Walk Two Moons

  That night, while my father was at Margaret’s, I phoned the Bickles. I prayed that Sergeant Bickle wouldn’t answer, but I was prepared to disguise my voice in case he did. The phone rang and rang. I hung up. I rehearsed my voice and what I would say. I tried again. On the seventh ring, the phone was answered. It was Sergeant Bickle.

  “My name is Susan Longfellow,” I said. “I’m a friend of your son’s. I was wondering if I might speak with him.” I prayed and prayed that he had only one son.

  “He isn’t here,” Sergeant Bickle said. “Would you like to leave a message?”

  “Do you know when he’ll be home?”

  There was a pause. “How did you say you know my son?”

  This made me nervous. “How do I know your son? Well, that’s a long story—I—basically, the way I know him is—actually, this is a little embarrassing to admit”—my hands were sweating so much I could hardly hang on to the phone—“the library, yes, I know him from the library, and he loaned me a book, but I’ve lost the book—”

  “Maybe you should explain this all to him,” Sergeant Bickle said.

  “Yes, maybe I should do that.”

  “I wonder why he gave you this phone number,” he said. “I wonder why he didn’t give you his number at school.”

  “At school? Actually, the thing is, I think he did give me that number too, but I’ve lost it—”

  “You sure lose a lot of things,” he said. “Would you like his number at school?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Or better yet, maybe you could give me his address and I’ll just send him the book.”

  “I thought you said you lost the book.”

  “Actually, yes, but I’m hoping to find it,” I said.

  “I see,” he said. “Just a minute.” There was a muffled pause as he put his hand over the receiver and called, “Honey, where’s Mike’s address?”

  Mike! Brilliant! A name! I felt like the Chief Inspector! I felt like I had just discovered the most important clue in the criminal investigation of the century. To top it off, Sergeant Bickle gave me Mike’s address. I was sorely tempted to end the conversation by informing Sergeant Bickle that his son was a potential lunatic, but I refrained. I thanked him and immediately phoned Phoebe.

  “You’re brilliant!” she said. “Tomorrow we’ll nail Mike the Lunatic.”

  36

  THE VISIT

  The next day, Saturday, when Phoebe and I reached the bus stop, Ben was standing there. “Oh crud,” Phoebe muttered. “Are you waiting for this bus? Are you going to Chanting Falls?”

  “Yup,” he said.

  “To the university?”

  “Nope.” Ben pushed his hair from his eyes. “There’s a hospital there. I’m going to see someone.”

  “So you’re taking this bus,” Phoebe said.

  “Yes, Free Bee, I am taking this bus. Do you mind?”

  The three of us sat on the long bench at the back of the bus. I was in between Phoebe and Ben, and his arm pressed up against mine. Phoebe said we were visiting an old friend, at the university. Each time we rounded a curve, Ben leaned against me or I leaned against him. “Sorry,” he said. “Sorry,” I said.

  At Chanting Falls, we stood on the pavement as the bus roared off. “The university is over there—” Ben pointed down the road. “See ya.” And he walked off in the other direction.

  “Oh lord,” Phoebe said. “Why did Ben have to be on the same bus? It made me very nervous.”

  It made me nervous too, but for different reasons. Every time I was with him now, my skin tickled and my brain buzzed and my blood romped around as if it were percolating.

  The address we had for Mike Bickle was a freshman dormitory. It was a three-story brick building, with hundreds of windows. “Oh no,” Phoebe wailed. “I thought it might be a little house or something.” Students were coming in and out of the building and walking across the lawn. Some were sitting on the grass or benches studying. In the lobby was a reception desk, with a handsome young man standing behind it. “You do it,” Phoebe said. “I just can’t.”

  We stood out like pickles in a pea patch. There were all these grown-up college students and here we were, two puny thirteen-year-old girls. Phoebe said, “I wish I had worn something else.” She picked lint off her sweater.

  I explained to the man at the desk that I was looking for my cousin, Mike Bickle. The young man smiled a wide, white smile at me. He checked a roster and said, “You’re in the right place. Room 209. You can go on up.”

  Phoebe nearly choked. “You mean we could go right up to his room?”

  “Sure,” the young man said. “Through there.” He gestured.

  We walked through swinging doors. Phoebe said, “Really, I’m having a heart attack, I know it. I can’t do this. Let’s get out of here.” At the end of the hall, we slipped out the exit. “What if we knocked on his door and he opened it and pulled us inside and slit our throats?”

  Students were milling around on the lawn. I looked for an empty bench on which we might sit. On the far side of the lawn I saw the backs of two people, a young man and an older woman. They were holding hands. She turned to him and kissed his cheek.

  “Phoebe—” On the bench was Phoebe’s mother, and she was kissing the lunatic.

  37

  A KISS

  Phoebe was stunned and angry, but she was braver than I was. She could watch, but I could not. I assumed that Phoebe would follow me, but I didn’t look back. Down the street I tore, trying to remember where the bus stop was. It wasn’t until I saw the hospital that I realized I must have missed the bus stop. I ducked inside and was surprised that Phoebe was not behind me.

  What I did next was an impulse. A hunch. I asked the hospital receptionist if I could see Mrs. Finney. She flipped through a roster. “Are you a family member?” she said.

  “No.”

  “I’m afraid you can’t go up then,” she said. “Mrs. Finney is on the psychiatric ward. Family only.”

  “I was looking for her son. He came here to visit her.”

  “Maybe they went outside. You could look out back.”

  Behind the hospital was a wide, sloping lawn, bordered by flower gardens. Scattered across the lawn were benches and chairs, most of them occupied with patients and their visitors. It was a scene much like the one I had just left at the university, except here no one was studying, and some of the people wore dressing gowns.

  Ben was sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of a woman in a pink robe. She fidgeted with the sash. Ben saw me and stood up as I crossed the lawn. “This is my mother,” he said. I said hello, but she didn’t look at me. Instead, she stood and drifted off across the lawn as if we were not there. Ben and I followed.

  She reminded me so much of my mother after she returned from the hospital. My mother would stop right in the middle of doing something inside the house and walk out the door. Halfway up the hill, she would sit down to catch her breath. She picked at the grass, got up again, and went a little farther. Sometimes my mother went in the barn and filled the pail with chicken feed, but before she reached the chicken coop, she set the pail down and moved off in another direction. When she could walk farther, my mother rambled over the fields and meadows, in a weaving, snaking pattern, as if she could not make up her mind which way to turn.

  We followed Ben’s mother back and forth across the lawn, but she never seemed to notice our presence. At last I said I had to go, and that’s when it happened.

  For one quick moment we both had the same agenda. I looked at him and he looked at me. Both of our heads moved forward. It must have been in slow motion, because I had a split second there to be reminded of Mr. Birkway’s drawing of the two heads facing each other, with the vase in between. I wondered, just for an instant, if a vase could fit between us.

  If there had been a vase, we would have squashed it, because our heads moved completely together and our lips landed in the right place, which was on the other person’s lips. It was a real kis
s, and it did not taste like chicken.

  And then our heads moved slowly backward and we stared out across the lawn, and I felt like the newlY born horse who knows nothing but feels everything.

  Ben touched his lips. “Did it taste a little like blackberries to you?” he said.

  38

  SPIT

  At this point in my story, Gram interrupted. “Oh yes, yes, yes!” she said. “I’ve been waiting for that kiss for days. I do like a story with some good kisses in it.”

  “She’s such a gooseberry,” Gramps said.

  We were churning through Montana. I didn’t dare check our progress on the map. I didn’t want to discover that we couldn’t make it in time. I thought that if I kept talking, and praying underneath, and if we kept moving along those mountainous roads, we had a chance.

  Gram said, “But what about Peeby? What about her mother kissing the lunatic? I didn’t like that kiss very much. It was the other one I liked—the one with Ben.”

  I found Phoebe at the bus stop, sitting on the bench. “Where were you?” she asked.

  I did not tell her about seeing Ben or his mother. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. “I was afraid, Phoebe. I couldn’t stay there.”

  “And I thought you were the brave one,” she said. “Oh well, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. I’m sick of it.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. They sat there on the bench having a gay old time. If I could toss rocks like you can toss rocks, I’d have plonked them both in the back of the head. Did you notice her hair? She’s cut it. It’s short. And do you know what else she did? In the middle of talking, she leaned over and spit on the grass. Spit! It was disgusting. And the lunatic, do you know what he did when she spit? He laughed. Then he leaned over and he spit.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Who knows? I’m sick of it. My mother can stay there for all I care. She doesn’t need me. She doesn’t need any of us.”

  Phoebe was like that all the way home on the bus. She was in an extensively black mood. We got to Phoebe’s house just as her father pulled in the driveway. Prudence rushed out of the house saying, “She called, she called, she called! Mom called! She’s coming home.”

  “Terrific,” Phoebe muttered.

  “What was that, Phoebe?” her father said.

  “Nothing.”

  “She’s coming tomorrow,” Prudence said. “But—”

  “What’s wrong?” her father said. “What else did she say?”

  “She sounded nervous. She wanted to talk with you—”

  “Did she leave a number? I’ll call her back—”

  “No, she didn’t leave any number. She said to tell you not to make any prejudgments.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” her father said. “Not make any prejudgments about what?”

  “I don’t know,” Prudence said. “And oh! Most, most important! She said that she was bringing someone with her.”

  “That’s just grand,” Phoebe said. “Just grand.”

  “Phoebe—?” her father said. “Prudence—did she say who she’s bringing?”

  “I honestly could not say.”

  “Did she refer to this person at all? Did she mention a name?” He was getting agitated.

  “Why no,” Prudence said. “She didn’t mention a name. She just said that she was bringing him with her—”

  “Him?”

  Phoebe looked at me. “Cripes,” she said, and she went into the house, slamming the door behind her.

  I couldn’t believe it. Wasn’t she going to tell her father what she had seen? I was bursting at the seams to tell my own father, but when I got home, he and Margaret were sitting on the porch.

  Margaret said, “My brother told me you’re in his English class. What a surprise.” She must have already told my father this, because he didn’t look too surprised. “He’s a terrific teacher. Do you like him?”

  “I suppose.” I didn’t want to talk about it. I wanted Margaret to vanish.

  I had to wait until she went home to tell my father about Phoebe’s mother, and when I did tell him, all he said was, “So Mrs. Winterbottom is coming home. That’s good.” Then he went over to the window and stared out of it for the longest time, and I knew he was thinking about my mother.

  All that night I thought about Phoebe and Prudence and Mr. Winterbottom. It seemed like their whole world was going to fall apart the next day when Mrs. Winterbottom walked in all cuddly with the lunatic.

  39

  HOMECOMING

  The next morning, Phoebe phoned, begging me to come over. “I can’t stand it,” she said. “I want a witness.”

  “For what?”

  “I just want a witness.”

  “Did you tell your father? About your mother and—”

  “Are you kidding?” Phoebe said. “You should see him. He and Prudence spent all last night and this morning cleaning the house. They’ve scrubbed floors and bathrooms, they dusted like fiends, they did laundry and ironing, and they vacuumed. Then they took a good look around. My father said, ‘Maybe it looks too good. Your mother will think we can function without her.’ So they messed things up. He’s very put out with me that I wouldn’t help.”

  I did not want to be a witness to anything, but I felt guilty for running away the day before, and so I agreed. When I got to her house, Phoebe, Mr. Winterbottom, and Prudence were sitting there staring at each other.

  “Didn’t she say what time she was coming?” Mr. Winterbottom asked.

  Prudence said, “No she did not, and I wish you would quit acting as if it is my fault that she did not say more than she did.”

  Mr. Winterbottom was a wreck. He jumped up to straighten a pillow, sat back down, and then he leaped up to mess up the pillow again. He went out in the yard and walked around in circles. He changed his shirt twice.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I’m here,” I said.

  “Why would I mind?” Mr. Winterbottom said.

  Just as I thought they would all go stark raving mad, a taxi pulled up outside. “I can’t look,” Mr. Winterbottom said, escaping to the kitchen.

  “I can’t look either,” Phoebe said. She followed her father, and I followed Phoebe.

  “Well, gosh,” Prudence said. “I don’t know what has gotten into everybody. Aren’t you excited to see her?”

  From the kitchen, we heard Prudence open the front door. We heard Mrs. Winterbottom say, “Oh sweetie—” Mr. Winterbottom wiped the kitchen counter. We heard Prudence gasp and her mother say, “I’d like you to meet Mike.”

  “Mike?” Mr. Winterbottom said. He was quite red in the face. I was glad there was no axe in the house or I am fairly certain he would have picked it up and headed straight for Mike.

  Phoebe said, “Now, Dad, don’t do anything too rash—”

  “Mike?” he repeated.

  Mrs. Winterbottom called, “George? Phoebe?” We heard her say to Prudence, “Where are they? Didn’t you tell them we were coming?”

  Mr. Winterbottom took a deep breath. “Phoebe, I’m not sure you or Sal should be around for this.”

  “Are you kidding?” Phoebe said.

  He took another deep breath. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. Here we go.” He stood up straight and tall and walked through to the living room. Phoebe and I followed.

  Honest and truly, I think Phoebe nearly fainted dead away on the carpet. There were two reasons for this. The first one was that Mrs. Winterbottom looked different. Her hair was not only short but also quite stylish. She was wearing lipstick, mascara, and a little blush on her cheeks, and her clothes were altogether unlike anything I had ever seen her in: a white T-shirt, blue jeans, and flat black shoes. Dangling from her ears were thin silver hoop earrings. She looked magnificent, but she did not look like Phoebe’s mother.

  The second reason that I think Phoebe nearly fainted dead away was that there was Mike Bickle, Phoebe’s potential lunatic, in her own living room. It was one thing to t
hink he was coming, and another thing to actually see him standing there.

  I didn’t know what to think. For a second, I thought maybe Mike had kidnapped Mrs. Winterbottom and was bringing her back for some ransom money or maybe he was now going to do away with the rest of us. But I kept thinking of seeing them together the day before, and besides, Mrs. Winterbottom looked too terrific to have been held captive. She did look frightened, but not of Mike. She seemed afraid of her husband.

  “Dad,” Phoebe whispered, “that’s the lunatic.”

  “Oh Phoebe,” her mother said, pressing her fingers to her cheek, and when she made that familiar gesture, Phoebe looked as if her heart was splitting into a thousand pieces. Mrs. Winterbottom hugged Phoebe, but Phoebe did not hug her back.

  Mr. Winterbottom said, “Norma, I hope you are going to explain exactly what is going on here.” He was trying to make his voice firm, but it trembled.

  Prudence stared at Mike. She seemed to find him handsome and was flirting with him. She fluffed her hair away from her neck.

  Mrs. Winterbottom tried to put her arms around Mr. Winterbottom, but he pulled away. “I think we deserve an explanation,” he said. He, too, stared at Mike.

  Was she in love with Mike? He seemed awfully, awfully young—not much older than Prudence.

  Mrs. Winterbottom sat down on the sofa and began to cry. It was a terrible, terrible moment. It was hard to make any sense out of what she said at first. She was talking about being respectable and how maybe Mr. Winterbottom would never forgive her, but she was tired of being so respectable. She had tried very, very hard all these years to be perfect, but she had to admit she was quite unperfect. She said there was something that she had never told her husband, and she feared he would not forgive her for it.

  Mr. Winterbottom’s hands trembled. He did not say anything. Mrs. Winterbottom motioned for Mike to join her on the sofa. Mr. Winterbottom cleared his throat several times, but still he said nothing.