A Stitch in Time

by Daphne Kalmar

  “Hello?”

  “Who’s that at the door?” said Mrs. Patoine from the kitchen.

  The nine-year-old twins came bouncing into the mudroom, identical in every way.

  “It’s your girlfriend, Tiny,” they said in unison, and busted up giggling.

  “Quiet, you two. Get back to your lessons,” said Mrs. Patoine.

  “Your boyfriend’s—” said Josie.

  “In the kitchen,” finished Stella. And they started giggling again.

  Tiny came to the door and pushed the girls away. “You don’t keep quiet I’ll knock you for a row of carrots, the both of you.”

  He gave them a look like he just might do it and they trooped back to the kitchen, whispering and jabbing each other with elbows and shoulders.

  “Done with the milking?” asked Donut. “Thought we could go for a paddle in the Nehi.”

  “Can’t.” Tiny shoved his hands in his pockets and stared down at the floor.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Winnie’s gone lame. Must’ve stepped in a woodchuck hole. Leg’s all swollen. Took forever for Dad and me to get her up to the barn.”

  “Is she gonna be okay?”

  “Doctored her up best we could. Hoping a rest will set her to rights.”

  “Poor Winnie.”

  “Come on, I’m gonna check on her now.” Tiny turned. “Maman, we’ll be in the barn.”

  The twins busted up giggling again, and Tiny’s seven-year-old sister, Claire, giggled at their giggling.

  “Shush,” said Mrs. Patoine. “That’s fine, Jules, and it’s good to see you, Donut, dear.”

  Tiny pulled on his coat and they slipped out the door.

  Donut gave him a squeeze on the arm.

  Inside the barn, Bangor, the cat, gave her a suspicious look from his perch on a grain bin. Donut breathed in the complicated smell of the place—lime, manure, straw, wooden planks, cow—an old smell that reminded a person what their nose was good for.

  They made their way down the center aisle of the barn, the stanchions empty since the herd was out in the pasture. A lantern hung over one of the horse stalls in the corner.

  “Hey, girl,” said Donut, as Tiny had taught her. Cows didn’t like surprises. Winnie was bedded down in fresh straw. Tiny sat, lifted Winnie’s great big head into his lap, and stroked her neck. She was a beautiful animal—light brown with patches of white like continents stretched down her right side and along her rump. Her left hind leg was wrapped in a poultice.

  Donut settled herself in the straw next to Tiny, reached out, and scratched Winnie behind the ear. A steady stream of cow slobber was soaking into Tiny’s pant leg.

  “She’s a beauty,” said Donut.

  He nodded. Tiny looked small, sitting with Winnie, her big body filling the space. Maybe he felt just the right size with these animals. Since they were little kids, he’d been taller than all of them, a big lunk, everyone making cracks, his passage down the street gathering up stares. “The kid’s only seven!” “He’s only ten. Gonna be a giant.” “What’re they feeding you, boy?”

  Here in the barn, Tiny was just the right size.

  “Poor Winnie,” said Donut.

  “She’s just a cow,” he said real soft.

  “No, she’s not. She’s your Winnie.” Donut socked Tiny on the arm. “And she’s gonna be fine.”

  “Yeah.”

  They sat in the straw awhile, the lantern sputtered, and Donut shooshed away the flies settling on Winnie’s flank.

  “I’m thinking of asking Sam to talk to Aunt Agnes,” said Donut. “She’s really stuck on her job in Boston. Got her nose out of joint when I brought up the Metal Works.”

  “If anyone can turn her around, Sam’s the one. She won’t scare him a bit.”

  “I could ask him to supper. She’d like that.”

  “Yeah,” said Tiny. “Might work.”

  Winnie twitched her right ear and he gave her a scratch.

  Donut stood and brushed the straw off her coat. “I sure hope she’s on her feet soon.”

  “Hey, I’ll walk you home.”

  They were quiet on the way down the hill. At her drive they stopped.

  “Don’t worry, Winnie’ll be fine.”

  Tiny sagged a little. “See you tomorrow.”

  Donut watched him hike back up the hill. He didn’t pitch a single rock, and his shoulders were all slumped. He’d be checking on Winnie all afternoon, and knowing Tiny, he might just spend the night in the barn to keep an eye on her. At the crest of the hill, his outline was sharp and perfect against the sky for just a second, and then he disappeared down the backside. Donut wrapped her arms around herself. Slapp Hill was just getting sadder and sadder.

  8

  Monday morning Donut headed down the hill to school. Tiny was waiting for her on the bridge.

  “How’s Winnie?”

  “About the same,” he said. “But she ate some mash this morning.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  They walked side by side, Tiny throwing rocks, Donut kicking them into the scrub.

  “Did you ask her?” he said. “About the supper?”

  “Not yet. After school.”

  “Listen, Donut.” Tiny stopped and looked at her straight on. “This whole thing with your aunties just isn’t right. Not after you losing your pops and all.” He punched her gently on the arm. “Whatever it takes. We’ll keep you here where you belong.”

  Donut looked away, studied the ruts in the dirt road. “Thanks, Tiny,” she whispered.

  When they got to the schoolyard, Pudge and the Barclay boys were squatting over a cedar plank under the sugar maple at the far edge of the yard. Donut had her poker stake of twenty pennies tied in one of her pops’ red handkerchiefs stuffed deep in her pocket.

  “Hey, you’re late,” said Pudge.

  “Deal the cards, boys.” Donut balanced her book bag on top of her lunch pail. “Let’s play.”

  Pudge shuffled, his skinny fingers tense, tongue sticking out in concentration. Fumbling the cards, he almost dumped the deck in the dirt at his feet.

  “All clear,” whispered Stuckie, the lookout, perched on a low branch in the maple.

  Donut had tagged along with her pops to Sam’s weekly poker games on Friday nights for as long as she could remember. Marcel and André were regulars. She’d sat up on a stack of books piled on a chair in Sam’s kitchen and watched as the men laughed and hollered and bluffed their way through every game. At the age of nine she’d been dealt her first hand. When she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer she’d wander into Sam’s parlor and curl up in his soft armchair and fall asleep to the strum of cards being shuffled, laughter, and the clink of coins.

  After Aunt Agnes arrived Donut had made up a story about suppers at Sam’s on Friday nights. No one had ever said a word about her pops’ empty chair. They’d just acted like it was a normal Friday night and dealt her in. But secrets never stayed secret in Cobden. Aunt Agnes had heard from Mrs. Stratton what Donut was up to over at Sam’s on Friday nights, and that was the end of that.

  So she’d started her own poker game. She’d taught the boys at school how to gamble. Up until then, all they’d known was rummy, old maid, horse and pepper, or go fish. The morning poker game had caught on.

  Pudge finished dealing the cards and they all squatted around the cedar plank.

  “Ante up, Gus,” said Donut.

  “Don’t let her bluff you out of the pot this time,” said Wally Ducharme, standing off to the side with his little brother, Pete.

  “Yeah,” said Pete. They’d both been banned from the game because Pete wouldn’t quit slipping his aces to Wally under the cedar plank.

  “Shut up, you two,” said Pudge.

  “Who you telling to shut up?” said Wally.

  “Yeah, who?” said Pete.

  “We’re trying to play cards here,” said Pudge.

  Wally gave him a good shove with his foot and tipped him over, his face
landing in the dirt.

  “Hey!” yelled Pudge.

  Tiny set his cards down on the plank and stood up. That’s all he ever had to do to end any foolishness in the schoolyard. Wally and Pete backed away.

  Stuckie’s legs started swinging up over their heads. “Stash the cards,” he said in a loud whisper. “Beebe’s coming.”

  The spectators scattered. Pudge swept up the cards and shoved them in his lunch pail.

  “What are you children doing over here behind this tree again?” Miss Beebe towered over them in her black coat. Donut stared straight ahead at Miss Beebe’s skinny legs and studied the stitching that closed up the holes in her black wool stockings. The track down her shin resembled the Nile running backward, with the great delta fanning out around her ankle, where it looked like she’d stitched up a dog bite.

  “Just jawing about the weather, ma’am,” said Tiny. He stood eye to eye with Miss Beebe, who was a tall woman.

  “Jules, I find it hard to believe that talk of the weather would draw such a crowd. I’ll be ringing the bell shortly. Get out from behind that tree where I can keep an eye on you scallywags.” Miss Beebe turned and headed back to the schoolhouse.

  The day took forever to tick by. At noon Tiny complained of a stomachache and took off for home. Doris and Donut sat at their desks eating lunch.

  “What’s got into him?” said Doris, pulling a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper out of her pail. “Didn’t look too sick to me.”

  “Got a cow needs tending,” said Donut.

  They kept on eating, the chatter and laughing of classmates all around them. Donut was quiet, all caught up with the supper and imagining Sam and Aunt Agnes locking horns over their goddaughter.

  “You got a sick cow, too?” said Doris, poking Donut with an elbow. “That face could open a tight lid. What’s eating you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Yeah? If it’s nothing, it’s a whole lot of nothing.”

  “It’s my auntie, that’s all. Takes some getting used to.”

  “I bet. Doesn’t mix much with folks. Looked like a squirrel in a trap when I saw Mrs. Lamphere corner her at the post office for a chat.”

  Donut ate her apple while Doris babbled on. “I read up on Gilda Gray in the latest issue of True Confessions. She’s the shimmy queen, you know. Lives in Hollywood, California. Can you imagine that?” Doris closed her eyes and sighed. “Oh, wouldn’t it just be the cat’s whiskers to be a flapper in Hollywood with a long string of pearls?”

  Donut shook her head. All Doris wanted was to run off to New York City or Hollywood or Chicago, while Donut would do anything to stay right here in her little village. Maybe Aunt Agnes would make a trade and haul Doris off to Boston instead of her. Donut smiled at the thought of her auntie trying to civilize Doris.

  Considering how the afternoon dragged on through dictation and spelling and poetry, the sun should have set and the moon risen over the hills. Donut sighed louder than she meant to, and Doris giggled. Miss Beebe was never gonna finish up with Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

  9

  After school Donut hiked up Slapp Hill Road alone. She hung her coat on its peg and pulled off her boots. As always, Aunt Agnes was sitting in the parlor in the wingback chair.

  “Auntie,” said Donut, trying for a friendly voice. “Can I ask Sam to supper?”

  “Supper?” Aunt Agnes looked up from her book.

  “I just thought you two should get to know each other better, being my godmother and godfather.”

  Aunt Agnes’s face softened. “Well, wouldn’t that be nice.”

  “He could probably come anytime.” Donut swallowed. She was sounding way too eager.

  “Is that so?” Aunt Agnes peered at Donut over her spectacles. “Let’s say tomorrow, Tuesday. I’ll pick up one of that André fellow’s chickens.”

  “Gosh, that’ll be great.” Donut leaned against the doorframe, tried to act natural. It was all new, this lying and sneaking around. How did criminals do it—rob banks, hide all that money under their mattresses? Sleeping on top of all that loot would be like snoozing on a porcupine, what with the guilt and the worry poking up through the sheets. Donut figured she just wasn’t cut out for a life of crime.

  “Ask him to come at six.” Aunt Agnes smiled and stood up. “Now, Aunt Jo and I have a surprise for you. Sit down for a minute.”

  Donut sat on the straight-backed chair by the fire. Her aunties’ last big surprise had been news of a kidnapping coming up in two weeks. What had they cooked up now? A trunk full of petticoats, ribbons, and white gloves?

  Aunt Agnes trundled over to the writing desk, picked up a package, and handed it to her with a big grin. Donut tried for a smile and did a pretty good job of it.

  The package was wrapped in brown paper with stamps and string and her name on it. The return address was Miss Jo Dabney at the Winslow Academy for Girls in Boston. The heft of it gave it away right off. A book. A large one. Probably one of Aunt Agnes’s dry-as-a-chip histories or biographies. Donut untied the string and pulled off the brown paper.

  In her lap was the Rand McNally World Atlas, third edition.

  She looked up. Aunt Agnes stood there, her grin even bigger.

  “I asked Sam what you might like. He said you’d been saving for a long while for just this book. Jo and I wanted to get you something special.”

  “Thank you.” It came out stiff as a starched collar.

  Her auntie’s grin sagged. “What’s wrong?”

  Donut stared down at the Rand McNally World Atlas, third edition. She’d been saving for more than a year now, only two dollars short of her goal. She’d only told Sam, Tiny, and her pops. Aunt Agnes had no business nosing around, uncovering her secrets and private hopes and stealing them.

  Donut was quiet. She couldn’t pretend, couldn’t “ooh” and “ah” over the gift just to keep her auntie in a good mood for the supper with Sam.

  Aunt Agnes put her hands on her hips and snorted like a winded horse. “Well, that’s not the reaction I was expecting.”

  Donut was quiet.

  Aunt Agnes left the room in a huff. But right before she turned away Donut caught the hurt in her aunt’s eyes, just a flash of it beneath the anger.

  Donut sat and stared at the beautiful book, bound in maroon leather, with the title set in a frame of gold curlicues. Gritting her teeth, she got up and hurried past Aunt Agnes in the kitchen. In her room, she plunked down on her bed, set the Rand McNally World Atlas, third edition, on her lap, and ran her hand across the cover.

  She had to open it, just the once. Breathe in the wondrous smell of new ink and crisp, fresh paper. Flipping through the pages, she found the map of Egypt. The brilliant blue of the Mediterranean popped right off the page. She traced the Nile River with her finger as it snaked across the desert and split into the Rosetta and Damietta mouths, forming the great Nile Delta. The delta didn’t hold just a collection of pearls—it was the Hope diamond—packed tight with towns and villages.

  Donut slammed the Rand McNally World Atlas, third edition, shut. It was bait. She might as well be a hungry lake trout circling a fat, juicy worm stuck on a fishhook. Her auntie had crept around, found out her deepest desire, and stolen it. And Sam, that snake in the grass, had told her.

  She should march out the door, hike up to Dog Pond, paddle the Nehi out to the deep spot, and drop it overboard. Give the Rand McNally World Atlas, third edition, the deep six for the edification of all the fish lurking at the muddy bottom.

  Donut scowled at the thought of it. She couldn’t really drown any book, no matter its traitorous origins. But she was never, ever gonna crack this one open again. She picked up the heavy book, opened her closet door, and shoved it deep in the back, on the floor with the boots and dust and spiders.

  Donut slammed the closet door shut and charged down the stairs and through the kitchen.

  “Going out,” she said to her aunt.

  “Out? Where?”

  Donut was out the doo
r before Aunt Agnes had time to slow her down. With her boots untied, her running was mostly shuffling. But she couldn’t stop and tie them. She was in too much of a hurry to give Sam a piece of her mind.

  Her right foot pulled halfway out of her boot and she swung her arms so as not to tip over, which sucked some of the steam out of her. If she stepped too high she might just float and flap away from the Earth, her boots stuck fast in the mud. They’d find them empty and there’d be quite a mystery in Cobden for years to come.

  CALEDONIA GAZETTE

  Girl Gone Missing

  APRIL 19, 1927

  THE MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF AN ELEVEN-YEAR-OLD GIRL, DOROTHY SEDGEWICK, AKA DONUT, ON SLAPP HILL ROAD WAS REPORTED MONDAY AFTERNOON. IT APPEARS THAT SHE STOPPED DEAD IN HER TRACKS, TOOK THE TIME TO UNLACE HER BOOTS AND VANISHED IN HER STOCKING FEET. HER SIZE-SIX LEATHER BOOTS ARE ALL THAT REMAIN. ANYONE WITH ANY INFORMATION SHOULD CONTACT SERGEANT ERNIE MAYO AT THE COBDEN TOWN OFFICES.

  It might even make the Burlington Free Press. She guessed it was better than dying in her sleep, all old and gray, with no teeth in her head. When old people died in their sleep, was it right in the middle of a dream?

  Donut slogged down the hill.

  Standing in his mudroom, she gave a good strong yell. “Sam?”

  She shuffled into the parlor in her muddy boots. Ichabod stood there, bigger than before, white as a marble statue—a ghost moose. Sam had finished the first coat of papier-mâché and the skull was attached now, turned to the right, staring through empty eye sockets out the window over her workbench. His huge antlers curved upward, almost touching the ceiling. The moose had weight now, the right hind leg and the left front leg ahead of their partners, standing on four solid hoofs.

  Donut moved closer, stretched out her hand, and laid it on Ichabod’s shoulder. It was damp to the touch. She couldn’t imagine trying to sleep in the house once he was a proper moose, with his skin on and glass eyes in. She’d just lie in bed thinking of the stomping and banging Ichabod would make if he got loose from the board, punching holes in the pine floor, busting windows with his antlers, smacking dents in the plaster walls with that enormous rump.