Caught in the Act

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  Mike hesitated, but Corey urged, "Just slip it to her when no one else is around. You ain't gonna get into any trouble."

  He reached into his pocket again and came up with a half dozen pennies. "Fll give you this for takin' the trouble. It's no secret that Friedrich is stingy with his money, so I doubt he'll be handin' out treats when you're in town. This is enough to get you a good-sized paper twist of candy drops."

  It didn't take Mike long to decide. How could he get into trouble just slipping Marta a small piece of paper? And the pennies were tempting. "All right," he said. "I'll do it."

  "If there's an answer," Corey said, "just find your way back here. Either me or one of my brothers will spy you from our place." He smiled. "There'll be more pennies for you each time you do me this favor."

  "Thanks," Mike said and grinned at Corey. "Glad to oblige."

  Mike pocketed the note and tied the pennies into a comer of his handkerchief. Then he worked at a feverish pace to fill the basket. Eventually it was fiiU. He ran back to the house, out of breath as he thumped the basket onto the kitchen table.

  **Very good," Mrs. Friedrich said. *That was fast work!" She reached into a deep ceramic crock and pulled out a fat biscuit. She split it, buttered it, and tucked a thick

  70

  slab of cold meat into it. "Here is a little treat for you. Sit—over there at the table by the window. Eat it before you go back to work." By the time Mike sat down, she had put a large glass of milk in front of him, too.

  Mike wolfed down the biscuit and milk. Working outdoors made him awfuUy hungry. He carried the empty glass to Marta, who was busy scraping carrots at the other table.

  "Here, give that to me," she said impatiently. She grabbed the glass but stopped and blinked with surprise as the note was thrust into her other hand.

  Mike put one finger to his lips. Marta smiled, her cheeks suddenly turning bright pink, and shoved the note into the pocket of her apron.

  "Reuben is clearing the last stalks from the cornfield," Marta told Mike. "It would be a good idea for you to lend him a hand."

  Mike worked beside Reuben with a fierce energy. Occasionally he whistled or hummed a lively tune. He had coins in his pocket, with the promise of more to come, and Marta would be back to her own good nature again. The day had turned out to be much better than he had thought.

  By dinnertime his stomach rumbled with hunger, and he was glad to hear the bell clanging loudly. He wondered how he had once survived on those meager meals of potatoes and cabbage.

  Reuben put down his hoe and smiled at Mike. "Fm glad to see your spirits have improved so quickly."

  "That they have," Mike said. They briskly strode toward the house and both dogs ran to meet them. "While 1 was out on the roadside Corey Blair came by."

  "So he's back, is he?" Reuben said. '"On, ye brave, who rush W glory, or the grave,''

  "Corey's brave enough, 1 guess," Mike answered, "but

  in my opinion there's little glory in what he's doing. It's my belief that no one should be a slave."

  "Good for you," Reuben said and looked pleased.

  "I don't understand why people think slavery is right."

  *The answer is that they don't think. If they examined the issue, they might have to act on it, so it's easier for them not to think at all."

  Mike reached down to scratch Wulf behind the ears. "At least now that Corey's back, we can count on a great improvement in Marta's disposition."

  Reuben laughed, and Mike continued. "He gave me a note to slip to her."

  Reuben's laugh broke off. "You're in no position to take extra chances, Mike. Let Corey work out another way to communicate with Marta, if he must."

  Mike shrugged. "No one saw me give it to her. There's nothing to fear."

  They had reached the back stoop, so Reuben didn't answer. Instead they splashed their faces and forearms in the basin of water, rubbed with soap until their skin was red, then dried with the linen towel that hung on a nail.

  Mike left Reuben in the kitchen and hurried into the dining room, where he managed to slide into his chair just as Mr. and Mrs. Friedrich were sitting down.

  As soon as the blessing was over, Mike asked, "Mr. Friedrich, could I please have some paper and the use of your pen and ink bottle, so I could write to my mother and to my brothers and sisters?"

  Mr. Friedrich paused in his job of scooping mashed and buttered yellow squash onto the plate in his left hand. He seemed to give Mike's question long and serious thought. Mrs. Friedrich twisted her fingers together nervously, waiting for his answer, and Marta shifted ft-om one foot to the other with impatience.

  Finally Mr. Friedrich said, "Mind you, I approve of

  your industrious spirit and have no reason to deny you writing paper. "But..."

  Mike held his breath. He'd had no idea Mr. Friedrich would do anything but agree.

  "But there is a problem, Michael. The postage on those letters would cost money, and so far the work you have done has not been enough to begin to make up to us the generous room and board we have given you. Now you are asking me to spend hard-earned money on postage for your letters."

  Mike slumped back in his chair, so disappointed he felt ill. "IVe never sent a letter to anyone. I didn't think of the cost."

  *Three cents a letter is little to spend," Marta muttered.

  Mr. Friedrich threw her a quick, angry look before turning back to Mike.

  But Mike had perked up at Marta's words. "If it's just three cents, then I could pay some of the postage!" He fumbled with the handkerchief he tugged from his pocket and pulled out the coins that Corey had given him. "Here!" he said. "This would be enough for two letters!"

  Mr. Friedrich stared at the coins. Then he raised his head and thundered at Mike, "Where did you get that money?"

  What had he done! As the blood drained from Mike's face he clutched the edge of the table for support and struggled to keep a large, black spot from swallowing him. Wild excuses swirled through his head like leaves in a wind, and he was unable to snatch even one that could be of any use.

  "You heard my question," Mr. Friedrich demanded. "Where did you get those pennies?"

  Marta stepped forward. "Michael did me a favor, and I repaid him." She spoke firmly, but Mike wondered if anyone besides himself could hear the slight tremor in her voice.

  "You have coins to spare?" Mr. Friedrich scowled up at her.

  Marta had regained all of her usual spirit. "With such a large house to care for, and no other serving girl to help Mrs. Friedrich and me with the work, there are many times when I would gladly part with a cent or two to gain another pair of hands."

  74

  "Michael has outdoor work to do."

  Marta didn't give him a chance to continue. "And who's to say this work was not out-of-doors? Why, only this morning Michael was sent to gather a basket of cockleburs so we could make dye for the new cloth. And even so—"

  "That's enough! While you talk incessantly the food gets cold." Mr. Friedrich finished his job of filling the plate in his hands, studied it, and grunted, "Give this to Mrs. Friedrich."

  "Yes, sir," Marta said. She carefully took the plate to her mistress, then walked briskly to the kitchen door. But before leaving the room she paused and turned to Mike. "If you need more coins to pay for letters to your family, Michael, Til have them for you. One favor deserves another."

  "Thank you," Mike mumbled, awed at her bravery in the face of Mr. Friedrich's obvious displeasure. He'd be glad to carry messages for Marta anytime, after the way she had saved him from his own thoughtless mistake.

  Mike poked at the food on the plate Mr. Friedrich handed him, unable to choke down more than a few bites. His stomach still churned fi:-om fear, and it was all he could do to keep his hands from trembling.

  "Michael, you're not eating. Are you not well?" Mrs. Friedrich asked.

  "My stomach hurts," Mike said truthfully.

  Mrs. Friedrich reached out to lay a hand on his forehead. "Hans," sh
e said, "Michael's skin is cold and damp."

  Mr. Friedrich stretched his mouth around another huge forkful of food and didn't bother to look up fi:-om his plate.

  Mrs. Friedrich turned back to Mike. "Are you having chills?"

  Mike shivered, but he didn't know if it was Mrs.

  75

  Friedrich's suggestion or remnants of fear that caused it. "I am cold," he whispered.

  She pushed back her chair. *Then we will give you a cup of hot tea with honey and tuck you in bed."

  At this Mr. FYiedrich raised his head and stared at Mike. "Nonsense," he said. *The boy needs to get back to work. The outdoor air will do more for him than tea and bed, which is something only a woman would think of."

  "But, Hans," Mrs. Friedrich said, "last summer, when you came down with chills and fever, you let me feed you herb tea and put you to bed. You even asked for an extra quilt."

  Mr. Friedrich leaned toward his wife and glowered. "We are not discussing me. We are discussing a lazy boy."

  Mrs. Friedrich clutched her hands together as she quietly explained, "The chillblains could go into consumption, and Michael could die, and how would we explain that to the committee?"

  Mike's eyes widened in horror, and he shivered again.

  For just an instant Mr. Friedrich hesitated, but he studied Mike carefully and said, "He doesn't look that ill to me."

  "But, Hans ..."

  Mike couldn't let Mrs. Friedrich keep defending him. Mr. Friedrich would only get angry with her, too. So he spoke up quickly. *Thank you, Mrs. Friedrich, but I think some fresh air might be just what I need." He placed his napkin on the table next to his plate. "May I go outside now, Mr. Friedrich?"

  "Yes. Yes, go." Mr. Friedrich's gaze was puzzled. "If Reuben has not finished his meal, then you can collect eggs for Marta."

  Mike hurried into the kitchen where Marta grabbed him around the neck and practically stuffed him into his

  coat. 'Thank you for helping me," Mike mumbled as he struggled to get free.

  "As I said, one good turn deserves another," she answered, pressing a folded piece of paper into his hand. "Take this to the road. Run! It's my answer to Corey."

  "But the eggs—"

  "I've already gathered them from the coop. Go! Hurry!"

  Reuben pushed back his chair and got to his feet. "I don't think this is a wise thing to do," he began.

  But Marta simply shook her apron at him, as she would at an arrogant rooster, and gave Mike a push. "Run, Mike!" she hissed.

  Mike did. When he arrived at the place in the road where he could be seen from the Blair house, he was so out of breath that he leaned over, arms braced against his thighs, and loudly gulped for air.

  "Haloo!" The voice was so close to him that Mike straightened up with a yelp. A boy who was tanned almost the color of his brown hair grinned at Mike and staggered the last few steps toward him, his hand on his chest as he drew in long breaths.

  "I'm Ezra. Corey sent me," the boy managed to say between gasps.

  "You're the one who knocked Gunter down at school?" Mike grinned back. As the thought struck him, he whirled to look behind him. "Is school out already?"

  "Naw," Ezra said. "I'm stayin' home a couple'a days to help with the hog butcherin'." He paused, managing to breathe normally again. "You ever seen that done?"

  Mike shook his head, and Ezra made a face. "You'll find out what it's like soon enough. We heard Old Man Friedrich's workin' you hard as an old mule. How can you stand livin' with those FYiedrichs?"

  "Mrs. Friedrich's nice enough," Mike said. "And Marta and Reuben."

  "Marta," Ezra said, as though he'd just remembered. "You got a note from her to Corey?"

  "Right here." Mike handed over the folded paper.

  "I hope Corey don't get it into his head to marry her," Ezra said. "Except for Ma, we only got men and boys in our family, and I'd sure hate to see a girl move in."

  Mike gave a wry smile. "Mr. Friedrich's doing his best to help you there."

  Ezra chuckled. "I gotta hurry back, or Corey wiD skin my hide along with the hogs'. If you can ever get away from Old Man Friedrich for some time of your own, come on by the house."

  *Thanks," Mike said. He reluctantly watched Ezra run down the hill. He'd like to have Ezra for a friend. But when would he have any time to spend with a friend? Mr. Friedrich would never allow it—especially if his friend were a Blair. Mike turned and raced toward the house, hushing Bruna and Wulf, who had run to greet him. He reached the side yard just as Reuben came out of the kitchen door.

  Reuben gave him one quick look and said, "Better splash cold water on your face. Running has made it flushed."

  Mike had no sooner started toward the bench, with its pan of cold water, than Mr. Friedrich stepped outside, Mrs. Friedrich right behind him.

  "Ach! Will you look at the boy!" she cried. "So much for your fresh air. See how his face is red and feverish."

  "I'm all right," Mike said, but Mrs. Friedrich scrambled down the steps of the back stoop and wrapped her arms around him. "Hans," she said, "Michael needs rest."

  "And tea with honey." Mr. Friedrich's voice was sarcastic.

  But Mrs. Friedrich didn't seem to notice. "Of course. Tea with honey," she echoed.

  "Mrs. Friedrich," Mike tried to say, but his face was muffled against her apron.

  "Very well," Mr. Friedrich said, "but he had better be well by tomorrow morning, because there is much work that will need to be done."

  He turned toward Reuben, shouting in his frustration, "Why are you standing there, always watching me, always prying and snooping? Must you poke your long nose into conversations that do not concern you, like a woman?"

  "I won't have you use a tone like that to me. Never speak to me in that way again," Reuben said, his voice so filled with controlled anger that it was more frightening than Mr. Friedrich's loud shouting.

  Mike twisted around Mrs. Friedrich, who was leading him up the steps, to look at Reuben, whose face was pale, and whose eyes glittered like sharp stones.

  "I can talk to you any way I like. You are only the hired hand, or at least that is what we are pretending, isn't it? Isn't it!" Mr. Friedrich demanded.

  The door shut behind them, so Mike couldn't hear Reuben's answer. Although he was glad Reuben had stood up to Mr. Friedrich, he was also frightened. Why had Mr. Friedrich accused Reuben of prying? What did he think Reuben was going to find?

  "Up to bed with you," Mrs. Friedrich said. "I'll make some tea and bring it to you in just a few minutes. No dawdling." She couldn't keep her voice from trembling.

  Up in his room, Mike quickly pulled off his boots and clothes and put on the nightshirt he'd received the day he and his brothers and sisters had set off on the orphan train. The Children's Aid Society had given them each a few things. He sat on the edge of the bed, trying to sort out all the mixed-up things that had happened to him today. He had every intention of leading a good, honest life, but now he was acting as a secret messenger be-

  tween Marta and Corey, using every trick he knew to keep Gunter from causing trouble for him, and—^through no fault of his own—pretending to be ill! He put his head into his hands and groaned aloud.

  "Ach, poor liebcheriy'' Mrs. Friedrich said from the doorway. There was color in her face again, and her hands were steady as she held out a cup and saucer to Mike. "Here—drink this tea, as hot as you can stand it."

  She waited while Mike sipped at the tea. It wasn't half bad, with its smell of peppermint and spicy flowers, and the honey she had stirred in was thick on his tongue. In just a few minutes he had gulped it down.

  "Mrs. Friedrich," he said, "I don't understand some of the things Mr. Friedrich said to Reuben. Why did he tell him that—"

  Mrs. Friedrich cls^ped a hand over Mike's mouth. "Hush! We cannot talk of this." She took her hand away and whispered, "Please forget what Hans told Reuben. He was upset. He did not mean what he said."

  "But—"

  For an instant she close
d her eyes and gave a long, shuddering sigh. When she spoke, it was as though she had forgotten Mike was in the room. "I am so tired of being afraid," she murmured. "We have worked very hard here to build what we have for ourselves and for Gunter. I cannot leave it. I cannot run again."

  Mike knew better than to say a word. He sat without moving, almost afi-aid to breathe, until Mrs. Friedrich suddenly pulled herself back to the present and became aware of him.

  "You have drunk the tea. Good, good." She tucked the quilt around him as he lay back on the bed. "Sleep now," she said. "Sometimes sleep is the best medicine." Quietly she tiptoed from the room and shut the door.

  Sleep? With all he had to think about? But the bed was warm and cozy, and Mike snuggled into it.

  The next thing he knew the room was dark, and his door was slowly opening, an inch at a time.

  Mike sat up in bed, calling, **Who's there?"

  The door opened wide, and Mrs. Friedrich stepped inside the room. She lit Mike's lamp from the one in her hand. "How are you feeling?" she asked.

  Mike didn't have to think for long. "Hungry," he said.

  Her cheeks sagged, but she managed a wisp of a snule. "Good. I knew the rest would make you feel better."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Friedrich," Mike said. "I'll get up and help Marta put the supper on the table."

  "Supper was over an hour ago." This time her smile was stronger. "You should see your face, Michael. You look like a small dog out in the rain. Did you think I would let you go hungry?" She patted the lump in the quilt that covered Mike's feet. "You stay in bed. In just a few minutes I'll bring you some hot bean and ham soup and some com bread I saved for you. A little butter and honey on the bread should taste nice."

  Mike lay back with a contented sigh.

  At the door she paused. "If you feel strong enough after you have eaten, you can write to your mother and your brothers and sisters. There are paper, a quill pen, ink, and wipers on top of the chest. Oh—and a slate for your lap on which you can put the paper when you write."

  "Thank you!" Mike beamed.