by Peg Kehret
Molly rocked back and forth, cradling Glendon’s head with one arm, hugging Buckie with the other.
Glendon moaned.
Another shiver went down Molly’s spine but this time it was a thrill of excitement. He was alive!
Moving quickly now, she tied the wooden spoon to Glendon’s left arm, using the dish towel and trying not to move him any more than necessary. Then she took the coil of rope off her shoulder and carefully tied one end around Glendon’s feet, pulling the knot tight. She fastened the other end to Buckie’s harness.
Bending down, she put one hand firmly under each of Glendon’s arms, and lifted until his head rested against her stomach.
“Go, Buckie. Go.”
Buckie started forward. The rope went taut and Glendon groaned again as Buckie struggled to move. Molly lifted Glendon’s shoulders higher, trying to take more of the weight herself. His arms dangled down, with his fingers trailing in the snow. She looked at the left arm. It seemed straight; the spoon was doing its job.
Slowly, slowly, they moved toward the lift. The crust of ice which had formed on the snow overnight helped. Molly was glad that Glendon wasn’t any bigger than he was. She could tell it was taking every bit of Buckie’s strength to pull that rope.
Buckie put his nose down, clearly straining with every step. Molly followed, trying to keep Glendon’s head up, trying to help carry some of the weight.
“Go, Buckie. Good dog!”
When they got to the lift, Buckie stopped and Molly gently rolled Glendon on to the lift bed. Buckie sat beside them, his sides heaving, and his tongue hanging out.
“Good dog,” Molly said, and she nuzzled her face in the fur on Buckie’s neck. “Fine, fine dog.”
When the lift lurched to a stop at the bottom, Glendon opened his eyes. “Molly?” he whispered. “Is that you?”
“We’re almost home,” she said. “Just a little longer.”
She wasn’t sure if she was trying to encourage Glendon or Buckie or herself but she liked hearing herself talk.
“I can see the barn now, and the house,” she said. “Soon we’ll have something hot to eat and warm blankets on us.”
One step, two steps, three steps. Molly’s vision blurred again and she began counting the steps out loud, trying to keep herself coherent. One step, two steps, walk, walk, walk, walk.
They passed the barn and headed for the house. At last, when she thought she could go no further, they reached the back porch. Buckie stopped at the bottom of the porch steps and looked at Molly. She imagined he was asking if she really expected him to pull Glendon up those stairs.
There were only two steps but there might as well have been fifty. Molly knew that neither she nor Buckie had enough strength left to get Glendon into the house. But she couldn’t leave him outside. Although it was warmer down here than it was up on the mountain, it was still chilly and the ground was damp. Glendon needed to be where it was dry and warm.
She put Glendon’s head down on the ground and untied the rope. As she climbed the porch steps, she swayed slightly and had to grasp the railing in order to keep from falling.
Once inside, she heated another mug of milk and stirred hot chocolate mix into it. She took a few sips herself and then carried it outside.
She sat on the bottom step, and lifted Glendon’s head. He shifted and opened his eyes.
“Drink this,” she said, and she put the mug to his lips.
Glendon took a sip, choked, and spit most of the hot chocolate out.
“Try again,” Molly said. “You have to drink it. It’ll give you enough strength to go inside, where it’s warm.”
Glendon took another sip and this time it went down. He took another sip and then another. When he paused, Molly took a turn. She didn’t care if they shared the same mug. It tasted wonderful.
She offered the mug to Glendon again and this time he took it in his right hand and held it himself.
When it was empty, Molly said, “You need to get inside. See if you can make it up the steps.”
She held out her hand to him. He took it but she was unable to pull him to his feet. She dropped his hand.
“Crawl,” she said.
Using his good arm, Glendon crawled slowly up the steps and into the kitchen. Molly held the door for him and Buckie ran forward every few feet to sniff Glendon’s face and lick him on the cheek.
When he was inside, Glendon put his head down on the floor.
“I can’t go any farther,” he said. He was shaking so hard he could hardly speak.
“You don’t need to,” Molly said, as she closed the door. She knew there were plenty of blankets upstairs on the beds, but she didn’t have the energy to climb the stairs and get them. She picked up the throw rug from the kitchen floor and put it on top of him.
“Up on the mountain, when I came to,” Glendon said, “you were crying.”
“You were so still, and Buckie sat beside you and howled. It scared me. I remembered what you said and I thought . . .” Her voice quavered.
“I guess I was wrong about the howling. Maybe dogs do that when they sense death is near.”
“Well, I hope he never does it again.”
“Me, too.” Glendon smiled at Molly. “I’m hungry,” he said.
“So am I,” Molly said, “but I’m too tired to do anything about it.” Then she remembered the banana. She reached in her pocket, took out the banana, peeled it, and broke it in half.
“Here,” she said, as she handed one-half to Glendon. “Here’s your dinner. Or is it breakfast?”
Glendon smiled at her again and ate the banana. “Thanks,” he said.
Molly sat at the table and looked down at her cousin. She didn’t know which amazed her more—the fact that the two of them were still alive or the fact that Glendon kept smiling at her. She wondered if they could possibly be friends, after all.
She also wondered why he’d been so mean to her before.
Twelve
“Who’s Gladys?” she asked.
The smile disappeared from Glendon’s face and he closed his eyes. “My sister,” he said. His voice was so soft that Molly had to strain to hear his words. “My twin sister.”
He was silent for such a long time that Molly thought he’d fallen asleep. Her own eyelids were growing heavy and every muscle in her body ached with fatigue. She put her arm on the table and rested her head on her arm. She was so tired, so terribly tired.
“Mommy always liked Gladys best,” Glendon said. Molly looked at him. He was lying perfectly still, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, as if to keep out the painful memories.
“No matter what I did,” he went on, “I was never as good as Gladys. Mommy fussed over her, and played with her, and made her little dolls. She would never make one for me, because I’m a boy. Dad used to argue with Mommy about it and that made it worse. Gladys would tease me and make me mad and then when I’d fight with her, she’d run and tattle to Mommy and I’d get punished. It was always like that—always!”
“Where is she now?” Molly asked. “What happened to her?”
“Mommy and Gladys left, when I was four. Dad says the divorce was because he and Mommy didn’t love each other any more but the real reason was because Mommy didn’t love me and she couldn’t stand to live with me any longer. She never loved me. Not ever. She told me so herself.”
“She did?” Molly was stunned. No matter what kind of trouble she got in at home, she couldn’t imagine Mom ever saying anything like that to her. Even last year, when Molly almost flunked American History because she lost her semester notebook, Mom never said she didn’t love her.
“She said I was a horrid, nasty boy. She took Gladys and moved to Arizona but she wouldn’t take me. And I never hear from her, not even on my birthday.”
Molly sat up and put her hands on her hips indignantly. “It doesn’t sound like she was much of a mother,” she said. “Frankly, I think you’re better off with Aunt Karen.”
Glendon opened his e
yes and gazed up at Molly. “Yes,” he said softly. “She’s really my mother now, and I’m glad she is. But she might die. I might lose her, too.” He looked terrified. Alone and sick and terrified.
Molly felt sorrier for him than she’d ever felt for anybody in her life. She wondered if she really looked like Gladys. She hoped not. Maybe Glendon had just said that because he was angry.
Since he was being so talkative, she wondered if he’d tell the truth about all the other mysterious things that had happened since she arrived.
“Did you push the hay on me?” she asked.
Glendon frowned, as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard her right.
“No,” he said. “Why would I do that?”
“What about the cod-liver-oil pills? Did you poison them?”
“Me? You think I poisoned my mother?”
“I know you wouldn’t poison your mother but I thought you might have tried to poison me. You seemed to hate me so much and then all of these terrible things started happening. For awhile, I even thought maybe you were driving the truck that night, and tried to hit me on purpose. Now I know it was Craine, but for awhile, I wasn’t sure.”
Glendon looked shocked. “I didn’t do any of it. Honest, Molly! I was really mad that you came to visit, especially when Mother started fussing over you just the way Mommy used to do with Gladys. It brought back all those bad times and I felt as if they were happening all over again. You even said we looked like twins and Mother said she’s always wanted a daughter. But I would never poison anybody.”
Molly believed him. She didn’t have answers to a lot of her questions, but she believed Glendon. After all she’d gone through to keep him from freezing to death, she was glad he wasn’t the one who had nearly killed her.
“Craine must have pushed the hay on me,” she said. “In the barn, before I woke up, I thought I saw Uncle Phil, only he didn’t have a beard and I couldn’t get my eyes focused enough to realize I wasn’t dreaming. Maybe Craine was there all along, up in the loft, and we didn’t know it. But why would he push the hay on me? He didn’t even know who I was.”
“Probably he thought you were me,” Glendon said.
“Why would he want to hurt you? He’s your uncle. Yet he’s stealing from your dad and he didn’t care if you died in the avalanche. What happened in the past, between your family and Craine?”
“Uncle Craine lived with us for six months after Mommy and Gladys left. He and Dad were partners; they started the llama business together. Then one day a man from the bank called Dad and told him that Uncle Craine was cheating him. He was taking part of the money for himself instead of sharing everything fifty-fifty, like they had agreed.”
“So Uncle Phil had him arrested?”
“No. They had a big fight about it and Dad said Uncle Craine should leave and not come back.”
“Did he ever come back, until now?”
“He couldn’t. He was in prison. Uncle Craine worked at a hardware store before he and Dad became partners. The owners of the hardware store found out that Uncle Craine stole money from them, too. They’re the ones who had him arrested. He was released a month or two ago.”
“I wonder why he came back.”
“To steal some llamas, probably. He’s been in trouble all his life, even when he was a kid. My grandma thinks he’s into drugs but there’s no proof. Dad’s the only one who could ever get along with him but that’s because Dad always sees the good in everybody. He kept giving Uncle Craine another chance. He always wants to think Uncle Craine has reformed.”
“It must have been awful to have him live with you.”
“I hated it. He was mean. He was even mean to the animals when he thought Dad wasn’t looking.”
Glendon yawned. Molly yawned, too.
“Let’s get some sleep,” she said. “We can talk about Craine later.”
Glendon didn’t answer but this time it wasn’t because he was being ornery. He was already asleep on the floor.
Molly walked wearily to the sofa and lay down. Her stomach grumbled. Except for the hot chocolate, one slice of toast, and half a banana, she’d eaten nothing for thirty-six hours.
As soon as she had a nap, she’d fix something to eat. A bowl of chicken noodle soup would be easy to prepare. She would even eat vegetable soup, if that’s all there was.
She closed her eyes. Maybe, she thought sleepily, I’ll dream about pizza. Thick, hot pepperoni pizza. With extra cheese.
Minutes later, a siren screamed.
Molly’s eyes flew open and she struggled to sit up. For a moment, she thought she was back in Los Angeles, in her own bedroom, hearing a fire truck or a police car in the street below her window.
Buckie barked and she remembered where she was. Had she slept long? She didn’t think so but she wasn’t sure.
She struggled to her feet. Every inch of her body protested when she moved and she longed to lie back down on the sofa and go to sleep again.
Instead, she walked to a window at the front of the house and looked out. She gasped and clutched the window ledge.
He was back.
The black pickup truck was roaring down the lane toward the house. The brown llama was still tied in the back.
The siren got louder and she knew it was coming this way. They’re after him, she thought. The siren must be a Highway Patrol car or, more likely, the sheriff. Sheriff Donley must be chasing Craine. All she had to do was keep Craine out of the house until the sheriff caught him.
Quickly, she bolted the front door. She ran to the kitchen door and locked it, too.
“What is it?” Glendon asked. “What’s happening?”
“It’s Craine. He’s coming here and I think the sheriff’s after him.”
Glendon started to get up, moaned, and fell back to the floor. “I can’t move,” he said.
“You don’t have to. Is there any other way he can get in, besides the doors?”
Glendon shook his head, his eyes wide.
Buckie barked again.
Molly’s mind whirled. The windows! Was it possible for him to climb in a window? She rushed from window to window, checking each one. They were all tightly fastened.
“Buckie,” she called. “Quiet!”
Buckie stopped barking and trotted to Molly’s side.
Molly looked at Glendon. “You be quiet, too,” she said. “We’re going to stay as still as we can and maybe he’ll think we aren’t here. Maybe he’ll try the doors and leave.”
Glendon said nothing, but he nodded his head, to show he understood.
Molly put her hand on Buckie’s head, trying to calm him so he wouldn’t bark again. “Down, Buckie,” she whispered, and Buckie lay on the floor in the corner.
The siren was louder now, and she knew it had turned and was coming down the lane toward the house.
Footsteps pounded up the front steps. The door shook. Buckie growled but Molly reached down and stroked his head until he quieted. She stood still, listening.
The siren faded quickly from a loud scream to a thin wail and then quit altogether.
The footsteps thundered off the porch and then, almost immediately, she heard them again, on the back porch. She flattened herself against the kitchen wall and looked down at Glendon. He was still lying on the floor, just inside the kitchen door, with the rug on top of him. He stared back at her and didn’t move.
Voices shouted in the front yard. “Around in back!” someone yelled. “You go that way, I’ll go this way!”
From where she stood, Molly could see Craine’s face through the glass pane on the back door. He looked desperate, the way an animal might look when it was cornered by hunters. He turned his head from side to side, trying to see if his pursuers had found him. He pounded furiously on the door and Molly wondered if the lock would hold.
She held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t look in and see her watching him. Hurry, she pleaded silently to the men. Please, please hurry!
There was a loud crash and glass flew
across the kitchen. One big shard hit Molly in the face. Her hand flew to her cheek and when she looked at her fingers, they were red with blood.
Molly looked up again. Craine had put his fist through the glass pane on the back door. Before Molly could react, he reached inside, unlocked the door, and stepped into the kitchen.
As he did, his foot hit Glendon and he looked down. Instantly, he reached down and yanked Glendon to his feet. Glendon cried out but Craine put one arm around Glendon’s throat to silence him.
He propelled Glendon out the door and on to the porch. Buckie stood up, growling, but Molly grabbed his harness and held on. She leaned forward, peeking out the door. She knew Craine hadn’t seen her.
Sheriff Donley and another man raced around the corners of the house, one from each direction, and stopped. They looked at Glendon and Craine on the porch and then at each other.
“I’m going to get in the truck,” Craine said, “and I’m going to drive away. If you want this kid to live, you will stay right where you are and not try to stop me.” His left arm was tight around Glendon’s throat. His right hand held the gun.
The sheriff and the other man nodded.
But he won’t let Glendon live, Molly thought. He’s just saying that, so they’ll let him get away. He hates Glendon and he’ll do something terrible to him.
“Throw your guns on the ground,” Craine said.
The two men looked at each other again.
“Now!”
As the sheriff and the other man slowly removed their guns from the holsters, Molly slid her hand across the countertop until she reached the empty mug. She didn’t know if she had enough strength left, but it was the only thing she could think of to do. Someone had to stop him. If they let him drive away with Glendon, she was positive she’d never see her cousin alive again.
She grasped the bottom of the mug, looked at her target, and raised her arm. She threw the mug as hard as she could at the back of Craine’s head. It hit dead center.
“Hey!” Craine yelled, and instinctively he let go of Glendon, put both hands to his head, and turned to see what had hit him. Glendon quickly stepped away from him and stumbled across the porch.