Then Grover remembered I owed him an ice cream.
“Keam,” he demanded. “Keam!”
“Okay.” I hauled him to the counter. “Let’s buy our tickets first.”
“Keam!” Grover howled.
“Where you boys headed?” asked the man behind the counter.
“Richmond,” I said, shoving bills in his direction.
The man winked at Grover. “If he’s under two, he can ride for free, so long as he sits on your lap.”
I glanced down at Grover. He was squinching his eyes, trying to wink back. He was also squirming and flailing his arms. I decided to take two tickets. There was no guarantee he’d stay on my lap.
The man counted the money and slowly wrote the tickets. “Brother?” He nodded toward Grover.
“Yeah.” That glow of pride again.
“He don’t favor you much.”
I shrugged.
The man leaned his elbows on the counter, winked again at Grover.
“It’s the same with me and my brother,” he said, patting his round tummy. “Would you believe, to look at me, that my brother was a basketball star?”
“Yeah?”
The man nodded. “His senior year of high school, the team went all the way to state.”
“Yeah?” I repeated, inching away from the counter. This guy was chattier than the old lady.
“You’d think with a brother like that at least I could make a free throw—but, no. And look at you two.” The man tweaked Grover’s nose. “I would never have guessed you were brothers. Not in a million years.” He smiled. “But then, there’s no predicting genes. What takes you boys to Richmond?”
This guy could go on and on and on. Didn’t anyone else need a ticket?
“Um, we’re visiting my—our—grandmother,” I replied.
“Any bags to check?”
I shook my head. Wait, maybe we should have a bag. Most folks did. Would he suspect? I pictured my suitcase at the Torgles’.
“She … my grandmother has clothes for us at her house,” I said. “We go there a lot.”
Don’t ramble. Slow down, I thought.
“Parents divorced?” The man tsk-tsked sympathetically. “We see a lot of kids traveling by themselves. Sad situation.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, glancing over my shoulder.
He perked up. “I’ve got family in Richmond. What’s your grandmother’s name?”
I glanced wildly at the counter, at the tickets, pens, clips—
“Staple,” I said.
“Staple. Staple,” the man mused. “Doesn’t ring any bells. What part of Richmond she live in?”
Just then Grover, thank God, with precision timing, set up a howl for ice cream.
“I better get him some.” I patted the kid’s back. “Say bye-bye, big boy.”
“Keam,” yelled Grover.
“The three-fifteen bus to Richmond”—the man bye-byed with both hands—“leaves in ten minutes.”
No time for ice cream. I hurried to the vending machine. Mints. Cookies. Chocolate bars. What kind of food was that for a little kid? Finally I slid in my quarters, pulled the knob under the Cheese Nips, and palmed a packet of crackers. They were as orange as the bus station seats, but at least the cheese part sounded healthy.
“Departing gate five,” a voice squawked over the intercom. “Bus leaving for”—I listened hard to the garbled list of cities—“(something) … (something) … Richmond.”
This was it. I adjusted the plastic Safeway bag, hoisted Grover high, and handed the driver our tickets. This close, I could see the summer sun silvering the bus. Up, up, up, I climbed the steps into the cool aisle and, knees a bit shaky, plopped Grover into an empty seat and took the one beside him.
“La!” Grover cried, scratching the plush covers.
“Yeah,” I said, getting him settled. “I guess the seat does feel like Lambie Pie.”
As the bus pulled away, Grover waved bye-bye to the station, the waiting people, the Uddleston’s ice cream sign.
Bye-bye, Greenfield, I thought. Grover and I were finding our way out of the system.
I was leaving Greenfield exactly like Sarah Jewel. Riding high in a plush seat. Listening to wheels skimming past Safeway, past the library. Skimming onto the highway.
I wondered if Sarah Jewel had dreamed for years about leaving Greenfield. The first time she left, had she followed an A-B-C plan? Or one day, sitting at Uddleston’s and slurping a shake, had she caught the flash of a passing bus? And decided, quick as a snap, to go?
Riding high, had she felt like me? Proud and scared and free?
And when she left Greenfield the second time, when I was a baby and she left me behind, had Sarah Jewel taken the Greyhound bus? I had been under two; I could have ridden for free. I would have slept quietly on her lap.
I wondered how she felt then.
Chapter Twenty-one
“Ga!” Grover broke into my thoughts. The kid had fished a paper towel from the Safeway bag and was shredding it.
I traded him Lambie Pie for the paper towel and gathered up the shreds. Then I tried to calculate time. If the bus had left at 3:15, it was probably about 3:25 now.
Less than an hour had passed since I first saw Grover alone. I wondered how I was going to keep him quiet till the next town, let alone the next five towns, till we reached Richmond.
But as the bus wheels hummed over the highway Grover’s mouth opened, his eyes closed, and he dozed off. You never knew with the kid. Once in a while, just by accident, he did exactly what you needed him to do.
I leaned my head against the plush seat and tried to figure what to do next. I wanted to think logically—A, B, C—but my mind boomeranged: D. X. P. Z.
Maybe I should check out our money situation, I finally decided. How much did we have? How much did I owe Mr. T.? The Torgles could keep all my stuff. The foster-kid clothes weren’t worth much, but the suitcase was practically new, with money in the second pocket. I had arrived with $129.37 and spent $8.35 on Grover’s Hop on Pop present. That left $121.02. If I owed more, I would pay Mr. T. back when we got to where we were going. I’d get a job and mail him the cash.
I’d have to mail it from another town, though. I didn’t want anyone checking the postmark, tracking us down.
Mr. T. could take back the flashlight he’d given me. He could find it easily. It stood, lens down, on Jake’s trophy shelf.
My mind boomeranged some more: Q. D. K. E.
I could get a job. Slinging fries, delivering newspapers. I could tack on a few years to my age.
Tracey would probably be calling the police soon, if she hadn’t already. Mr. T. would find me and the money gone. What would he think?
Outside, the rain had started again and the windshield wipers shlip-shlipped as Grover snuffled softly in sleep. Funny little guy. I wished I had a jacket or something to tuck over him.
But this was not the time for wishing. If the old woman and the ticket seller were any clue, we’d be fielding plenty of questions. Questions about where we were from, where we were going. I needed to come up with a good story— fast. Let’s see, Grover and I were brothers, the Staples, traveling from Greenfield to Richmond to visit our grandmother, Maureen Staple. I would tell people that Grover was a year and a half and I was thirteen.
I counted the money: $153 in bills. Let’s see, I had shelled out $30 for the two tickets and $17.19 for supplies at Safeway. That meant I had stolen—borrowed—$200.
Two hundred dollars! The money weighed kind of heavy in my hand. Remembering the light-fingered Saint Stephen’s boy, I slipped a few bills into each of the four pockets of my shorts. If one got picked, we wouldn’t be completely broke. The Torgles would have enough for the week, I kept telling myself. Let’s see, $200 minus the $121.02 in my suitcase pocket equals $78.98. I still owed the Torgles $78.98. I’d mail it as soon as I could.
Maybe Mr. and Mrs. T. would give my suitcase to the twins. The girls would like it, I bet. I remembered th
em playing with the locks and pockets when I first moved in.
That seemed like a long time ago.
I started to count the bills again, but before I had finished, the bus turned off the highway and came to a stop. Town Number One and a ten-minute rest stop.
Grover woke up instantly, demanding “ju.” I popped the top on one of the apple juice cans, but of course, he wanted to hold it. Soon half the drink soaked his shirt and mine.
“It’s okay, Grover.” I mopped him with a paper towel while he squirmed and hollered, “Ow!”
Out. He wanted out.
But I didn’t want to risk leaving the bus. What if we missed it? What if we met another too friendly soul? Someone with more questions than I had stories?
What if we ran into a police officer or security guard? Someone trained to spot kids on the run?
I handed Grover a Cheese Nip. He bit it hard and orange crumbs sprinkled the plush seat.
“Beh! Beh!” The kid offered me a soggy half.
I nibbled a bit, just to make him smile. Then the bus started again and Grover went back to gnawing his Nip. No telling how long his good mood would last, though. I wished I’d had the time to buy him a toy or book—but hey! I knew Hop on Pop by heart. So while day turned into night and shadows hunkered outside, while the wheels shooshed over the highway, I recited the entire book.
“Ba,” commanded Grover.
I repeated the whole thing again. And again.
Then I caught the sound of a baby snore. When I kissed the top of his sleeping head, I smelled sweat, dirt, apple juice, lollipop.
Everything would be fine. I’d take care of the kid. I’d feed him real peanut butter crackers, not weird-colored Nips. Pancakes whenever he wanted. I’d fix him a whole yellow room full of stencils. Happy sheep and horses and high-flying birds, not stupid trucks with one green wheel. I’d protect him from every bad thing in the system. I’d never leave him behind.
I looked out the window, hoping for stars, but all I saw was rain.
My own eyelids were closing and I must have dozed off, because it seemed only minutes before the bus jerked to a stop, the lights came on, and we were at Town Number Two.
Grover continued to snooze, and I watched sleepily as a few passengers lollygagged off and on, munching potato chips, sipping Cokes. Rain slithered down the windows and drummed on the bus top, making the inside dim and cozy.
The driver swung into his seat, checked the rearview mirror, and gripped the steering wheel.
Then came a knock on the door.
The door opened, and first the cap, then the head, then the uniformed shoulders appeared as a policeman climbed the three steps onto the bus, bent, and spoke to the driver, who glanced back … nodded once.
The bus lights glared, folks shifted and grumbled and peered … then fell silent as those shoes, those shiny black shoes, began to step, step, step up the aisle.
Chapter Twenty-two
Grover snoozed on. No way to run.
Nowhere to run.
I hunched down in the seat, barely breathing.
Step, step, step.
I could see the shoes coming. Shiny and black. Neatly tied laces.
Step, step, step.
Maybe—please, please, please—the man was after someone else. Stay low, stay quiet, don’t panic. A, B, C.
A hand came down on my shoulder.
The policeman brought his face close to mine. There were raindrops on his lashes and cap. His face was smooth and thin and serious.
“What’s your name, son?”
My heart pounded. “Ben Staple.”
“And who is this?” The cap tilted in Grover’s direction and a few drops slid to my lap.
“My brother.”
“Your brother?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Ben, I’m going to ask you and your brother to step off the bus for a moment. I need you to answer a few questions.”
“Will it take long?”
“I hope not.”
I licked my lips. “My grandmother will be worried. She’s waiting for us.”
“What’s her name?”
“Maureen Staple,” I said, then added louder: “Mrs. Maureen Staple of Richmond, Virginia.”
“Give me her phone number,” said the policeman. “I’ll call and put her mind at ease.”
“Her phone number?” My brain refused to work. It seemed to be stuck.
The cap nodded and rain showered softly. I couldn’t look up from the teeny drops on my hands.
The policeman sighed and leaned over me. Lifted the sleeping baby.
Grover woke up then, eyes wide, staring up at the stranger. “Beh, Beh,” he cried, turning, twisting to find me.
“Shhh,” I whispered. Those shiny black shoes began to step, step, step to the front of the bus. I followed. All around, eyes and whispers. Eyes and whispers. “What?” “What happened?” “Those boys.”
My insides felt full of broken glass. Like I was getting cut inside.
When we stepped out the door, the driver started the engine. Rain slanted into my eyes. I had to squint as I watched the bus slide, mist silver, into the darkness, grow smaller … smaller … disappear.
From far away I heard Grover’s cries and wondered if I would be cuffed.
“Here, please take the little tyke.” The policeman passed Grover to me. “He doesn’t seem to like me.”
Grover wrapped his arms and legs around me like a frightened monkey. I held my arm above his head, trying to shield him from the rain.
A large hand prodded my back, directing me to a squad car.
“La,” Grover sniffled, rubbing his nose on Lambie Pie.
“McDevitt, what’d you do to that little boy?” An older policeman laughed behind the wheel. “I bet his screams carried clear to the station.”
“Aw, shut up.” McDevitt grinned. “Next time, you go out in the rain.”
The one called McDevitt settled us in the backseat, shook himself like Charmaine, and climbed into the front.
He turned. “What’s your name?”
Silence.
“Look, kid,” McDevitt sighed. “You can make this hard or you can make it easy. Let’s try again. Name?”
“Ben Watson,” I whispered.
“And the baby?”
“Grover. Grover G. Graham.”
“Big name for a little guy.”
“It sounds distinguished,” I said, “according to his mother.”
“We received a missing-person report from one source and a juvenile runaway from another. The second mentioned you may have taken two hundred dollars.”
Silence.
“Well?”
“Yes,” I said. “I did.”
“Son,” said McDevitt, “what were you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing,” he said flatly.
I took a deep breath. “Leaving.”
“Leaving? With a baby?” The man shook his head. “How far did you think you could go?”
Wyoming. New York City.
I kept my mouth shut. The pancakes and peanut butter, the yellow room, the pictures of happy animals—everything I had planned for Grover was disappearing in the glare of these questions.
The policeman behind the wheel interrupted. “Let’s bring them in,” he said, “before we float away in this rain.”
At the police station McDevitt parked us in a wooden chair in the corner and brought me a roll of brown paper towels. I ripped off a few and tried to blot Grover dry. Everything around me was blurry: the too bright lights, the smell of wet cloth and coffee, Grover’s screams when they tried to part us. McDevitt gave me a blue pen to, he said, “write down exactly what happened, in your own words.” That no-good pen. The ink bled into my hand, blobbing the e and o when I signed and dated my story. Then McDevitt brought us two doughnuts. Powdered sugar. Grover was white as a snowman in three seconds flat. And Lambie Pie looked like a scrawny snow sheep.
McDevitt stayed close.
Was he afraid I’d suddenly jump up? Grab Grover? Run? He didn’t have to worry. I was so tired I could barely sit straight. The man offered me a Coke but I waved it away. “Grover will want some,” I explained. “The caffeine will give him the jitters.”
“He doesn’t need any help in that department,” McDevitt said since, of course, Grover was howling, loud and long, for the Coke. “Does he always make this much noise?”
“He’s tired,” I defended the kid. “Do you have any milk?”
“How about an orange soda?”
And soon Grover was sporting an orange moustache and had learned a new word: sodie.
That’s when Tracey arrived.
“Where’s Grover?” I heard her voice. “Where in God’s name is my baby?”
Chapter Twenty-three
I hunched in my seat and pulled Grover close. My heart speeded up.
“Easy, Ms. Graham,” McDevitt soothed. “We’ve got both boys right here.”
I saw Tracey enter the room and suddenly stop. And her eyes—the blue gone to black, all pupil—stared straight at us. At me and her baby, hunched in the chair. Only she didn’t take me in, I could tell. Just Grover.
“Ma-ma,” he cried.
Then Tracey did something strange. Without turning away, still staring, she started to cry. The tears, black from her eye goop, slipped out her eyes and down her cheeks and into her trembling mouth, and she didn’t wipe them or turn away or stop.
Jenny came up behind Tracey, crossed the room, and took Grover from me. Her face was white and set.
“Sodie!” Grover grabbed for the can in my fist.
I let it go and, of course, the orange drink slopped out of the can and onto the floor. But even aware of the spreading puddle, I could only sit, watching Tracey.
Jenny kissed Grover’s hair, his cheek.
“Sodie!” the little guy crowed, waving his empty can.
“Tracey left him alone.” I gripped Lambie Pie. Glanced down at the powdered sugar on my shorts.
Grover G. Graham and Me Page 10
