Walk Two Moons

  “Sugar—” he said.

  My mother opened her mouth, and I was thinking, “Come on! Throw your arms around him! Tell him!” But before she could speak, my father pointed to the fence and said, “Look at that. A morning’s work.” He indicated a new length of wire strung between two new posts. There was sweat on his face and arms.

  And then I saw that my mother was crying. My father saw it too. “What—” he said.

  “Oh, you’re too good, John,” she said. “You’re too good. All you Hiddles are too good. I’ll never be so good. I’ll never be able to think of all the things—”

  My father looked down at me. “The flowers,” I said.

  “Oh.” He put his sweaty arms around her, but she was still crying and it wasn’t what I had imagined it would be. It was all sad instead of happy.

  The next morning when I went into the kitchen, my father was standing beside the table looking at two small dishes of blackberries—still shiny and wet with dew—one dish at his place and one at mine. “Thanks,” I said.

  “No, it wasn’t me,” he said. “It was your mother.”

  Just then, she came in from the back porch. My father put his arms around her and they smooched and it was all tremendously romantic, and I started to turn away, but my mother caught my arm. She pulled me to her and said to me—though it was meant for my father, I think—“See? I’m almost as good as your father!” She said it in a shy way, laughing a little. I felt betrayed, but I didn’t know why.

  It is surprising all the things you remember just by eating a blackberry pie.

  7

  ILL-AH-NO-WAY

  “Well, lookee here!” Gramps shouted. “The Illinois state line!” He pronounced Illinois “Ill-ah-no-way,” exactly the way everyone in Bybanks, Kentucky, pronounced it, and hearing that “Ill-ah-no-way” made me suddenly homesick for Bybanks.

  “What happened to Indiana?” Gram said.

  “Why, you gooseberry,” Gramps said. “That’s where we’ve been the past three hours, barreling through Indiana. You’ve been listening to the story of Peeby and plumb missed Indiana. Don’t you remember Elkhart? We ate lunch in Elkhart. Don’t you remember South Bend? You took a pee in South Bend. Why, you missed the entire Hoosier state! You gooseberry.” He thought this was very funny.

  Just then, the road curved (it actually curved—this was a shock), and off to the right was a huge jing-bang mass of water. It was as blue as the blue-bells that grow behind the barn in Bybanks, and that water just went on and on—it was all you could see. It looked like a huge blue pasture of water.

  “Are we at the ocean?” Gram asked. “We’re not supposed to be passing the ocean, are we?”

  “You gooseberry, that’s Lake Michigan.” Gramps kissed his finger and put it against Gram’s cheek.

  “I sure would like to put my feet in that water,” Gram said.

  Gramps swerved across two lanes of traffic and onto the exit ramp, and faster than you could milk a cow we were standing barefoot in the cool water of Lake Michigan. The waves splashed up on our clothes, and the sea gulls flew in circles overhead, calling in one great chorus, as if they were glad to see us.

  “Huzza, huzza!” Gram said, wriggling her heels into the sand. “Huzza, huzza!”

  We stopped that night on the outskirts of Chicago. I looked around at what I could see of Ill-ah-no-way from the Howard Johnson Motel, and it might as well have been seven thousand miles from the lake. It all looked precisely like northern Ohio to me, with its flat land and long, straight roads, and I thought what a very long journey this was going to be. With the dark came the whispers: rush, hurry, rush.

  That night I lay there trying to imagine Lewiston, Idaho, but my mind would not go forward to a place I had never been. Instead, I kept drifting back to Bybanks.

  When my mother left for Lewiston, Idaho, that April, my first thoughts were, “How could she do that? How could she leave me?”

  As the days went on, many things were harder and sadder, but some things were strangely easier. When my mother had been there, I was like a mirror. If she was happy, I was happy. If she was sad, I was sad. For the first few days after she left, I felt numb, non-feeling. I didn’t know how to feel. I would find myself looking around for her, to see what I might want to feel.

  One day, about two weeks after she had left, I was standing against the fence watching a newborn calf wobble on its thin legs. It tripped and wobbled and swung its big head in my direction and gave me a sweet, loving look. “Oh!” I thought. “I am happy at this moment in time.” I was surprised that I knew this all by myself, without my mother there. And that night in bed, I did not cry. I said to myself, “Salamanca Tree Hiddle, you can be happy without her.” It seemed a mean thought and I was sorry for it, but it felt true.

  In the motel, as I was remembering these things, Gram came and sat on the edge of my bed. She said, “Do you miss your daddy? Do you want to call him?”

  I did miss him, and I did want to call him, but I said, “No, I’m fine, really.” He might think I was a goose if I had to call him already.

  “Okay, then, chickabiddy,” Gram said, and when she leaned over to kiss me, I could smell the baby powder she always used. That smell made me feel sad, but I didn’t know why.

  The next morning, when we got lost leaving Chicago, I prayed: “Please don’t let us get in an accident, please get us there in time—”

  Gramps said, “At least it’s a mighty fine day for a drive.” When we finally found a road heading west, we took it. Our plan was to curve across the lower part of Wisconsin, veer into Minnesota, and then barrel straight on through Minnesota, South Dakota, and Wyoming, sweep up into Montana, and cross the Rocky Mountains into Idaho. Gramps figured it would take us about a day in each state. He didn’t intend to stop too much until we reached South Dakota, and he was really looking forward to South Dakota. “We’re gonna see the Badlands,” he said. “We’re gonna see the Black Hills.”

  I didn’t like the sound of either of those places, but I knew why we were going there. My mother had been there. The bus that she took out to Lewiston stopped in all the tourist spots. We were following along in her footsteps.

  8

  THE LUNATIC

  Once we were well on the road out of Ill-ah-noway, Gram said, “Go on with Peeby. What happened next?”

  “Do you want to hear about the lunatic?”

  “Goodness!” Gram said, “as long as it’s not too bloody. That Peeby is just like Gloria, I swear. A ‘lunatic.’ Imagine.”

  Gramps said, “Did Gloria really have a hankering for me?”

  “Maybe she did, and maybe she didn’t,” Gram said.

  “Well, gol-dang, I was only asking—”

  “Seems to me,” Gram said, “you’ve got enough to worry about, concentrating on these roads, without worrying about Gloria—”

  Gramps winked at me in the rear-view mirror. “I think our gooseberry is jealous,” he said.

  “I am not,” Gram said. “Tell about Peeby, chickabiddy.”

  I didn’t want Gram and Gramps to get in a fight over Gloria, so I was happy to continue telling Phoebe’s story.

  I was at Phoebe’s one Saturday morning when Mary Lou Finney called and invited us over to her house. Phoebe’s parents were out, and Phoebe went all around the house checking to make sure that the doors and windows were locked. Her mother had already done this, but she made Phoebe promise to do it as well. “Just in case,” Mrs. Winterbottom had said. I was not sure “just in case” of what—maybe in case someone had snuck in and opened all the windows and doors in the fifteen minutes between the time she left and the time we did. “You can never be too careful,” Mrs. Winterbottom had said.

  The doorbell rang. Phoebe and I looked out the window. Standing on the porch was a young man who looked about seventeen or eighteen, although I am not as good at guessing people’s ages as blind Mrs. Partridge is. The young man was wearing a black T-shirt and blue jeans, and his hands were stuffed into hi
s pockets. He seemed nervous.

  “My mother hates it when strangers come to the door,” Phoebe said. “She is convinced that any day one of them will burst into the house with a gun and turn out to be an escaped lunatic.”

  “Oh, honestly, Phoebe,” I said. “Do you want me to answer the door?”

  Phoebe took a deep breath. “We’ll do it together.” She opened the door and said hello in a cool voice.

  “Is this 49 Gray Street?” the young man said.

  “Yes,” Phoebe said.

  “So the Winterbottoms live here?”

  After Phoebe admitted that yes, it was the Winterbottom residence, she said, “Excuse me a moment, please,” and she closed the door. “Sal, do you detect any signs of lunacy? There doesn’t appear to be any place he could be hiding a gun. His jeans are really tight. Maybe he has a knife tucked into his socks.”

  Phoebe could really be dramatic. “He isn’t wearing any socks,” I said. Phoebe opened the door again.

  The young man said, “I want to see Mrs. Winterbottom. Is she here or what?”

  “Yes,” Phoebe lied.

  The young man looked up and down the street. His hair was curly and mussed, and there were bright pink circles on his cheeks.

  He wouldn’t look us straight in the eye, but instead kept glancing to left and right. “I want to talk to her,” he said.

  “She can’t come to the door right now,” Phoebe said.

  I thought he might actually cry when Phoebe said that. He chewed on his lip and blinked three or four times quickly. “I’ll wait,” he said.

  “Just a minute,” Phoebe said, closing the door. She pretended to look for her mother. “Mom!” she called. “Yoo-hoo!” She went upstairs, thumping loudly on the steps. “Mother!”

  Phoebe and I returned to the door. He was still standing there with his hands in his pockets staring mournfully at Phoebe’s house. “That’s strange,” Phoebe said to him. “I thought she was here, but she must have gone out. There’s a whole lot of other people here though,” she added quickly. “Scads and scads of people, but no Mrs. Winterbottom.”

  “Is Mrs. Winterbottom your mother?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Phoebe said. “Would you like me to leave a message?”

  The little pink circles on his cheeks became even pinker. “No!” he said. “No. I don’t think so. No.” He looked up and down the street and then up at the number above the door. “What’s your name?”

  “Phoebe.”

  He repeated her name. “Phoebe Winterbottom.” I thought he was going to make a joke about her name, but he didn’t. He glanced at me. “Are you a Winterbottom too?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “I’m a visitor.”

  And then he left. He just turned around, walked slowly down the porch steps and on down the street. We waited until he had turned the corner before we left. We ran all the way to Mary Lou’s. Phoebe was certain that the young man was going to ambush us. Honestly. Like I said, she has a vivid imagination.

  9

  THE MESSAGE

  On the way to Mary Lou’s, Phoebe said, “Mary Lou’s family is not nearly as civilized as ours.”

  “In what way?” I asked.

  “Oh, you’ll see,” Phoebe said.

  Mary Lou Finney and Ben Finney were both in our class at school. At first I thought they were sister and brother, but Phoebe told me they were cousins, and that Ben was living with Mary Lou’s family temporarily. Apparently there was always at least one stray relative living at the Finneys’ temporarily.

  It was complete pandemonium at the Finneys’. Mary Lou had an older sister and three brothers. In addition, there were her parents and Ben. There were footballs and basketballs lying all over the place, and boys sliding down the banister and leaping over tables and talking with their mouths full and interrupting everyone with endless questions. Phoebe took one look around and whispered to me, “Mary Lou’s parents do not seem to have much control over things.” Phoebe could sound a bit prissy sometimes.

  Mr. Finney was lying in the bathtub, with all his clothes on, reading a book. From Mary Lou’s bedroom window, I saw Mrs. Finney lying on top of the garage with a pillow under her head. “What’s she doing?” I asked.

  Mary Lou peered out the window. “King of kings! She’s taking a nap.”

  When Mr. Finney got out of the bathtub, he went out in the backyard and tossed a football around with Dennis and Dougie, two of Mary Lou’s brothers. Mr. Finney shouted, “Over here!” and “Thataway!” and “Way to go!”

  The previous weekend, we had had a school sports day. Parents were watching their children show off, and there were even some events for the parents too, such as the three-legged race and pass-the-grapefruit. My father could not come, but Mary Lou’s parents were there and so were Phoebe’s.

  Phoebe had said, “The games are a little childish sometimes, which is why my parents don’t usually participate.” Her parents stood on the sidelines while Mr. and Mrs. Finney ran around shouting “Over here!” and “Way-ta-go!” In the three-legged race, the Finneys kept falling over. Phoebe said, “I wonder if Mary Lou is embarrassed because of the way her parents are acting.”

  I didn’t think it was embarrassing. I thought it was nice, but I didn’t say so to Phoebe. I think that deep down Phoebe thought it was nice too, and she wished her own parents would act more like the Finneys. She couldn’t admit this, though, and in a way, I liked this about Phoebe—that she tried to defend her family.

  On the day that Phoebe and I met the potential lunatic and then went over to Mary Lou’s, a couple other peculiar things happened. We were sitting on the floor of Mary Lou’s room, and Phoebe was telling Mary Lou about the mysterious potential lunatic. Mary Lou’s brothers, Dennis, Doug, and Tommy, kept dashing in and out of the room, leaping on the bed and squirting us with squirt guns.

  Mary Lou’s cousin Ben was lying on her bed, staring at me with his black, black eyes. They looked like two sparkly black discs set into big, round sockets. His dark eyelashes were long and feathery, casting shadows on his cheeks.

  “I like your hair,” he said to me. “Can you sit on it?”

  “Yes, if I want.”

  Ben picked up a piece of paper from Mary Lou’s desk, lay back down on the bed and drew a picture of a lizardlike creature with long black hair that, as it ran down the lizard’s back and under its bottom, became a chair with legs. Underneath this, Ben had written, “Salamander sitting on her hair.”

  “Very amusing,” Phoebe said. She left the room, and Mary Lou followed her.

  I turned around to hand the drawing back to Ben, just as he leaned forward and mashed his lips into my collarbone. His lips rested there a moment. My nose was pressed into his hair, which smelled like grapefruit. Then he rolled off the bed, grabbed the drawing, and dashed out of the room.

  Did he actually kiss my collarbone? And if he did, why did he do that? Was the kiss supposed to land somewhere else, like on my mouth, for example? That was a chilling thought. Had I imagined it? Maybe he merely brushed against me as he was rolling off the bed.

  On the way home from Mary Lou’s that day, Phoebe said, “Wasn’t it, well, loud there?”

  “I didn’t mind,” I said. I was thinking of something my father once said to my mother, “We’ll fill the house up with children! We’ll fill it right up to the brim!” But they hadn’t filled it up. It was just me and them, and then it was just me and my father.

  When we got back to Phoebe’s house, her mother was lying on the couch, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “Is something wrong?” Phoebe asked.

  “Oh no,” Mrs. Winterbottom said. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  Then Phoebe told her mother about the potential lunatic who had come to the house earlier. This news upset Mrs. Winterbottom. She wanted to know exactly what he had said and what Phoebe said and what he looked like and how he acted and how Phoebe acted, on and on. At last Mrs. Winterbottom said, “I think we had better not mention this to your father.” Sh
e reached forward as if to hug Phoebe, but Phoebe pulled away.

  Later Phoebe said, “That’s odd. Usually my mother tells my father absolutely everything.”

  “Maybe she’s just trying to save you from getting into trouble for talking with a stranger.”

  “I still don’t like keeping it secret from him,” Phoebe said.

  We walked out onto her porch and there, lying on the top step was a white envelope. There was no name or anything on the outside. I thought it was one of those advertisements for painting your house or cleaning your carpets. Phoebe opened it. “Gosh,” she said. Inside was a small piece of blue paper and on it was printed this message: Don’t judge a man until you’ve walked two moons in his moccasins.

  “What an odd thing,” Phoebe said.

  When Phoebe showed the message to her mother, Mrs. Winterbottom clutched at her collar. “Who could it be for?” Mrs. Winterbottom asked.

  Mr. Winterbottom came in the back door, carrying his golf clubs. “Look, George,” Mrs. Winterbottom said. “Who could this be for?”

  “I couldn’t say, really,” Mr. Winterbottom said.

  “But George, why would someone send us that message?”

  “I couldn’t say, Norma. Maybe it isn’t for us.”

  “Not for us?” Mrs. Winterbottom said. “But it was on our steps.”

  “Really, Norma. It could be for anyone. Maybe it’s for Prudence. Or Phoebe.”

  “Phoebe?” Mrs. Winterbottom asked. “Is it for you?”

  “For me?” Phoebe said. “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, who is it for?” Mrs. Winterbottom said. She was awfully worried. I believe she thought it came from the potential lunatic.

  10

  HUZZA, HUZZA

  I had just finished telling Gram and Gramps about the mysterious message when Gramps pulled off the freeway. He said he was tired of chewing up the road, and the white lines down the middle of the highway were starting to wiggle. As he drove into Madison, Wisconsin, Gram said, “I feel a little sorry for Mrs. Winterbottom. She doesn’t sound very happy.”