Thomas emptied the last apron-full of beans into the basket sitting in the old wheelbarrow and glanced toward the house across the street. A neighbor woman was standing on her front walk talking to Anna's father. She was pointing toward his Aunt Bertha's house.
He took off the apron, threw it into the basket on top of the beans, and pushed off with the load, hoping to get to Aunt Bertha's back door in time to warn her.
* * * *
"My old ears aren't what they used to be, Anna. What did you say?"
Anna sat very still, as if trying to remember what the cookie was for, or what the question was.
"Anna, why didn't you go to school today?"
Anna took a bite of cookie followed by a lot of slow chewing before she answered.
"I went to find where Mama's hiding.” Her eyes were on the floor where they had been most of the time since she came into Bertha's kitchen.
"Everything's going to be all right, Anna."
She looked the child over once more and noticed the slight trembling again.
* * * *
Thomas was only halfway to Bertha's back door when he heard a shout from the front of the house.
"Anna! You get out here right now!"
Thomas considered leaving the wheelbarrow where it was and running for the back door, but he'd be too late. Bertha would already know the enemy was at the door. After only a few seconds hesitation, he pushed ahead with his load, trying to move a little faster. In the background, he heard a few more shouts and a loud banging on the door.
When he was still a good twenty yards away, Anna's father charged around the corner of the house, heading for the kitchen door.
"I know she's in there! You get her out here!"
Thomas sat the wheelbarrow down with a heavy clump. Tullis turned quickly around.
"You stay outta th’ way, kid!"
Thomas didn't move. The back door of the house opened and Bertha came out to stand on the back step.
"She's in my kitchen. She's had a scraped knee and I've been helping her get cleaned up. And she's upset about Thora. What Anna really needs—"
"What she needs is nunna your business, you old bird—” He moved as if to shove her out of his way.
"Mr. Tullis!"
Tullis stopped.
Bertha had spoken hardly above a conversational level, but her voice carried a don't-mess-with-me challenge that was as effective as a double layer of invisible brick. It was an attitude that had always worked with unruly kids back when she was teaching school, and on appropriate occasions she had found it worked just as well with an adult. And she hadn't forgotten how.
Thomas heaved a sigh of relief. He'd brought Anna to the right place. If anybody could handle Mr. Tullis, his Aunt Bertha could, he thought.
There was a brief testing of wills before the silence was interrupted by the sound of a doorknob being turned behind Bertha. Tullis broke his gaze.
Anna came out slowly, cast a glance at Thomas, and stepped off the porch, avoiding both Bertha and her father. Her eyes were on the ground, her shoulders hunched together, and her arms held close.
Tullis shook his finger in Bertha's face.
"And you, you old busybody,” Tullis said, “you can just mind your own business!"
Bertha watched them go for a moment, then turned to Thomas.
"She was walkin',” he said, “out by the edge of town. Out by them cabins."
"What was she doing out there?"
"Lookin’ for her mama, she said."
"I suppose you heard Thora took the bus and ran off."
"I told her what folks are sayin', but Anna says she's gonna find her."
He paused, watching Anna and her father, now walking about half a block away.
"She didn't want to go home. I couldn't bring her to my place."
Bertha looked at him with raised eyebrows.
"My pa, he don't like Mr. Tullis."
"Well, you did just right to bring her here, then."
She glanced at the wheelbarrow and the basket.
"Thank you for picking the rest of the beans, Thomas. Just leave the barrow in the shade. Then you'd better come in and have some cookies."
After a last look down the street, Thomas moved reluctantly to follow her orders.
* * * *
Bertha waited until they were seated at the kitchen table and the first cookie was served before she spoke.
"How did she hurt her knee?"
"We heard a car. She thought it was her pa's, so we climbed over a fence to hide. She fell off."
She nodded, accepting his answer because she had never known him to make up tales.
Thomas was neglecting his cookie and a couple of flies took advantage of the opportunity to land on it and feast. Bertha noticed them right away and shook a handy dishtowel at them.
"Flies . . . all over my kitchen. I know the Good Lord made flies to be food for the birds, but—"
She rose and took a fly sprayer from a shelf near the stove. It was a long tube with a pump handle on one end and a small reservoir for fly spray on the other. Only a few pumps of the sprayer put a mist of spray around a wastebasket next to her stove where most of the flies were congregated. The assault on the flies left a sharp odor in the room.
"Look at them, will you? They're buzzing around twice as fast, like it's dessert and they can't get enough of it!"
She gave one last pump into the swirling mass and watched them circle even faster.
"Whew! I don't know what's worse . . . flies or fly spray!"
Bertha wasn't complaining as much as it sounded. She was merely trying to entertain Thomas and distract him from the ugly scene that had just happened. He was watching the flies, but not really seeing them.
"Her pa was real mad at her last night,” he said. “She was trying to talk back."
Bertha thought that over for a moment.
"Thora wasn't Anna's real mother, Thomas. Her real mother died when she was only a couple of years old. Mr. Tullis married Thora a while after that."
"I know that . . . Anna said her mom and dad was fightin’ all th’ time. I could hear ‘em all th’ time too."
"What I know of them, I'm not surprised. It's the times . . . when you're out of work, no money coming in, it changes a lot of people."
"Couple days ago they had a terrible fight."
"That's probably why she left."
"My pa, he spoke to Mr. Tullis one time when he and his wife was goin’ ‘round an’ ‘round . . . Pa got told real good to mind his own business, so Pa tells us we gotta stay outta’ anythin’ next door. Around our house, we don't talk about it anymore, either."
"That's probably a good idea. It's a sorrowful thing that's happened in that family."
Thomas swallowed the last of his cookie, and looked at Bertha. Her expression led him to think she might listen. Finally, he decided he had to tell Aunt Bertha what he thought.
"I think he prob'ly killed her."
Bertha gave a sharp intake of air. Not quite a gasp, but almost.
"Thora?"
Thomas nodded.
"Nonsense, Thomas,” she said, looking him in the eye. “Do you know that for sure?"
"I guess not. I just think so."
"There you are! Now don't you go around telling tales like that. Especially to Anna."
"I didn't."
"As it is, it'll take Anna a while to get over what's happened.” She paused to lower her eyebrows and look Thomas in the eye. “And no telling anyone else. Those kind of rumors do nobody any good. Do you understand?"
"Yes ma'am."
"It's already bad enough. Everyone knows Thora bought a ticket the day before yesterday and went away on the bus. She did it while Anna was in school. I guess she figured she couldn't take Anna with her."
Thomas glanced at the cookie jar, still brimming with cookies, and walked to the door without taking one for the road. It wasn't like him to do that and Bertha sat thinking about Anna for long time.
She didn't notice the flies were now buzzing fewer and slower around her wastebasket.
* * * *
Whatever was going on in the Tullis household, Bertha told herself, was not her responsibility. In fact, as Tullis said, it was none of her business. On the other hand, she was troubled by how upset the child was. Was Thora's leaving enough to account for her emotional state? Perhaps, she thought, especially if Thora had been able to keep her father's desperation and anger away from the child.
She had never before gotten involved in a child's problem when it was so profoundly rooted in a child's family. Getting more deeply involved . . . well, she was hesitant. Reassuring words or a bandage or two are a far cry from helping a child cope with being abandoned by a parent, a real one or not.
"If you know what's good for you, you really ought to mind your own potatoes,” she said to herself.
A moment later, she remembered one of her Bible class lessons, the one about a youth back in ancient times who went confidently out to meet a formidable adversary. Perhaps, she thought, her own fears might be minor by comparison.
* * * *
Bertha was lucky to find the city marshal, Dave Henley, at the city offices. He wasn't there much. His real occupation was that of farmer, but his farm was close enough to town that the other part-time city fathers could justify making him the city law-enforcement officer. Not that there was much lawlessness in the small town of Watsonville. What there was tended to be caused by a few rowdy spirits and a few bullies who hadn't gotten over their personal problems when they were young. Their flagrant conduct was usually brought up short when Dave Henley appeared. When he told one of them to do something, or not to do something, most just somehow came to see it Dave's way.
But Dave Henley had been in her fifth grade class about twenty years ago, and he always listened carefully when Bertha spoke. He did so now as she told him about cleaning up the girl and the incident with her father. She left out Thomas's speculations because she couldn't accept them herself.
"Her father seems to be pretty angry about Thora taking off like she did. I hope he's not taking it out on the girl,” she concluded.
"You ask her how she got her knee skinned like that?"
"Thomas, the boy who lives next door to the Tullises, says she fell crossing a fence."
Dave smiled.
"Kid's'll get a scrape here and there, sometimes."
"Still, I thought she looked like she might be a little scared."
"Well, sure. She's prob'ly feelin’ poorly, Thora bein’ gone an’ all."
"And look who's left to take care of her!"
"Times past, Tullis hasn't been a bad sort of fellow. Spends most of his time unemployed, but with the times bein’ what they are, so are a lot of people."
"My impression is, he was mostly unemployed even when times were good."
"He's been workin’ lately. I saw him out at the feed store just last week. They got him totin’ bags of feed out to the customers’ cars."
Bertha lowered her chin and looked the big man in the eye with her best schoolteacher look.
"Thomas says he heard shouting matches, and a big one the day before his wife ran off. And again last night with Anna. Then she skipped school today and showed up at my house with a lot of grief."
Dave thought for a moment.
"I suppose I could arrange to run into him . . . have a word . . . let him know I'd take it kindly if he kept his troubles to himself."
"I wouldn't put off doing it. I met the man. I'm worried about the girl."
Dave nodded, but only after a little hesitation.
By the time Bertha returned home, she started having misgivings about taking the problem to the marshal. If he intervened, would it just make things worse for the girl? Still, she thought Dave was more concerned than he had let on. She tried to take her mind off it by dragging her harvest of beans over to the backyard faucet to wash them and get them ready for bottling whenever the pressure cooker arrived. The trouble was, washing beans was not mind work, and the questions wouldn't go away.
* * * *
A loud banging rattled the panes of glass in the top half of Bertha's back door. She was getting ready to go to bed when she heard the commotion and hurriedly put on a robe. Before she opened the door, she flipped a switch to turn on a bare bulb over the porch.
The man standing there had opened her screen door and his face was in deep shadow cast from the brim of his misshapen felt hat. But she could tell it was Tullis, and she opened the door only a few inches. He took a step forward, as if to enter, but stopped when she wouldn't open the door any wider.
"I came to get somethin’ Anna musta’ left here."
"I don't believe she left anything, Mr. Tullis."
"You lemme in, I'll just make sure."
He made another move to enter, but Bertha held the door where it was and tried to brace it with her foot.
"You'll do no such thing. It's late, and you will not come into my home. If she left anything, I haven't seen it."
"I'll search your place from top to bottom if I have to! Now you just get out of my—"
Tullis placed his hand on the door and started to push again. Bertha released the door, quickly opening it a foot or so. Just as quickly, she slammed it closed and turned the key. Caught off guard and unprepared, Tullis didn't react fast enough to push again. He rattled the doorknob with one hand and rapped on the glass with the other.
"Was you, wasn't it? You set the marshal on me, you old biddie!"
"If you're not off my property by the time I get to the telephone,” she called through the door, “I'll have the operator call him and have him escort you off!"
The truth was, she didn't have a telephone. She couldn't afford one, but she hoped Tullis didn't know that.
Through the kitchen window, she watched Tullis reluctantly turn and go around the corner of the house. She hurried to her front room window and watched him stride into the street, where he stopped to look back. A full moment passed before he turned and walked away.
"What was all that fuss about?” she asked herself, at the same time feeling a shudder start across her shoulders.
* * * *
Bertha climbed out of her bed the next morning and promptly stumbled on the kitchen stove poker she had propped by its side.
"Oh, shoot!” she muttered.
She felt like she hadn't slept a wink all night from worrying about whether Tullis might come back. Chairs under the doorknobs front and back had been her first line of defense and the poker had been the second.
The day began with preparations for a batch of bread she would bake and take to the schoolhouse later in the morning. Twice a week, a few matrons of the town prepared a lunch at the grade school for the kids whose parents didn't pack one or who didn't have the means to pack one. Lunch was simple: a bowl of thick hot soup, whose main ingredient was usually potatoes, along with a slice of bread. Not enough, but probably as much as some kids had at home for dinner. Once a week, Bertha volunteered to help supply the bread. The local mill dOñated the flour she used and others came up with the soup ingredients and did the cooking.
When the bread was mixed, kneaded, divided into loaves and left to rise, Bertha had a few moments to think. She was still deeply troubled by Tullis's late evening visit and she tried to figure out the reason for it. After he left, she spent a few minutes looking around the kitchen for anything Anna might have left behind, but found nothing. Even if she had, why did Tullis have to come looking for it late at night? And why couldn't Anna have come after it herself the next day?
Bertha took a deep breath and looked heavenward as if expecting to be told.
There was, of course, no answer forthcoming. But after only a few moments of watching her bread rise, she decided there might be some answers she could get for herself. She remembered Thomas said Anna had been coming from the direction of the tourist cabins when he found her. The owner was also the agent for the bus line that operated through this
part of the state. Well, she thought, just one simple little errand to talk to the owner shouldn't make the Tullis situation any worse.
And if she did, perhaps she could put the whole thing to rest for once and all, and tell Thomas—and perhaps Anna—that Thora had indeed gone and there was nothing that anyone could do about it. She put on her town hat and headed for her old car, deciding the errand was worth the expense of the gas.
She drove to the edge of town where she parked in front of a large house whose front porch was topped with a large wooden sign identifying it as the adams auto camp. Eleven small cabins were lined up in two rows on one side of it. Attached to the porch railing was a smaller sign of enameled sheet metal that said, trans-east bus lines.
The house was also the residence of Mr. Adams and his wife, and their front room was outfitted as the office. Bertha had to push the bell on the counter twice to summon the proprietor, a man she knew to be overly servile to anyone who might be a potential customer, but just the opposite to anyone else.
"Mr. Adams,” Bertha said when he finally came, “a few days ago, do you remember selling a bus ticket to Thora Tullis?” She gave him a mild version of her schoolteacher stare.
"Humff . . . was a kid in here yesterday askin’ the same question,” he said, using the tone of voice reserved for non-customers.
"What did you tell her?"
His voice became whiny, as if he had been accused of something.
"Told her I sure did. For the two o'clock bus. Anythin’ wrong with that?"
"Not a thing, Mr. Adams."
"Figured right off the woman was runnin’ off from Tullis,” he smiled.
"Acquainted with them, are you?"
"Him, mostly. Just to know who he is. Came around here a time or two. See if I had any handyman work on the cabins. If I had any work, he'd be the last I'd hire to do it."
"You didn't know her then?"
"Just from talk. Tullis pro'lly only married her so's he'd have someone to take care of that there kid of his, what's ‘er name . . ."
"Anna."
"I suppose. What I hear, his wife was no great loss to anybody."
"Except Anna."
He shrugged.
"So then, she got on the bus?"
"Well, a’ course she did.” His voice was more confident now. “She came in here, bought a ticket, and sat over there in one of them chairs waitin’ for it."
AHMM, July-August 2010 Page 5
