, and customers slipped the money for their gas through an opening beneath the window. T.J. reached for the handle of the truck door.
“Wait for me,” Brody said. “I’m going with you.”
They both got out of the truck.
“Don’t say anything,” Brody said. “Don’t talk to anybody.”
The door to the men’s room was around the corner of the building. As T.J. walked toward it, with Brody behind him, he stared through the window at the attendant, hoping to catch the woman’s eye, but the attendant just sat there, looking bored, staring at a small television set.
T.J. waited until Brody unzipped his pants. Then he bolted out of the men’s room, tore around the corner of the gas station, and yanked open the door to the room where the attendant sat.
“Call the police,” he said. “The guy I’m with is a murderer; he robbed a bank this afternoon and killed the teller and . . .”
The attendant leaped out of her chair and backed away from T.J., her eyes round.
“Where’s the phone?” T.J. asked. He looked frantically around the small room. “We have to call for help. Quick!”
Brody raced around the corner of the building, dashed into the room and grabbed T.J. by the shoulder.
“I told you to stay with me,” he said. “What are you doing, scaring this nice lady like that?” He looked at the station attendant. “It’s hard to raise kids these days,” he said. “Ran away from home just because his mother and I wouldn’t let him buy a motorbike. She’s worried sick about him.” He dragged T.J. toward the door. “Come on, Billy. I’m taking you home whether you like it or not.”
“He’s lying!” T.J. cried. “Does he look like my father? He’s no relation to me at all. He’s a murderer!”
The attendant seemed terrified. She looked from T.J. to Brody and back again, as if wondering whom to believe.
Brody pushed the door open with his shoulder.
“Call the cops,” T.J. pleaded. “Let them decide who’s lying and who’s telling the truth.”
The woman reached under the counter and lifted out a telephone. As she did, another car pulled into the station. A tall man with gray hair, wearing a suit and tie, got out of his car.
“Help!” T.J. shouted through the open door.
The gray-haired man hurried over. “What’s going on here?”
“My son ran away from home,” Brody said. “I’m taking him back where he belongs before he gets himself in big trouble.”
“He’s the bank robber,” T.J. said. “He’s the one who killed the teller this afternoon at the Pine Ridge Bank. He isn’t my father and I didn’t run away. I found him hiding in my neighbor’s barn and he made me go with him or else he was going to shoot my grandmother, the way he shot the woman in the bank.”
As T.J. talked, Brody rolled his eyes, as if he had never heard such a wild story in his life. “Not true,” he muttered. “Not true.”
The gray-haired man patted T.J. on the shoulder. “Now, now, son,” he said. “Calm down. Kids your age always think their parents don’t know anything but you’ll come to realize that they are only trying to do what’s best for you. I remember when my boys were your age, they thought they knew everything, too. One even tried to run away once, but he came home soon enough.”
Frustration bubbled and rose in T. J. like boiling spaghetti overflowing its pot. “What’s the matter with you?” he said. “This guy robbed a bank and killed the teller and then he made me go with him and now he’s making me go with him again. Why won’t you believe me?” He clenched his fists, feeling as if the whole world were against him.
The man smiled. “Well, for one thing,” he said, “I heard on my car radio that the police captured that bank robber a couple of hours ago. By now, he’s locked behind bars.”
T.J. stopped struggling with Brody and gaped at the man. “But they didn’t catch him,” he said.
“Oh, yes, they did,” said the attendant. “I heard it on TV.”
“You go on home with your dad now,” the man continued, “and things will look better in the morning.” He handed the woman a ten dollar bill. “I’m on pump number three,” he said.
The station attendant took the money, slid the telephone back underneath her counter, and sat down. “You should be ashamed, Billy,” she said, “telling lies about your father that way.”
“My name isn’t Billy; it’s T.J.—and he isn’t my father. There’s been a mistake; the cops arrested the wrong man.”
“Let’s go, Billy,” Brody said, as he shoved T.J. out the door.
T.J. stumbled toward the blue truck. Looking back, he saw the attendant and the gray-haired man nodding their heads and talking, as if agreeing that kids today can’t be trusted to tell the truth about anything. T.J. opened the door, climbed in, and slumped against the seat.
If the police had arrested someone for the Pine Ridge Bank robbery and killing, then they would no longer be looking for a suspect with dark hair, wearing jeans and a T-shirt.
Brody climbed into the driver’s seat. He reached across T.J. and locked the door on the passenger’s side.
“That was a stupid trick,” he said. “I told you not to talk to them.”
Not that it did me any good anyhow, T.J. thought. How could this guy sound so unbalanced when he was raving on about getting his revenge and then be sharp enough to convince two strangers that he was T.J.’s father, trying to discipline an unruly son? He recalled the story of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde that he had read in English class last year. Maybe Brody had some sort of split personality.
“And what was all that about me robbing a bank and shooting some woman? I told you before I don’t know anything about any bank robbery.”
Maybe he’s telling the truth, T.J. thought. Maybe the cops really do have the killer in custody. If so, who was this?
“What were you doing in the Crowleys’ barn?” T.J. asked.
“Who?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Crowley, my neighbors. You were in their barn when I went in to feed the kittens.”
“Oh, you mean when you found me. I was just taking a nap. Getting some sleep and waiting for it to get dark enough.”
“Dark enough for what?”
“You’ll see.”
T.J. felt like slamming his fist into the dashboard.
Brody turned up the freeway on-ramp. T.J. looked over at him in surprise. Did Brody realize he was headed west, going back the way they had come?
“That name is a new one. T.J. I never heard that before.”
“It stands for Ted, Junior. I’m named after my father.”
My father.
T.J. leaned his head against the cool window and wondered what his father was doing at that very moment. Driving around the neighborhood, looking for T.J.? Sitting in the police station, filing a Missing Person report? Riding in one of the cop cars, searching around T.J.’s school? One thing for sure. Whether the killer was in custody or not, Dad was looking for T.J. by now. And Dad would do everything humanly possible to find him.
Back at Denny’s, Mr. Stenson was glad he had gone to the meeting. This group of parents had a lot on the ball. Their ideas for keeping the area safe flowed freely and, even though a few of the suggestions were rather farfetched, plenty seemed workable. He n
oticed that his wife was taking notes.
When someone passed around a yellow tablet and asked everyone to write their name and phone number so they could be contacted for future meetings, Mr. Stenson was happy to sign up.
“More coffee?” the waitress asked.
“Just a half,” Mr. Stenson said.
“Did you hear they caught the bank robber?” the waitress said. “It was on the radio a few minutes ago.”
Sighs of relief were heard from around the table.
“I hope T.J. knows that,” Mrs. Stenson said. “He seemed a little nervous when we left.”
“He’s probably watching his movie and hasn’t heard a news report,” Mr. Stenson said.
“If he’s watching TV, he might hear the phone,” Mrs. Stenson said. “I’m going to call him again.”
One hundred miles away, in a room at the Pony Soldier Motel, Mrs. Crowley said almost the same words to her husband: “I’m going to call T.J. again.” She sat on the edge of the bed and listened while the Stensons’ telephone rang and rang and rang.
Mrs. Stenson went to the phone near the Denny’s entrance, dropped her coins in the slot, and dialed. The line was busy. T.J. must be talking to Dane, probably discussing tomorrow’s big game against Lincoln.
I shouldn’t worry so much about T.J., she thought. He’s almost thirteen years old and very responsible. Smiling, Mrs. Stenson hung up.
Mrs. Crowley hung up, too. “I’m going to bed,” she said. “Those dogs won’t starve if they don’t get breakfast tomorrow.”
Mr. Crowley agreed.
Chapter Seven
T.J. looked at the gas gauge. The needle was between Empty and one-quarter full. All right, T.J. thought. We can’t drive around much longer, without stopping for gas. If I can be patient, I’ll have another chance to get help.
The truck slowed. Brody drove off the freeway and onto a service road. At the first corner, he turned left and followed a narrow, winding road up a steep hill. Buildings were infrequent and there were no streetlights.