Someone Was Watching

by David Patneaude

  “No. I just figured I’d blow four hundred twenty dollars on a trip to Westview to humor a crazy friend.”

  “What?” Chris said. “It costs that much? Do you even have four hundred twenty dollars?” He pulled open the desk drawer, searching for his bank book, but it was hidden somewhere in the debris.

  “In my bank account. More than that, actually.”

  “Me, too,” Chris said. He’d been sticking money in there since he was a little kid.

  “Can you get it out without your parents’ okay?” Pat asked.

  “I have before,” Chris said. “You?” He got up and walked to his door, listening for his parents, but there was no sound from their room.

  “Yeah,” Pat said. “So you were already planning on going?”

  “I’d decided this morning, when I woke up.”

  “Alone?” Pat’s face suddenly drooped in the soft light from the desk lamp.

  “I was going to call you. I didn’t know if you’d want to go. We’re definitely going to get in trouble with our parents.” Chris sat down on the corner of his bed.

  “Not if we find Molly.”

  The thought shot through Chris like a lightning bolt. His hair felt as if it were electrified, standing on end. He ran his hand through it, expecting to see sparks. He got up and wandered around the room, studying the piece of paper Pat had given him.

  Pat stopped pacing and watched him crisscross the rug aimlessly. “Remember when Molly started calling me Patty and I told you I didn’t like it?”

  “Yeah?” Chris said.

  “I never told her to stop,” Pat said.

  “Why?”

  “I liked it. I want her to call me Patty again.”

  Chris suddenly wondered what it would be like not to have Pat for a friend. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Look at those encyclopedias on the desk, Pat,” he said.

  Pat glanced at the open books. “I already looked at my atlas,” he said. “That’s how I knew what airport we’d fly into. It’s Tampa.”

  Chris didn’t respond. He sat down on the edge of the bed, still staring at the paper. Finally he looked up at Pat. “I don’t think we should go today or tomorrow,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “My parents are going to be on the alert after yesterday. They may not let me out of the house. And you won’t be any better off, if your folks get told. But after a couple of days, they’ll probably think we gave up on the whole idea.” He stared at the wall. “And we’ve still got to get our money, buy the tickets, and make our plans. That’s going to take a little time.”

  “I guess you’re right. I don’t think Clover and Bud are going anywhere.”

  Chris looked at the paper again. “You’ve got a Central Express flight showing here that leaves at 9:30 a.m. Is that every day?”

  “All of ‘em are daily.”

  “That looks like a good one. We’d be able to leave for the airport after our parents go to work and still get there in time to catch the plane.”

  “You think they’ll let us on by ourselves?” Pat said. “Or even sell us the tickets?”

  Chris hadn’t thought about that—about being too young. He’d just figured if they had the money, they could go. But now he wasn’t so sure. “I don’t know,” he said. “We’ll have to try it and see.” He wasn’t going to let any silly airline regulations wreck their plans. If he and Pat had to, they’d ride the bus all the way to Florida.

  “Right,” Pat said. “What about coming back? When do we schedule the return flight? If we don’t get round-trip tickets up here, it costs a lot more.”

  “More than four hundred twenty dollars?” Chris said. Maybe they should take the bus. But that would take time—possibly enough time for his parents to track them down and stop them. The plane had to be their first choice. “We could probably come back Monday or Tuesday,” he said. “That should do it, but there’s no way we can know for sure.” He thought a moment, rubbing his eyes. “If we find her, we’ll have to go to the police down there.”

  “If they have police.”

  “Every place has police.”

  “Even Westview?”

  “Even Westview.” But what kind of police? Chris wasn’t sure. He had an image of a fat guy with a flat-brimmed hat and sunglasses, who called everyone “boy.” But they’d have to worry about the police later.

  “So what do we do now?” Pat asked.

  Chris glanced at the clock. “You’re going to have to leave. My dad will be up soon for his morning run. By eight o’clock they’ll both be gone to work and your parents will be out of your house, too. Come back then.”

  “To make plans?”

  “Right,” Chris said, walking to the bedroom door with Pat. Neither of them spoke on the way downstairs. Chris opened the back door silently and let Pat out into the cool morning air. The sky was brightening in the east.

  “Pat,” Chris whispered as Pat started for home.

  Pat turned around. Chris could just make out his features in the early dawn’s dim light. A smile had spread across his face. He looked excited, glowing, reflecting Chris’s own feelings. “Yeah?” he whispered.

  “Thanks for coming,” Chris said, and slipped back inside.

  12

  Chris’s parents asked him his plans for the day, but put no restrictions on him. They were surprised to see him up early again, but didn’t seem suspicious. Maybe they were just doing a good job of covering up. Or maybe Chris taking off on another adventure was the last thing on their minds. He wasn’t sure.

  But at nine o’clock his mom called him from work: just checking to see how he was doing. He told her he and Pat would be going to the park soon to throw the football around. At nine-fifteen his dad called. Chris told him the same thing.

  By then Chris had decided that they were suspicious, and he and Pat had made their plans for the day. By nine-thirty they were on their bikes, football and bank books in Chris’s backpack.

  The excitement Chris had felt early in the morning had partly given way to nervousness and fear and doubt. He glanced at Pat, searching for some of the same emotions, as they pedalled along side by side. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Fine,” Pat said. “I’m not sick or anything.”

  “No, I mean your mind. Are you nervous?”

  “Of course. This ain’t exactly like our little trip to Greenwater, and that made me nervous. How about you?”

  “Yeah, me, too,” Chris said. “You heard my dad’s lecture on how they’ve always trusted me. They really have. But today they probably don’t, quite as much. After this, who knows? Maybe not at all. But I mostly think we’re doing the right thing.”

  “It’s something we have to do,” Pat said. “We need to keep telling ourselves that, or this is going to be a lot harder.”

  They went to the bank first. At the teller’s window, they had a loud and continuous conversation with each other about the great racing bikes they were going to buy, and how the bikes were going to be worth every penny of the money they were withdrawing. But the teller didn’t seem to be particularly interested in bikes or concerned about the amount of the withdrawals. They walked out of the bank with six one-hundred-dollar bills and ten twenty-dollar bills each, surprised at how easy it had been, and headed for the mall, where the closest travel agency was.

  Chris grew more nervous as they went into the travel agency. What if you did have to be a certain age to buy tickets? But they tried to be calm, matter-of-fact, even when they gave the young woman phony names that they’d decided to use only minutes before. She seemed only slightly curious, and without hesitating, sold them round-trip tickets to Tampa—for flights departing Thursday at 9:30 and returning Tuesday at 5:00—for $420 each. They figured that they still had $380 each for expenses. In the back of his mind, Chris was thinking that should leave enough to buy a return ticket for a little girl, too. But he didn’t let the thought get too far out in the open. He believed more than anything that Molly
was alive, but in the light of day, the idea of finding her and bringing her back home would still have some warts on it, like a fat toad that only held the promise of really being a prince.

  After buying the tickets, Chris and Pat biked to the library. They located a large atlas and photocopied a detailed map of Florida. Chris folded it carefully and stuck it in his backpack. Looking up, he noticed Pat nervously gazing around the big, quiet, sparsely occupied room.

  “What’s the matter, Pat?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Pat said, “but don’t you get the feeling that everybody’s watching us—that they all know what’s going on?”

  “Like they’re all spies sent by my parents?”

  “Or mine.”

  “You really think so?”

  “They’re parents, aren’t they?”

  Chris didn’t answer. His attention had shifted to a rumpled-looking man reading at a table across the room. Every few seconds he would glance up at the boys and then go back to his book.

  Pat followed Chris’s gaze. “A spy?” he whispered as the man looked up and then quickly back down again.

  Chris stared at the man, waiting for him to look up again. He did, smiling this time, a lifeless, unnatural grin that turned Chris’s stomach. “I don’t think our parents know anyone like that,” he said under his breath.

  Pat turned and headed for the door. “Let’s go,” he said.

  Chris followed him, not looking back. Suddenly he didn’t feel very good about what they were planning. The man at the table had reminded him that two kids on their own could encounter people and situations that might be tough to handle. And when they were a thousand miles from home, who would help? He tried to push the thought out of his mind. There are good people, too, he said to himself, looking up and down the sidewalk for a friendly face.

  He had to wait until they reached the bike rack. A pretty young woman in a Notre Dame T-shirt walked by and smiled at them. They turned and watched her go into the library.

  Pat grinned at him. “She was smiling at me, Chris,” he said.

  “In your dreams,” Chris said. They got on their bikes and started for home.

  Once they arrived at Chris’s house, they grabbed some lemonade from the refrigerator and headed for the backyard, where they pulled out the map, going over every inch of Florida’s west coast until they were both familiar with it.

  “Now all we have to do is figure out how to get around down there,” Pat said.

  “There must be buses,” Chris said. “And we can take a taxi to the bus depot, if we have to. I think we’ve got enough in our budget.”

  “Maybe we should just rent a limo.”

  “I’ll tell you something,” Chris said. “If we really pull this off, if we bring Molly back with us, I bet my folks will get us the biggest limo around for the trip home from the airport.”

  “We’re gonna bring her back,” Pat said. “No problem.” But his nervous grin gave him away. Chris knew that his friend was having some doubts.

  The next day and a half dragged by. The boys checked on bus schedules from home to downtown and from downtown to the airport. They each packed a change of clothes in their backpacks. Then they waited, and played catch with the football, and talked, and tried not to look suspicious. But mostly they waited, with the burden of what they were about to do growing heavier on their minds.

  13

  The small, dark-haired girl slipped from under the quilt and off the high double bed, her feet landing softly on the thick carpet. She turned to look at Antkova, sleeping soundlessly on the other side of the bed, the covers slowly rising and falling with each breath.

  Across the room, the drawn window shade shifted in the afternoon breeze, allowing in a sliver of bright sunshine. The little girl tiptoed to the window and held the shade an inch away from the frame, squinting out at the daylight and the small backyard with its high wooden fence.

  She wished she could go outside and play, or just lie down on the grass with her dolly and take a nap in the warm sun. She felt tired, but she couldn’t fall asleep on the big bed. The dreams would come again—dreams of faces and places that were growing fuzzy now—and she would wake up crying.

  Antkova stirred in her sleep, reaching out an arm to the space where the little girl had lain a few moments before. Her hand aimlessly explored the empty spot and then dropped onto the bed and froze. The girl watched wide-eyed, holding her breath. She wanted her to sleep some more. She wanted to look into the big mirror again.

  She waited until she thought there would be no more movement on the bed, and then let out a quiet sigh and crept over to the dresser. As she struggled onto the stool, her elbow bumped an earring and propelled it against the picture on the back of the table—the picture in the flowery pink frame of Antkova—a younger, thinner Antkova—and a pretty lady holding a little baby on her lap. The noise was loud, real loud, and she turned quickly to look toward the bed. But the head covered with curly red hair stayed on the pillow, the eyes remained closed, and the covers didn’t move.

  The little girl pushed herself up onto her knees and expertly pivoted around toward the wall and the big vanity mirror. She’d known that she wouldn’t look the same—she hadn’t looked the same all the other times she’d done this—but the face that stared back at her still seemed to belong to somebody else. She quickly glanced over her shoulder to see who it was, but there was no one between her and the bed. It’s me, she thought. It’s my face.

  She turned back to the mirror and tried to remember how she’d looked before. Different. When it was the yesterdays before yesterdays, when she’d lived with her mommy and daddy and Kis, before she’d come to this place, she’d looked different. Her face looked thinner now, and she could see her ears. Her hair was short, and changed—a different color. Dark, like her eyes. Not blond, like her mommy used to say, or white, like Kis said when he teased her. Then she remembered her favorite poem, the one she knew because her daddy had said it for her whenever he came into her room in the morning to wake her and get her dressed. She closed her eyes and tried to picture his face as his mouth formed the words. She recited them softly to herself, her lips barely moving.

  My little girl with golden hair

  Awakes to find me standing there,

  A bit of sleep still in her eyes,

  My little girl, my sweet surprise.

  She ran her fingers slowly through her hair and looked at her hand, expecting to see it, too, had turned dark. But when she held it up in the dim light and examined it on both sides, it looked the same as always. She decided that the stuff in Antkova’s bottle must only work on hair. And it made her hair look funny. It made her look funny.

  She thought of the first time she’d seen herself like this. It wasn’t in this mirror—not in any mirror. She’d fallen asleep, crying, in Antkova’s bed, in the house behind the ice cream store, and awakened in her new car seat, with Antkova sitting next to her behind the steering wheel. She looked out the window at the darkness. The camper truck was moving fast down the road, and she couldn’t see anything but shapes and shadows and faraway lights, but in the shiny dark glass, she could see a reflection—someone she didn’t know. The face looked sad and frightened—just like she felt—but the hair was short and dark. Then she thought about the night before, and Antkova’s scissors, and the stuff in the bottle, and she knew who was looking back at her from the window. She stared at her reflection until it disappeared in the light from the morning sun. Then she fell asleep. That night, and the night after that, and the night after that, she looked into that same glass and saw the same reflection, while Antkova kept driving.

  Now tears glistened in her eyes as she peered into the dresser mirror again. She imagined her mommy standing behind her, looking down at her, but not knowing who she was. “It’s me, Mommy,” she said softly. “It’s really me. I’ll show you.”

  She reached across the dresser top and carefully picked up a round ceramic box with both hands. Its top shifted
as she set it down in front of her, and a small cloud of powder puffed out, leaving off-white specks on the dark surface of the table. She removed the lid and lowered it gently onto the shiny wood. More powder fell from the edges of the top, making a circle where it sat.

  The powder puff felt soft in her hand as she lifted it out of the box, and so light she thought it might float away like the little specks of dust dancing in the air. Like a magic carpet that would carry her far away to her real house and her mom and dad and Kis. But she held it firmly between her thumb and fingers and slowly brought it up to her hair. Looking intently into the mirror, she patted her head with the puff and smiled when the spot turned white. She continued patting, dipping into the box, and patting again, until all of her hair, and most of her face, was white.

  “See, Mommy?” she whispered as she stared at her reflection. But the hair didn’t look quite right and her face was too pale. Her eyes were red from crying and from that powder. She looked like a ghost. Wouldn’t she ever be herself again? How would Mommy and Daddy and Kis know her when they came to get her?

  She took a deep breath, and powder sifted off her hair and into her nose. She felt a sneeze building and tried to stop it with a finger to her upper lip like Kis used to do. But it didn’t work; she sneezed loudly three times in a row, her head rocking back and forth and sending clouds of powder into the air. Propelled by the force of her sneeze, more powder mushroomed out of the box in front of her and formed a thin layer of snow on the dresser.

  She looked up into the mirror. A face had appeared behind her. A nice, smiling face with sad eyes. Antkova was awake now, standing in back of her, close enough that the little girl could feel her warm breath.

  “Are you okay, honey?” Antkova asked. She put a hand on the powdery shoulder of the little girl, who looked at the picture on the dresser—the picture of Antkova with her hand on the shoulder of the pretty lady. The little girl began to shiver in the warm room.

  “Yes,” she said. “I just had to sneeze. The powder got in my nose.”

  “Well, I can see that it would. You know, you shouldn’t play with Aunt Clover’s things, dear. Now we’re going to have to clean up this mess and give you a bath.”