Gib Rides Home

by Zilpha Keatley Snyder

  “Shhh!” Buster put his finger to his lips and nodded toward the door to the dormitory. “It’s silence time. Remember?” And then, when Gib let his disappointment show, he added, “Later, kid. You’ll find out all about it later.”

  Inside the dormitory there was silence and, except in the night lamp’s small circle, a far-reaching, overlapping jungle of shadows. But at least here in the hall the darkness was a bit warmer, and the smell, a musty mix of polished woodwork, dirty socks, and bedwetters’ mattresses, was comfortingly familiar. Gib moved forward eagerly. At cot number nine he was taking off his shoes when he heard an approaching rustle and then a quavering whisper. “Gib? That you? You all right?”

  “Hey, Jacob,” Gib whispered back. “You still awake?”

  A barefooted, nightshirted shadow moved against the deeper, more distant dark, and Jacob whispered indignantly, “’Course I am. I haven’t closed my eyes once.” As he moved cautiously forward, Jacob’s whisper became even more accusing. “Holy moley, Gib. What did they do to you? I been waiting and waiting. Must be almost midnight. Here.” He stuck out a hand, which, in the darkness, thumped into Gib’s chest.

  Gib staggered back, grinning. “Hey, I’m sorry. Take it easy,” he said. Then the fist came again and opened on the remains of a dried-out slice of bread. “Saved it for you,” Jacob was whispering, when Gib suddenly noticed that he and Jacob weren’t the only ones awake. All around them there were rustling sounds and tiny glints of light, the reflected shine of the night lamp in many wide-open eyes. And Gib and Jacob weren’t the only ones out of bed, either. By now there were five, maybe six, other boys moving toward bed number nine. Shuffling nervously on cold, bare feet, they surrounded Gib and shoved things into his hands. Bread, mostly, but also a partly eaten apple and even a small chunk of half-cooked potato.

  “Was it just terrible, Gib?” The shadow with the whimpery whisper was Bobby Whitestone, for sure. “Did she whip you real hard?”

  “Naw.” Trying to swallow a mouthful of dry bread and cold potato, Gib managed to say, “What makes you think I got whipped?”

  “Daniel said you do. When Daniel got sent to the Repentance Room he got whipped real hard.”

  “That right?” Gib was still mumbling—and chewing. “Maybe you only get whipped if you steal something.”

  There was a “yeah, maybe” and several nodding heads. According to Junior Hall gossip, Daniel, a senior who worked in the kitchen, had stolen some cheese from the staff’s pantry.

  “But what was it like, Gib?” Bobby’s voice was tense and urgent.

  So Gib told them how it was nothing but a big closet without any shelves, with an old rag rug on the floor. When he finished, there were shocked, disbelieving whispers.

  “But Daniel says it’s haunted,” someone hissed, “’cause somebody died there.”

  “Haunted?” Gib was asking when someone muttered, “Shhh. Listen. Somebody’s coming.”

  The hasty shuffle of feet and the creak of cots had barely died away when the door opened and Miss Mooney came in carrying a night lantern. For a moment she stood in the doorway before she moved softly down the aisle to stop at the foot of Gib’s bed. Gib made his breathing deep and steady, and after a moment Miss Mooney turned away and went back down the aisle to the hall door.

  A few minutes later most of the pretend deep breathing had settled into something steadier. But not Gib’s. Gib was still wide awake without knowing why—except part of it might have been that he wasn’t ready to risk having a Repentance Room nightmare.

  But there was more to it than that. The other part was about Jacob and the others who’d saved him something from their skimpy suppers and maybe a dozen more who’d stayed awake to see how he was. And then too, there was Elmer to think about.

  Suddenly Gib sat up and looked down the aisle past one, two, three deep-breathing, gray-blanketed cocoons, to the one that was Elmer Lewis. And then, right while Gib was staring, the Elmer cocoon stirred, flopped restlessly, and raised up on one elbow. For a part of a second they stared at each other, before Elmer flopped back down and jerked his blanket up over his head.

  Gib couldn’t help chuckling out loud. Loud enough for Elmer to hear, probably, but the chuckle wasn’t just to be ornery. Part of it was something about the way old Elmer ducked for cover like a cottontail who’d spotted a coyote. As he lay back down Gib was imagining sneaking over and doing a coyote howl right next to old Elmer’s ear, and he might have really done it if he hadn’t been so tired. The next thing he knew it was morning.

  Chapter 8

  THAT YEAR, THE YEAR Gib Whittaker turned nine years old, was a time of many changes, and not only for him. The first and biggest change was the new headmistress. There had been rumors for some time that Mrs. Hansen was very sick, so the formal announcement of her death—of her passing over to Glory, as Mr. Garrison put it—didn’t come as a complete surprise. The announcement was made by Mr. T. Everett Garrison during a special assembly on a Sunday afternoon in September. Mr. Garrison, who had introduced himself as the president of the Lovell House board, gave a long talk about what a wonderful headmistress Mrs. Hansen had been, and then he made another announcement—that the board had already chosen a new headmistress. Before the boys were dismissed to go back to their quarters, the president of the board asked everyone to pray for Mrs. Hansen’s soul, and also for Miss Offenbacher’s success in her role as the new headmistress of Lovell House.

  All during Mr. Garrison’s long speech Gib kept wondering how some grown-ups could talk for so long about something important without telling you anything you really needed to know. There were a lot of questions Gib was dying to ask, but he was pretty sure he wouldn’t get a chance to. Mr. Garrison, a slope-shouldered gentleman with a busy, thin-lipped mouth, didn’t look like the type to answer questions. Finally Gib gave up on getting any answers and fell back on admiring the way Mr. Garrison never slowed down when he ran out of anything to say, and just carried on by using some of his fanciest phrases over and over again. Answers could wait, Gib decided, until they were back in Junior Hall with Miss Mooney.

  As it turned out, Gib wasn’t the only one who had some questions for Miss Mooney. But for once, even Miss Mooney wasn’t great about answering. At least not right at first, when, once they were back in the hall, some thirty boys clustered around her, frantically waving their hands to be called on.

  Instead of calling on anybody, the first thing Miss Mooney did was to tell them to bow their heads and ask God’s blessing on Mrs. Hansen’s soul. And after they’d all done that she went on asking for more prayers and blessings. Blessings on everybody at Lovell House and pretty much all over the world. So they all prayed together, repeating the words after Miss Mooney as hard and fast as they could, each one hurrying to get to the “amen” so he could be the first one to raise his hand again.

  Finally Miss Mooney sighed, wiped her eyes with her handkerchief, and started calling on the most desperately waving hands, and of course one of the first was Bobby Whitestone’s. Bobby’s question was a desperate one all right. What he wanted to know was what had killed Mrs. Hansen, and if it was catching, because if it was, he was sure to get it next. It wasn’t until Miss Mooney promised Bobby that Mrs. Hansen didn’t die of anything catching that he began to calm down a little.

  Next she called on one of the youngest juniors, a little five-year-old named Jonah, who’d been crying quietly all during the prayers. Jonah didn’t exactly have a question, though. What Jonah wanted was for Miss Mooney to promise that she wasn’t going to die, too.

  Miss Mooney seemed to have a hard time answering most of the questions. Particularly when she had to talk about Mrs. Hansen.

  Mrs. Hansen, she said, died mostly of old age, and she was going to be terribly, terribly missed by everyone at Lovell House. Then she asked them to give her a moment to compose herself, so they did, but as soon as she’d wiped her eyes they all started in again.

  Herbie Watson asked if Miss Offenbacher was sick,
too, and if that was why she had to be prayed for, and dumb old Frankie asked what kind of a board Mr. Garrison was president of. Like, did it have to be some real special kind of board, or would an ordinary old plank do?

  Gib could tell that Miss Mooney was having a hard time answering all the questions, so he decided to wait until later to ask his. Particularly since his first one was the kind she might not want to answer in front of everybody. His first, and most important, question was why Miss Mooney wasn’t going to be the new headmistress, instead of Miss Offenbacher.

  And the second one wouldn’t be easy, either. It was the one he’d been waiting to ask for a long time, about whether there was some kind of a rule against allowing Junior Hall boys to be adopted.

  So he didn’t get to ask either of his questions that day, but about a week later one of them answered itself when a Junior Hall boy got adopted after all.

  It happened one day at breakfast—at least the only part Gib got to see, happened then. He had almost finished his oatmeal when he heard Miss Offenbacher’s voice and looked up in time to see her come into the dining hall with a tall man dressed in a long, dusty black overcoat. The tall stranger had a large nose, a stringy dark gray beard, and deep-set, flickery eyes.

  Instead of introducing the stranger and asking everyone to say hello, the way Mrs. Hansen had always done when a possible adoptive parent came to visit, Miss Offenbacher just led the way up and down the aisles, stopping now and then and asking a boy to stand up and say hello to Mr. Bean. Afterward, when he knew more about the man, Gib shivered when he remembered how he and Jacob had grinned at each other about the name. “Bean?” Gib mouthed, and Jacob mouthed back, “Beanpole.”

  Miss Offenbacher led the man named Bean through the seniors first, but then, when the visitor pointed, she started down the first table of juniors.

  The first boy at the juniors’ table was fat old Fred MacDonald, but the visitor just shook his head and went on. Gib was next. He’d been planning what he’d do if he ever had a chance to meet someone who’d come to adopt. He’d even practiced it now and then, when no one was looking. Practiced standing up straight and showing his teeth in a big smile—Miss Mooney had told him he had a good smile—and speaking out clearly if he was asked any questions. So he stood up quickly and smiled, even though he was already beginning to feel that there was something about the visitor that made a smile hard to come by.

  But the man only nodded and moved on, and on, until he came to, of all people, wheezy little rabbit-faced Georgie Olson. And then, after Georgie had stammered out his name, “George Olson,” and his age, “Almost nine, sir,” the black-coated man nodded at Miss Offenbacher, turned on his heel, and tromped out of the room. And then she left too, right after she’d told Georgie to report to her office as soon as the bell rang for classes.

  Gib always remembered Georgie’s face that day as he left the dining room. The usual Georgie was there, the nervous, jumpy, rabbity one, but there was something new, too. Some little bit of hopefulness, maybe, and even a little bit of pride that out of all the juniors he’d been the one chosen.

  And sure enough, by the next day Georgie was gone. Scared little rabbit-faced Georgie Olson had been adopted.

  Chapter 9

  OF COURSE THERE WAS a lot of talk in Junior Hall in the days that followed Georgie’s adoption. Talk and wishful thinking and a certain amount of envy. At least Gib felt a little bit that way, picturing Georgie living in a real house with the kind of family Gib’s daydreams had created. A farming family in a big, shady, everlasting kind of house out in the country, with a bunch of kids and lots of horses and other animals. But Jacob didn’t agree. Jacob said he was glad he hadn’t been chosen.

  “Me? Me wish that old Billy Whiskers had picked me?” he said when Gib asked him. “Not on your tintype.”

  “Why not?” Gib asked. “Don’t you ever want to live with a family like a normal person?”

  Jacob shrugged. “Sure I do,” he said. “Someday, maybe. But that old geezer had a mean look about him.”

  Gib nodded reluctantly. “Yeah, I know. But maybe ... He paused, not wanting to admit his own reaction to the man who had taken poor Georgie. “But could be he’s better than he looks. You know. Handsome is ...,” he began, and Jacob laughed and joined in to finish one of Miss Mooney’s favorite quotes. “... as handsome does.”

  “Anyway, he picked a junior,” Gib said. “That proves there’s no law against it. So maybe one of us will get picked next time.”

  Jacob snorted. “Well, they’ll have to show up pretty soon,” he said. “To get ahold of us while we’re still juniors.”

  Jacob was right about that. In October Jacob passed his ninth birthday and moved upstairs, and a couple of months later Gib followed. So they left behind forever the huge old ballroom with its thirty-some childish occupants, and joined sixteen older boys in the smaller hall on the third floor. And it very soon became obvious to Gib that Buster Gray hadn’t been fooling when he said that a senior’s life wasn’t exactly easy.

  Just as Buster had warned, the upstairs hall was cold and drafty. And the chores assigned senior boys were certainly harder, most of the heavy mopping and scrubbing indoors, and all the outdoor stuff in cold weather. But worst of all, seniors were taught by different instructors. Instead of Miss Mooney and Miss Berger, they were now housemothered by Miss Offenbacher herself. And taught, too, at least until Mr. Harding showed up.

  A thick-chested man, with a bushy beard and a shiny bald head, Mr. Harding had been hired when Miss Offenbacher began to spend most of her time in the headmistress’s office. When he first heard about the new teacher, Gib, as well as most of the other senior boys, had been pleased, or at least a little relieved. First of all, it might be interesting having a man teacher for a change. And second, the new man would have to be pretty bad to be worse than you know who.

  Gib went on trying to feel that way even after Mr. Harding started his first day by introducing his best friend. Mr. Harding’s best friend turned out to be a wide, flat board with a handle on one end. His friend’s name was Mr. Paddle, he said, and Mr. Paddle was going to be their friend, too, by helping them all to become excellent students and good, law-abiding citizens.

  On that first day Mr. Harding didn’t go on to explain just how Mr. Paddle was going to be so helpful, but Gib had an uncomfortable feeling he already knew. And during chore time that same afternoon, he found out that some of the other boys had the same feeling.

  “Shucks,” Jacob said when Gib asked him, “everybody knowed what he meant. And what’s more, he knowed that we knowed.” Dropping his snow shovel, Jacob pretended to whack Gib on the backside with an imaginary Mr. Paddle. “That’s how,” Jacob grunted between whacks. “He meant he’s going to beat the tar out of us if we don’t do to suit him.”

  They were halfway down the orphanage’s curving driveway at the time, trying to clean up after a medium-sized blizzard that had raged all night and most of the morning. Six senior boys, shoveling and shivering in their thin overcoats and frazzled-out mittens, trying to clear a passageway wide enough for the orphanage buggy and any Lovell House visitors that might happen to show up.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought, too,” Gib said between shovelfuls of the heavy, wet snow. Then he stopped long enough to poke Jacob with the handle of his shovel. “Lucky us, huh?”

  Jacob laughed and poked back, and all the other shovelers stopped to look at Gib and Jacob expectantly. So they both did their famous dumb-but-happy faces that everybody looked for whenever anybody mentioned the word lucky. Looked and fell apart laughing, or, when the situation made laughing too dangerous, tried their best not to look.

  The situation at that particular moment hadn’t seemed especially dangerous. Except for the six of them, Gib, Jacob, Luke, Frankie, Abner, and Fred, no one else was in sight and the front windows of Lovell House were a long way away and pretty well frosted over. But the way it turned out, somebody must have been looking, because an hour or so late
r, when the six of them were in the coatroom cleaning up, Buster came in and handed Gib and Jacob report slips.

  “Report?” Jacob squealed. “Where? To who?”

  Buster sighed and shook his head. “Harding,” he said. “Harding’s classroom. Soon as you get cleaned up.”

  That was the day Gib and Jacob made the acquaintance of Mr. Paddle. On their way upstairs they tried to reassure each other that they had nothing to worry about.

  “What did we do, for heaven’s sake?” Jacob said. “I mean, we did the lucky face thing and everybody laughed some, but there was no way anyone could’ve seen that. Was there? You see how anybody could have seen us, Gib?”

  Gib agreed. “Leastways not unless they rubbed some frost off a window first.” He put an evil expression on his face and pantomimed the rubbing and peering, and Jacob did manage a weak grin. But when they reached the senior classroom they could tell immediately that they had nothing to grin about. When they walked into the classroom Mr. Harding was in his shirtsleeves, and Mr. Paddle was lying right there on his desk.

  “Sir,” Gib said hurriedly when, without a word, Mr. Harding picked up the paddle and headed in his direction. “Sir, could you tell us what we did? I mean, so we’ll know not to do it again.”

  Afterward, back in the dorm, Gib and Jacob told an audience of eight or ten other seniors about what happened. “And then old Harding kind of chuckled in that nasty way of his,” Jacob said. “‘Huh! Huh! Huh!’ And he pushed Gib down across a desk and lit into him with the paddle. ‘I—think—you—know.’” Jacob went on being Mr. Harding, showing how he swatted with every word. “‘And if—you—don’t—Mr. Paddle will—teach you.’”

  Frankie Elsworth’s face was screwed up like something was hitting him too. “Did it hurt real bad?” he asked in a jittery voice.

  Gib was easing himself down onto his cot at the moment and trying not to let his face show what his backside still felt like. But once he was flat down it wasn’t too bad. “Naw,” he said, grinning at Frankie. “It wasn’t too bad.”