During their conference in Gold Beach, the two Ogden lawyers told Aunt Fiona that it was usually very difficult to take children away from their biological parents or, as in this case, biological father and stepmother, no matter how bad they had been at parenting. But then the Ogden’s told her that they might have a case if any or all of the following things were true:
1. If the parent had a reputation as a violent person.
2. If there was proof that the children had been mistreated or poorly fed.
3. If the parent had misled the welfare people who were assigned to his case.
4. If the children would testify that they preferred to live with a reliable friend or relative who had agreed to care for them.
And Fiona Hardison’s answers had been:
1. Yes, he has.
2. Yes, there is.
3. Yes, I’m sure he has.
4. Yes, I’m sure they would.
“Well then, my dear,” Adele Ogden, attorney, had said, patting Aunt Fiona on the shoulder, “I’m sure we can win the case in any court of law.”
And Jefferson Ogden, attorney, added, “That may not even be necessary, Adele. I have a feeling that if we give Mr. Baggett a realistic picture of where the trial was almost certain to wind up, he’ll come around to our way of thinking about the future of his four youngest children.”
As soon as they returned to Crownfield, they contacted Mrs. Montgomery, the social worker, to gather some more information that might be useful. Things about how Big Ed and most of his older offspring had lots of unpaid traffic tickets and fines for driving under the influence and driving without a license. And how the four Baggett teenagers who were supposed to be going to Crownfield High School almost never attended. And when they asked Mrs. Montgomery if she would like to be present when they confronted Ed Baggett, she said she would, but she’d feel better about it if her policeman husband could be there too, because she had always found Mr. Ed Baggett to be rather intimidating.
So they arranged a date when all six of them— the two Ogden lawyers, Aunt Fiona, Miss Scott, and Mrs. Montgomery, along with her husband, Sergeant Montgomery—could show up unannounced on the Baggetts’ front steps. So they did. And that was when William went to the door and let them in.
By the time the visit was over, Big Ed was stomping around the farmhouse, yelling and roaring, even forgetting to limp, and finally shouting at William and Jancy, “Get out, and take those little brats with you, and I hope I never see any of you again, long as I live.”
Sometime later William wished he’d yelled back. Wished he had, for once in his life, yelled back at Big Ed. But of course he didn’t. Right then, while it was all happening, the only thing that filled William’s mind was a rising tide of hope that made him just stand there grinning while Big Ed raged and swore. The last thing William S. did as a Baggett was to hold the door open for his little sisters and brother and their six rescuers, and close it firmly behind him.
CHAPTER 26
So that was that, and only a day later they were back with Aunt Fiona in Gold Beach. Back in the nice old house on Eleanor Street, and this time no longer needing to listen constantly for the threatening sound of a noisy car or the stomp of heavy boots on the front steps. Instead there were only minor problems connected with getting everyone ready for the start of a new school year. William would be going to Gold Beach Junior High. Jancy and Trixie would be in sixth and first grade, at the same elementary school where Aunt Fiona taught fourth grade. And a neighbor on Eleanor Street, who had preschool kids of her own, would be able to take care of Buddy during the school day.
Then came William’s thirteenth birthday, and Aunt Fiona baked a cake and, as a birthday present, gave him some extra money to buy school clothes. That was on the Friday before school started, and after they all sang happy birthday and ate the cake, William got ready to go shopping. Aunt Fiona was planning to take Jancy and the little kids to a dress sale at JCPenney, but Buddy refused to go.
“I don’t suppose to go shoppin’ with girls,” he kept saying. “I want to go shoppin’ with Willum.” So William wound up having to take Buddy with him. They went to Montgomery Ward, and William got some new pants and shoes, and two pretty snazzy new shirts. And Buddy wasn’t too much trouble. Except for sticking his tongue out at all the plaster mannequins and trying to push the buttons on a couple of cash registers, he behaved pretty well.
On their way home, when they happened to go past a pet shop, Buddy tugged on the back of William’s new shirt and said, “Let’s go in there. See the picture? They got aminals in there.”
“Animals,” William corrected. “Animals! Okay, but just for a minute. It’s almost time for dinner.” So they went in and looked at some bright-colored fish in an aquarium and two noisy parrots—and then, at the back of the shop, two cages full of guinea pigs.
When William looked at the blob-shaped little animals, it brought back a bunch of Baggett memories, including Jancy’s tear-wet face that terrible day when Sweetie Pie went down the drain. And that, of course, reminded him of the part Buddy had played in the whole tragedy. William once again found himself thinking that even a four-year-old ought to have enough brains to know you shouldn’t try to bathe a guinea pig, or anything else, in a toilet. It really had been mostly Buddy’s fault, even if the twins had put him up to it. Dumb kid!
Grabbing Buddy’s arm, he gave him an angry jerk toward the front of the shop. “Okay, kid. I’ve seen enough. Let’s get out of here,” he said.
But Buddy wouldn’t come. Planting his feet firmly, he pulled away and said, “No. Not yet. Not till I buy a gunny pig for Jancy.”
William stared in surprise, and then started to grin. “Real good idea, Buddy boy,” he said. “Good thinking. Except you don’t have any money.”
“I know,” Buddy agreed, “but you do.”
“Not enough,” William told him. But he looked through his pockets anyway and found he did have a little leftover change. When he told the pet shop owner how much money they had, it turned out that guinea pigs were on sale that day. On sale, the owner said, because he’d recently had some unexpected guinea pig litters, and besides, on the first week of September most of his regular customers were too busy shopping for school things to think about buying a new pet. So a few minutes later, William and Buddy were on their way home again, carrying a dusty-orange-colored guinea pig in a cardboard box with breathing holes.
They were nearly home when Buddy said, “What’s his name? What’s the new gunny pig’s name, Willum?”
William thought for a minute before he said, “How about Act Two?”
“Achoo?” Buddy asked.
“No,” William said. “Act Two. His name could be Sweetie Pie, Act Two.”
Actually, Jancy decided to name her new guinea pig Pumpkin because of his shape and color. But when William told her how Buddy had insisted on buying it, she told Buddy her guinea pig was going to have a middle name too. “His name is going to be Pumpkin Buddy Hardison,” she told him. “Would that be all right?”
Buddy said it would.
So, just like before, things were real good at Aunt Fiona’s—almost everything. The only downer for William was the fact that there was no Miss Scott at Gold Beach Junior High. In fact, there wasn’t even a drama department at the small high school where he would be going the following year.
Oh well, William kept telling himself, don’t think about it. You can’t have everything. Not that that kind of thinking helped very much. Nothing did, really. Not even reminding himself that as soon as school got under way he’d be too busy to wonder about what Shakespeare play Miss Scott was working on this year, and whether there might have been a role in it for him. A Shakespearean role for William S. Hardison, which would soon be his real name, as well as his future stage name. Just as soon as Aunt Fiona, with the Ogdens’ help, finished the official change-of-name papers for all four of the kids.
But the very next day, the Saturday before school started, he got a l
etter from Miss Julia Scott. The first part of the letter was just kind of chatty. She wrote about how she was going to miss having him in her eighth-grade English class, and what books she hoped he’d be assigned to read. But then she got to the important part.
It seemed that Miss Scott had been asked to be a director at a kind of drama camp someplace near San Francisco next summer, and that the play she would be directing was going to be A Midsummer Night’s Dream. “And I so much want you to try out for the role of Puck. Knowing you as I do, I’m certain that you’ll get the part,” her letter said.
Your natural ability to clown around and really lose yourself in a role, as well as your size and stature, make you perfect for the role. I’m sure your aunt will agree to let you spend part of the summer away from home. Living quarters are being provided for the cast, and I can arrange for your transportation.
William read the letter on his way upstairs, and when he’d finished reading he yelled, “Wahoo!” and ran the rest of the way, waving the letter over his head.
Dashing down the hall, he almost ran over Jancy, who was just coming out of her room. As he started reading the letter to her Trixie showed up and, a few minutes later, Buddy. “Why was Willum going, ‘Wahoo’?” Buddy asked Trixie.
“About a play,” Trixie said. “About a play he’s going to do.”
“Oh,” Buddy said. “Do we get to play too?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Trixie was saying as they went on down the hall. “It’s not that kind of play. I think maybe it’s another thing you can’t do till you’re ten years old.”
William read the letter over and over again for most of the afternoon.
So it was all arranged. Aunt Fiona had no objections. In fact, she said she thought it was a wonderful opportunity for William to develop his natural God-given talents.
So that left only the business of getting through the school year with his usual good grades, and in the meantime practicing the role of Puck as often as possible.
He started right away, reciting Puck’s lines for the kids as well as Aunt Fiona, and thinking up ways to prance and pose while he was putting the magic love potion on people’s eyes. As always, he had a very appreciative audience. Jancy said she thought he was going to be an even better Puck than he was an Ariel.
It was only a few days after school started, when another letter arrived at 971 Eleanor Street. The letter was addressed to William S. Hardison, and the return address was “Clarice Ogden, 1036 Gardenia Ave., Crownfield, California.”
William was surprised and, well, pretty curious. Jancy, who had been looking over his shoulder when he got the letter out of Aunt Fiona’s mailbox, seemed to be even more so.
“Hey,” she shrieked. “Look at that. It’s from Clarice. I bet it’s a love letter.”
William ignored her. Turning away, trying to keep her from reading over his shoulder, he tore open the envelope and began to read.
“Dear William,” the letter began.
“Dear William!” Jancy was squealing. Clasping her hands under her chin and looking soulful, she kept repeating. “My dear, dear, William.”
“Get out of here, you lamebrain,” William told her. “That doesn’t mean anything. That’s the way all letters start. ‘Dear whoever.’” Sure enough, the first few lines were just the usual how-are-you stuff. But then came:
I saw Julia Scott last night. She came to a party at our house, and she was telling us about how she is going to be the director for a Shakespeare festival in the Bay Area next summer. And that she is going to ask you to try out for the role of Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I know you’ll get the part. After all, Miss Scott will probably be doing the casting. How could you lose? Ha! Ha!
But now comes my big news. My folks have to do a lot of traveling next summer, and they’d already asked Miss Scott if I could stay with her while they are away. And last night she told my folks that it would still be all right for me to stay with her if I didn’t mind going to the Shakespeare thing. So maybe I’m going to be in the play too. Well, maybe not actually acting in it, but Miss Scott says that if I don’t get an actual part in the play, I can probably get a job in the costume room or else doing makeup. I’m very good at making people up.
William grinned, thinking that was for sure. He had good reason to know that Clarice Ogden had been pretty good at making up a bunch of police cars and posters, not to mention a Baggett murder victim.
The letter went on for several paragraphs after that. One whole section was about how she had been getting along with her parents much better recently.
I guess it wasn’t so much that they wished they didn’t have me, like I used to think. It’s just that lawyers have to keep their minds so full of all those legal facts that they can’t be expected to spend much time thinking about less important stuff—like their only child. But now that I’m old enough to think up a lot of good ways to help them remember, we seem to be getting along better.
Then there was another paragraph about how she was sorry she’d been so angry at William when he took the little kids and went off without even telling her he was going. But she had completely forgiven him now, and she knew that they were going to go on being “very close friends.”
Not too bad, except for the underlining. But Jancy, who was back to reading over his shoulder, again began to squeal.
“Very close friends.” She giggled. “Very, very friendly.”
But then Trixie, who had suddenly appeared on the veranda, said, “Who’s friendly, Jancy?”
“Clarice and William,” Jancy told Trixie. “Didn’t you know?” She rolled her eyes and clasped her hands over her heart. “Clarice is in love with William.”
“And Jancy is nuts,” William said. And then to Jancy, “You were the one who said that if Clarice was crazy about anyone, it was Ariel, not me. Right?”
Jancy was still snickering. “Oh, sure,” she said. “But if she was crazy about Ariel, how do you think she’s going to feel about Puck?”
“I don’t know,” William said. “I don’t know about that.” He shrugged and gave Jancy a sheepish halfway grin. “But it looks to me like …”
“Like what?” Jancy insisted.
He paused, trying to think of a Shakespeare quote that said what he had in mind. Of course there was, “All’s well that ends well.” That would be a good quote, he felt sure, to describe what William S. Hardison’s thirteenth summer was going to be like—at least for the most part. For the terribly exciting part in which he would have a great time being Puck in an important production of A midsummer night’s Dream. But as for a summer spent with Clarice Ogden, more or less in the same scene …
“Who knows?” he told Jancy. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”
“Wait for what?” Jancy demanded.
William threw out his arms, bent one knee, and did a fancy final curtain bow. “For the end of the play,” he said.
William S. and the Great Escape Page 14