I begin slowly. “We have only half a box of stale crackers, jars of beans and tomatoes, and fish in the stream. We don’t know where Pop is, and we don’t have the money for rent. Or seed.”
“Right.” She seems almost pleased that I finally know what she’s talking about. But she begins to cry again. “I didn’t even have the money to run away.”
That Cassie. I blow air through my lips.
“You sound like Xenia,” she says.
“You don’t sound as worried as you should be.”
“It’s because I told you. Now I don’t have to worry about this by myself anymore.”
My face is hot. I want to scream. Wait, I try to tell myself. Wait.
I know I love Cassie, but she’s orange, as orange as a Halloween pumpkin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I never get to make those cups of tea. Cassie and I go into the kitchen, and Joey takes a deep breath when he sees her. He looks down at the table. I know he’s trying to remember that boys aren’t supposed to cry.
He glances across at Anton, and the two of them grin at each other. Anton shrugs a little, gets up, and goes toward the back door.
I want to ask if he wants tea, but I’m so tired. “I will never forget this,” I tell him, reminding me of my old self when I thought about words and how they sounded.
He nods and reaches for the doorknob.
“Wait a minute. What’s that all over your hands?”
Anton looks down at them. “Paint, I guess.”
And then he disappears up the lane.
The three of us go into the living room and fall onto the mattresses. Joey asks, “Where were you, Cassie?”
“In the barn.”
“All that time?”
“Tell him the rest,” I say. “Tell him that you’ve lost all our money.”
Joey sits up, but Cassie is crying again.
I take pity on her. “We’ll do something,” I say, even though I can’t imagine what it will be.
“All of it?” Joey says.
“I’m sorry,” Cassie begins. And she goes through the whole story again.
I close my eyes. I have to think about that paint on Anton’s hands, what I know it means, but it’s so late and I need to sleep. Almost dreaming, I remember that old self of mine, writing letters, reading …
“She’s not gone,” I whisper, “not gone.…”
Morning comes fast. But I can’t sleep anymore; I feel as if I’m in a fog.
Cassie’s up ahead of me, sitting at the kitchen table.
“We’ll just have to get help,” she says. “We’ll take ourselves down to the grocery store and—”
“Mr. Brancato isn’t any better off than we are.” Anger bursts in my chest. “The store is closed! Pop told us to find him at his house in case of an emergency. Do you know what emergency means?”
“No rent?” Cassie says. “No money?” She hesitates. “No food to feed Woodrow.”
“No.” I space the next words out as if I’m talking to someone who belongs on Pluto. “We will not go to Mr. Brancato.” Pop’s words come into my head. “I have to do this myself. No, not myself. Ourselves.”
But then I stop. “Who’s Woodrow?”
“My cat. Mine and Mr. Appleby’s. Mr. Appleby gave me the food and I fed Woodrow every day.” Cassie narrows her eyes at me. “Before you lost him.” She sniffs. “Poor Woodrow. I still put food out for him, but maybe he’s gone forever.”
I can’t believe it. “I fed him, too. Charlie the Butcher always gave me—” I break off. “I call him Clarence.”
We stare at each other, and then I tell her about Miss Mitzi and her cat, Lazy, who came back. “We have to have hope.”
I go outside and sit on the back step, staring at my garden, the damp dark earth ready to plant, and thinking about Clarence. Woodrow. Two meals a day.
But never mind that now. I have to find money. And pay the rent somehow.
I go back into the house and nearly step on one of the chickens. Gladys? I can’t tell them apart anymore.
“What are we going to do, then?” Cassie says from the table. “Whatever—”
“Feed the chicks. Make yourself useful.”
“Do I have to do everything?” she asks.
My mouth opens. “You’re the one who lost all our money!”
But I’ve thought of one thing I can do first thing tomorrow morning. And just having an idea makes me feel a little better. Look forward, Rachel, I hear Mr. Appleby saying in my head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
It’s rent day. I pull on my wrinkled Sunday dress and glance in the mirror. I must have grown when I wasn’t looking. Either that or the dress shrank by itself. I grin a little.
My good shoes are under the bed. I pull them on; my feet have grown, too.
I run a comb through my hair, patting down the sides, until I’m sure I’m presentable.
Down in the kitchen, Cassie is sweeping the floor around the chickens. “Clean out a spot in the barn,” I tell her. “And get them out there, if you don’t mind.”
She twitches one shoulder but she doesn’t answer.
I glare at her. “Where’s Joey?”
“He’s up on the roof, polishing that rooster. He’ll probably break his neck.”
It’s my turn not to answer. I know this about Joey now. He does things that we think are dangerous. But he doesn’t do anything he can’t do. I really believe that. I go out the door and look up.
“Don’t fall,” I yell. “I’m going to town and I can’t save you.”
He waves down at me, that good egg Joey. “Don’t worry. As soon as I finish this, I’m going fishing.”
Along the road, the fields are green and the leaves on the trees overhead look new and washed. Things grow along the side of the road. I smell mint and see dandelions. I heard once you can make soup out of dandelions.
I talk to myself all the way to town, talk out loud, using the most persuasive voice I have. My hands are damp with worry. This has to work. Otherwise—
Never mind otherwise.
I stop to smooth down my hair once more, then turn in at the real estate office, listening to the jingle as I push open the door.
The real estate man sits with his feet up on the desk. He has nothing to do, I’m sure. Who’s buying a farm now? Who’s even renting?
He sees me and puts his feet down. “Hello?” he says; it’s almost a question. He doesn’t look overly friendly. A Miss Mitzi word, overly. I have a quick thought of her, sky-blue eyes, a white straw hat, and a pink rose in her lapel, when we all went to a museum last year.
“I want to talk to you about our farm,” I say. “The one on Waltz Road.”
There’s a sign on his desk: MR. GRIMM. Doesn’t that just fit? Cassie would say. And because my knees are trembling, I slide into the seat across from him without asking.
He frowns. “I stopped by for the rent—”
I spread out my hands. “We don’t have the money just yet.” Every word is pulled out of me.
He raises his eyebrows.
“But we will!” I add.
“Listen, girlie, everyone tells me that. They say any day the money will come, someone is sending it.” He leans forward. “The money never comes. They never pay.”
“We’ll pay,” I say fiercely.
He blows air through thick lips. “I’ll give you a week.”
Seven days. How do I know Pop will send money by then? I don’t, so I shake my head. “I need more time.”
His eyebrows go up again. “Do you know what interest is?”
I don’t know how to answer; I have no idea.
“It means that I’ll give you more time, but you’ll have to pay extra.”
“How much time?”
“A month.” He scribbles numbers on a piece of paper. “This much,” he says.
“Fine.” I barely look. The end of June, summer. I stand up. Who knows how much extra we’ll pay? But I don’t care.
A month. Thirty days.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Outside, I sit on a bench facing the train station, the sun warm on my head. And then it comes to me: a great idea.
I stand up and find my way to the grain store. Inside, the man at the counter looks friendlier than Mr. Grimm. It’s a good sign. “I’m an excellent worker,” I say.
The feed man’s lips twitch; he’s trying not to laugh.
“I need a job.”
He begins to shake his head.
“My goat ate my plants. I have to get seed.”
His face changes. I can see he feels sorry for me.
“I could straighten your shelves,” I tell him quickly.
What would Cassie say to that? I’m the sloppiest girl she knows.
“You could straighten that row of boxes, I guess. Put the seed packages where they belong. And in the next aisle, the nails are mixed up. You could sort them out. For seed. Not money.”
“Yes.” I nod. “That’s what I want, just enough seed to plant my garden again.”
Someone comes into the store, and the feed man waves me toward the aisle.
I spend the rest of the day working. It isn’t as hard to be neat as I’d thought. But my shoes grow tighter as I move from one box to another, sorting nails, large, medium, or so small I wonder what they could possibly hold together. It’s hard to concentrate on anything but my ankles rubbing against those too-small leather shoes.
“Closing time,” the man says at last. He takes a while to check my work, neat stacks of pale brown bags labeled SUNFLOWERS, DAISIES, or BLUEBELLS, and separately, square white envelopes marked CUKES, TOMATOES, or about ten other vegetables.
“You can take five packets,” he says. “Any five you want.”
Choose wisely.
Whatever I grow will be what we eat. I long for corn on the cob, but Pop told me corn needed a whole field to make it turn out well.
I stand there in an agony of indecision. Miss Mitzi said that once about an arrangement she was putting together. Up in front, the feed man coughs a little; he wants to go home.
In a hurry, I choose squash and carrots and onions again. My fingers walk their way through the packs. Ah, beets and, at the last minute, lettuce.
“Good choices.” He reaches back and takes out two more packs. “One is marigold seeds.”
Marigolds!
He taps the other envelope. “I don’t remember what these are. I forgot to label them.” He shrugs. “Want them?”
“Sure.” I duck my head. “I’m grateful.”
He smiles. “I’m grateful, too. The shelves were a mess.”
“Maybe I could help out again.”
“Maybe,” he says.
As soon as I’m away from the store, I pull off my shoes. I have blisters on both heels. But never mind. I clutch the small packets in my hands. A garden and thirty days to pay the rent.
It’s late by the time I’m home. Cassie’s waiting at the door. “I thought you were dead.”
I stare at her, and her face reddens. We’re both remembering her stay in the barn. I wave the packets at her and then at Joey, who comes to the door to see what’s happening.
“Wow,” Joey says when he hears about the rent and sees the seeds. Cassie breathes, “Oh, Rachel.”
It’s almost dark, but the three of us go outside and plant. We put the mystery seeds right in the middle. “Maybe it will be something really special,” Cassie says.
We stand there grinning at each other, happy with ourselves.
“If only Pop could see this,” Joey says.
“He’ll see the best of it,” Cassie says. “When it’s all grown.”
Cassie, surprising me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Today is perfect. I tell myself I’m going to have a holiday from worrying about the rent today.
Barefoot, I go out to look at our garden. Tiny green shoots cover the earth. I spot pale lettuce leaves; soon we’ll have a taste. Leaning down, I brush my fingers over the mystery plants. What an odd smell they have.
Then I go to the barn and bring Xenia outside. She looks at the garden. “Oh, no!” I say. “Not this time.”
Joey has put out a stake, and I tie her to it. There’s enough room for her to move around, but our vegetables are safe!
Back in the barn, I pour some of her food into the pan and glance up at the painting of the girl reading. I look at her carefully. I can’t see her face; she lies on her stomach, one ankle crossed over the other. She must be happy, because she’s reading. Her book is painted blue.
I think of what my art teacher said: the painter always tries to tell you something.
What was he trying to tell me?
He. Not a girl.
Anton, with blue paint over his hands.
I give Xenia another pat, then go down to the stream.
I walk around the ferns and wade along the edge of the water until I reach the rock. And there’s the painting: a girl in front of the school. I know that now because of the flagpole.
Something else about it makes me smile. I see now what the girl is wearing on her hands. Boxing gloves! The artist might have been laughing as he drew.
I turn and take the stream in the other direction, up toward the hills, toward Anton’s cottage. It’s a long way in bare feet, but I’m determined.
And at last I’m standing in front. “Hey, Anton,” I yell.
Suppose his mother comes out, or his father. Nobody opens the door, but then there’s a hand on my shoulder. I swivel around.
“You’re going to wake the whole world,” he says.
“How did you get into my house and paint all that stuff?”
“I did it before you came. No one was there. It was a great place to paint. Lots of walls.” He hesitates. “I know I was mean that first night. I’d begun to think the house was mine, my own place to paint.” He spreads his hands. “And then you moved in. Afterward, I was sorry I wasn’t nicer.”
I nod, thinking about my own meanness. “But you did the one in the barn after that. And the one on the rock,” I say.
“I wanted to see how long it would take for you to figure it out.” Is he trying not to grin?
“I didn’t make that mess in the school.”
“That happened before you came. No one will blame you.” Now he grins. “You were just stealing books.”
“Borrowing.” My stomach turns over. “I just meant to borrow.” I picture my Rebecca book in the principal’s office.
Anton’s mother is at the door. It’s the woman with the ferns I saw at the train station. She waves. “Want some breakfast?”
I shake my head; I don’t want her to see how hungry I am.
At least—at the very least—I can stop worrying about being blamed for what happened in the school.
But what about Rebecca?
“At least muffins,” the woman calls.
I can’t resist. I stand at the door as she hands me three muffins in paper napkins.
Ah, one for each of us.
I head toward home, munching and looking up at that clear sky. Pluto is still up there, so far away, not worrying about rent or food. It must be cold, all those miles away from the sun.
How many miles away is Pop?
As I reach our house, I hear the sound of a motor. I stop. Could it be Mr. Grimm? I can feel the pulse in my throat, but then I take a breath. It’s the mail truck.
The mailman reaches out, and I can see from here there’s a letter.
A letter from Pop. How do I know it? I cross my fingers. I just do.
My dear children,
You can’t imagine how much I miss you, or how worried I am for you. You must wonder why you haven’t heard from me sooner. I’ve thought of that every day, worried over it. And you hear now only because Jeff Mills, one of the workers, is leaving—angry because we haven’t been paid—and he’ll mail our letters when he reaches the nearest town.
We are building that road across a mountain. As we
dig, we hit rock very quickly, and that has to be blasted away. It’s exhausting work; we move forward only a short distance at a time. But as we look back, we can see that new road, raw and almost yellow, growing behind us. How different it is from the banking that I know so well.
We’ve been promised our pay soon, but still it hasn’t come. Every day I want to throw down my shovel as Jeff did and walk away, but suppose the money comes tomorrow or the next day? So I hold on, as I have to ask you to hold on, too. We’ll be together someday soon, I promise.
Love,
Pop
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
For a long time I stand in the road, Pop’s letter in my hand. He’s alive, he’s somewhere, and someday he’ll be home. It just seems so long, though.
I look back to make sure Xenia is still where she’s supposed to be. I see she’s eaten a patch of weeds. She stares at me, almost as if she’s saying, Too bad for you, Rachel. I found something to eat anyway.
I smile and go toward the back door. From the corner of my eye, I see something streak through the garden. I’m ready to go after it, but it’s gone. And the letter from Pop is too exciting to bother about that right now. In the kitchen I put the letter on the table. Cassie and Joey read as we eat the muffins; Joey’s is gone in a moment, but Cassie eats hers slowly, licking her fingers after every bite.
I go to the closet. Lined up neatly are the jars of beans, the tomatoes in juice. That’s all there is. The beans are gray and my stomach turns as I look at them.
“I’ll smother the beans in chives and dump tomatoes over the whole mess,” Cassie says. “We’ll hardly taste the beans.”
Joey rolls his eyes. “Delicious.”
I glance out the window, looking toward the garden. Is something moving in there?
Cassie is talking about going to town. “Days and days ago, when everything looked so terrible …”
Wait a minute. What is that out there, anyway?
My eyes fill. “Cassie. Look.”
“Are you listening?” she asks.
“No. Come outside. Come quietly.”
“You never pay attention,” she says as she and Joey follow me outside. We stand on the step and I don’t even have to point.