“But we’ll get in trouble,” squeaked Elsbeth. “They’ll know we sneaked out here and stole berries.”
I realized the risk of being found out was far greater for my younger friends. Their punishments were always more severe than mine.
I patted Elsbeth’s hand. “Hey, William. Couldn’t we just say it was you and me? We could leave the twins out of it, couldn’t we?”
I almost saw the vague outline of his head as he nodded. “Sure. Sure we—”
“Shh.” I squeezed his arm.
A light flickered on the path and the men returned.
We huddled together and held our breath, listening to them get back into the car and drive down to the field entrance, where they replaced the barricade and continued down the road.
I let out a sigh of relief. “Phew.”
“That was close,” William said. He stood up and turned to the twins. “You two wait here while Gus and I check out the cabin.”
Siegfried slipped an arm around Elsbeth. “Ja. Okay. We’ll wait here for you.” He sounded disappointed, but I knew he would protect his sister while we were gone.
“Okay. C’mon, Gus. Let’s see what these fellas were up to.”
I turned on my flashlight and laced my fingers over the lens to cut the light. We darted to the area where the men entered the woods and were relieved to find a well-established path. William jogged forward. I loped behind him as the beam of the light jiggled up and down in rhythm with my gait. Before long, we reached a small shack.
I shone my light on it. The boards were old and gray and there were holes in the roof. The door hung on one hinge. It must have been abandoned years ago.
I moved up close to William. “Be careful. There might be animals inside.”
He swung aside the door and it creaked with an ungodly sound. “Give me the light, Gus,” he whispered.
I handed him the flashlight with a trembling hand.
William played the light over the inside of the one-room building, illuminating an old table and two chairs next to a pot-bellied stove. A cot lay below shelves that lined the wall, emptied of their goods years ago.
I pushed aside a swaying cobweb. “Geez, it’s creepy in here.”
William flashed the light over the room again. “I don’t see anything, Gus. Maybe they buried it outside.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Shine the light on the floor over there.”
We walked toward the far corner of the room and examined the floorboards. Something flashed in the light.
William knelt down and picked it up. “It’s just an old bottle cap,” he said.
In the light playing over the dusty floor, I noticed a section of floorboards cut shorter than the others. “What’s this?” I moved over to the area, stomping around.
“Here we go.” William knelt, flipping up a hinged metal ring on what looked like a trap door.
I froze, imagining Sharon’s face staring up at me. I backed up a few steps. “You look. I can’t do it.”
William took a deep breath. “Here goes.” He lifted the panel and peered inside.
I slinked in the doorway while he leaned over and shone the flashlight into the hole.
“Well, that’s weird.” He sat up, frowning.
I stared at him from the doorway. “What is it? Is it Sharon?”
“Sharon?” He shook his head. “Heck, no. It’s not a body. Come over here and see for yourself.”
Relieved, I hurried to William’s side and leaned over the hole. Lying in the crawlspace beneath the floor were several long bolts of woolen fabric. A rusty toolbox sat beside them. I glanced at William in the beam of the dimming flashlight. “What the heck?”
“Okay, we’re done here.” He motioned for me to back up and repositioned the panel. “C’mon. It’s time to go home.”
Chapter 25
At ten o’clock the next morning my father, mother, and I piled into our Oldsmobile station wagon and headed for Oakland. The woolen mill was first on the list, to be followed by lunch and a movie.
I’d slept until the unbelievable hour of eight o’clock and nearly confessed all when my mother stared in horror at my blue lips and teeth. Mumbling something about a new kind of gum, I’d rushed to the bathroom to regain my composure and brush my teeth until all telltale traces of blueberries had vanished.
We arrived at the mill in thirty minutes. According to my father, who lectured us about the history of the building, the place was constructed in the late 1800s and had survived the decades well in spite of the limited attention it received at the hands of its various owners. Stretching for three hundred feet along the banks of a river, it loomed tall and crooked against the landscape.
I followed my parents up three flights of rickety wooden stairs to the sales floor. Inside, we were assaulted with the scent of wool and dust. Worn gray floorboards spanned the aisles between shelves that housed hundreds of bolts of brightly colored wool.
I sighed deeply and prepared to be bored.
My mother walked up and down each aisle, examining and touching every single bolt of material.
I followed her for a while, tired from my less-than-usual ten hours of sleep.
“What do you think about this red plaid, Gus? Would you like a shirt made from this?”
I shrugged and looked at her indecisively. “I guess so. It’s nice.”
My mother was a prodigious seamstress. Each winter she made woolen shirts for my father and me. We wore them out to the woodpile, to the mailbox, and in the house in the frigid mornings before the woodstove warmed the air.
She rolled her pale blue eyes in my direction. “I don’t know why I even ask you, Gustave.”
I smiled and took the bolt of fabric from her hands. “Sorry, Mum. It’s a good color. Really. I like it.”
She smiled indulgently at me and continued down the aisle.
After taking various selections out and handing them to my father, who dutifully carried them down to the counter at the end of the room, she finally attacked the remnants corner, examining assorted samples and asking my patient father for his opinion. “Oh, look at this lovely pale pink. Maybe I’ll make a new Easter suit for myself, André. What do you think?”
My father looked at me and winked, then nodded sagely, answering her as if the fate of the world depended on his opinion. “Hmmm. Yes, Gloria. Yes. I think it would do just fine, dear. You’d be stunning, as always.”
She glanced at him, blushed to match the fabric in her hands, and then shooed away the notion by waving one hand in the air. “Oh, André. You’re such a flatterer.”
I found a spot on a ground level shelf and wedged myself between a bolt of blue plaid and another of gray herringbone. I propped my elbows on my knees, chin on my hands, and sighed.
After two hours of pondering, stroking, and selecting, my industrious mother was done. She walked to the checkout counter and waved to me. I extricated myself from the shelf and plodded after her.
We waited patiently for a few minutes. The owner had disappeared into the office, and the door was shut.
I shifted from one foot to the other and then leaned on the counter, thinking about Sharon Adamski again. It struck me as strangely coincidental that today, of all days, we happened to go to the woolen mill. Just last night we’d found bolts of the stuff hidden deep in the woods under the floorboards of the old shack.
I still felt incredibly guilty. I’d never pulled a stunt like last night. I never lied to them about anything of importance. When I was five, I ran my finger through the frosting on a chocolate cake my mother made for company. She asked if I did it and I denied it. She knew I did it, and I knew she knew. Eventually, I went to her in shame and told her the truth. We patched up the cake as best as possible just before the guests arrived. But last night was the worst.
My father was about to ring the bell on the counter, but stopped when two men’s voices sounded from behind the closed office door. The deeper, gruffer voice was extremely angry, and the milder
respondent sounded repentant. I couldn’t make out the words, but the conversation was heated.
Withdrawing his hand from the bell, my father exchanged puzzled glances with my mother.
She glanced at him with a furrowed brow. “André? Should we come back later?”
Before he could answer, the office door burst open. A tall man glowered in the doorway. I backed up, recognizing Sharon’s father. He glared, then stormed past us and hurried to the exit, clomping rapidly down the steps. Tires squealed when he pulled out of the parking lot.
A short slim man emerged from the office, his face drained of color. My father looked quizzically at me, then smiled sympathetically at the man. I recognized him as the mill owner who waited on us last summer.
“Mr. Adamski,” my father began. “You remember my wife, Gloria?”
My mother extended her hand and smiled. “Nice to see you again.”
Stunned, I looked at my father.
“This is my son, Gus.”
I stood with my mouth half-open when he shook my hand.
My father shot me a surprised glance and turned back to the man behind the counter. “Any news about Sharon?” he asked gently.
The man shook his head slowly, sighed, and stared into the distance. “No, not yet. Tomorrow they’re going to start dragging the lake.” He ran one hand through his hair. “Thanks for volunteering for the search party yesterday, Mr. LeGarde. Hilda and I really appreciated all the help we got from you folks.”
I continued to stare as my father conversed with the man he kept calling Mr. Adamski. Finally, it hit me. I’d been wrong about the man who pursued Sharon in the woods. He wasn’t her father.
I pulled on my father’s sleeve as the wool was unwound, measured, and cut from each bolt.
He leaned down and I whispered in his ear.
“Can I talk to you for a minute, Dad?” I led him down the aisle, turning a corner and stopping when we were out of view.
“What in the world is wrong with you, son?”
“We got it all wrong, Dad. We were way off.”
He put one hand on my shoulder and leaned closer to me. “What are you talking about?”
I explained that the man who chased Sharon through the woods was the tall man who was arguing with Mr. Adamski in the office. I’d wrongly assumed that he was Sharon’s father that night.
He raised an eyebrow. “Are you certain, son? Absolutely positive?”
I nodded. “There’s no doubt about it, Dad. I’d know that guy anywhere.”
“That explains a lot. The police said that Mr. Adamski was with a group of friends playing cards the whole time you kids were lost out in that fog. They were confused by your statement. They’ll certainly want this new piece of information.”
I nodded, feeling awful that we’d almost implicated a man who was innocent. He had to be going out of his mind with worry.
“Wait here, Gus. I’m going to have a word with Mr. Adamski.”
I lifted myself onto the dusty windowsill and waited. The huge window stretched eight feet toward the ceiling. I kicked my heels against the wall, feeling tired and confused. Finally, my parents came down the aisle with their arms full of packages.
I took one from my mother and walked beside them. “Did you talk to him, Dad? Did you tell him I’m sorry?”
We started down the stairs.
“Yes, Gus. He understands. He’s going to talk to the investigator tonight. They’ll probably want to speak with you children about what you saw in the woods that night.”
We made the first landing and turned the corner.
“Dad?”
“Yes, son?”
“Did you find out who that other man is?”
He exchanged glances with my mother. “He’s Mr. Adamski’s brother, Gus. His name is Frank. They rent the cabin right next to Sharon’s at the campground.”
I nodded. So it was Sharon’s uncle who had been chasing her through the night, and not her father. I pocketed the information and decided to discuss it with the twins as soon as I saw them. This changed everything. We needed to find her, find her fast, and get her back to her family.
Chapter 26
We parked across from the cinema. My father had been mysterious about the movie we were about to see, and when we finally crossed the street to the theater I noticed the unfamiliar title “To Kill a Mockingbird.” I looked up at him, wondering if he was finally going to let me see an adult movie. Our previous excursions had always been to see the latest Disney films.
“This is supposed to be a fine film, son,” he said as we waited in line for tickets.
I burped and excused myself, tasting the hamburger and malted shake I’d polished off at the diner. My mother forbade dessert, warning us that we’d be too full for popcorn or candy in the theater if we gave in to our whim for apple pie. She stood beside me in her pretty pastel flowered sundress with a kerchief of matching fabric tied around her smooth ponytail.
“What’s it about, Dad?” I ran my hands along the red velvet rope hanging between the metal stands. The lobby was appointed with shabby elegance; worn red carpets covered the floor and heavy frayed curtains shrouded the wall-sized posters showcasing the new movies.
He paid for three tickets and ushered us into the inner lobby where we waited in the next line for candy and drinks. “It’s about two children and their father. It’s set in the south, and deals with a very difficult subject. There’s adventure and incredible heroism.”
I looked up at him with interest, wondering what the “difficult subject” would be. I waited for more clarification, but before he could elaborate we were at the candy counter and I was dealing with the important decision of whether to choose the Jordan Almonds or the chocolate-covered raisins.
My mother ordered lemonade and a bag of popcorn. Dad picked a Mounds bar, and I finally decided on the Jordan Almonds. We found three seats in the center section, halfway toward the screen. I sat between my parents. My sneakers stuck to the floor where someone had spilled a drink.
In the first few minutes, my mother wrinkled her nose and stood up. “There’s gum stuck to my chair.”
We shuffled a few seats closer, and then resettled in more sanitary surroundings. After the usual prelude of dancing soda cups and candy boxes whirling around the screen, the film started. Scout and Jem captivated me in the very first scene. The children were such natural actors I felt as if I stood right beside their pitiable boastful little friend, Dill, and shared in each of their adventures. I grew fond of Calpurnia, and frightened of Boo. Most of all, I connected with Gregory Peck in the role he played as Atticus Finch, the heroic lawyer who defended an innocent man from the horrendous charge of rape. I wasn’t exactly sure what rape was, but it sounded just awful.
Atticus reminded me of my own father. I felt tears threaten to spill watching Brock Peters masterfully portray Tom Robinson, the innocent field hand wrongfully accused, convicted, and subsequently killed by the 1930’s town of racial bigots.
My mother squeezed my hand during the sad parts and wiped her eyes frequently. My father sat still, totally absorbed by the film. I knew he was deeply affected, and could tell by the way the muscles moved in his face that he was close to tears.
My heart hammered wildly as Mr. Ewell chased Jem and Scout through the dark Halloween woods. I was reminded of my own recent experience in the woods and felt chills run down my spine as the childlike Boo was revealed behind the door in Jem’s bedroom.
As the story came to its perfect resolution, I sat still in the seat between my parents with visions of Scout and Boo lingering, absorbing, consuming me. We sat in silence as the rest of the audience shuffled out of the exit doors.
Finally, my father shifted in his seat and looked at us. He smiled sadly, pushed up from the seat, and started down the aisle. I knew he was trying to maintain his composure and didn’t trust himself to speak yet.
“Mum?” I asked, walking beside her.
She slid her arm around my shoulde
rs. “Yes, honey?”
“Can we see it again? Can we come back tomorrow?”
She looked at my father and then back at me. “Well, sweetie, movies cost money, you know. We can’t be going to the movies every day, now, can we?”
I looked down at my feet. “I know, it was just so good.”
My father held the door for us as we walked outside into the bright sun. I squinted, trying to get my bearings.
“Maybe we can bring you back next week,” he offered. “I’d like to see it again, too.”
I walked between them feeling immensely happy and secure. We headed to the ice cream parlor with picnic tables and colorful umbrellas in its grassy front yard. I recognized several people from the theater and although I’d eaten a number of the Jordan Almonds, I still had room for a small cone.
“Well, what’ll it be today, son? Black raspberry or pistachio?” my mother asked.
I chose pistachio; my mother had her usual frozen pudding, and my father asked for his customary orange-pineapple.
We sat in the shade of an enormous elm tree. I licked the creamy, cool confection and chewed on the pistachio nuts. The sunlight dappled the top of the table and danced across our clothes. A canopy of leaves rustled ever so slightly in the afternoon breeze.
My fingers were sticky from the drips I hadn’t caught in time. When I got down to the sugar cone, I bit a hole in the bottom and noisily sucked the melting ice cream out, holding it up over my head. “Dad?”
“Yes, son?”
He systematically turned and licked, turned and licked so that there was no possibility of drips. My mother nibbled at hers with tiny bites. She had eaten only half of the one-scoop cone.
“People aren’t like that any more, are they?” I asked.
He stopped for a minute and locked eyes with me. A few drips plopped onto my hand. My mother handed me a napkin and I tossed the messy cone into the nearby trash where the yellow jackets had begun to gather.
“You mean prejudiced, Gus? Against Negroes?”
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