Pictures of Hollis Woods (9 page)

I know what people mean when they say they feel as if they're floating. That's the way I felt, as if my feet weren't attached to the ground, as if they were bouncing off the floor, touching lightly, and bouncing again. And inside me, it was as if bubbles were drifting, bumping gently into each other.

I was happy. No, that doesn't even describe it. I was … jubilant, ecstatic.

I drew it using all the pencils—yellows and oranges, pinks and blues. I drew purple shoes on my feet and wings on my shoulders. My eyes were closed, the way you see pictures of angels sometimes with their eyelashes down on their cheeks.

So does it make sense that I wasn't thinking? That all that floating and all those bubbles made me think I could do anything?

And so that last week, all I thought about was going to the top of the Old Man's mountain and
shouting down to the whole world. I even knew what I was going to say: Here I am, Hollis Woods, who didn't deserve to be in a family … tough Hollis Woods, running-away Hollis Woods. Look at me. I climbed the mountain. Now I belong.

H
alf awake one morning, I heard the sound of a train. I looked up at the window to see a solid square of white: a storm, with pin dots of flakes covering everything. What I had heard was the roar of the wind coming down the valley.

I padded out of bed and went downstairs to see what was happening outside the big window. The holly bushes on one side of the house were just a blur; the narrow sliver of river and its snowy bank had disappeared in a mist of gray.

A little cold, I hugged myself, watching that world. It was like a plastic globe in one of the houses I'd been in. When I shook it, snow fell, covering a bright green Christmas tree in its center.

“Don't touch that, Hollis. Put it down.”

I rolled a huge piece of wood onto the banked fire, thinking I'd have to drag more in from the porch later.

Henry looked up at me, meowing, waiting to go out. I reached for the knob, pulling, and when the door opened, a gust of wind blew a swirl of snow inside. Henry stared at me angrily. “Not my fault,” I told him, pushing the door closed again.

He went back to the couch, skinny tail twitching.

“Sorry, cat.” I ran my hand over the top of his head as I went into the kitchen to rummage through the cabinets.

Ah, how far away the mustard woman was, locked in her house somewhere. How far away everyone was.

I thought of the Old Man, and Steven, and Izzy. They were just a few miles away, but those few miles were forever. Did Steven like the snow, or were they so used to storms like this that they never paid attention to them? I wondered if they ever thought about me the way I did about them. I wondered how Steven was now.

I could hear the Old Man's voice in my ears. I closed my eyes. Don't think of that, don't ever think of that terrible afternoon again.

I took out the box of cocoa with marshmallows and boiled a pot of water on the stove, thinking of what I'd do today. Draw in front of that big window, I told myself. Figure out a way to shade in that soft line of trees, the gray ribbon of river. Charcoal would be wonderful for that; maybe I'd even be able to use a chunk of burned wood from the fireplace.

I'd done other pictures in the past few days and taped them up around the living room: a snowshoe rabbit with his tall ears, four deer nibbling at the bark of the evergreen, the bridge covered in clear ice. I'd done a few of Josie in the snow too, almost nothing but a few quick lines. She walked every day, down to the road, around the evergreens, coming back with her scarf blowing around her face.

What would happen if I left those pictures when we had to leave next spring? What would the Old Man say when he found them?

What would Izzy say? And Steven?

Spring. Could I call Beatrice then? She would have had months. What would happen to me?

Who cared? I'd think of something. But I'd never leave the pictures. I'd take them with me in my backpack.

Sitting at the table, waiting for the cocoa to cool, I thought about Christmas. I'd lost track of the days. I flipped Izzy's wall calendar ahead to December, trying to figure it out. How long had we been here? Eight days? Nine? I counted back.

The water was ready. I mixed the cocoa and took a tiny sip, feeling the heat of it, the steam on my upper lip. Today could be Christmas Eve.

I stood there planning. When the snow stopped, I'd get myself outside and take some of the evergreen branches; there were so many trees we could fill rooms with them. We'd trim the mantel with great heaps of green and tuck Josie's ornaments in among the needles. Maybe we'd find a few pinecones too. We'd have a special dinner tomorrow night. Fruit cocktail and canned tuna, a feast. And popcorn.

I wished I had a present for Josie. The only thing I could give her was a picture of herself. But the more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea. I'd do that today instead of drawing trees. I took another sip of cocoa. What about Josie with Beatrice at the movies in front of their popcorn machine? Both of them would be eating, mouths full, arm in arm, smiling.

“Sleigh bells ring,” Josie sang, coming into the kitchen behind me.

“I was just thinking that.” I reached for another cup and poured in water for cocoa.

She stopped to peer out the window. “I've watched it snow on the ocean,” she said. “It melts as it hits the water.” She touched the glass with all five fingers. “There is nothing like the ocean.”

I tried to think of something to change the look in her eyes. “I was thinking we'd have a party,” I told her, “with your ornaments and tree branches from outside.”

She smiled, looking up at the ceiling. “We could listen to carols on the radio,” she said. “That's what Beatrice and I do every year—that and talk about when we were young. Where is Beatrice?”

“Painting,” I said. “It's warm where she is.”

Josie shook her head. “We always make almond cookies; we eat half and sell the other half at the movie.”

“It would be nice if we had a radio.” I popped two of our last pieces of bread into the toaster. “And too bad we don't have a few eggs around.”

“Or almond syrup,” she said.

“Or butter,” I said, and we both laughed.

“We'd have to ask Santa Claus,” she said. “He'd bring it all to us on his …” She paused, thinking.

“Sleigh.”

She shook her head. “That was a hundred years ago. Now he comes on a …” She looked up at the ceiling.

I laughed. “A motorbike?”

“One of those snow things.” She nodded, laughing too. “But how could we not have a radio? Everyone has a radio.”

I finished off my cocoa, one sweet marshmallow left in my mouth, trying to remember. Had there been a radio here? There was never television, I remembered that. But Josie was right, there must be a radio. I wandered around, searching, and finally found one on a shelf, behind boxes of old jigsaw puzzles, the old cord wrapped around it. All that time Henry was stalking me, a line between his eyes as if he were frowning. He really wanted to go out.

I went to the door again and opened it a crack. The snow was worse now, much worse. The line of trees had disappeared, and even the shed seemed far away. I was almost afraid to let Henry out. Before I could shut the door again, though, he darted around me and was gone. I stood there, shivering, trying to see where he was, and then he was back, streaking through the door straight across the living room, into the kitchen, and onto Josie's lap.

I set up my drawing things in front of the window, beginning the rough lines that would turn into Josie. Josie was there on the other side of the room, at the table, fiddling with the radio knob until she found a station with Christmas music. The announcer's voice: “A lovely Christmas Eve morning.”

I'd hit the date straight on the head.

The songs began, one after another: “Adeste Fidelis,” “Silent Night,” “Winter Wonderland,” and one I'd never heard before: “Gather 'Round the Christmas Tree.”

I leaned over the paper in front of me so Josie wouldn't see what I was doing. I sketched in the space around Beatrice first, the counter, the popcorn machine, and then began to work on the faces. Every few minutes I'd peer out at the snow coming down. Across the river the mountain was blurred, just a dark shadow rising into the pewter sky.

And then I thought about Josie sitting there, my figure in her hand, staring out the window too as she listened to the music, her face tilted, her eyes sad.

I never really drew any of this. I tried not to think about it. It kept coming up inside my head, though, picture after picture of what happened that last day. Saturday. Izzy and the Old Man off on some antique hunt all the way up to Masonville. Steven begging me to go fishing. “We'll take the boat all the way down to the rapids,” he said. “Bring our lunch.”

“You go,” I said, barely looking up from my drawing.

“Gonna spend this whole day with a bunch of pencils in your mouth? Fooling around with bits of paper?”

I grinned at him over my shoulder.

Go, Steven, I thought. Get out of here.

And then he went with a great clatter, pail and oars, pole and lures, a sandwich dripping tomatoes
out the side. “You'll probably be sorry in two minutes,” he said.

He sounded sorry. “Do you mind?” I asked.

He grinned. “Not really. But I'll be gone all day, I warn you.”

He climbed into the rowboat and I watched him, his back bent, leaning over the oars, until he was gone.

I put everything away carefully, my pad and pencils, cleaned up the tomato mess in the kitchen, put away the box of Mallomars, shut the refrigerator door, and all the time I was thinking, Three hours up, three hours back, a cinch.

I grabbed a sweater just in case—it was getting cold now—and at the last minute I changed my mind and took a few pieces of paper folded in my pocket, a few pencils: green, gray, brown, and black, and the French Blue one. Who knew what I could use it for, but it was my favorite.

And then I began to climb. It was hot work; I draped the sweater over a tree limb. After a while I could feel the pull in my ankles, the rub of my sneakers against my heels. I stopped at the halfway point to look down at the house, the snake of the river, and I could see Steven, a tiny figure in the rowboat.

I pulled out some paper, made a quick sketch
,
and climbed some more. Mud. The Old Man was right: It was deceptive. I couldn't tell it was there until I stepped into it, once covering the whole of my sneaker. I pulled the shoe out and wiped it off with a few leaves.

I was out of breath by the time I almost reached the top, and hungry. Why hadn't I made my own tomato sandwich? There was water, though, a tiny thread of it trickling down from one of the rocks, and I leaned my face into it and drank, and put my wrists under it, and then took the last few steps and I was there.

It opened out, a wide piece of rock, and I danced out onto it, catching my breath. I'd brought dark pencils, but this was a light world. I could see toy houses, and the river, and even the town of Hancock in the distance. There was a tiny silver lake and a road with miniature cars. “It's Christmas!” I shouted.

I said all the things I wanted to. “I'm new,” I said. “I'm different.”

And in my head I told myself I'd never be mean again, I'd be friendly, I'd go to school and walk up to people. “A new leaf,” I said.

I was twirling, dizzy, hungry, and the bubbles inside twirled with me, until I took one step too close to the edge in that muddy sneaker, and then I
was rolling, feeling the sharp edge of a branch tearing into my arm and a stone gashing into my forehead, and finally I was stopped by a huge boulder a few feet down. The wind had been knocked out of me. I lay gasping.

I pulled myself back up. Not so bad, not so terrible, I told myself, wiping the blood out of my eye, except that I knew I'd never be able to walk all the way down by myself.

I didn't begin to call Steven until much later, until the sun had crossed toward the west and I knew it was late afternoon, and I didn't want Izzy and the Old Man to know I had done such a stupid thing. And even as I called, I knew Steven couldn't hear me.

But he came, of course he came. Just before sunset I heard him, or rather I heard the pickup truck, gears grinding and then stopping, the door slamming, and then he was standing over me.

“I knew it,” he said.

“How?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Break any bones?”

“Certainly not.”

“I wasted my whole afternoon,” he said. “Felt sorry that you were all alone, came back, and—”

“Wasted—”

“Right. I figured it out, though. You weren't anywhere.”

“So why'd you bring the truck?” I asked.

“Think I had three hours before dark to walk all the way up here to get you?” He shook his head. “I thought you'd been killed.”

“Just wounded,” I said, laughing.

We sat on the edge of the rock, watching the sun go down.

Steven pointed. “Our winter place is somewhere over there. You'll see it soon.” To the east far below was the summer house, the holly bushes a blur of green, the golden field, the thread of river. It took my breath away.

“I want to show you something,” I told Steven. I reached into my pocket for the crumpled-up
W
picture I had taken out of my backpack before I'd left. “I've had it since I was six.”

We sat on a ledge, our feet dangling, and he smoothed the picture on his knee, stared at it, then looked over at me.

“We had to find pictures with
W
words,” I said.

“It's a wishing picture,” he said slowly, “for a family.”

I could feel my lips trembling.
Oh, Mrs. Evans,
I thought
, why didn't you see that?

“It's too bad you didn't come when you were six.” He smiled. “I knew you had to stay with us when you let me win that checkers game.”

His hair was falling over his forehead and his glasses were crooked, almost hiding his eyes. I thought of the
X
-picture day and walking out of school. I thought of sitting in the park on a swing, my foot digging into the dirt underneath.

“I run away sometimes,” I said. “I don't go to school.”

He kicked his foot gently against the ledge, his socks down over his sneakers.

“Someone called me incorrigible.”

Now that I'd begun, I didn't know how to stop. “Kids never wanted to play with me. I was mean….”

Steven pulled his glasses off and set them down on the ledge next to him. He rubbed the deep red mark in the bridge of his nose.

I stopped, looking out as far as I could, miles of looking out. For a moment I was sorry I'd told him. But he turned and I could see his eyes clearly, and I wondered if he might be blinking back tears. I wasn't sure, though. He reached out and took my hand. “You ran in the right direction this time, didn't you?”

And that was it. He knew all about me, and he didn't mind.

“We have to go down now,” he said, “before they come back and find out.”

I nodded. I stood up, and I could feel the pain shoot through my ankle. I limped to the pickup truck. “I'm glad you came,” I said. “I could never have walked all the way down.”

“It was a dumb thing to do,” he said, “coming up here. Pop would have a fit.”

And so we went down. Steven was a sure and careful driver, but it was so steep, and the truck kept going, kept sliding, even with the brake pressed down as hard as he could manage. He pressed and pressed, but the truck gained speed, and just before the end when we would have been all right, when we would have been fine, the truck tipped, and I could see we were going to go over.

And Steven yelled at me. “Jump, Holly!”