by Iacopo Bruno
Just because a witch is a witch doesn’t mean I want people sending her to jail for something she never did. That’s just plain mean. I stood up fast. “Went to trial? But she didn’t have anything to do with that grave robbery!” I clapped a hand over my mouth and waited for Daddy to ask how I could know such a thing.
He did not. Instead he did something worse. He sighed at me. “Sit down, Becky. There’s no need to be so dramatic. We’re just going to ask her a few questions. That’s all we’re doing at this point.”
I sat back in my chair and waited. There was a need to be dramatic, what with an innocent witch being questioned like a criminal. Well, shoot. My pesky conscience was tapping at me like a woodpecker, making me think maybe I should just up and tell what I’d seen at the graveyard.
“Seems the Law also found evidence of a large dog pawing around. Prints the size of a grown woman’s hand. The Widow’s dog is mighty big.”
He sure is. I dunked a piece of bacon in the remaining puddle of syrup, sliding it back and forth, trying to think of a way to tell Daddy what I saw at the cemetery without getting in trouble for sneaking out or putting my family and Amy’s in danger with the outlaws. “So the deputy and sheriff both think the Widow did it?”
“Sheriff wants to talk to her, that’s all. Wants to talk to the writer, too.”
“But they haven’t been arrested for anything yet, right?” My morals were twitching, hoping for a loophole out of tattling on the Pritchards and myself. It was a mighty enough struggle to keep my mouth shut about the outlaws being near town, but now I had the Widow’s fate resting on me as well. What was the responsible thing to do? I had to admit that, most likely, a responsible girl wouldn’t have found herself collecting dirt in a cemetery in the first place. Too late for that. Maybe the better question was: What would Jon do in my situation?
“No one’s been arrested for anything, but people want to see someone judged for what happened. Folks don’t like bodies being dug up.”
The Widow wouldn’t get in real trouble just from being questioned, I reasoned. She’d just tell the sheriff that she wasn’t at the cemetery that night. If that didn’t work, she could put a spell on everyone until they believed her. Easy-peasy. My morals settled down.
“Daddy, they didn’t find anything else at the graveyard?” Like two girl-size hidey spots under a blackberry bush.
“No.”
“What about the Pritchards?” I asked real casual. “Any news about them?”
“Word came this morning. The Pritchard brothers seem to have skipped past these parts and headed south to Trittsville, thank the Lord. They hit a bank and then busted up a sweet shop for the heck of it.”
Trittsville. At the graveyard, Billy had said something about going to Trittsville and coming back afterward. Did he mean back to St. Petersburg?
Daddy sighed again, staring at my plate. “Stop dredging your bacon through the syrup like you’re drowning a cat.”
I stopped. That was exactly what he used to say to Jon.
“Becky, honey, you need to start acting like a grown-up. No more playing with your food and running around with Sid Sawyer. You’re too old to be spitting cherries with boys.”
I felt my head get hot. I supposed Tom Sawyer had told someone about that, too.
“And stop wearing your brother’s old clothes. I saw them swinging from the laundry line earlier this week, so I know you’ve been up to something.”
Darn it. Miss Ada didn’t mind me wearing Jon’s shirts and pants. Heck, she was the one who put all his clothes in a trunk when he died and let me know where the key was. “Maybe Miss Ada just likes to clean them. She was always partial to Jon.”
“I’m tired, Becky. I’m tired of repeating myself. I’ve got things I should be thinking about other than your childish mischief.”
Hmph. What he really meant is that he had better things to be thinking about than me. That even thinking about me was becoming a burden, just like it was to Mama. My fingers itched to hit something. “You know Mama doesn’t attend church. Some people might say she’s not right in the head, either. She on your list of suspects? Sheriff going to haul her in for questions?”
Daddy fixed me with his judge look. “Becky Thatcher, I’m ashamed of what just left your mouth. Don’t you talk about your mama that way. She suffers enough without you speaking poorly about her.”
My cheeks burned even hotter, like someone had lit a firecracker in my mouth. He was ashamed of me? What about Mama, who hadn’t done a single thing to fit in around St. Petersburg? Who hadn’t done a single thing to show that she still had a child alive.
Somehow, I forced myself into a humble position with my head down and hands in my lap. I shook in anger and from holding my tongue, but it probably worked to my advantage, making it seem like I was about to cry. Which I was not about to do.
“Yes, Judge. I’m sorry and I’ll surely try harder.”
Daddy stood and checked Old Reliable (which I’d been real careful about putting back in Daddy’s office by church time on Sunday). He loomed over me and the table for a moment, then pushed his chair in, leaving a good couple slices of bacon on his plate. “Have a good day at school, sweetheart.”
I watched him go before swiping the bacon from his plate and slipping it into the special dress pocket Miss Ada had sewn for me, adding it to the three pieces I’d already hid away. I told Miss Ada I needed a pocket because of my tendency to lose writing chalk, which was the truth, though it came in handy to hold other things more often than not. Charlemagne was a mighty big dog, and Amy and I’d need all the help we could get in sneaking past him Saturday night.
Miss Ada entered the dining room and picked up my plate, sticking me to the wall with her eyeballs. She must have heard what I said about Mama.
I kept my eyes down and picked at the scab on my knee, afraid to look up at her.
Gently, she cupped my chin in her hand and tilted my head up to meet hers. “You leave that scab alone, you hear me? Keep picking and picking at something like that, making it bleed over and over, and your whole leg will be ruined. Knees and hearts take enough bruising from life as it is. They ain’t meant to be beat up by your own self.”
I nodded and dropped my hands into my lap.
“You gonna be late for school if you don’t hurry.”
“I’m going.” I gathered my things, hanging my head low.
“Your mama’s gonna come around,” Miss Ada said. “She just needs time.”
“I got other things to think about besides Mama.”
And I did have other things. In three days, Amy and I would be taking part in the boys’ bet and there wasn’t much glory in swiping an item from the empty house of an arrested and jailed witch. The only evidence that the sheriff had in his possession pointed to the Widow. Amy and I were the only two people in town who could vouch for her. There had to be some way to prove that Widow Douglas wasn’t at the graveyard, without incriminating ourselves.
On the way out the back door, I caught sight of our own garden shovel propped against the house near our side garden. Miss Ada had been putting in autumn mums. Picturing the splash of color the flowers would make, an idea hit me like a rogue skitter bite. Maybe I couldn’t stop the sheriff from asking questions around town, but I might be able to delay any arrests.
Nodding to myself, I walked to school and fixed my head with plans that were certain to keep the Widow out of jail for at least another couple of days.
I shared my plans and Daddy’s news with Amy during lunch and she was eager to help. When Dob-head had finished sneering at us for the day, we headed to the Lawrence place for supplies. Lucky for us, she had a bucket of paint that was real close to the red we needed and a shovel her daddy would never miss. After brushing the tip of the shovel’s handle with a few coats and letting it dry, I took the tool and paint home with me. I hid them in our shed behind a set of flower pots.
That night, once Daddy was in bed, I changed into overalls and snuck out
to stash Amy’s shovel under the Widow’s wraparound porch. Hoping my kind intentions would cancel out any witchy no-trespassing curses she’d placed around the house, I knew I was doing the right thing. The authorities had possession of a shovel they thought was the Widow’s, but I’d just provided evidence to the contrary. Widow Douglas’s shovel could be found good and settled in her own yard.
Taking a roundabout way home to shake off any of the Widow Witch’s spirit helpers, I passed by the Bumpner house, and a fat ham of a thought occurred to me. The Bumpners had some trouble owed to them for being mean in general and to Amy Lawrence in particular. I had just the right manner of justice in mind. I fetched the paint and brush from my house, then ran back to Pinchy-face’s property.
Their house was completely dark, so I walked right over to the shed in the backyard. The inside was neatly organized and I got straight to work, giving a good two coats to the handle tips of a hoe, spade, and rake. The tool set looked just like the Lawrences’. I bet Ruth would be embarrassed to know she and Amy had something in common, even if it only was a tool from Marley’s Dry Goods Emporium.
Only when I reached for a bucket containing garden trowels did I see a special something—a leather-bound booklet tucked down into a corner crack sweet as you please. Thumbing through the pages, I could hardly keep from hooting like an owl when I realized what kind of treasure I’d found.
I didn’t have much time to wander through Ruth’s hidden journal entries, but one caught my eye and made me suck in a wad of air thick as a brick.
Oh Joe Harper, you should see, know,
I love you more than sugar cookie dough
my velvet bow
fresh white snow,
Your cheeks ears are freckled sweet,
your eyes so shiny bright,
I wish that I could make you miney
hold squeeze you tight.
It took every ounce of strength not to let out a laugh that would wake the whole Pinchy-face family. It was even funnier since I was certain Joe hated Ruth, and I was pretty sure he sort of liked Amy. I put the journal snugly in my front overall pocket, my mind spinning with ways I might put such interesting information to good and revengeful use. With a muffled snort, I slapped a quick two coats on the trowels and made my way home. On the way I took the liberty of relocating the Bumpners’ plain shovel to a hidden spot in the woods, where nobody would find it. Mighty pleased with myself as I crept back into bed, I patted my marble sack and thought of my brother.
“Just you wait, Jon. This Saturday’ll be quite the show.”
Chapter Nine
My marbles in danger (and I hate, hate, hate Mr. Dobbins)
When I came down to breakfast Thursday morning, my nerves were up and alert despite the rest of me feeling dog tired. Daddy was stabbing at fried eggs and reading through a stack of papers at the kitchen table. Covering a series of yawns, I stepped aside while Miss Ada nudged past me with a single hotcake and egg on a plate. Creaking stairs told me where she was headed. I sat down to a breakfast of steaming hotcakes and syrup, hearing three knocks on an upstairs door. A jealous part of me hoped Mama wouldn’t answer.
But the door opened with a soft click and Miss Ada came down empty handed. My chest tightened for a minute and I felt something sore behind my eyes. Maybe I’d given myself a cold by being out the night before.
“Morning, Daddy.” One of his papers was sticking out from the rest and I saw the word “Reward.” It sent a prickle through my body all the way to my feet, making my toes tap on the floor. “Are those papers about the Pritchards?”
He took a sip of coffee. “Yep. Sheriff’s trying to decide whether or not to take the posters down around town. I told him there’s not much use in getting people nervous if the Pritchards have gone downriver for good.”
I swallowed hard, trying to get a wad of guilt back down in my stomach before it could pop out of my mouth and say something that would get me in trouble. Besides, I needed to concentrate on the Widow Douglas this morning, not the Pritchards. “You still busy with that dug-up grave business?”
“Mm-hm,” he said, chewing and not looking up. The dining chair creaked beneath his considerable frame and I wondered if Daddy getting a breakfast appetite might be bad news for the furniture.
“Seems awful odd that the sheriff found the Widow’s shovel at the graveyard when I saw it clear as day underneath her porch on my walk home from school yesterday.” I took a big bite and chewed, waiting for his reaction.
“Odd,” he echoed, eyes still glued to his paperwork. “Well, the Bumpners were mighty quick to let us know it was the Widow’s shovel, so maybe she’s got two.”
I shrugged, trying to ignore the faces of Billy and Forney Pritchard glaring at me from Daddy’s stack. “Maybe.” I put down a forkful of hotcake. “Now that’s funny.”
Daddy squinted like he had a headache, but put his fork down and watched me. “What’s funny?”
“Well, if I recall, the Bumpners have red handles on their tool set too. I saw Mrs. Bumpner working on that awful garden of hers last week.” Which was true enough. I’d seen her. “I could have sworn that her pruning shears and hoe had red tips on the handles. I’m pretty sure, anyway. Might want to check and see if their shovel is accounted for.” I took another bite. “Maybe I’m wrong. These hotcakes sure are tasty.”
Daddy stared at me for a good minute, but I didn’t look up from my food. Then he stood, checked the wall clock, and grabbed for his hat.
“Going to work?” I asked. “It’s a little early.”
“I have a feeling it might be a long day,” he muttered, leaving the back door open on his way out.
Maybe I should have felt bad about hauling the Bumpners into the mess, but I was confident they’d whine their way out of blame. And the whole shovel business had sparked an idea. If I could find a way to lead the sheriff to the Pritchards without information coming right from me, maybe I could avoid getting punished for sneaking out to the cemetery. The problem was, I couldn’t say for sure where the Pritchards might be. According to Daddy, they were downriver and our sleepy town was safe as a baby crib. Maybe he was right.
Mr. Dobbins had been awful mean lately (even for him), and school was a terrible burden to get through that week. He was jittery, that’s what it was, and sick, too. He sounded all stuffed up and sneezed a lot, letting the spray hit whoever was closest. A jittery, smelly teacher is a dangerous thing, especially when he’s jammed into a one-room schoolhouse with boys and girls who’d rather be out enjoying the day. By Friday afternoon, the only person not scrambling for one of the seats in the back was Tom Sawyer.
Being warned by his extra-crusty behavior, I should have known better and just paid attention in class. But Mr. Dobbins got to yelling about spelling again, and that’s something I pride myself on. He droned on and on, occasionally snapping at young ones for getting their K’s and C’s mixed up.
Sid sat in front of me, and I saw that he was drawing a picture and trying to show it to Rose Hobart. I peeked. It was a house. A pretty good drawing, too. There in the house’s yard, Sid had drawn a stick man and a stick lady holding hands. Rose giggled and patted the man on the head.
All of a sudden, I felt awful mad. The nerve of Sid! What would he go and like Rose Hobart for anyway? She wouldn’t be the type to take the witch’s bet or wear overalls or let Joe Harper pick her scab. Why, she was no fun at all. Too grown-up for her own good, that’s what she was. And responsible, which was just another way of saying someone was dull as plain grits.
I bet he was planning on walking with her that afternoon, after he and Joe went to get sand. Sid and Joe thought they were so smart. I overheard them at lunch talking about getting a few bucketfuls of Mississippi sandbar right after school. I think Amy told them about our protective dirt, and they were getting worried about their own defenses.
Poor idiots. Sand didn’t have any protective powers unless you piled it around three dead frogs and said the right words, which I guesse
d they didn’t know. Even if they did know the right words, you can’t gather protective sand in the daylight. Any fool knows that.
Never mind Sid. Amy Lawrence was my bosom friend and I resolved right then and there to write a nice note reminding her of just that.
“Sid Sawyer!”
While Sid got hauled up and roughly thwapped with a fly swatter for drawing pictures during class, I scratched a note on a piece of paper and threw it over to Amy. She sat on the outside edge of her row again, which was most convenient for note tossing.
Mr. Dobbins must have sensed the note flying through the air, because he paused mid-thwap. His head jerked around the room like a bloodhound looking for a steak trail.
I made myself busy and innocent by pulling out my marble bag. I shifted it in my hand, took one marble out, put it back, took another one out, put it back. There’s nothing like doing something else, something a little less bad for excusing yourself from the badder thing you’ve done.
“Amy Lawrence!”
My heartbeat echoed in my ears, and I felt my face get hot. Not my Amy!
“Ye-es, sir?”
“Who threw something across my classroom?”
“I don’t know, sir. I reckon I was working on my sums.” She held up her chalkboard and displayed 47+74=121.
Excellent! My lying lessons had gone over like cream on peaches.
Dobbins strode around the room and each child he asked claimed to know nothing. Their eyes had all been dutifully on the switching going on up front. When he got to Pinchy-face, who sat next to me, I got a little nervous. She had an awful grin on her face and seemed ready to tell on me, but a sharp poke with my pencil tip convinced her otherwise.
“This is ridiculous!” Mr. Dobbins bellowed. He breathed in and out of his nose, spraying flecks of deep-seated dried nostril snot and looking madder than I’d ever seen him. Mean mad. “I hate this job.” He marched back and forth in a tight line at the front of the classroom, huffing like a cornered bull. “And I’m not letting all this disrespect pass, you hear? I’m an educated man! I’m a dentist!”
