by Iacopo Bruno
The room went dead quiet. Nobody even dared to scratch an itch.
Our teacher’s voice became dangerously soft. “You’re all just evil scraps of decaying cow, trying to disease me with your filthy childhoods. No, you’re not the scraps. You’re the maggots in the scraps, and I pray to God I won’t have to deal with you much longer.”
The silence continued, this time in appreciation of his insult. That was a darn good one. Maggots in the scraps. I’d have to tuck that one away and tell it to Jon that evening. Mr. Dobbins was wrong about not having to deal with us much longer, though. The youngest students had at least another seven or eight years of school.
Finally, there was one person he hadn’t questioned about the note. When old Dob-head’s eyes lit onto Tom Sawyer, I suspected I was doomed. Searching my mind for anything to stop what was coming, I slyly reached down for a matchbox of salt I kept in my school satchel in case I brought hard-boiled eggs for lunch. Sliding it open, I pinched some crystals between two fingers and tossed them toward Dob’s feet. As I did, I caught a glimpse of his sock.
It had a solid brown stain on it that I recognized as dried blood. Whatever injury he’d gotten was probably breaking open every time he took a step. Secretly, I hoped a whole wad of skitters found their way into that wound at night and laid themselves some eggs. While I relished that image, I clutched my bag of marbles and said a protective verse in my head.
Little pinch o’ salt toward a big man’s feet,
Criny-ho, criny-ho, raw sack o’ meat
Chicken head on a stick, straw in his nose,
Make a man deaf with salt between his toes.
Jon said that salt was good for sprinkling on Daddy and Mama’s toes before he would sneak out. The chant was meant more to keep a sleeping man asleep than to make a teacher deaf against hearing a school boy tattling, but it was all I could think of. I hoped it would work. If not, my fate depended on Tom Sawyer’s answer.
Dobbins placed both hands on Tom’s desk. “Who did it? You got such a nice record in school, Tom. I hate to tell Aunt Polly you were dishonest with me.”
Little beads of sweat dotted Tom’s forehead, and he was breathing hard. Strangely enough, it looked like he was uncomfortable with having to tattle on someone. His shoulders lifted and then dropped.
My goodness! Tom Sawyer just shrugged at Mr. Dobbins. Maybe I wasn’t doomed after all . . .
Dob-head leaned closer, so he was nose-to-nose with Tom. “I’ll ask you one more time, Tom Sawyer.” His fist came down on the desktop. “Who was it?”
With a whimper, Tom shifted in his seat and pointed a shaky finger my way.
Rascal. Should’ve known better.
“And what exactly was that, floating through the air, hmm?”
“I reckon . . .” Tom’s voice cracked on the word “reckon” and he paused to take a deep breath.
A few low snickers rang out like sirens. I waited, wondering why Tom Sawyer’d been looking at me in the first place when he should’ve been watching his brother get fly-swatter-whipped. I’d have to ask about that when I gave him a thumping later.
“What?”
“M-maybe she was passing a note?”
Dobbins’s beady eyes gleamed. He looked like a fox licking his chops before pouncing on a chicken. “Passing a note to who, Tom?”
The room was silent, and I could see Tom’s shoulders trembling. He dipped his head down until it rested in his hands.
“Who?!”
Even I knew what Tom would do, and for once I wasn’t about to place the blame only on him. It was a cruel trap for Dobbins to set for someone with Tom’s weak character—someone who knew he was only popular with adults and who desperately wanted to hold on tight to somebody, anybody, liking him. Even if it was old Dob-head.
I felt sorry for Tom Sawyer at that moment. I did. It’s a hard thing coming to a new town and only making a few friends, but it must be a harder thing to already be in a town and have no friends at all.
I raised my hand. “It was me, sir. I tossed a note, but it wasn’t to anybody. I was trying for a magic trick,” I lied. “Making the paper disappear and all. Sorry to have done it on school time.” Whew. Now Amy couldn’t get in trouble. If that wasn’t a responsible use of a lie, I don’t know what was. I almost wished Daddy was there to witness such responsibility on my part.
Dobbins’s eyes searched the floor, then moved to the faces of everyone on the right side of the room. “And where is this note?”
Shooting up, I scanned the floor. Then I squatted down to check under seats. Knowing perfectly well that note was tucked in Amy Lawrence’s sleeve, I bounced twice and let out a whoop. “Yahoo! By Heaven and all that’s holy, it worked!” I thought it was mighty clever, me saying the note disappeared (thereby protecting Amy) and fitting in a reminder of holy things at the same time (so he’d feel bad about beating someone so religious).
“What’s that?” He pointed to the bag of Jon’s marbles still clutched in my hand.
“Nothing.” I placed the bag behind my back and wagged it at Joe Harper, but he either wasn’t paying attention or was too dumb, ’cause he didn’t snatch it from me.
Instead, Dobbins hauled me up front and gave me an ear flick. An ear flick! That was my punishment! I reckon some mama told him not to be striking girls, but he felt like it was open season on flicks. Well, I was fine and dandy with that. He couldn’t knock a dead fly off a windowsill with that weak finger. In fact, I was sorely tempted to give him one back just to show him how it was done, but I just rubbed on my ear and fixed myself with a pained expression.
Jon and I used to have finger flicking wars. This one particular flicking war of ours from three or four years ago, I was sitting on a log by the fish pond back in Riley, enjoying the sunshine and hoping for a bite, when out of nowhere a solid thwap set one of my ears to ringing. It was such a shock that I thought maybe someone was slingshotting rocks my way, so I jumped straight in the water to hide behind some catty tails. Jon had laughed and laughed, then jumped in after me, and we had a water flicking war, and then went and pinched a watermelon from Mr. Hannibal’s farm down the road. What a day that was.
The memory made Dobbins’s flick even easier to take, but what happened next was a most painful tragedy. Dobbins grabbed my leather bag and dug through Jon’s marbles.
“Please, sir,” I pleaded, against my nature. “I’ll put them clean away! I was just holding them, not doing anything, I promise! They’re not even to play with in the dirt or anything. They’re just to look at.”
It made my skin crawl to see that man placing his greasy meanie fingers on my marbles. The truth was, they were much more than marbles. A spirit man my brother was acquainted with had come over shortly before Jon died. Mama and Daddy were at some town meeting and I let him in the house. He did a chant on Jon’s best marbles, putting a little piece of my brother inside them. It was Jon’s idea to do it. We made sure the spirit man sent most all of Jon’s soul straight to Heaven, but Jon said he wasn’t done having adventures yet. He said I could take his marbles everywhere and he’d be able to feel the adventure from way up in the sky.
“These are interesting. Bet they’re very special to you.” Dob-head said the word “special” all slimy, not the respectful way that Sam Clemens had. He held up a tiger’s eye one and a blue one painted with a fish. Then he started walking over to his desk.
I knew just what he aimed to do. “No! Mr. Dobbins, please, no!” Leaping across the floor, I grabbed his elbow, but he shook me off with a growl and shoved me away. Taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked the bottom drawer.
Inside was a heaping load of confiscated treats, some funny-looking house tools, a tiny coil of wire and . . . shiny corn kernels? Seemed odd. Was Mr. Dobbins wanting to be a farmer? According to Sid, Dobbins boarded at the Green twins’ place and didn’t have any land, just a room.
Quick as a whip, Dob-head scooted those kernels to the back, stuck Jon’s marbles inside, and slammed the drawe
r shut.
With a twist of his wrist, the drawer was locked.
Chapter Ten
Stealing from the Widow Witch Douglas
At ten thirty the next evening I was still fuming over the loss of my marbles, but was also considerably occupied by our plan of thievery. Daddy had left for his town office after supper, shaking his head and mumbling about rogue garden tools, and Mama was hiding in her room again, so sneaking out wasn’t any trouble. Still, I was a little nervous about venturing into the night when the Pritchards could be prowling around St. Petersburg, and by the time Amy appeared at my back fence, I’d gnawed through two stale pieces of the bacon stolen from Wednesday’s breakfast. But a bet was a bet.
“You got the dead cat?” I asked Amy.
She lifted a flour sack. “Right here. I feel real bad about it.”
I straightened the too-big overalls on her shoulders. “Well, don’t. That kitten’s already up in Heaven rolling balls of yarn around. What you got there is nothing but a body.” I gave it a little finger poke to prove it.
Amy chewed her lips and watched the sack sway side to side. “You think it’ll help?”
“Sure it will. I fear greatly for Joe and Sid, not having a dead cat and midnight dirt. Now, tuck your hair up under that hat,” I said, pushing my braids beneath my own hat and giving a pat to my overall pocket, wishing it was full of Jon’s marbles instead of grave dirt.
The pair I wore had a green patch on the front pocket. Jon had once caught seven creek frogs and stuck them inside that pocket. He ran home with both hands holding the frogs to his chest and called me to grab a hat box from Mama’s room to keep them all in. Before I could hurry to find one, Mama bustled into the parlor and surprised us. Jon rushed for the back door, but slipped on a rug and fell. The frogs flew out, and by the time he pried himself off the floor, every one of his prisoners had escaped, plus he’d torn the pocket on a sticking-up floor nail. It took four hours to find all those slimy frogs. Mama eventually calmed down and sewed the pocket patch herself, using green fabric. I touched the stitches, remembering how she’d laughed when she told Daddy what happened.
We set off for the Widow’s house, taking the stream trail so we’d come up on her backyard from the woods. A night owl that was diving for prey flew right past us, reminding me that we weren’t alone and making me wonder if I shouldn’t have warned our competitors that the Pritchard brothers could be lurking about. I hadn’t thought about that, and the sudden sense of guilt made my armpits slick with sweat.
Chances at five dollars and adventure don’t come along every day, Jon would have told me. Either get your head on right or go peck in the corn with the chickens, little sister.
There was no sign of Sid and Joe, nor any of the others. We figured it was best to get first shift, before anyone spooked the Widow with noise. Besides, eleven o’clock was late enough for an older lady to be sleeping, witch or no witch.
The house looked dark enough. Unlike the week before, there wasn’t a single sign of rain, just a sliver of early October moonlight. We crept to the river side of the Widow’s place, where I noticed a henhouse and small scratching yard for the first time.
“I didn’t figure on witchy chickens, so be extra quiet around that henhouse. First we’ve got to scatter the grave dirt on every side,” I whispered. “We’ll start here and work our way around to the back. Take a handful of dirt and repeat after me:
Graveyard dirt from a bad man’s plot,
Make our stealin’ hard to spot.”
Amy repeated the phrase four times, gaining confidence as we snuck around the property. “What now?” she asked in a high, breathless voice. Her eyes were bright and she was bouncing foot to foot.
I was pleased to see her excited. “There’s an open window on the back porch.” I pointed. “Let’s go.”
“Maybe we could reach right in and snag a doily, without ever stepping foot inside. That’s it, Becky.” She gripped my arm, squeezing hard. “And we’ll shut the window after, so the boys don’t get a chance to use it!”
I was doubly pleased to see her thinking ahead like that. “Perfect. We’re just about ready. Put your hands out.”
She dropped the dead kitten on the ground and held up her palms.
“We’re gonna slap four times, then spit over each other’s shoulder.”
“Four times, then spit,” she repeated. “Why four?”
“Everyone knows that three, which is usually a handy number for protection and such, doesn’t do nothing in the case of thievery and pirating.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No, that’s how come pirates with wooden legs are so unlucky in their pillaging on the seas and such. They’re stuck with only three limbs left.”
Amy frowned. “I would think they already had the bad luck, to have a leg torn off in the first place. Then having a wooden one would probably slow them down on the stealing of things and that would be why they didn’t pillage as well.”
It sounded like she was maybe dismissing the power of four. “I’m telling you, it’s the three limbs that cause the bad luck.”
She hesitated. “We had a three-legged cat once and it seem to get around right good for having a bad-numbered-limb curse.”
I glared at her. Hated to do it, but going into battle without loyalty is no way to go about things. “A cat has several lives, so they aren’t bothered by things like bad luck.”
Amy scratched her head, looking doubtful.
“Listen, Amy. Bad luck sticks around things it can mess with the most. That’s people and pigs, mostly.”
“I thought a pig was good luck!”
Good Lord, we were wasting time. I had to keep it simple for her. “Amy Lawrence, do you ever eat bacon?”
“Why, yes. I love bacon.”
“Of course you do. Everybody does. And a pig isn’t raised for nothing but bacon. If you don’t call that bad luck, I don’t know what you call it. Now four times and spit!”
We clapped hands four times and spit over each other’s shoulder. Amy hit my neck, but I didn’t begrudge her at all. I wanted to make her feel real good because she was my best friend, and also because I didn’t want her running off and leaving me.
“Amy Lawrence, you’re about the best partner a thief could have,” I told her.
Her eyes clung to a spot just below my ear. “Sorry about your neck.”
“Don’t worry about that. I moved. Barely touched me. You did just fine.”
We crept up the three porch steps (I indicated that we should skip step number two, due to it being October) and squatted down near the open window. Turns out the house wasn’t completely dark. I took a look inside and could just make out a sitting room. A low-flamed lamp sat on a table, glowing just enough for the room to look mighty eerie. I settled back into a low position, considering our approach.
A scratching and sniffing noise came from the corner of the porch.
“What’s that?” Amy’s knees knocked so hard she nearly fell out of her squat.
“Shh! Probably a raccoon.”
The sniffing started again and I saw where it came from. A doghouse was tucked in a double shadow of night and porch cover.
“Charlemagne,” I whispered.
Amy must’ve thought I’d said a spell because she whimpered and tried to repeat the word.
The hound dog stood and padded out of his house. He seemed to tower miles above us, until I remembered we were squatting.
I stood, pulling Amy up and dug into my pocket for the bacon. I held out a piece, then thought better and tossed all of it toward his bed. The dog followed the bacon, and I caught sight of a familiar ragged cloth sticking out of his house. It was the piece of torn shirt that had been dangling from Charlemagne’s mouth back at the cemetery. Billy Pritchard’s shirt.
Amy gripped my arm and stood behind me. “What now?” she whispered.
“Quick, reach inside the witch’s window and find something!”
She obeyed, while the dog
was kept busy with the bacon. We both had our arms stuck in the window and were frantically waving around for something, anything, when I felt a hand grab mine.
I screamed, and Amy must’ve felt the same thing, because I felt her stiffen and slump beside me, having fainted dead away. The mystery hand dropped mine, and I heard footsteps move around the house. Charlemagne approached, thin ropes of drool lining his jaw. He was done with the bacon and looking for something more hearty to eat on.
Something like an eleven-year-old girl.
The back door blasted open and the witch herself stood in the doorway, holding a devil’s wand in her hand.
I about peed my pants.
“Hey!” she yelled, raising the evil cursing stick.
“No!” I threw my body over Amy Lawrence, determined to die a brave and valiant death for my best friend. I only wished she were conscious to see me do it.
“Charlie, down!”
To my surprise, the Widow was pointing at the dog, not me. And also, the devil’s wand wasn’t a devil’s wand at all. It looked to be a wooden cooking spoon with some kind of dough on it. The dog was lapping at the porch floor where some had flicked off.
“What on earth happened to your friend?”
“Are you gonna curse us?” I had to ask. The wooden spoon might have been a trick. If I recalled, there was some fairy tale about a witch who cooked goodies for unsuspecting fools that passed. Then she would eat the fools and gobble the goodies for dessert. “We taste like pickled liver!” I blurted out. That was the worst thing I’d ever tried, so maybe she wouldn’t want to eat us.
Widow Douglas bent down, examining Amy, probably seeing if her arms were fat enough to eat. Lucky for Amy, she’s thin as a rail like me.
Amy’s eyes fluttered and she moaned, rubbing her head. She sat up and nearly fainted again at the sight of the Widow. “Becky! It’s the—”
“Shh! Stop talking nonsense, both of you.” Widow Douglas bent over to peer closely at Amy. “You all right, honey?”