Daddy popped his head out from under the covers and grinned at us. “Your mama could use a better sense of humor. You think I should run down to Clarksons’ today and buy her one?” He’d started tickling me and Carla then, until both of us were howling with laughter.
But Daddy Joe never tried to make us laugh. He wasn’t a jokester, that’s for sure. His idea of a good time was tinkering inside a broken toaster, or reading about ancient Egyptian pyramids in the National Geographic, or talking to Mama about all the boring news going on around the world. And whenever he had to get up in the morning, he’d set the alarm clock and hop right out of bed, no nonsense. Mama never once yelled at him to “Get out of bed and get to work,” like she did my real daddy.
Daddy Joe pushed the car door the rest of the way open and swung his long legs out to the ground. I guess he was the tallest man I’d ever seen, way over six feet, and his hands were the size of Ping-Pong paddles. He looked at his watch. “You know the rules. You were supposed to check in an hour ago.”
Ernestine stuffed a string of gum back in her mouth, then hopped up and snatched her bike from where she’d rested it against a tree. “Uh…I’d better get home now. I’ve got to help clean the house.” She looked at me and rolled her eyes back at Daddy Joe. My chest tightened as I watched her sail down the street, her shiny fenders glittering in the sunlight.
Daddy Joe ambled over to us. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Billie. Your mom wants you at the diner. You go with her, Tommy. Better get on down there pretty quick now, both of you.”
“What for?” From where we squatted on the ground he towered over us taller than a telephone pole. I barely worked up the nerve to look at him. “We’re trying to fix Tommy’s bike. The chain came off. Besides, I ain’t supposed to work today—I worked yesterday.”
Daddy Joe stared forever at me through his dark, deep-set eyes. I wondered how he could go so long without blinking.
“Never mind that. Just do as I say, please.” He reached over and picked up Tommy’s bike like it didn’t weigh any more than a twig. “I’ll get the chain back on this later today. Looks like the handlebars need to be tightened, too.” Tommy and I watched in silence as he wedged the bike into the back of the station wagon. He gave us one last look over his shoulder before pulling away.
Once the car turned the corner I got up and spit after it. “Dumb turd! I hate his stupid guts. Ever since Mama married him, he’s been telling me what to do. He ain’t even my real dad.”
“Yeah. He acts like he’s big stuff, like he’s the boss of me, too,” Tommy said.
I yanked my bike up from the sidewalk, wondering why Mama had ever married that guy. It’s not like she had any trouble getting men to notice her. In fact, it seemed like every man who came into the diner tried to flirt with her, so why did she have to go and pick the very worst one? If I’d had my way about the whole thing, she wouldn’t have chosen any of them. Mama never bothered to check with me, though. She’d just up and married Joe Hughes two months ago, right after my real daddy came back from California.
“What do you think your mom wants? You think we’re in trouble?” Tommy said as we headed across the street.
I shrugged my shoulders like I didn’t care, but little seeds of worry sprung up in my mind. Had Mirabelle already called her about the gladiolas?
Since neither of us was in a rush to find ourselves in trouble, we decided to take the long way and follow the railroad tracks downtown to Wanda’s Diner—that’s Mama’s restaurant. She’d worked there ever since I could remember; then, right after she married Daddy Joe, he surprised her and bought the place.
It’s not that Daddy Joe was rich; he was just a supervisor at the Firestone tire plant in Millerstown. But Mama always bragged about how smart he was with money, how he’d worked hard and saved over the years—“Unlike some people I know, who blow through cash like it’s dish suds,” she’d told Tommy’s mom, my aunt Charlene.
After Daddy Joe bought the diner, the very first thing he did was tear down the old MYRON RESTAURANT sign and hang a new one that said WANDA’S DINER. That sealed the deal for him as far as Mama was concerned. She started acting like he was the neatest thing since instant mashed potatoes, and all her attention went to him and the diner. She hardly had any time left for me or Carla.
Once, after my real daddy had come back from California and Mama was complaining about him being irresponsible, I’d said, “At least he comes around to see if Carla and I want to do something fun every once in a while. That’s more than you do. All you ever care about is that dumb—”
“Go to your room right now, young lady,” Mama had said. “And you can stay there for an hour. I hear any more sass like that from you, you’ll stay back there for the rest of the day.”
I’d just opened my mouth to tell her I was sorry when Daddy Joe cut right in and said, “I’d appreciate you not talking to your mother like that. Enough said.”
“What business is it of yours?” I’d muttered on my way down the hallway. “You’re not even a part of this family.”
I was still fuming about Joe Hughes as I shoved my bike over the loose railroad rocks. Tommy raced on down the tracks, but I followed the sweet scent of honeysuckle into some nearby bushes. I stopped to pick raspberries, stuffing handfuls of the plump, juicy berries in my mouth. As my eyes followed the tracks into the horizon, I thought about all the times we kids had sat by the railroad watching the train rumble by, waiting for the man in the caboose to stick his head out the window and toss us some candy.
For as long as I could remember those train tracks had been a big part of my life. Tommy, Ernestine, and I had explored them so many times we knew every inch of railroad from downtown Myron all the way to the deserted glass factory about a half mile out of town. At night I’d lie in bed and listen to the lonely whistle of the train, imagining I was on it, heading out to California, where Daddy had moved.
Once I got my fill of berries, I picked my bike up and started back over the tracks. By now Tommy had sped way ahead of me. I saw him stooped over the ground, sorting through a mound of stones.
“Look,” he said when I caught up to him. “This here’s a genuine arrowhead.” He showed me a small gray rock with a sharp point on one end.
I turned it over in my hand. “What else you got?”
He pulled a couple more stones out of his pocket. One of them was rust-colored and sparkly. “This one here looks valuable. I might be able to sell it.”
I nodded in agreement, but I didn’t really know anything about rocks. Tommy did, though. He was an expert. He had books about them and a whole collection of rocks on the floor of his room, all stacked in piles marked “valuable,” “medium-priced,” and “cheap.” He’d been selling railroad rocks door to door ever since we were little kids. I figured he was trying to make extra money because Aunt Charlene and him were so poor. Mama said they had even less money than we did, which I knew wasn’t much. My uncle Warren had left them several years ago and moved to Millerstown; he hardly ever came around to help out anymore. And even when he did show up, it’s not like he gave them money or anything. All he did was yell and stomp around and fight with Aunt Charlene.
Tommy stuffed the rocks back in his pocket and ran his hand through his short, sandy hair. When he grinned at me, it struck me I could’ve been looking in a mirror. We were the same age, the same size, and with our blue eyes and freckled faces, we looked so much alike some people thought we must be twins. We even had the same gap between our two front teeth.
I pushed my bike away from the tracks onto Main Street. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride,” I said.
He climbed onto my handlebars, and we headed downtown, swerving around the few cars parked along the street. There wasn’t much to Myron: a grain elevator, the Polar Meat Locker, Dick’s Grocery, the Myron Funeral Parlor, and Clarksons’ Five and Dime. If you wanted fun, you had to go to Millerstown, where Daddy lived with Uncle Warren. That’s where all the good stuff was, l
ike the Millers Park swimming pool and Rocky’s Roller Rink.
“Stop!” Tommy yelled when we got to Clarksons’. “Let’s go in. I got ten cents.” I’d started to worry a little more about what Mama wanted, but the thought of candy led me to follow Tommy right through Clarksons’ door. Mrs. Clarkson was fussing with something in the dry goods section, while Mr. Clarkson had himself planted up front behind the candy counter. He watched us like a buzzard, acting all worried we’d stick something in our pockets without paying for it. I’d never swiped anything in my whole life, but Mr. Clarkson wouldn’t have believed me, even if I told him. He didn’t trust any of us Wisher kids, and he didn’t mind saying so.
“You kids got money? This here candy ain’t free.”
Tommy pulled out his dime and showed Mr. Clarkson. We picked out two Turkish taffy sticks, paid him, then left the store sucking on our candy. After crossing Main Street, we passed a row of gray-haired men sitting on the bench outside Fuzzy’s Tavern and Pool Hall, right next door to Mama’s diner.
“Your daddy Joe find you?” Fuzzy Hilton asked when Tommy and I walked by. I glanced back at him. I didn’t know Fuzzy’s age, but I figured he had to be somewhere close to a hundred. His face looked as wrinkled as a dried-up prune. A stubble of rough gray hair outlined his mouth, and his watery eyes were pinched half closed behind a pair of scummy glasses. He spit a wad of chewing tobacco way out in the street.
“He’s been out looking for you’uns a long while now,” Fuzzy said. He jerked his head toward the diner. “Your moms is both fit to be tied. You two best git on in there.”
Tommy and I gave each other a worried look. Something inside my head warned me to run, to follow the railroad tracks out past the cornfields and the old Myron glass factory, on into the next county. Instead, I rested my bike against the side of the building and pushed the door open.
My jaw dropped as soon as we stepped inside. The diner was full of people, mostly Wishers. Some of Daddy’s brothers were hunched over a table, smoking cigarettes and playing euchre. A bunch of my Wisher cousins were piled into a corner booth, and it looked like every single one of them had a giant root beer float.
“Jeez! What’s going on? What’re they doing here?” Tommy pointed to our sheriff, Bud Castor, and his deputy, Denny, who stood behind the counter with Mama and Aunt Charlene.
Tommy and I had always made fun of Bud and Denny, calling them Castor Oil and Deputy Chipmunk Cheeks behind their backs. Today, though, the sight of Denny’s fat, rosy cheeks didn’t make me want to laugh. And Castor Oil had a look on his face that made me want to slink back out the door.
“Hey! You guys!” yelled my little sister, Carla, waving wildly from her perch on top of Mama’s counter. “Guess what? Guess what happened?” She pulled a sucker from her mouth, jumped off the counter, then raced over to us. “Our daddies just robbed a bank!”
Chapter 3
My hands flew to my mouth. I could hardly catch my breath; it felt like I’d been walloped in the chest with a baseball bat. Tommy’s face turned bright pink.
“You’re lying,” I said to Carla. But deep down I knew it must be true. Why else would the sheriff be huddled behind the counter with Mama and Aunt Charlene? And what about Daddy’s family? Why would they be there? Most of them avoided Mama like she had a bad case of the measles, except for Daddy’s youngest brother, Uncle Russell. He owned a used car lot on the outskirts of Myron and liked to drum up business at her diner. Besides, I’d heard Mama say once that the only time the Wishers got together was to celebrate bad news.
“I ain’t either lying!” Carla cried. She hurled her sucker at my face. I threw my Turkish taffy back at her. It clipped her in the eye, and she let out a wail.
“I’ll bet you a thousand million dollars it’s true! Our daddies robbed a bank, and now they’re ’scaped. They’ve gone and run off with the money,” Carla said.
“Billie,” Mama called from behind the counter. “You and Tommy get over here.”
My head buzzed with questions. I sped around the tables, knocking into Uncle Russell. He reared back, brushing his elbow against a tall glass of Coca-Cola. It spilled all over his tight lime green pants. “Hell’s bells!” he said, whisking the ice and soda off his lap. “Watch out, gal! These pants are brand-new.”
“Sorry,” I said, but I didn’t stop to help him clean up the mess. I followed Tommy behind the counter.
“Where’s Daddy?” I asked Mama straight out.
“What bank did they rob?” Tommy asked. “How come we didn’t hear any sirens?”
“They hit the Henderson County Bank,” Aunt Charlene said. “More money in Millerstown, I guess.” She fumbled through her pocketbook and pulled out a pack of Chesterfield cigarettes. “Looks like they got away with a trunkful of it, too—more than I’ll ever see in a lifetime.” Her hands shook when she struck the match.
“Where’s Daddy?” I said again, louder this time. I pictured him in handcuffs, squashed in the back of a sheriff’s car between two mean-looking guards. Hot tears welled up behind my eyes, and I fought the urge to cry.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Billie. I don’t know.” Mama pulled me to her, giving me a tight hug. “It just happened a little while ago. Nobody knows where they went, honey. They got away.” She brushed a tangle of curls off my forehead, then took a bobby pin from her apron pocket and pinned my hair back over my ear. “Bud thinks they may be on their way north.”
“Your daddies ever talk to you about anybody they know up in Indianapolis?” Castor Oil asked us. He yanked his shoulders way back and puffed his chest out. I stared him in the eye and said no. Tommy stood silent beside me, chewing on his thumbnail.
“Well, if either one of them is to try and contact you, I want you to tell me or Denny right away. We’re working with the Millerstown force on this.” Bud rocked back on his heels and gave us a wink.
I nodded, but here’s what I thought: It’ll be a hot day at the North Pole before I ever tell you where my daddy’s hid, Bud Castor Oil.
I knew something, though, as sure as I stood there: about where Daddy was. And it wasn’t Indianapolis. The thought hit me out of the blue, causing dribbles of sweat to pop out on my forehead. I wanted to tell Tommy right then, but I didn’t dare. I couldn’t take a chance on anyone hearing me.
I played dumb, making sure I didn’t let on to Castor Oil what I was thinking. Mama sliced me and Tommy each a piece of sugar cream pie, then shooed us over to a booth by our cousins while she went outside with Aunt Charlene and Bud.
The bottom of my thighs squeaked across the orange vinyl as I slid over the seat. Carla sat across from us, licking a fresh grape sucker Mama had given her. She snarled at me, but I ignored her. I was too busy listening to my uncles talk about the holdup.
“Heard they squealed out of Millerstown so fast nobody could’ve caught them,” Uncle Russell said. He dumped a mountain of ketchup on his french fries.
“Must’ve burned all the dang rubber off them tires,” another uncle said. “Bud heard they left skid marks all the way down Main Street.”
Uncle Russell looked around, then leaned over the table and dropped his voice. I had to crane my head way back to hear him. “I’m bettin’ they ain’t far from here. We’ll be hearing from them real soon about a new ve-hic-le, mark my words.”
My heart pounded. Did Uncle Russell know what I suspected, that Daddy was hiding close by?
“I wonder whose car they were driving. My dad’s car doesn’t go near that fast,” Tommy said.
“They was driving a git-a-way car,” Carla said. “’Cause they had to git away from the policemen. That’s what Bud Castor told Mama.”
I sat stony-faced, not wanting to believe what I’d heard. I couldn’t imagine my own daddy had robbed a bank. Somebody must’ve made a mistake. He wasn’t a criminal! I knew he’d been in a little trouble with the law before he’d gone off to California, because I’d overheard Mama talking about it. When I’d asked her the details, all she’d said was: “
He pulled a reckless stunt with Warren. Honestly. That man needs to grow up and think for himself, quit doing everything Warren tells him to do.”
But that had been three years ago, so I was pretty sure Daddy had done all his growing up by now. Maybe this whole bank robbery business was a case of mistaken identity—the kind of thing that happens in detective books.
“How do the cops know for sure Daddy and Uncle Warren are the robbers?” I asked Uncle Russell.
He leaned back, taking a drag off his cigarette. “Because the dumb asses didn’t have nothing but bandannas tied over their mouths, that’s why. They was easy to identify.”
Carla burst out laughing; it always tickled her when a grown-up cussed. “Whitey Hudson knowed right away who they was. He was in the bank, and he told on them. That’s what Mama said anyways.”
Whitey Hudson? I almost threw up right there. Wouldn’t you know that nosy old fart—Daddy Joe’s uncle—would be an eyewitness and go blab it all? I pictured Whitey squinting his eyes behind those thick glasses, sticking his neck out a mile to get a good look at the bank robbers.
“Whitey doesn’t know everything,” I said. “I bet he made a mistake. Mirabelle says he’s half blind, anyway. He probably just thought he saw Daddy and Uncle Warren.” My voice sounded high and whiny, like it belonged to someone else.
“Nope. No mistake,” Uncle Russell said. “Whitey swore to it. Says he was there on church business when it happened. Scared the tar out of him.”
“Hell, Whitey wasn’t the only one to recognize them,” someone else said. “One of the tellers knew who Warren was.”
“Don’t know what the heck those two were thinking,” Uncle Russell muttered. “Dumbest thing I ever heard, robbing a bank where everyone knows you. They must’ve been desperate; probably something to do with that IOU Warren’s racked up with them hoods in Indy.”
So that was it. Uncle Warren owed money to some Indianapolis crooks. I should’ve figured the robbery had been his idea. I just couldn’t understand why Daddy had gone along with him this time.
Tracking Daddy Down Page 2
