“Mrs. Bixby? She’s a real hard nose, but if you know how to work it, she’s okay.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means if she thinks you’re cooperating with her, she eases up on you.”
Mrs. Bixby beats a path to my side. “I’ve been expecting you.” She holds her pointer finger under my nose. “Now listen close, here are my rules.”
I sigh. Everyone in this alien universe has rules.
“First, you sign yourself in—but never sign yourself out. Only your parents or I can sign you out… .” About a hundred rules later, she says, “Sit there!” She points me to a kindergartener-size chair at a table marked FIFTH GRADE. “I’ll let you know the rest of the rules later. Now I must get the other students working on their assignments.”
Rest of the rules? I try to repeat Mrs. Bixby’s list of rules, but all I can remember is that I’m supposed to sit down. One thing is clear: With all these rules, there is no escape from The Great Escape.
I scrunch my taller-than-average twelve-year-old body into a dwarf-size chair, willing myself to disappear into the woodwork. Looking out the window, I see straight, neat rows of corn and soybeans growing in square-and rectangle-shape fields. I begin to daydream that I’m looking at the Chihuahua Desert and that Mr. O’Hare and I are hunting for space rocks. But Mrs. Bixby destroys that dream.
“Does everyone know Frankie Joe?” She scrunches into one of the miniature chairs at the fifth-grade table. “He’s the oldest Huckaby now, which makes him Huckaby Number One.” She turns to Matt. “That makes you Huckaby Number Two, Matthew.”
Matt freezes in place—like he’s just been tasered—and I have an awakening.
That’s it! The reason he glares at me is because I’ve knocked him off the top of the heap. I don’t get to enjoy the moment because Mrs. Bixby turns to me next.
“Frankie Joe, did you know that I quilt with Mrs. Huckaby every Saturday afternoon? We’ve been best friends since first grade.”
“No ma’am.”
I can forget about disappearing into the woodwork.
“And don’t forget”—Mrs. Bixby says, looking around the table—“our Quilt Circle is making a quilt for a Christmas raffle again this year. Our profits help fund The Great Escape.” She smiles an extraordinarily wide smile at me. “Save your money so you can buy a ticket.”
I put a fake smile on my face, wondering where she thinks I’m going to get money for a raffle ticket. In Laredo I work at Felipe’s Corner Market on weekends, cleaning the stockroom. The owner likes me because I’m a hard worker and show up on time. He pays me in cash because I’m underage—ten dollars a day. In Laredo a lot of people get paid under the table—illegal aliens slip across the border all the time. But that job is gone, and I won’t be getting tips from my neighbors at the Lone Star Trailer Park for running errands, either.
Besides, I think. Even if I had money, the last thing in the world I would buy is a raffle ticket for a quilt.
“Enough chitchat,” Mrs. Bixby says. “Now to your studies. We need to practice spelling the names of the states.” She glances my way. “Some of you didn’t do so well on your test today.” Paper and pencils and groans emerge around the table.
Cooperate, I think, remembering the advice Mandy gave me. I take out my notebook and one of the yellow number-two pencils.
“Wis–con–sin,” Mrs. Bixby says. She screws her face up in a very serious manner as she sounds out each syllable. I repeat the syllables silently and write each one down on my paper exactly the way I hear Mrs. Bixby say it.
She says the word again, more slowly. “Wis … con … sin.” I notice she’s watching to make sure that I’m writing. When everyone finishes, she asks, “Now who wants to make a sentence using the word Wisconsin?” Like magnets to metal, her eyes glom on to me.
“I’ll go first,” Matt says.
“Yeah, okay,” I say, deciding it’s all right with me if Matt wants to be number one.
“Now Matthew,” Mrs. Bixby says, making a clucking noise with her tongue. “As our new student, Frankie Joe should have the honor of going first today.”
Honor? I feel my face start to burn.
All eyes are locked on me. Matt’s are glinting especially bright, and suddenly I want to show him that he isn’t the only smart Huckaby sitting at the fifth-grade table. I rack my brain for something to say about Wisconsin.
“Wisconsin is called the Dairy State,” I blurt out. “They make a lot of butter and cheese there.”
A surprised look comes over Mrs. Bixby’s face. “Why … that’s a very good answer, Frankie Joe.”
“Woo-hoo,” another student down the table whispers. “The big slow kid did something right. First time today.” Others start to laugh.
“Hush now,” Mrs. Bixby tells them. She turns to me. “Now tell everyone how to spell Wisconsin, Frankie Joe.”
I read aloud the letters I’ve written down, just as I heard her say them. “W–i–z … k–o–n … s–u–n.”
Matt snorts. Mandy rolls her eyes. The other kids hoot. Mrs. Bixby makes a clucking noise.
And I feel my face go from burning to blazing.
4:45 P.M.
I trail behind the four legitimate Huckabys on the way home from school, which takes us right through downtown. We pass a grocery store and a hardware store, a post office, and a pizza place; a corner café, a gas station, and a gift shop.
Huckaby numbers two, three, four, and five don’t seem to notice that Huckaby number one lags behind. They’re having too good a time on their own, laughing and horsing around like brothers do. Real brothers.
I hate their legitimate guts. I want to get away from them, but I can’t because I don’t know the way. So I trudge on, carrying a backpack crammed full of ten-pound books. The Huckaby boys finished all their homework in The Great Escape, so they left their books in their lockers. I, on the other hand, will be working late into the night.
Finally I recognize where I am—almost to the Huckaby house. Turning the corner, I walk past an alley—and stop.
Why not? Lizzie won’t be home from work, and I don’t want to be alone with the mutant ninjas. I feel better the minute I take the first step.
I like alleys, especially alleys where wasteful people live. Wasteful people leave all kinds of treasures in their trash. I found the wrecked Rover Sport in an alley. And salvaged the basket off a girl’s busted bike. Once I even found a toaster that still worked … sort of. With Mr. O’Hare’s help, I fixed it, and Mrs. Jones bought it from me for two dollars. “Lot better than heating up the house with the stove just to toast some bread,” she told me.
However, this particular alley does not look promising. It’s the neatest alley I’ve ever walked through. The trash cans are lined up behind neat fences that border neat yards with trimmed grass and shrubs … except for one.
One place doesn’t fit in with the rest. Yellow paint peels off the wood siding and crooked green shutters cling to loose nails. The foundation sags on one end, causing the house to tilt to one side. The grass has been mowed hit-or-miss, and hoes and rakes and garden tools are scattered around the yard.
I like this place. It’s messy, like home.
A trash can sitting in back of the house looks like a soda-pop can that a giant squeezed between its fingers. The can has no lid, so I look inside.
Empty. No treasure this afternoon. No looking for meteors from outer space. Just homework.
Life is very unfair. I take a kick at the beat-up garbage can; and because it’s empty, it goes flying against a neighboring fence where it bounces and spins down the alley, rattling as it goes.
“Uh-oh,” I whisper as I hear the squeak of a screen door. A woman comes outside, one hand shading her eyes so she can see better. The other hand holds a cane with a black rubber stop on the end.
“You there—you live around here?” she calls out.
“Yes ma’am.”
Temporarily, I think. I set her trash can upright.
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“Well, I don’t recall seeing you before, and I know everyone in this town. I sell Nova, you see.” She eyes me when I don’t respond. “You know what that is? Nova?”
I shake my head no.
“Cosmetics! You know, makeup for women’s faces? Lipstick, rouge, face powder, lotions. You never heard of Nova?”
I shake my head again.
“So you don’t know me and I don’t know you.” She studies me like I’m a bug under a magnifying glass. “I’d say from looking, you’d be related to Frank Huckaby. That right?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Thought so. I’ve watched the kids in this town grow up, and you are the spitting image of Frank when he was a boy.”
“I am?”
She nods. “A boy related to the Huckabys should know how to introduce himself properly.”
“Oh. My name’s Frankie Joe. Frankie Joe Huckaby.”
“Frank’s oldest boy?”
“Yes ma’am.”
How did she know that?
“Well, my name’s Peachcott. Miss Elsie Peachcott.”
Elsie Peachcott is the kind of person you can’t help but stare at, even though you know it’s not polite. It’s not because she’s wrinkled and stooped like a troll that lives under a bridge. Or because she has black-licorice hair and eyebrows, and red-licorice circles painted on both cheeks. It’s because of a large, muddy-brown spot on the side of her face. That spot draws my eyes like a magnet.
“What are you staring at?” Her watery blue eyes become slits. “Don’t you know it’s not polite to stare?”
“Nothin’, I’m not looking at nothin’.”
“Don’t lie to me, boy. I’ve been the object of ridicule all my life. I can look in a person’s eyes and tell when he’s not being truthful. Now tell me, what are you looking at?”
“Your … face,” I whisper.
“My face,” she repeats. “My entire face? Or something on my face?”
I suck the spit from between my teeth. “Something on your face.”
“You mean my birthmark? What, you’ve never seen a birthmark big as a silver dollar before?”
I shake my head no.
“Oh.” She pauses. “Well, I suppose a person can’t be held accountable for things they don’t know.” She leans closer. “Tell me, is it real obvious? Or just a little bit obvious?”
I’m not sure I want to get closer to the woman, but I do. I step through the gate and walk half way to the porch. But even then, I can’t see the spot clearly because something has been smeared on top of it.
“I can’t tell ’cause there’s something chalky-looking on it.”
Without warning, Elsie Peachcott pounds her cane on the porch. “Blast it all, I still don’t have it right!” Looking around, she lowers her voice. “I been working on a makeup formula that will blend into whatever you skin tone is—including birthmarks. You see, Nova’s interested in buying it if I can get it right.” She gives me a raised-eyebrow look. “And you know what that means?”
“Um … what?”
“It means I can retire, live the good life!” She shakes her head. “Nothing else to do, I suppose, but make another batch.” She studies me some more. “So you’ve come home to roost, have you, Frankie Joe Huckaby?”
“Home to roost?”
“Come up here on this stoop,” she says, talking in a raspy whisper. “Can’t you see that I’m crippled up and it’s hard for me to come down there?”
“I got to go home—”
“Are you sassing your elders?”
“No ma’am.”
“Well then, get on up here! Can’t be standing in the yard yelling our business at one another. Be all over this one-horse town before you can blink. People get in your business here. You don’t know that now, you’ll learn it quick enough.” She pounds her chest with her free hand. “Got to hold your business close to your chest.”
“Yes ma’am, I learned that already.”
“All right then. We’ll have a cookie, and you can tell me how you come to be back here.”
5:05 P.M.
“Why did you say … ‘back here’?”
I shuffle into the kitchen behind Miss Peachcott—if you can call the room where I’m standing a kitchen. It’s more like a mad scientist’s laboratory. Beakers and funnels and test tubes take the place of mixing bowls and measuring spoons and baking pans. Jars and bottles of different-color powders and liquids clutter the countertops. Stacks of boxes in all the corners have pink labels marked NOVA stuck on their sides.
“Help yourself to a cookie,” she says, putting tubes and jars into a pink sack. “I have to make deliveries after I finish up these orders. This one’s for the widow, Mrs. Brown.”
She stops working to look at me. “There’s one for the books. Woman was skinny as a beanpole before her husband died. Now he’s passed over, she’s fattened up like a pig.” She rolls the top down on the bag and picks up another one.
I open cupboard doors, looking for cookies. More Nova stuff.
She begins to put things into the second bag. “This order’s for Miz Bloom, that divorcee that’s tryin’ to look half her age. Can always tell a divorcee because she refers to herself as Miz. Not even I can help that one—and I have helped many a woman look half her age.”
I open the refrigerator. No cookies.
“And this order’s for that newlywed, Mrs. Barnes—pregnant already.”
Oven. I take a chance.
Woo-hoo. I pull out a package of Oreos and help myself to two. Because the table and chairs are stacked with boxes, I stand in the middle of the floor.
“You said something before,” Miss Peachcott says, turning to look at me. “Did you ask a question?”
I swallow the last of the cookie in a gulp. “ ‘Back here,’ ” I say, spewing crumbs across the room. “Outside there, you said something about me being ‘back here.’ ”
“Oh, yes. You’re supposed to tell me what you’re doing back here again.”
“Well,” I say slowly, “I didn’t know I was here before.”
Miss Peachcott’s eyes go round. “You don’t know that you were born here?”
“I was born in Clearview?” I feel my eyes go round.
In a blink, Miss Peachcott leaves off sacking up cosmetics and clears a space at the table.
“My goodness, child, I can’t believe she never told you where you were born. Why, your daddy worried about you something awful after you left. Of course, I’ve known him since he was knee high to a grasshopper. His mama was one of my first customers—encouraged me to go into business on my own.” She pauses. “Maybe that’s why FJ confided things like that to me. I was kind of a second mother to him.”
She pushes her glasses up on her nose and motions me to sit down. “Well, you see, it was this way… .”
5:15 P.M.
“I suppose Martha Jane came by her jackrabbit ways natural enough,” Miss Peachcott says.
Martha Jane is Mom’s name, only it’s not what she wants to be called. “Marti doesn’t sound so old-fashioned,” she once told me. “Know what I mean, kiddo?”
“And Mom was born here, too—like me?”
“Born and reared right here. Martha Jane Elliott.” Miss Peachcott shoves the sack of cookies toward me. “Your grandparents worked at a dairy—did the milking, cleaned the milk house. Martha Jane had to help, too. Hard life. Have to milk twice a day, you know. Morning and night.” She hesitates. “And then both your grandparents got killed in an accident, right out there on the road into town. Hit by a grain truck. But I guess she told you that.”
I shake my head no. Mom never told me that. She never told me much of anything.
“Anyway, Martha Jane went to live with the only family she had left. Your aunt Geraldine—only she preferred to be called Gerry.”
Miss Peachcott goes humph.
I go hmmm, thinking about the way Mom changed her name to Marti.
“Geraldine was a wild sort,” Miss P
eachcott continues. “Lived downtown in one of the upstairs apartments that looked out over the town square.” Her eyes twinkle. “Back then Clearview wasn’t such a one-horse town. Fresh-air movies on the square in the summer. Even had a bowling alley and a baseball team! You like baseball?”
I hear the question, but my mind is on something else. “What do you mean, ‘wild sort’?”
“Irresponsible! Liked to go out partying. Dance and live it up. She worked odd jobs—waitressed here and there, barhopped at some of the taverns. Clearview wasn’t big enough for her; she was always chasing rainbows.” She pushes her glasses up on her nose and eyes me. “You know what that means? Chasing rainbows?”
“She, uh, she wanted to make it big?”
“Exactly. Well anyway, Geraldine took off with a man passing through town.” She shakes her head. “Never heard from her again.”
“She took off! But what about Mom?”
“Well,” she says, pausing. “Of course, Martha Jane was the impressionable sort. What high school girl isn’t? She liked living with her aunt Geraldine, that’s for sure. And she was just as eager to rid herself of this one-horse town. Anyway, after she was left high and dry, she was taken in by a widow lady. Good soul, but strict. The two didn’t hit it off.”
She pauses again. “Then you happened. Don’t know why Frank and Martha Jane didn’t marry up, but I figure it was Martha Jane’s idea to leave town. When she turned eighteen, she came into a little money—insurance settlement from her folks’ accident. Said she was going to use it for a stake somewhere else.” She looks at me. “Don’t know what she did with the money or where she ended up.”
“Mom bought us a house in Laredo … but she had to sell it.”
“In Texas? My, my. Well, all I know is, we never heard from her again.”
“Like Aunt Geraldine.”
“Just so.”
I don’t know whether I feel better or worse.
Miss Peachcott straightens her back. “Now what are you doing back here, Frankie Joe Huckaby? And what’s that jackrabbit mother of yours been up to all these years?”
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