by D. M. Pulley
“Don’t you have anything to turn in, Mr. Leary?”
He shook his head.
Miss Babcock lifted his chin up to her impatient eyes. They softened a bit at the sight of his bruised face, but she didn’t let on. “See me at recess,” she commanded, and then raised her voice to the room, “Class, please remember rule number one. If you want to learn, you have to work. Knowledge does not come free. Now, if you would all get out your composition books . . .”
Two hours later, Miss Babcock snapped her book closed. “Twenty-minute recess. Everyone out!”
All the kids stood at once and clomped outside in a rumble of chairs and feet. Everyone but Jasper. Once the others had left the room, Miss Babcock shut the door.
“Do you want to tell me about it?” She pointed to her eye, and he realized she was talking about the purple bruise around his.
Jasper shook his head. He didn’t want to lie to her if he could help it.
She walked over to him and brushed the hair from his forehead to take a better look. “Everything alright?”
“Yeah. I just fell roller-skating.”
“Is that why you didn’t finish your assignment? You were roller-skating?” she asked, a little spark of irritation flared in her eyes.
Jasper couldn’t bear the idea of her being mad at him too. “No. I had to go with my dad back home to Detroit and . . . ,” his voice trailed off. Now he’d really stepped in it. He couldn’t possibly tell her everything that had happened. An image of Not Lucy in her lacy underpants danced in his head. And then there was the bus ride.
Miss Babcock nodded expectantly, waiting for more.
“And I’m sorry. We forgot it.”
Expectation deflated to disappointment as she studied him. “Well then. I’m going to need you to write the words ‘I will not forget my homework’ one hundred times.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She handed him a stack of papers. He began writing, and Miss Babcock opened the door to watch the children running around the school yard for a moment. She sighed under her breath and walked back to her desk. Perched on the edge of her chair, she began to shuffle through the pages of returned homework, making a few marks here and there.
Jasper was on his sixty-fifth line when he stopped to stretch his cramped hand. He glanced around the room at the letters and numbers Miss Babcock had hung over the blackboard and the shelf of books on the far wall. He was squinting, trying to read the titles when her voice startled him.
“You like books, Jasper?” she asked.
He nodded and turned his head back down to his sheet of paper. His sore hand began again. I will not forget . . .
“Were you looking for anything in particular?” Miss Babcock pressed him.
“No, ma’am,” he said, keeping his head down.
“It’s all right, Jasper. Books are the most precious things we have in this world. Anything you might want to know, you can find in a book. What do you want to know?”
He scowled up at her. It was crazy talk. He needed to know so many things, and there was no way any of them were in one of those books.
“You don’t believe me.” She smirked. “Give it a try.”
“Um . . .” He thought for a moment. “I want to know what a still is.”
She dropped her pen. “A what?”
Jasper instantly regretted asking. “N—nothing.”
“It is not nothing. Where did you hear that word, Jasper?”
Now he’d done it. He couldn’t have her sending another note home to Uncle Leo. It would be the death of him. “I . . . um . . . overheard it. Some grown-ups were talking about a place in town a long time ago called Steamboat’s.”
Miss Babcock studied him carefully, and for a second, Jasper was certain she’d send a note home anyway.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No, it’s fine. There are no bad questions, Jasper.” She gave him a slow smile. “Still is a slang term for distillery. Do you know what a distillery is?”
“No, ma’am.”
“A distillery makes liquor. Making liquor used to be against the law, and in my opinion, it should have stayed that way.”
Jasper bit his lip.
She took it as confusion. “You’ll learn more when you study Prohibition in high school. Unfortunately, this part of American history is not in our curriculum, and I only have a small collection of books here in the classroom. You can find many volumes on the subject at the public library in Port Huron. I suggest searching the card catalog for the key words Prohibition, rum-running, and organized crime.”
“Organized crime?”
“Who do you think ran the stills when making liquor was against the law?” She leaned across her desk, pleased she’d piqued his interest, and whispered, “Gangsters, killers, and thieves.”
Jasper just gaped at her.
“It’s good to study your history, Jasper. If you don’t understand the mistakes of the past, you’re bound to repeat them. Remember that.”
Miss Babcock went back to grading the homework assignments. Jasper’s hand continued writing his assignment over and over as his mind repeated the words.
Gangsters, killers, and thieves.
Several hours later, school was dismissed. His classmates gathered their assignments and books and poured out the door. Jasper didn’t move.
“Are you alright, Jasper?” Miss Babcock raised her eyebrows at him, surprised to see him still sitting there.
“I had another question.”
Her eyes lit up. “Shoot.”
“Do you have any books about the Black River Reservation?”
She blinked at him for a moment. “What would you like to know about it?”
Jasper unconsciously pressed his mother’s necklace against his belly. “I don’t know. I want to know about the people who live there, I guess.”
“We do have a few books about the Indians. Let me see.” She got to her feet and crouched down in front of the bookcase, thumbing through the volumes until she came up with one. “Here.”
She set a children’s book titled The First Book of Indians onto his desk. His eyes widened as he looked at the fierce hunters on the cover chasing down a buffalo. He flipped the book open, almost forgetting she was there. Arrows and tomahawks were flung across page after page. The red-skinned warriors looked mad with rage, and Jasper swallowed hard. Killers.
“You be careful, Jasper.”
“Ma’am?”
“Books are like people. Sometimes they lie.”
CHAPTER 28
We understand you tried to reconcile with your family. Is that right?
Jasper left the schoolhouse that afternoon with the book in his hand. Wayne met him in the yard.
“Takin’ the shortcut today? I think Nicodemus is back in the barn.”
“No. I’ll take the long way.” At the moment, Old Hoyt’s bull was the least of Jasper’s worries. He wasn’t eager to explain where he’d been to his aunt and uncle.
“Whatcha got there?” Wayne asked, pointing at the book pressed to his chest.
“Nothin’. Just a book Miss Babcock lent me.”
“Can I see?”
Jasper handed it to Wayne, and they tromped down Jeddo Road, kicking up a trail of dust behind them. Wayne whistled at the cover of The First Book of Indians. “Since when are you interested in Injuns?”
“I don’t know. I always liked Tonto on the Lone Ranger.”
“Yeah, but he’s not like a real Indian, you know. He just talks funny. ‘Me no like where train go.’ They don’t talk like that.”
Jasper stopped walking. “How do you know? You ever met a real Indian?”
“Sure. The reservation’s not far. Sometimes Pop needs an extra hand in the fields. Indians work for real cheap. Nobody likes to hire ’em.”
“Why not?”
“You know, people think they’re wild and crazy and call ’em savages. Pop says the only thing savage about ’em’s the way they’ve
been treated. Says it ain’t Christian, but people do it ’cause they can get away with it.”
“Is that why you said they set Grandma’s house on fire?” Jasper studied the book again. A screaming brave was throwing a spear across the cover.
Wayne shrugged. “I just wanted to give you a little scare. Besides, Pop always says Indian justice ain’t like regular justice.”
“What do you mean?”
“They can’t put you in jail if you break a deal, but they might make you disappear. So don’t cross ’em.”
“Disappear?” Jasper couldn’t help but think of his mother.
“You hear talk. One rumor went around a few years back that a farmer named Patchett over in Croswell was desperate to get his beans out the ground, but his sons were all grown and left. He was broke too. So he tricked a couple of braves from the reservation to do the work and didn’t pay up, not even when the money came in. Then one day, poof! He was gone. Never heard from again.”
Jasper had stopped walking. All he could think of was the blood on the bedroom wall. Had his mother crossed them? Big Bill had said she’d gone and got herself mixed up with them wild folks over at the res. His cousin grabbed him by the arm and pulled him down the road. Jasper managed to find his feet again, but he couldn’t feel them.
“I guess that’s why folk around here don’t trust ’em. Pop says it’s just because they’re different, but I can tell they worry him a bit too.”
“How can you tell?”
“Oh, I don’t know. He tells me not to talk to ’em too much. He never invites ’em to supper in the house. Has ’em eat out in the barn. Stuff like that.” Wayne cracked open the book and looked at the drawings of Indians hurling arrows. He flipped a few pages and snapped it shut. “They don’t really look like that either. Least not the ones I seen.”
Jasper took the book back. “Do you think . . . I could meet one of ’em?”
“Sure. Next time they come round. Maybe they’ll come help with the harvest this year. Pop was just sayin’ he wasn’t sure how he was gonna get the wheat and the corn picked before the rains come. You think you’ll stay that long?”
Jasper didn’t answer. The two boys turned back down St. Clair Road in silence. His uncle’s farm was less than a mile away, and he still didn’t know what he’d tell him.
“So, why’d you come back so soon?” Wayne asked, kicking a rock down the dirt road.
“My dad had to go back to work.” Jasper decided he’d better stick with the same lie he’d told Cecil and the Hardings. Farmers talked. God only knows what Mrs. Harding might say. The thought made his stomach go cold.
“Thought he said he was taking you on a camping trip up north. He told Pop he needed to spend some time with you to straighten you out.”
Jasper’s heart sank. He loved camping with his dad more than anything, but the man hadn’t said a word about any of that to him. And why would he after what I did? Tears stung the corners of his eyes. “I guess the trip got canceled.”
“He really put you on a bus all by yourself?” Wayne gave Jasper a sideways glance. “Why didn’t he just give you a ride?”
That was a good question, and Jasper didn’t have a good answer. He just shrugged and ran up ahead to the oak tree on the corner. His suitcase was still sitting in the long grass right where he’d left it. He wished he’d been able to walk home alone as he picked it up. He didn’t want to answer any more of Wayne’s questions. He didn’t want to go back. Uncle Leo would know he was lying. But he couldn’t tell the truth. The tangled web was tightening around his neck. Jasper sank to his knees.
“Hey. You okay?” Wayne pushed his way through the grass and knelt down by the boy’s side.
Jasper just shook his head and hid his face so Wayne couldn’t see his tears. He needed to tell someone what had happened—the apartment, the blood, the detective, the bus driver—but he didn’t want anyone to know about any of it. He couldn’t tell Wayne. Jasper pressed his hand into his black eye until the pain was all he could feel.
“I’m fine.” Jasper lurched up and grabbed his bag.
“Hey, don’t forget this!” Wayne came trotting up beside him, holding the book.
“Right. Thanks.”
“So why you so interested in the Indians?” Wayne asked again.
Jasper forced his feet to keep moving. They didn’t even feel like his own. “I think my mother knew them.”
“Who told you that?”
Jasper didn’t want to say anything about his conversation with Cecil’s mother and her horrible smile, but someone else had mentioned Indians. “Big Bill over at the roller rink.”
The beaded necklace was bouncing lightly against Jasper’s chest. He’d have to hide it, he realized. Aunt Velma might find it and start asking questions. He could just tell her that his mother had given it to him, but she wouldn’t believe him. She’d think he’d stolen it, and he sort of had.
“What’d he tell you?” Wayne asked.
“That someone named Motega might know her.” Jasper stopped walking. Big Bill had told him a lot of things. People get killed messin’ around up there. Heard a bunch of ’em just got run up for murder. That poor girl . . .
The photograph of the girl outside Calbry’s flashed behind his eyes. Do you know who killed me?
CHAPTER 29
What happened when you went home?
His uncle’s cabin loomed at the end of the two-track drive. Its whitewashed siding piled together in the middle of a giant field of tall grass flanked by autumn-red trees. Looking down at it from where Jasper stood, the house was as small as his thumb. Its stone chimney was smoking. Aunt Velma would be cooking something for supper.
Wayne strolled down the gravel drive, leaving Jasper standing there alone at the edge of Harris Road. Aunt Velma greeted Wayne at the front door, then stepped out onto the crooked front porch with her hand shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun. She waved toward Jasper. He just stood there, rooted to the spot.
“You gonna stand here all day?” a voice asked from behind him. It was his uncle Leo. He had his shotgun slung over his shoulder, and a dead goose hung from his hand.
Jasper’s mouth fell open, but nothing came out.
“Help me with this thing.” His uncle handed the webbed feet of the goose to Jasper. Blood dripped from two small holes down its neck and onto the ground. Jasper set Miss Babcock’s book on his suitcase and grabbed the feet as he was told. The twenty pounds of goose that hung from them sent him staggering off balance. Its black leathery skin stretched tight over hollow bones still felt warm, like it might still be a little bit alive. Uncle Leo picked up the boy’s book and suitcase and headed down the driveway without another word.
Jasper followed him, struggling to hold the goose high enough to keep its head from dragging on the ground. It was nearly as tall as he was. Its huge wings flapped half open, catching the air and making its body swing. The way the bird hung taut and springy in his hands, Jasper wouldn’t have been shocked at all if the head swung up and bit him. It left a trail of blood along the driveway. The stained hallway of the apartment back in Detroit flashed in his mind, stopping his feet. Red drops fell onto his shoe.
“Velma.” His uncle waved to the front porch. “You got that water ready?”
She nodded and ducked back inside, returning two seconds later with a giant pot hanging from the handle in her oven mitt. She set the steaming cauldron on the porch.
“Take this, will you, dear?” His uncle handed her Jasper’s suitcase.
Aunt Velma’s eyes flitted from the hard leather bag stained with mud down to Jasper frozen in the driveway. Then she took the things inside without a word.
“Stick her in there, boy,” his uncle instructed, pointing to the pot.
Jasper swallowed hard, then stepped onto the porch. The poor goose’s head thunked against the wood step, splattering it in blood.
“Go on. She’s not gettin’ any deader.”
Hoisting it up with his rubber
y arms, Jasper managed to clear the rim of the pot and lowered the bird’s head with its glassy, dead eyes into the steaming water. Its long neck and half its body followed. The water level rose up until hot liquid poured over the edges, washing the red stains from the porch. The bird hit the bottom, but its tail and feet still stuck up out of the water as though it were diving for fish.
“We’re going to need a bigger pot.” His aunt chuckled from the doorway, sounding pleased at the size of it.
Aunt Velma bent down with a giant iron spoon until she was face to face with Jasper. He was certain the spoon was meant for him. Instead, she dipped it into the steaming water, now pink with blood, and shifted the bird around until its feet and tail were submerged and its drowned head hung over the side, staring up at him.
Uncle Leo put a hand on his shoulder.
Jasper jumped.
“Take this inside before it gets hurt.” His uncle was holding Miss Babcock’s book.
“Yes, sir.” Jasper grabbed the book and hurried away from the blood on the porch. Crime scene—do not enter.
“You look like you seen a ghost,” Wayne chirped with a mouth full of food. He was sitting at the kitchen table eating a sandwich. There was a second one set on a plate in front of Jasper’s usual seat.
The floor seemed to roll under his feet. It was her blood on the wall, her hand on the door. “What if she’s dead?” Jasper whispered.
“Who’s dead?” Wayne dropped his sandwich.
Jasper grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself. “Uh, nobody. Your dad shot a goose.”
“Great! I love goose. Hate pluckin’ ’em, though. Lucky for me.”
“Lucky?”
“Yeah. Pluckin’s a job for the youngest. Have fun!” With that, Wayne stuffed the rest of the sandwich in his mouth and headed out the front door again. Jasper could hear him through the door say, “Nice one, Pop!” before whistling away.
Jasper’s stomach turned when he looked at the sandwich on his plate. He ran to the tiny alcove where he shared a bed with Wayne and threw his book on the mattress. His muddy suitcase was back in its perch on top of the bureau next to the bed frame. It was open and empty. That meant his aunt had found his muddy clothes inside, still wet from sleeping in the culvert the night before. Jasper bit his lip and considered crawling out the window and running into the fields. Instead, he pulled his mother’s necklace out from his shirt and held it in his hand. Where are you, Mom?