The Actual & Truthful Adventures of Becky Thatcher

by Iacopo Bruno

  Billy let out a holler as I rushed around the last tunnel curve and sprinted straight into . . .

  Daddy? All six foot four of him was there, squeezed into the tunnel, wrapping his arms around me.

  “Becky!”

  “Go, Daddy! Billy Pritchard’s got a knife!”

  Daddy shoved me toward the exit and we both got to the entrance cavern about three seconds before Billy Pritchard came growling into view, cradling his hand and cursing.

  I ran to the cave’s opening and saw a crowd of people running up the hill, led by several charging hound dogs, including Charlemagne.

  “Run, Becky,” Daddy ordered.

  “I’ll murder that girl!” Billy snarled, daring to take a step toward me.

  “Over my dead body, Billy Pritchard,” Daddy bellowed. He was dressed in his judge robes even though it must have been about nine o’clock at night.

  He held his arms wide, protecting me, and I swear that he let out a growl, though it might have come from Charlemagne. Either way, I’d never seen Daddy so fearsome. I must say, it was magnificent. My giddiness was halted by the wild look on Billy Pritchard’s face.

  “Your dead body? So be it, Judge.” Billy laughed and advanced.

  “Not so fast, Pritchard!” The sheriff had arrived, breathing heavy and wearing a badge that looked sweet as a bucket of ice cream to me. “Last time I checked, guns tended to be quicker than knives,” he barked, pulling a pistol from his holster. Two deputies I didn’t recognize had reached his side. They reached into hip holsters as well. Double hip holsters.

  Five shiny guns pointed straight at Billy Pritchard. That was enough to send his knife clattering to the rocky cave floor.

  I guess Billy didn’t feel like dying that day, because he eventually let himself be tied up.

  I let the Law know that Forney was unconscious and the sheriff sent the two deputies to fetch him. Five minutes later, they hauled him out. He was mumbling to himself and drooling a little. In fact, Forney Pritchard looked downright traumatized. He clutched the dead kitten.

  “Quite the haul in there, Sheriff,” one of the deputies said.

  “Thank you, boys. Try to find an extra hard rock for the Pritchards to sit on and one of you keep watch while I finish up with Miss Thatcher.”

  The sheriff clapped a hand on my shoulder and handed me a damp handkerchief. “Looks like you’ve got some blood on your forehead, honey. Come on out into the moonlight.”

  I took the hanky and followed him to just outside the cave’s entrance, dabbing the cloth against my forehead and picturing the scab that’d come of that cut.

  “I’m sorry it took so long to get here,” he said. “A sheriff downriver said the Pritchards were most likely headed this way, so we were already on high alert, but this grave-digging business took over. I was trying to depose Mrs. Douglas in court while several townsfolk looked on. It was quite the event. Seems there’s not enough to do in this town, with those Bumpners pushing us to work on a Sunday evening. Tom Sawyer ran straight into the courtroom and wiggled like a fishing worm, but he didn’t want to break up proceedings, I guess. Took him several minutes to open his mouth.”

  That Tom. Not even wanting to interrupt adults when my life was at risk. I guess I should’ve been pleased that he went at all. “I would’ve liked to have seen that,” I said. “It was awful brave for him to have interrupted.”

  I reckoned I had to knock Tom off my enemy list, now that he’d saved my life with his tattling. I felt bad about tricking him with the poop, but felt even worse for having thought he was a chicken. Of course, he was a little bit of a chicken for not coming with me into the cave, but I don’t blame him. That’s the kind of chicken you feel downright grateful to.

  “Certainly was, young lady. The Bumpners were high set on having an old-fashioned witch burning. Family of troublesome morons, those Bumpners. Tried to say Tom Sawyer was making up his story for attention. But not long after Tom told us where you were, a little girl named Amy Lawrence came running, waving a note that said you’d gone to find the Pritchards’ hideout in the old cave. That was enough for me.”

  I got all prickly as the sheriff leaned down, wondering how I could have a bosom friend for over two weeks and not know she was a mind reader. How else could she have known I went to the cave? Hmm, I’d have to think on that. And while I sure was happy that the sheriff believed Amy over the Bumpners, it seemed I’d have to have a little talk with her about sharing personal notes with the Law.

  “Listen to me,” the sheriff said in a low voice. “I don’t know how you girls were in a position to hear what a Pritchard said in the cemetery, but I’m inclined to just let that question fade away. It’s embarrassing enough having a little girl know more about my town’s goings-on than me.” He winked. “I may have to recruit you as a deputy.”

  “Oh no, sir. I reckon I’m better at playing a pirate than a deputy. At least for now.”

  The sheriff laughed and eyed my forehead. “I’ll need you to come in and talk with me tomorrow, sweetheart, but you should get on home unless there’s anything else I need to know right now about what went on here.”

  I glanced back at the cave. The Pritchard brothers sat next to the rock where I’d changed into my overalls, appearing every bit the defeated outlaws. The dead kitten was still tucked into the crook of Forney’s arm. He had something else in his hands too—a scrunched up bundle of cloth. “No, sir. I think everything else can probably wait for the sun to come up.” Wait, that’s not true. “Sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “Except one thing.”

  “Oh?”

  “You better go hunt down Mr. Dobbins and arrest him. He’s been working with the Pritchards. He helped dig up Amos Mutton and yanked out his gold teeth, then he put the teeth into the Pritchards. It was him and Billy that night in the cemetery, so you can leave the wit—the Widow Douglas alone.”

  The sheriff snorted. “That’s a mighty tall tale.”

  “It’s true.” Peering at the Pritchards again, I realized that Forney was wiping his panicked tears and snot on my dress. Well, that was one fishskin down.

  “Hey, Forney!” I shouted. “Give me a smile and maybe they’ll let you go free!”

  Forney lifted his head and gave a hesitant smile. His one tooth gleamed in the lantern light.

  “Well, I’ll be. That’s a gold tooth!” The sheriff rubbed his eyes. “Law up north said you fellas ain’t got no teeth at all. Mighty odd.” He walked over to the outlaws for a closer look.

  Billy head-butted his brother so hard that they both fell forward and couldn’t get up, their arms being tied and all.

  “Ow!”

  “Shut up, you fool!”

  “You’re the fool! And a mean older brother, to boot!”

  “You’re the whining-est, idiot-est, stupidest stupid fool I’ve ever known!”

  One of the deputies gave them both a kick and they settled down. Daddy joined the sheriff and they spoke in low tones while I sat outside the cave, looking at the moon and thinking how it seemed to glow bigger and brighter than I’d ever seen. Maybe it didn’t give off warmth like the sun, but a girl could look at the moon good and long without going blind, which was nice. It made me feel watched over. “Thank you, Jon,” I whispered, taking out my marble sack, letting its weight rest on my bent knees.

  “Let’s get going, honey.”

  Brushing cave dirt from my overalls, I looked up to see Daddy’s outstretched hand.

  “Just a second,” I said, his strong fingers gripping my arm and pulling me up. “I left something in the cave.”

  Daddy insisted on coming back with me, despite having to squeeze through areas no six-foot-four man should ever try to squish into.

  I lifted the cornmeal sack. “We can go now.”

  “You came back for that?” he asked, looking surprised.

  “Miss Ada can return sacks at the store for a little credit on the next bag of cornmeal. Plus, it has some lucky charms in it.” Qui
te a few charms, I reckoned, from the weight of those coins.

  Daddy let out a big sigh, but he was smiling. “Well I guess it’s worth keeping, seeing as you’re still alive, thank God.”

  “So the Widow Douglas won’t be arrested, right?”

  Daddy looked at me funny. “I suppose not. I can’t quite figure on how you would know that Mr. Dobbins was at the—”

  “Oh, the Pritchards were blabbing about it,” I interrupted. “I’m glad the sheriff is gonna leave the Widow alone.”

  After a long glance, Daddy smiled at me. “Let’s go home.”

  But before we’d even made it to the school picnic grounds, a woman carrying a lantern came running across the meadow in a nightdress, calling my name in a panic. When she saw me, she sank to her knees in the grass and began to cry.

  I approached the woman and righted the oil lantern, touching the shadow cast by her shaking body. Shadows and footsteps and whispers. That’s what she’d been to me for the last year, and I wasn’t quite sure how to handle having my mama right in front of me. I moved her hands away from her eyes. My own shadow darkened her features, but I saw her pain clear as day. And it was for me this time.

  “Don’t cry, Mama.” I knelt down and held her hands. I hadn’t held Mama’s hands in a long time. I’d forgotten how good it felt. She squeezed back, letting me know that she was holding mine, too. “I guess maybe you still love me, after all.”

  Mama dropped my hands and wiped her eyes, sniffle-snuffling. Then she lifted a set of trembling arms. They just hung in the air, like she’d forgotten how to hug me. That hurt my feelings a little and I felt myself back away. It was only when a tiny cry escaped the back of her throat that I realized something. She hadn’t forgotten. She was afraid—not of hugging me, but of me not letting her.

  The fear in her eyes settled all my resentment for good.

  I leaned into her and pulled her arms around me. Hesitantly, then with more confidence, she held me in a tight, tight embrace—the kind that feels like the safest place in the world.

  “Of course, I love you,” she whispered, stroking my hair. “Don’t you know that?” She pushed me away from her, searching my face for an answer.

  I couldn’t talk for what seemed like ages. What did I want to say, now that she was listening?

  “Don’t you, Becky?”

  My voice felt unsteady inside me, even before I spoke. All the night’s buzziness had worn off, and I was left feeling tired and scared and wanting my mama. I wanted her so much that I wasn’t sure if I should answer her question. Part of me was afraid that truthful words might drive her right back into the darkness of Jon’s death. The other part of me wanted more than anything to tell her how I felt.

  When I did speak, it came out as a whisper. “I thought you were so busy thinking about Jon being gone . . . that you’d forgotten I was still here.”

  Her features wrinkled into a tight ball, twitching and twisting while she searched for something to say. After a moment, Mama’s face smoothed into the sad expression I was used to. But it was different somehow.

  I clung to that difference.

  “Oh, Becky,” she murmured. “I’m sorry.”

  Instead of telling her it was okay, I started to cry. While Daddy came up and put his arms around us both, I cried in gratitude for my own life, which could have ended that very night.

  While my family came back together, I cried in bittersweet thanks for my brother up in Heaven, who I knew for certain would always be watching over me.

  Most of all, while she tried her best to tuck me back into her heart, I cried in relief for Mama, who hadn’t let me go.

  Who was holding on to me.

  Who still loved me after all.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Saying good-bye

  When I arrived at the steamboat at five forty-five on Monday morning, there were five men loading crates onboard.

  “Excuse me,” I said to a man crossing the gangplank to shore. “Do you know where I can find Sam Clemens, the boat pilot?”

  The man pointed to the far end of the steamboat and I found Sam sitting on a chair next to a makeshift barrel table, checking a watch. His chair was tilted back to near-falling and his feet were on the railing, keeping balance. If I didn’t have something else on my mind, I would’ve asked him how he managed it.

  “Why, hello there, Miss Thatcher. That’s a pretty dress, though I’d say the overalls suit you better.” He tipped his hat.

  Nervousness crept into my cheeks, but I set my mind to the business at hand. “Sir, I need a favor. I made a promise to my brother—the one who died last year. Can you tell me if you’re going to the ocean in this boat? I thought maybe you’d be heading that way, once the engine got fixed.”

  “This boat?” Looking up and down the length of the steamboat, Sam chuckled, “Not this one, no. This boat doesn’t quite have the grit for that journey. It’ll be headed back to Chicago.”

  I spotted a few fishing boats downriver. “Well, maybe some of them are?”

  “Nothing that size is going down to the ocean.” Sam fiddled with his pocket, coming up with a box of matches and his pipe.

  I watched as one of the fisherman swatted at a bird picking something, probably fish guts, off his deck. “Sid said that he saw a raft last month, no bigger than something he and Joe Harper could put together. Two boys about our age were on it with a colored man. They were hooting and hollering about something, and Sid shouted over to see what the joke was. They were heading down to Louisiana.”

  Sam raised a thick eyebrow. “I hate to say it, but a raft with two white boys and a colored man is gonna have a hard time making it to the ocean without answering questions from people.”

  I dropped to the floor and pulled my knees up, hugging them. What now?

  “Why do you want to get to the ocean so badly?”

  I looked up at Sam and lifted my marbles. “To have adventures. I owe someone a promise.”

  He nodded, as though promises and bags of marbles went hand in hand.

  “In that case, I happen to be taking over a ship that is going to the ocean. At least I aim to. I might go all the way across the ocean too, if I can get to the right starting point. As a passenger, that is, not as a pilot.”

  “You’re not gonna be a river pilot any longer?”

  “Oh, we’ll see. Life has a way of messing with you if you make too many plans, but I’m hoping to be a serious writer one of these days.” He pulled a small notebook and stubby pencil out of his pocket and waved them at me. “And not just for my own entertainment, either. Now, tell me about this promise.”

  “I just . . . I told Jon I’d take these marble on adventures and he said that if he hadn’t gotten sick, he would’ve gone to the ocean. He would’ve gone everywhere.” I held the bag up and paused. There was too much snot in my nose and water building in my eyes to keep talking. This weepy crying business had to stop. Setting the marbles down, I took a hanky from my pocket and blew hard. I could feel a load of whiny tears pushing to get out and my throat felt like it had five cherry pits stuck inside.

  Sam picked the bag up, politely ignoring my nose blowing. “What’s so special about these marbles? I mean, other than the obvious fact that they’re so special.” He winked.

  Tucking the hanky into my dress pocket, I stared at him real hard so he’d believe me. “A spirit man put a spell on those marbles and said that they’d carry a piece of Jon’s soul always. It was Jon’s idea.”

  “Sounds like a devil’s deal.”

  “No, sir. There was no devil about the man, just a heapful of solid superstition. Said he could talk to folks after they stopped living and had gotten all sorts of tips from the Other Side. Anyway, I made a promise to Jon that I would make sure those marbles went far and wide.”

  Sam fingered the leather bag’s ties and looked at me for permission.

  I nodded and he opened it. He took out a bright green one, engraved with a delicate frog. He smiled real big and his
fingers shook a little as he held it high. “Henry loved shooting marbles when we were boys.”

  “That was your brother who died on the river?”

  Sam’s eyes got misty. “That’s right.” He jammed a thumb in one eye at a time and rubbed. Taking a handkerchief from his shirt pocket, he blew his nose with a ferocity that rivaled Mama’s worst snoring.

  Remembering Daddy’s words about mothers needing the most time to let go, I wondered how much time other people were expected to take when a loved one died. “Can I ask you a question, sir?”

  He cleared his throat. “Certainly.”

  “Did people tell you to let your brother go and move on? I mean, is that part of growing up and all? My daddy wants me to grow up, and I’m . . . well, I’m determined to try.”

  He seemed surprised at the question and took his time thinking on it. “There were people who told me to let go of my brother, but I never paid them much mind. Souls that were connected don’t get severed upon death. You bring along the best part of that person and you keep it with you always.”

  That sounded exactly right to me.

  “Don’t you worry, Becky Thatcher. Growing up has got nothing to do with how to let a person go or keep them around.” With a nod at my dress, he chuckled. “And it has nothing to do with whether you’d rather wear overalls or dresses.”

  Well, thank the Lord for that. I grinned. “Or whether you like to spit cherry pits?”

  “Well,” he said, “that might depend on whose yard you’re spitting into. I’d steer clear of Aunt Polly’s fence if you want to keep your daddy happy.” He raised an eyebrow and rolled the frog marble between his palms.

  Hmph. Didn’t think he’d seen that. “That jumping frog was one of Jon’s favorites,” I told Sam. “He loved frogs and toads. He even tried to train one once, so he could make it hop higher and faster than any frog alive.” I felt my lips tug up toward Heaven, remembering Jon in the backyard, baiting that frog with dead flies, trying to get it to jump chin high. “Figured he could use that frog in bets to win money.”

  “Isn’t that a fine idea.” Sam smiled and examined a few more marbles—striped ones, ones with symbols, a couple made to look like swirling storms—before putting them all back in the sack. “You want your brother to get all the way to the ocean? You want him to have adventures?”