by Iacopo Bruno
Another thump landed. This time I decided to investigate. Stepping through the parlor, I lifted my feet over Charlemagne, who had settled himself on the floor, and moved the curtain aside on the center window. “What’s that?” Four sticks, each about two feet long, were ablaze on the front lawn. At first I thought it was supposed to be a cross, but as the flames dimmed to a steady glow, I realized what I was looking at.
Amy and the Widow hurried to my side.
“Fire! Good Lord, is that . . . is that the letter W?” The Widow Douglas put a hand to her chest. “Someone put a burning W on my lawn?” Her eyes filled with fear. “I wasn’t expecting something like burning my lawn. Good Lord, is my house going to catch fire?”
“Witch!” cried Amy. “It’s a W for witch!”
It took everything I had not to slap Amy Lawrence upside the head.
I did have to admire the boys’ cleverness. It was a beauty of a distraction. An unattended Widow was certain to hear the thumping and come flying out onto her front porch, leaving the back open for pillaging.
“Your house’ll be fine. Ma’am, do you have any flour?”
She pointed to the kitchen door. “Pantry’s in there. Got a twenty-pound sack on the first shelf. Hasn’t been opened.”
I grabbed the sack with some difficulty and headed out the front door. “Amy, look out the back. No doubt they’re running around right now. Get those chickens up!” I hurried out the door and struggled down the steps with the bag.
Up close, I could see that the fire wasn’t too bad. Sid and Joe had poured sand all around the cloth-banded and oiled sticks, so the fire couldn’t go anywhere. I guess that’s what Sid meant by fetching sand. Maybe those two boys weren’t so dumb after all.
A shout down the road made my head shoot up. In the dark I couldn’t be certain, but I could have sworn I saw a boy standing at the corner of the next block. It almost looked like . . . Tom Sawyer? Cursing, I slit the bag open with my pocket knife and poured a steady stream of flour over the W until all I could see was a white cloud.
Before the flour dust cleared enough to get a proper look at the spy, I heard two bloody screams from behind the house.
Sid and Joe sprinted around the corner and jumped the Widow’s fence.
I met the Widow and Amy on the front porch, all three of us laughing like the best of friends. “You got the fire out,” the Widow said. “Thank you, Becky.”
“Yes, ma’am. It’ll leave an awful mark, though.” I looked toward the Sawyer house. It was dark and silent. “I must have inhaled some smoke or flour dust, because I could have sworn I saw Tom Sawyer watching me stand over those flames. But I reckon he’d wake the whole town if he thought he could get me in trouble. Must’ve been my imagination.”
“We can’t have you getting in trouble, or I won’t have anyone to visit.” The Widow grinned just the tiniest bit. “Fetch that shovel from under my porch for me before you go. I have a mind to do some midnight gardening.” She nodded to herself, scanning her front yard.
Good Lord, the Widow sure was friendly, but she was also loony as a waterbird. “What, ma’am?”
“Never you mind. And you call me Mrs. Douglas, if you can’t call me Katie.”
I fetched her the shovel, then stood twiddling my thumbs for a good minute while the Widow Douglas watched the moon, probably doing some kind of silent chant to get its powers into her. I realized she most likely had some spell-casting to do over her autumn herbs. The more I thought about it, midnight gardening made perfect sense. “Mrs. Douglas, do you mind if we get going? We got to meet up with the boys.” I tapped my overall pocket and smiled. “Thank you for the paper.”
“Of course, dear. Like I was telling Amy, I haven’t had this much company since I don’t remember when.” She patted our hands, just like a normal, non-witchy grandmother would do.
It was so nice that it nearly broke my heart to know that my shovel-shuffling actions might get her arrested for a crime she didn’t commit.
While Amy and I made our way to the schoolhouse, I realized I needed a new plan. Jon always said that plans had more interesting possibilities when there was money involved. If five dollars and my years of experience making mischief weren’t enough to buy some sort of miracle to clear the Widow’s name, not only would she be shut in jail, but I’d be doomed to confession and punishment to save her.
As the schoolhouse roof came into view, I reasoned that the very best thing to do for both my own freedom and the Widow’s was to fetch the winnings. I’d work on the rest when the sun came up. The way I figured, no other messes were likely to turn up before then.
I sure hoped my figuring was right.
Chapter Twelve
Trouble in the schoolhouse
Sid and Joe sat inside the schoolhouse like they were waiting for class to start, except they had a lantern lit and Joe was coughing from the tobacco he was attempting to smoke. Amy and I paused outside and listened at the window they had cracked open on the river side of the building.
“Put that out, Joe,” Sid was scolding. “Where’d you find it anyway?”
“Back of the schoolhouse, same place we found that clump last time. Someone dropped a whole rolled cigarette. It’s the expensive kind—empty tobacco tin was there too.” He hacked and hacked. “There’s no way Davy Fry’s daddy smokes Reed’s brand. Somebody else has got to be smoking back there. Somebody with money.”
“Put it out! You’re making me even more nervous than I already am.”
“I’m trying to calm my nerves, but it doesn’t seem to be helping. Sid, you reckon the Widow Witch got a hold of the girls?” Joe’s voice shook as he flicked the cigarette out the window, grazing Amy’s arm with the lit side.
Before she could make a sound, I stamped on the cigarette, lifted the sill another foot, and poked my head in. “Hello, you smelly catfish!”
They both jumped near out of their skins when we hauled ourselves into the school. Seeing them so startled was almost as fun as collecting our money would be.
“You’re alive!” shouted Joe, a look of wild wonder filling his face. He stood and rushed over to us, breathing out like he’d been saving up air for a week. Then, just as suddenly as he’d started toward us, he stopped short and shoved both hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “You’re alive,” he repeated in a quieter voice. He half-grinned, then frowned and shrugged his shoulders. “I guess that’s good.”
“Thank the Lord,” said Sid, looking considerably relieved. “I thought I was gonna have to tell your daddies we got you killed.”
“Where are the others?”
Joe laughed. “They backed out. Heard that the Widow Witch was going to the graveyard to fetch that body she tried to dig up. Heard she’d be up all night long, messing with it.”
Sid squirmed in his chair.
“And how’d they hear that?” I asked.
With a wicked smile, Joe tilted his head at Sid. “He told ’em.” His lips fell and twisted to one side. “We didn’t know she’d really be working on something like that.”
It was my turn to smile. “Sounds to me like you two nearly got stuck in a stew pot yourselves. What happened to you?”
Amy and I hadn’t discussed what happened at the Widow’s house, but her eyes twinkled. “I think they might’ve caught sight of the Widow Witch herself, chanting and making an evil brew on her stovetop. Might have seen a ghost, too.”
“Hoo!” Joe’s eyebrows shot up and he gripped Sid by the arm. “That’s it! That’s just what Sid and I saw!”
Sid’s eyes narrowed and his gaze drifted down to my hands. “I’ll be a pot-bellied pig in britches, what’s that?” He snatched the paper. “Did you two get in there?”
“That’s right. And we did it without setting fire to anything. Pay up, gentlemen.”
Joe scowled at the floor. “Money’s with Petey Todd,” he said. “We’ll have to discuss things in the morning.”
Amy poked Joe right in the shoulder. “There’l
l be no discussing, Joe Harper. We earned that money. Let’s go get it. Now.”
A blush crept to Joe’s cheeks. It must’ve been a bad one ’cause you could tell how red he was even in the dim lamplight. “Petey’s family is all in bed, and I’m not trying to break into any more houses tonight.” He blew out the lamp.
Well, shoot. I needed that light to get Jon’s marbles back. “Wait! Bring a match or something over to Dob-head’s desk. Is there a ruler somewhere?”
Amy found a ruler in the small supply cabinet and handed it to me while Sid lit a match and held it by our teacher’s desk. I wedged my knife tip in the bottom desk drawer and yanked back. It budged just enough to slip the ruler into the empty space before Sid cursed and the match died. He lit another and I pried the drawer open just enough to snatch the marbles.
Right as I did, an annoyed yell came from somewhere beyond the far side of the schoolhouse—the side opposite our open window. I blew out the second match.
“Who’s that?” asked Joe, earning three smacks upside the head.
“Shh,” I whispered. “Let’s get outta here.”
It’s a good thing the four of us were experienced sneaker-outers. We barely made a sound slipping out the window and sliding it down. We weren’t twenty yards away, near the creek, when a dim light went on inside the schoolhouse. The gravelly sound of distant mumbling drifted toward us on a night breeze.
“Who’s that?” Joe whispered again, guarding his head just in case.
“Don’t know,” said Sid. “Nobody should have business around here this time of night.”
“Maybe it’s Dobbins with a woman,” said Joe.
We all stared at him for about three seconds before collapsing on the ground with laughter. I tried hard to stay quiet, but a couple of snorts came out.
A massive groan of pain from the school halted our hee-hawing. A sharp, low-pitched cry followed, then more squawking and grunting. A few choice swear words rang out our way, nagging at me for a reason I couldn’t quite get a fix on. After a moment of quiet, there was a noise that almost sounded like a man sobbing.
“We better get going,” Sid said. “Whoever’s in there and whatever they’re up to, it’s no business of ours.”
Amy and I agreed. Though I knew from books and stories and such that marauders would never get within a mile of a schoolhouse other than to leave threatening notes (they’re more partial to taverns and graveyards and places worth robbing), the Pritchard brothers crept into my mind. Daddy had said there was no use getting people riled up for no reason and there was no guarantee that the Pritchards were in town, but it was a struggle not to tell the boys about the outlaws’ plans to return to St. Petersburg.
We reached the Sawyer place and were surprised to see a light shining from a small second floor window.
Joe gave a low whistle. “What’s a light doing on at your house? It must be near one o’clock in the morning.”
Maybe it was the moonlight, but Sid’s face seemed to be turning a sick shade of yellow-green. “That’s Tom’s room,” he said.
“Kiss my grits,” I swore. “That brother of yours has done it again.” I hit Sid’s shoulder.
Joe spit on the ground. “How’d he find out, that sneak!” Though he sounded mad, I could tell Joe was as worried as the rest of us.
“I thought I saw Tom when I was putting out your flames,” I told Sid. “Probably told Aunt Polly that I tried to set Mrs. Douglas’s house on fire.”
“Who’s Mrs. Douglas?” Joe asked. His face wrinkled up like when Dobbins asked him a math question.
“You can go to jail for doing something like that!” Amy cried.
And the Widow might go to jail for grave robbing, I thought. Maybe we’ll be stuck in the same cell.
Sid paced back and forth, wagging his head like he was trying to shake off a skitter. “But Tom couldn’t have . . . He didn’t know . . .” His jaw flapped up and down a few times as he stared my way, but he didn’t say any more. He didn’t need to.
“I reckon he’s already told Aunt Polly some version of what he saw,” I said. “Amy, you best get home. Boys, you do the same.”
After Sid and Joe left us, Amy lunged at me, squishing me in a hard embrace. She squeezed me so tight I felt her rabbit-quick heartbeat against my chest. “What are you gonna do?”
I was angry and scared and having trouble thinking of an answer to her question. “Don’t you worry, Amy. Just know that you can have all the winnings if you don’t see me for a while. I’m giving you my half.”
“What? Becky, what are you going to do?”
I ran down the road toward my house before either of us could start crying. Nobody would believe me over that goody-goody Tom Sawyer and if I went to jail, there wouldn’t be anybody left to save the Widow. And Daddy would never get over the shame if the sheriff stuck me behind bars. There was only one thing to do.
I had to get back home and gather some supplies. I wasn’t sure where to hide out, but I needed to run far enough to get away from the trouble that’d latched onto me like a river leech. Maybe I could think of a solution once I got some distance. I’d need a big enough lie to cover up all the other lies that’d been told.
My marble sack jiggled as I walked, and I took comfort in the fact that Jon would see running away as an adventure. So would Sam Clemens, probably. Come to think about it, Sam’s steamboat might just make the perfect hideout spot while I determined my next move.
No lights were on at my house, so I assumed Aunt Polly was waiting until morning to tell my daddy the news. A tall ladder lay in the backyard from where Daddy had hired someone to look at the chimney before winter set in. Hauling the ladder over to my bedroom window and climbing the rungs, I stewed like a potful of meat and potatoes, wondering when Sid and Joe’s flaming wooden letter would be traced back to me. The sooner I put together a provision sack and headed back outside, the more time I’d have to think up a plan.
But all the giddy energy gushing through my body retreated at the sight of my bed. Despite my intention to run off, my legs resisted the idea of gallivanting into the night and my feet led me to the edge of my soft comforter and pillow.
Don’t you lay down, I told myself.
Aw, just for a minute, I argued back.
I’m not foolin’, you stay awake!
But instead, my stubborn body went ahead and fell asleep.
Chapter Thirteen
Steamboat blues
When I woke, it was still dark, but just barely. The stars were all but winked out and a low glow was trying to bust over the horizon. Listening hard, I didn’t hear any sign of activity in the house, not even a mama snore. With a peek outside, I saw that my ladder had fallen to the ground. Miss Ada’s cabin was dark. Today was Sunday, her day off, and it looked like she was still sleeping. With considerable relief, I shook the prickles from my cramped muscles. It was time to run away before people started stirring and getting ready for church. And before I could ponder the sort of punishment I’d be getting if Daddy caught me sneaking out again.
A memory struck while I tiptoed downstairs for supplies. All those times Jon had taken a licking or missed supper as punishment, Mama had always gone to him after Daddy was done being the Judge. I would watch her walk up the stairs, her apron bulging with a roll or cookie, and hear her open Jon’s door. She would ask, What am I gonna do with you, Jon Thatcher? Somehow, the question always sounded exactly like she was saying I love you. My eyes got itchy at that thought. Mama hadn’t said any kind of I love you to me in quite awhile.
Blinking real good before any troublesome tears could fall, I made a quick stop in the kitchen and took off with four leftover biscuits, a fried chicken leg, my bag of marbles, a straw hat, and no shoes. The sweet grass of the backyard felt cold as a glass of iced tea. It was a chilly October morning, that was for sure. My toes dug into the ground, curling up for warmth and finding only squishy ground. A light rain must’ve fallen after I got home.
I did a few jumps and
squats to warm up. Cow plop, this running away wasn’t much fun so far. I looked back at the fallen ladder and wondered whether I should try telling the truth to set me and the Widow Douglas free, but I slapped my own cheek to knock that nonsense outta my head. In my experience, adults seldom took to hearing a child’s truth, least not without a heap of doubt or a switch involved afterward.
I made my way to the woods on the north side of town and cut across the stream at a low point. I followed the water, feeling moss on the trees as I went. The birds weren’t awake yet, but the earth sure was. The moist greens and browns, the ferns and critters and slugs. They all seemed to vibrate with the happiness of being clean. It was in the drip-drips and drip-drops that still fell from the branches and dampened my lashes. Everything looked fresh and new.
I ignored the scratch of twiggy ground cover and rolled my pant legs up, bounding through the bushes and ferns, fighting hard not to let the bursting in my chest come out as a whoop of freedom. In the days since Jon died, whenever I had started feeling too heavy, I put on his clothes and went running, running, running. If I found a thick enough patch of woods, it was almost like those leaves were him, slapping my side and tearing up the brush right beside me. Alive again.
I found my way to the riverbank.
“Hello, Miss Issippi,” I said. “You’re looking awful pretty this morning, with that fog coming off your water. You’re going your way and I’m going mine.” I tipped my hat, but the Miss ignored me. I didn’t mind a bit, though. I liked the river real well.
I followed a narrow fisherman’s trail up-current until I got to the grounded steamer. Dipping my foot into the river, I realized that the dirt, however chilly, was mighty tolerable compared to the temperature of the water that early in the morning.
The steamer was right against the shore, same way it was the night Tom Sawyer first told on me. And here I was, back again because he had snitched to Aunt Polly about what he thought I’d done. And as soon as light made it proper, he’d be telling the rest of the world. Maybe he’d make an announcement at church. I hated to think of Mrs. Sprague’s disappointed face.