Emily and Jackson Hiding Out

  Emily climbed back down, looking around the parlor to see if Jackson was playing a trick on them. Hiding behind the sofa, perhaps. But there was no Jackson.

  “Well, he can’t get far on what little he owned,” Aunt Hilda said. “What is he going to do out in the wide world all by himself?”

  Emily, however, knew that Jackson was quite used to being in the wide world by himself, sent from one place to another.

  “What will he do for food? What will he do for money?” Aunt Hilda said, and suddenly she and Emily turned at the same time and stared at the little drawer in the lamp table.

  The gold watch! Emily thought. Jackson could have taken Uncle Sam’s watch to sell when he got to town.

  Aunt Hilda sighed. “Might as well find out …,” she said. She walked over to the table and pulled open the drawer. There was the gold watch, just where she’d left it.

  But neither she nor Emily had to say what they were thinking next. They went outside and got a shovel, then rolled away the big rock and dug down to check for the wooden box with the coffee tin inside. And when they opened the tin, there was the five hundred dollars, just where they’d left it.

  “I’m ashamed to even have thought he’d steal it,” Aunt Hilda said, and she began to weep. “He must be hungry. He must be thirsty too, out on a hot morning like this.”

  She put the money back and shoveled in the dirt, and then she and Emily rolled the rock into place once again.

  “Well,” said Aunt Hilda, “I can see now how bad he felt about letting me down—first those eggs and then the cow—but I aim to find him before the child catchers do. Eat your breakfast, Emily, while I saddle up. We’re going on horseback in case we have to leave the road and travel the creeks and hills.”

  • • •

  With her legs dangling down on either side and her face against Aunt Hilda’s warm back, Emily wrapped her arms around the big woman’s waist and off they went on Old Billy—clip-clop, clip-clop—down the lane, out the gate, and up the road toward town.

  Town was a long way off, however, and Emily had a lot of time to think.

  “If Jackson got in trouble everywhere he went, why are the child catchers so eager to find him?” she asked.

  “Because some people are just looking for a body to work, not a child to love,” Aunt Hilda said. “And a boy without parents is just the kind of boy they’re looking for.”

  “We could get to love him if he stayed around long enough, maybe,” said Emily.

  “We already do,” said Aunt Hilda.

  It was indeed a hot day, and even though Emily had put on a big straw hat, she could feel the sun beating down on her back. It was uncomfortable sitting there on the horse behind her aunt, who blocked what little breeze there was.

  But Aunt Hilda was hot too, and so was Old Billy as he went clippity-clopping along. Aunt Hilda kept an eye out for Jackson in one direction, and Emily looked in the other. But even though the land was flat as a flapjack, they couldn’t see anything that might be a boy—a hungry, thirsty boy with no place to rest. The only way Emily could see straight ahead of her was to lean far out to the left or right. Mostly all she could see was sky—blue sky overhead, but turning darker above the horizon.

  They were coming to the crossroad, the only one there was on the way to town. It was the old river road, and it was as empty as the one they were on. If you turned to the right, it led to a swamp. But way to the left, far, far down, Emily thought she saw a little figure moving along that could have been a young boy with a small bundle on his back.

  “Aunt Hilda!” she cried. “I think maybe I see him!”

  “Where? Where?” Aunt Hilda said, stopping the horse. And then she saw him too—a young boy, plodding along, head down, a little bag thrown over his shoulder.

  “I wonder if he has any food or water at all in that bundle,” Aunt Hilda said, nudging Old Billy with her legs to start moving again. She pulled the reins to the left.

  But just as Emily peered out from behind her aunt to watch their horse make the turn, she saw a little cloud of dust coming down the road straight ahead of them.

  It was a gray horse pulling a gray carriage, and as it came closer to the crossroad, Emily knew—even before she read the sign on the carriage door—that it was the Catchum Child-Catching Services, Redbud Division.

  The gray man in the carriage waved his gray hat as he approached, motioning to them to stop, so they did.

  “Good day!” the man said.

  “And a good day to you,” Aunt Hilda replied.

  Hidden behind her aunt, Emily stared to the left down the crossroad and saw that the little figure that might have been Jackson had disappeared. But if the child catcher turned his carriage that way, he would certainly catch up to whoever was walking down the road.

  “Saw you folks in town the other day, didn’t I? Heard there was a boy walking along this road early this morning. Wonder if you’ve seen him,” the man said. He waved a bunch of papers in his hand. “Time’s a-wastin’, and my agency needs to send him out west, but the boy keeps giving us the slip. A good thrashing he’ll get from me when I catch him, you can bet.”

  Before Aunt Hilda could say a word, Emily jerked around from behind her and said, “There was someone heading far down that way.” And she pointed to the right on the old river road. “Don’t know if he was big or little.”

  The man looked puzzled. “That way? The road that goes through gullies and gulches and on to the quicksand at Muddy Flats?”

  “That’s the way he was going,” Emily said.

  The man tipped his gray hat and turned his horse toward Muddy Flats, the gray carriage bouncing this way and that.

  “Well now, Emily, that was a right good yarn, but a lie is still a lie,” Aunt Hilda said.

  “No, it wasn’t!” Emily told her. “I only said there was someone headed that way. I didn’t say who and I didn’t say when.”

  Aunt Hilda chuckled as she turned Old Billy to the left, and after a while they saw a little figure get up out of the tall grass and continue walking down the road.

  Clip-clop, clip-clop went the horse, and finally they were able to see Jackson clearly, right down to the dusty shoes on his feet.

  He didn’t turn around when he heard them coming, just plodded on, his bundle over his shoulder, head down.

  They pulled up alongside him and Aunt Hilda slowed Old Billy. “Jackson,” she said, “what are you doing way out here, child? Where are you going?”

  He gave no answer, but Emily could tell by the way he was dragging his feet that he was tired.

  “Wherever you’re going, could we take you there?” Aunt Hilda asked kindly, looking down at the dusty boy, whose cap was pulled low over his eyes to keep out the sun. “Looks to me like we’ve got a storm coming by and by.”

  “I’m doin’ okay by myself,” Jackson replied.

  For a minute no one spoke as the horse kept pace with Jackson and the shuffle of his tired feet.

  “Well,” said Aunt Hilda, “if you won’t tell us where you’re going, will you at least tell us why you left? You owe me that much, Jackson.”

  Emily saw him take a deep breath. “Always get in trouble no matter where I go. Knew you’d be tellin’ me to pack up, so I just figured I’d head out and save you the bother.”

  Emily started to say something, but Aunt Hilda spoke first: “You know, in this part of the country, it’s bad manners to up and leave without saying goodbye. Now, I see a scrawny little tree up ahead with a bit of shade. I brought along a couple biscuits and a jug of water, and Emily and I are hot and dusty. Will you do us the favor of sitting down in that shade for a drink of water, just for old times’ sake?”

  Jackson gave a little shrug, but when they reached the shade of the tree, Aunt Hilda guided Old Billy right in front of him so that he had to stop. After she and Emily had gotten off the horse and sat down in the grass, Jackson sat down too, six feet away, his back to them, facing the road. But he took the tin cup of wate
r Aunt Hilda poured for him, and when Emily handed him a biscuit, he took that too.

  “Here’s the thing, Jackson,” Aunt Hilda said. “There’s a lot of work to be done on my farm. I don’t have a lot of sheep, and when it’s lambing or shearing time, some of the neighbor men come over to help. But there’s still a lot to do on my own, and if I’d left my farm the first time I did something foolish, I’d have walked off a long time ago.”

  Jackson stopped chewing. “You would?”

  “Sure enough. Why, the day we moved in, Sam and I had just got our furniture inside, and I went to build a fire in the fireplace, but I didn’t think to open the flue. Lit the kindling and the whole house filled with smoke. It was cold January, and we still had to open all the windows to get the smoke out.”

  “Wow,” said Jackson. “That was bad.”

  “I’ve done something foolish too,” Emily said.

  “Not as stupid as carrying an egg under your chin,” said Jackson.

  But Emily continued: “Yesterday I wore my good shoes to the creek and tried to jump across. I didn’t make it.” She could feel her cheeks burning even as she told the story. “My very best shoes are under my bed, all muddy.”

  “Oh, Emily!” said her aunt. “Those were almost new.”

  “I know,” Emily said in a small voice.

  “Well,” said Aunt Hilda, “shoes are only something to put on your feet, and eggs are only something to put in your stomach. And even if Clarabelle wandered off never to be seen again, Jackson, I’d still rather have a certain boy about the place than any cow.”

  Jackson turned around and stared at her. “Me?”

  “Don’t know who else I’d be talking about,” she said.

  Why, when Aunt Hilda said she’d rather have Jackson than Clarabelle, he gave her a big old hug. The boy who had hardly hugged anyone in his whole life wrapped his arms around the big woman—as far as they would go—and Aunt Hilda hugged right back.

  And when she got on the horse and said, “Let’s go home,” Jackson climbed on right behind her. Emily had to ride at the very back, holding tight to Jackson so she wouldn’t slide down the horse’s tail. But she was glad to be going home, because the wind was stronger now; it whipped at her skirts and her hair.

  Even though she was tired, Aunt Hilda made a lunch of soup and tomato sandwiches, and they listened to the rain hitting the roof as they ate. When the sound became a rat-a-tat-tat, Jackson jumped up and ran to the window.

  “Wow!” he exclaimed. “There’s hail all over the ground!”

  Ping, ping, pong, ping went the hail, and Emily joined Jackson, their noses pressed against the glass.

  “Whoa!” Jackson cried, jumping backward as a flash of lightning lit up the sky.

  “We get these storms now and then, Jackson,” Aunt Hilda said. “But if you can still take this wide-open country, just give the word. I’ll ride over to the judge one day soon and see what I’ve got to do to let you live here and be your guardian.”

  “I’ll give the word right now, whatever it is,” said Jackson. “I’m right ready to belong somewhere.”

  “Then I’ll find me some time to go get the proper papers, and then you and Emily will be like brother and sister. Those child catcher folks are still around, though, so I want you to be careful.”

  “I never had a brother before,” said Emily, going back to the table as the pinging sound grew fainter and fainter. The rain began to lighten up too.

  “And if I had a sister, I never knew her,” said Jackson.

  “So brother and sister it is, and I hope you will treat each other kindly, the way families were meant to do,” Aunt Hilda told them.

  As she was taking their dishes to the sink, she stopped and stared out the window. “Hmm,” she said. “I don’t much like the look of that sky.”

  “Why? What’s the matter with it?” asked Jackson. “The rain’s almost stopped.”

  “I don’t see that yellow very often, and when I do …” Aunt Hilda took off her apron and went outside, Emily and Jackson close behind her.

  The air was very still, as though the rain had gone and taken the wind with it. But the sky overhead did have a peculiar yellow look. When they turned around and stared out across the fields, they saw a huge dark cloud coming their way, and the big black cloud had a tail that whirled this way and that.

  “Land sakes, it’s a tornado!” Aunt Hilda said as the chickens scurried for cover. Spook whined, his tail between his legs, ears back, and Jackson’s cap went sailing out over the yard. He had to run to catch it.

  Far out in the south pasture, Emily could see that the sheep had clustered together, one big ball of wool, backs toward the wind. There was no telling where the cows were now. Aunt Hilda had put them in the sheep pasture till she could repair the fence. Old Billy was in the barn, still resting from the long journey of the morning.

  The cloud was coming faster now, and the wind was becoming a gale.

  “Rufus!” Emily cried. “I’ve got to get my turtle!”

  But Aunt Hilda yanked her arm, pulling her toward the back of the house. “There’s no time to get your turtle, Emily,” she said. “Get in the storm cellar quickly.” She dragged the two children through the blowing dust and dirt and lifted the heavy door of the storm cellar, which lay almost flat against the ground.

  There was a short set of steps beneath it.

  “Hurry, dears, hurry!” the big woman was saying as Jackson went stumbling on ahead of them, carrying the frightened dog. Soon they were at the bottom and the wind blew the door closed above them with a bang.

  There was just enough light coming through the crack for Emily to make out a bench, but that was all. They were in a tiny room carved out of the earth, with the door for a roof.

  Aunt Hilda sat down on the bench and pulled the children to her. “We’ll be safe here,” she said. “But we won’t know about the house and barn till it’s over.”

  Suddenly there was a roar that sounded more like a freight train than wind. It grew louder and louder till it pounded over them, while Emily screamed and Jackson covered his ears.

  There was thumping and bumping, squawking and squeaking, baaing and neighing right outside the cellar. Suddenly, they heard a loud

  Neither Jackson nor Emily nor Aunt Hilda could tell what the ka-thump was, because even though the tornado had moved on, they couldn’t get the door above them to open.

  Something must have been on top of it. Even the little sliver of daylight coming through the crack had disappeared.

  “Land sakes, what do you suppose is out there?” Aunt Hilda said.

  “Maybe a big old tree fell on us,” said Jackson.

  “There aren’t any big trees near our house,” said Aunt Hilda.

  “Maybe the tornado blew the barn over on us,” said Emily, hoping it wasn’t true.

  “We’ll never know till we get out,” said her aunt. “Here, you two, let’s all push together and see if we can get the door to lift up.”

  They felt around in the darkness for each other’s hands, until all six hands were touching the door above them.

  “One … two … three … push!” said Aunt Hilda.

  They pushed and grunted and puffed and pushed some more, but the door wouldn’t budge.

  “Let’s try again,” said Aunt Hilda.

  Moving together in the darkness, they pushed hard on the count of three. Something above them moved, and they heard it sliding to the ground outside. When the door of the storm cellar flew open at last, there stood Clarabelle, looking down at them with straw between her horns and her eyes as big as saucers.

  “Well, for goodness’ sake, look what the wind blew over!” Aunt Hilda said, stroking the frightened cow to calm her. “What happened, Clarabelle? That tornado just pick you up out of the pasture and set you down here?”

  She checked the cow from the tip of her big nose to the tip of her long tail. “Well, I don’t see a thing broken or where it ought not to be,” she said, and pat
ted the animal affectionately. “We’ve come through a lot together, haven’t we, old girl?”

  “Moo,” said Clarabelle, testing each of her legs before she wandered off in search of her sister cow.

  Emily, Jackson, and Aunt Hilda stood looking around. The land seemed all topsy-turvy, because even though the house and barn were still standing, part of the fence had blown down in the south pasture, and sheep were wandering about in confusion. Most of the chickens had lost some feathers. The beehive was upside down, the roof of the shed had blown into the horse trough, and everywhere Emily looked there were pieces of board and rags and tin and straw. All she could think about was Rufus, however, and when she found him in the corner of his pen, clinging to the wire along one side, she cupped him in her hands and kissed his tiny head.

  Aunt Hilda set to examining her little piece of land and gave a man-sized sigh. “Looks like I got me a mess of work here to do. Sure wish I had my Sam with me now.”

  “You got me!” said Jackson. He stood with his cap tipped back off his forehead, his green eyes fixed on Aunt Hilda. “Just tell me where to start.”

  Aunt Hilda looked down at the boy. “Thank you, Jackson,” she said. “Of course you can help. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “And me!” said Emily. “I’ll help too.”

  “How about the two of you herding all the sheep back to the south pasture? Spook will help. I’ll set to work stringing the fence wire and nailing it to the posts. Every time I give a whistle, you come hold up a post for me,” Aunt Hilda said.

  And so, bit by bit, the things that were topsy-turvy were set right again. The children knew it would be weeks before everything was back the way it was before, but with a roof over their heads and food in the cupboard, Aunt Hilda told them, they were going to be fine.

  • • •

  It was a week later when Aunt Hilda found the time to get on Old Billy and head over to the judge’s place. She wanted to find out how to go about becoming Jackson’s legal guardian.

  “There are some things you two could do to help while I’m gone,” she said. “Take the wash off the line when it’s dry, feed the chickens, collect the eggs, and mop the kitchen floor. I expect that’ll keep you out of mischief till I get back.”