R My Name Is Rachel (11 page)

He looks as uncomfortable as I am. Ha. Serves him right. Then I remember: I’m the one who threw the snowball. I’m the one he saw in the school.

“Maybe the stream,” he says, and Joey nods.

We walk along the edge of the water. A moon is up now; it beams along the water, almost leading us. Hansel and Gretel again!

I’ve lost the sole of my shoe, and mud seeps in, so I
take both shoes off and put them under a tree to find later. The stream leads us toward town. I see the back of Mrs. Collins’s house, then, almost a mile after that, the real estate office, the grain store, the train station.

“Maybe she took a train,” the boy says, his first words since we began to walk.

Back to the city? I shake my head. That would take money. She never gave me the change from the paint, though. Could she have used that?

There’s no answer in my mind.

The stream peters out and the three of us walk back toward our house.

That’s what I would have done. If I’d had trouble, I would have gone straight to Miss Mitzi.

But what trouble? What possible trouble?

We reach the back of our house; there are still no lights, no sign of Cassie. It must be almost midnight.

“What can we do?” I hold my hands out in front of me. “Maybe we have to get help.”

“I’m sorry,” the boy says. It looks as if he’s talking to the ground.

“I’m sorry, too.” Are we both talking about Cassie? I don’t think so.

“Come inside.” There’s a little tea in the canister. Maybe …

He follows us and I light the gas lamp. “What’s your name?” I ask at last.

“Anton.”

I nod and then I remember Xenia.

She’s been shut up in the barn for hours. True, she has hay and water, but no food. She must have digested the curtains hours ago.

“Just sit at the table,” I say to them. “I’ll be right back.”

I grab up a scoop of goat food for Xenia and walk around the table. As I do, I glance at Anton. His hair is down over his ears; he’s wearing a thin shirt. He must have been cold outside. His hands are covered with a smear of something blue.

I follow the fence around to the barn and slide open the doors. Xenia is in her stall. In the dim light I see that her eyes are closed; she’s curled up against the wall, looking perfectly comfortable. “I’m sorry, Xenia,” I say anyway. “I know you don’t like to miss a meal.”

Something else is in the stall with her. I see the outline of a figure and step back.

The dark shape moves and I’m ready to run. Then I see who it is. I sink to my knees. “Cassie.” I’m crying now and I reach out to her and our hands meet over Xenia’s back.

“What are you doing here?” I’ve never felt such relief. “I love you.” I have to say that fast; already I want to yell at her for causing this whole mess. “Didn’t you hear us calling? Didn’t you know we’d be looking for you?”

“I didn’t want to answer,” she says. “I was going to run away, back to Miss Mitzi maybe.”

I shake my head, wondering.

“But I didn’t have any money.”

“You had the change from the paint.”

She’s crying, too, now, a real Cassie crying, loud and grating.

Never mind. She’s here and she’s safe.

I crawl around Xenia. Cassie and I sit together, leaning against the wall of the stall. We hold hands. I can’t believe that. We haven’t been this close since we were little.

“I didn’t have the change,” she says at last. “I lost it somehow on the way home from the paint store. It was raining and I put my hands in my pockets. I don’t know how the money slipped out. I went back and back, but it was gone.”

I shake my head. Careful Cassie.

“The real estate man came this morning,” she says.

“In the car? But he’s early. The rent isn’t due for two days.”

Cassie shrugs. “I didn’t have the money anyway.”

“Of course we do. It’s in the kitchen cabinet.” I lean my head back against the wall. I’m so tired. It’s hard to keep my eyes open. And both boys are waiting for me. I start to get up.

“No, it’s gone. I lost that, too.”

“What do you mean?” I sink back down.

“I took every bit of the money with me to town,” she says, “to buy the paint.”

Xenia makes a little sound of contentment. I shake my head. What is she talking about?

She says it again. “I took the money. I was angry. I was going to bring it back, but I don’t know what happened to it.”

The money’s gone? All of it?

I begin slowly. “We have only half a box of stale crackers, jars of beans and tomatoes, and fish in the stream. We don’t know where Pop is, and we don’t have the money for rent. Or seed.”

“Right.” She seems almost pleased that I finally know what she’s talking about. But she begins to cry again. “I didn’t even have the money to run away.”

That Cassie. I blow air through my lips.

“You sound like Xenia,” she says.

“You don’t sound as worried as you should be.”

“It’s because I told you. Now I don’t have to worry about this by myself anymore.”

My face is hot. I want to scream. Wait, I try to tell myself. Wait.

I know I love Cassie, but she’s orange, as orange as a Halloween pumpkin.

I never get to make those cups of tea. Cassie and I go into the kitchen, and Joey takes a deep breath when he sees her. He looks down at the table. I know he’s trying to remember that boys aren’t supposed to cry.

He glances across at Anton, and the two of them grin at each other. Anton shrugs a little, gets up, and goes toward the back door.

I want to ask if he wants tea, but I’m so tired. “I will never forget this,” I tell him, reminding me of my old self when I thought about words and how they sounded.

He nods and reaches for the doorknob.

“Wait a minute. What’s that all over your hands?”

Anton looks down at them. “Paint, I guess.”

And then he disappears up the lane.

The three of us go into the living room and fall onto the mattresses. Joey asks, “Where were you, Cassie?”

“In the barn.”

“All that time?”

“Tell him the rest,” I say. “Tell him that you’ve lost all our money.”

Joey sits up, but Cassie is crying again.

I take pity on her. “We’ll do something,” I say, even though I can’t imagine what it will be.

“All of it?” Joey says.

“I’m sorry,” Cassie begins. And she goes through the whole story again.

I close my eyes. I have to think about that paint on Anton’s hands, what I know it means, but it’s so late and I need to sleep. Almost dreaming, I remember that old self of mine, writing letters, reading …

“She’s not gone,” I whisper, “not gone.…”

Morning comes fast. But I can’t sleep anymore; I feel as if I’m in a fog.

Cassie’s up ahead of me, sitting at the kitchen table.

“We’ll just have to get help,” she says. “We’ll take ourselves down to the grocery store and—”

“Mr. Brancato isn’t any better off than we are.” Anger bursts in my chest. “The store is closed! Pop told us to find him at his house in case of an emergency. Do you know what
emergency
means?”

“No rent?” Cassie says. “No money?” She hesitates. “No food to feed Woodrow.”

“No.” I space the next words out as if I’m talking to someone who belongs on Pluto. “We will not go to Mr. Brancato.” Pop’s words come into my head. “I have to do this myself. No, not myself. Ourselves.”

But then I stop. “Who’s Woodrow?”

“My cat. Mine and Mr. Appleby’s. Mr. Appleby gave me the food and I fed Woodrow every day.” Cassie narrows her eyes at me. “Before you lost him.” She sniffs. “Poor Woodrow. I still put food out for him, but maybe he’s gone forever.”

I can’t believe it. “I fed him, too. Charlie the Butcher always gave me—” I break off. “I call him Clarence.”

We stare at each other, and then I tell her about Miss Mitzi and her cat, Lazy, who came back. “We have to have hope.”

I go outside and sit on the back step, staring at my garden, the damp dark earth ready to plant, and thinking about Clarence. Woodrow. Two meals a day.

But never mind that now. I have to find money. And pay the rent somehow.

I go back into the house and nearly step on one of the chickens. Gladys? I can’t tell them apart anymore.

“What are we going to do, then?” Cassie says from the table. “Whatever—”

“Feed the chicks. Make yourself useful.”

“Do I have to do everything?” she asks.

My mouth opens. “You’re the one who lost all our money!”

But I’ve thought of one thing I can do first thing tomorrow morning. And just having an idea makes me feel a little better.
Look forward, Rachel
, I hear Mr. Appleby saying in my head.

It’s rent day. I pull on my wrinkled Sunday dress and glance in the mirror. I must have grown when I wasn’t looking. Either that or the dress shrank by itself. I grin a little.

My good shoes are under the bed. I pull them on; my feet have grown, too.

I run a comb through my hair, patting down the sides, until I’m sure I’m presentable.

Down in the kitchen, Cassie is sweeping the floor around the chickens. “Clean out a spot in the barn,” I tell her. “And get them out there, if you don’t mind.”

She twitches one shoulder but she doesn’t answer.

I glare at her. “Where’s Joey?”

“He’s up on the roof, polishing that rooster. He’ll probably break his neck.”

It’s my turn not to answer. I know this about Joey now.
He does things that we think are dangerous. But he doesn’t do anything he can’t do. I really believe that. I go out the door and look up.

“Don’t fall,” I yell. “I’m going to town and I can’t save you.”

He waves down at me, that good egg Joey. “Don’t worry. As soon as I finish this, I’m going fishing.”

Along the road, the fields are green and the leaves on the trees overhead look new and washed. Things grow along the side of the road. I smell mint and see dandelions. I heard once you can make soup out of dandelions.

I talk to myself all the way to town, talk out loud, using the most persuasive voice I have. My hands are damp with worry. This has to work. Otherwise—

Never mind otherwise.

I stop to smooth down my hair once more, then turn in at the real estate office, listening to the jingle as I push open the door.

The real estate man sits with his feet up on the desk. He has nothing to do, I’m sure. Who’s buying a farm now? Who’s even renting?

He sees me and puts his feet down. “Hello?” he says; it’s almost a question. He doesn’t look overly friendly. A Miss Mitzi word,
overly
. I have a quick thought of her, sky-blue eyes, a white straw hat, and a pink rose in her lapel, when we all went to a museum last year.

“I want to talk to you about our farm,” I say. “The one on Waltz Road.”

There’s a sign on his desk:
MR. GRIMM
.
Doesn’t that just
fit?
Cassie would say. And because my knees are trembling, I slide into the seat across from him without asking.

He frowns. “I stopped by for the rent—”

I spread out my hands. “We don’t have the money just yet.” Every word is pulled out of me.

He raises his eyebrows.

“But we will!” I add.

“Listen, girlie, everyone tells me that. They say any day the money will come, someone is sending it.” He leans forward. “The money never comes. They never pay.”

“We’ll pay,” I say fiercely.

He blows air through thick lips. “I’ll give you a week.”

Seven days. How do I know Pop will send money by then? I don’t, so I shake my head. “I need more time.”

His eyebrows go up again. “Do you know what interest is?”

I don’t know how to answer; I have no idea.

“It means that I’ll give you more time, but you’ll have to pay extra.”

“How much time?”

“A month.” He scribbles numbers on a piece of paper. “This much,” he says.

“Fine.” I barely look. The end of June, summer. I stand up. Who knows how much extra we’ll pay? But I don’t care.

A month. Thirty days.

Outside, I sit on a bench facing the train station, the sun warm on my head. And then it comes to me: a great idea.

I stand up and find my way to the grain store. Inside, the man at the counter looks friendlier than Mr. Grimm. It’s a good sign. “I’m an excellent worker,” I say.

The feed man’s lips twitch; he’s trying not to laugh.

“I need a job.”

He begins to shake his head.

“My goat ate my plants. I have to get seed.”

His face changes. I can see he feels sorry for me.

“I could straighten your shelves,” I tell him quickly.

What would Cassie say to that? I’m the sloppiest girl she knows.

“You could straighten that row of boxes, I guess. Put the seed packages where they belong. And in the next aisle, the nails are mixed up. You could sort them out. For seed. Not money.”

“Yes.” I nod. “That’s what I want, just enough seed to plant my garden again.”

Someone comes into the store, and the feed man waves me toward the aisle.

I spend the rest of the day working. It isn’t as hard to be neat as I’d thought. But my shoes grow tighter as I move from one box to another, sorting nails, large, medium, or so small I wonder what they could possibly hold together. It’s hard to concentrate on anything but my ankles rubbing against those too-small leather shoes.

“Closing time,” the man says at last. He takes a while to check my work, neat stacks of pale brown bags labeled
SUNFLOWERS, DAISIES
, or
BLUEBELLS
, and separately, square white envelopes marked
CUKES, TOMATOES
, or about ten other vegetables.

“You can take five packets,” he says. “Any five you want.”

Choose wisely.

Whatever I grow will be what we eat. I long for corn on the cob, but Pop told me corn needed a whole field to make it turn out well.

I stand there in an agony of indecision. Miss Mitzi said that once about an arrangement she was putting together. Up in front, the feed man coughs a little; he wants to go home.