Pictures of Hollis Woods

  She stood up then. “I'll keep in touch,” she said. “Would you like me to drive you to school now?”

  I shook my head. “I can walk.”

  She turned to go.

  “By the way,” I said. “You have a sticker on the back of that shirt. X-L.”

  She tried to look over her shoulder.

  “Extra large,” I said, feeling mean.

  Two of Izzy's candies filled my mouth as I went around the side of the house. I didn't mean to listen or to be sneaky. Ordinarily I did that a lot. I'd stand still in the hall to hear what the stucco woman had to say to her telephone friend. I'd flip pages on the teacher's desk to see what disaster of a mark I'd gotten in social studies or social attitude. I'd pass by classmates in the schoolyard to find out what they had to say about that kid Hollis Woods.

  But this time I was on my way to find Izzy, to give her a picture I'd drawn: Izzy flipping a pancake that would land on my plate. Izzy's pancakes were wonderful: covered with apples cut into small sweet chunks, the pancakes themselves so light I must have eaten a half dozen. In the picture Izzy is laughing, the turner in one hand, just under the cross-stitched motto on the wall: LOVE THE COOK.

  I'd changed the motto, though. I'd written: I DO LOVE THE COOK. I'd drawn the I DO in the palest pink so that you'd have to study it, study it hard, or you wouldn't notice.

  One afternoon Izzy and I had walked up to the old cemetery on the hill where her parents were buried. We picked white daisies and Queen Anne's lace and put them in the jar in front of a small stone next to her parents' grave. Izzy ran her hand over the inscription on the bottom: JOSEPH REGAN, SIX DAYS. “I always wanted more children,” she said. “For me, for John, for Steven.” She patted the stone. “I wanted a baby for each corner of my house. It just never happened after this.”

  Down the hill I could hear the Old Man bellow at Steven. “Do they always fight?” I asked. “Or …”—I hesitated, trying to sound as if I didn't care, as if it weren't important—“do you think it's because I'm here?”

  Izzy grinned at me. “It does seem worse this summer,” she said. “But they have to find their own way.”

  I'd thought about that for days, “worse this summer,” but now, as I rounded the house, I stepped back against the wall, warm from the sun, smelling faintly of paint, and closed my eyes.

  “How can we let her go?” Izzy was saying.

  “We can't,” the Old Man said.

  My heart began to pound so hard I thought it would come through my chest.

  A mother, I thought. M.

  “She belongs here,” Izzy said. “Steven feels it too.”

  B, belong. G, girl. S, sister. W for want, W for wish, W for Wouldn't it be loverly? My head was spinning.

  “I've been thinking about it,” Izzy said. “The winter house in town is too small. We'd have to put a room on for her.”

  I don't need a room. A couch. A sleeping bag.

  “Without the room, I don't think the agency would let us keep her. She has to have space for herself.”

  For a moment they were quiet.

  I leaned my head back, my hand to my mouth.

  “How about this?” Izzy said. “You could call Lenny Mitchell to work with you. There's space in the back for a great room for Hollis.”

  “A big window for her,” the Old Man said. “We could do it in weeks.”

  “Sooner than weeks,” Izzy said. “Early fall.”

  “Yes. Even Steven would help.”

  “I'll call—” “You'll call the agency.”

  “How long will it take them?

  “She'll have to go back first,” Izzy said, the words tumbling over each other.

  “But just for a short time.”

  I leaned my head against the wall. I'd never been so happy.

  “A daughter,” Izzy said.

  “Yes,” the Old Man said. “We'll have a daughter.”

  From where I stood I could see the mountain towering over me. The stucco woman's voice was in my head: “She's a mountain of trouble, that Hollis Woods.”

  Before the end of the summer, I decided, I was going to climb that mountain, get to the top, raise my arms, and shout to the whole world, “I have a family. I belong.”

  In back of me there was a noise. “Ya-hoo!”

  Steven. I jumped a foot.

  The voices stopped, but no one knew I had heard.

  Early fall and I'd be a daughter.

  For the next few afternoons, around five, the mustard woman called to chitchat. That's what she called it. She was doing all the chatting.

  “How was school?”

  “Burned down.”

  “What did you have for lunch?”

  “Horse meat.”

  “How's Mrs. Cahill?”

  “Who?”

  “What are you drawing?”

  “Nudies.”

  “Hollis,” she said slowly one night. “Mrs. Cahill is old, and she has a tendency to forget.”

  Josie dancing in the street, giving me the hat with the veil, making popcorn at the movie.

  I said more than I wanted to. “She doesn't forget everything, just some things.” I stopped. The mustard woman would never change her mind. I raised my hand to the window. Drops of melting sleet were running down the glass. Under the kitchen table Henry was an orange ball, with only his pointy little chin turned up. Henry hated sleet.

  “Tomorrow is Saturday,” the mustard woman began. “I'll pick you up and take you to meet Eleanor.” She paused.

  I didn't answer.

  “That's her name, Eleanor. She's going to have lunch for us.”

  I pulled the telephone cord as far as it would go.

  “Then Sunday, if all goes well …” She broke off. “You'd be in the same school. And you could visit Mrs. Cahill often.”

  I took the phone away from my ear and put it on the counter. I did it gently so there was no noise. I wondered how long she'd keep talking before she figured out I wasn't listening.

  It was gray outside. Josie's wooden figures were blurred and bent in the wind that had just come up.

  Josie couldn't stay alone. She might not remember when it was supper. She'd sit up all night watching movies.

  Beatrice. I picked up the phone and pressed the numbers. It rang about twenty times. Answer, Beatrice. But then I remembered. For the first weeks she'd be traveling around, she had said. I pictured her in the desert, dry sun beating down, her sketchbook in her hand.

  I couldn't leave Josie.

  I couldn't stay.

  It was a puzzle.

  Something from years ago popped into my head. It wasn't winter, it was summer, and so humid everything I touched was sticky. All afternoon I'd thought about the pillow on the bed, and how cool it would be against my head. I was surprised when it was as hot as the rest of the room. I reached under the pillow to find something I had hidden there, a doll with pale painted eyes. I whispered to her, asking if she was cooling off. And then someone came and pulled her away, tossing her on the night table. I waited until the woman walked out the door, and then I whispered a little more loudly so that the doll could hear me. “Don't worry,” I'd said. “I'll save you in the morning.”

  Why had I thought of that now?

  Save Josie.

  That's why.

  The sleet outside was turning to snow. It reminded me of Steven. “You'd love the snow in Hancock,” he'd said.

  I thought of the summer house in Branches. “I haven't been here in winter since I was a boy,” the Old Man had said. “But it was wonderful, so cold it hurt your teeth, the river frozen over, the animals coming up close to the house. Everything was silver with ice.” He had spread his wide hands. “Twisted icicles this long hanging from the roof. I used to knock them off and see how far I could throw them.” He had laughed. “My father had put in heat, so when you came inside, it was warm. I'd dry my hands on the radiator till they almost sizzled.”

  Winter.

  No one there in the house
in Branches. “We stay in our house in Hancock now. Plenty of snow there, and nearer to school and the stores.”

  How could I do it?

  How could I not?

  Josie was napping on the lilac couch. I went in and stood next to her, watching that beautiful face.

  She opened her eyes.

  “How would you like to go away with me?” I asked.

  “To see Beatrice?” she said.

  I shook my head. “That's too far.”

  “Then where?” She sat up, smoothing her hair with papery thin fingers.

  It was hard to get the words out. “We'll take the car.”

  “The Silver Bullet,” she said, nodding.

  “It will be an adventure,” I said.

  She smiled. “Henry, you, and I in the Silver Bullet. We'll fly to the ends of the earth.”

  I smiled back, trying to think. Food, warm clothes, gas for the Silver Bullet.

  It was Friday night. The mustard woman would come for me at lunchtime tomorrow.

  By then we had to be long gone.

  We were frenzied that last week in August. That was Izzy's word: frenzied. And I drew it all:

  Steven and I racing along the dirt road to buy beef jerky at the grocery store four miles away.

  Sitting on a rock, pulling the jerky against our teeth as we counted the cars that went by on the highway.

  Rowing up the river rapids and bouncing back in the rowboat with bruises all over our legs and arms.

  Climbing partway up the Old Man's mountain after the rain, slipping and sliding in the mud on the edge of the road.

  And we never stopped laughing.

  Anything so we wouldn't think about my leaving.

  Anyting.

  They told me what they'd planned, the four of us sitting on the porch. I never needed a picture of that night. It was in my head, every bit of it, in there forever. But I drew it anyway: Izzy with one of my hands in both of hers, the Old Man reaching out to hug me until I had no breath left, and Steven blinking behind his glasses, trying not to let me see how close to tears he was. But I knew.

  I drew another picture of what happened next. Before I could think, I leaned over to kiss Steven's cheek, stained with grease from working on the truck, captured there in that drawing forever. Both of us laughed, embarrassed, and Izzy said, “Lovely. I'm going to try that too.” And she leaned over to kiss his other cheek.

  We were still laughing as Izzy spread out her long arms. “It's settled, then,” she said. “You belong with us. This house …”

  “And the river,” I said.

  “… is yours,” the Old Man said. “All of it.” “And Izzy's hard candy,” Steven said, rocking back on his chair, looking happier than he had all summer.

  Please let it be all right, I begged, looking at Steven's face, remembering all the arguments he and the Old Man had had: a lost lure yesterday, a rake left in the rain, the truck. Was it because I was there? Was the Old Man comparing him with me? Me? Wasn't that strange? Was trying to fit me into a family like jamming in a puzzle piece that didn't match? Would it ruin all the other pieces?

  I looked up at the mountain. The trees had just a hint of fall color. The mountain looked soft, almost friendly. I thought about standing on the very top.

  Izzy leaned over. “Hey, you two, don't look sad. We still have one last weekend. Remember?”

  The last weekend.

  Last.

  Never mind that we didn't have much money. Never mind that I didn't even know exactly how to get to the house in Branches; I'd find it. Never mind that the house wasn't mine.

  Please don't mind, I said to Izzy and the Old Man in my head.

  I ticked off what to pack, what to do, counting on my fingers: Bring all the food in the cabinet over the sink, a map, winter clothes, piles of anything warm I could find in the house, then get gas at the first exit off the highway.

  Josie was in the kitchen making cocoa. “It'll be dark soon,” she said.

  “That's all right,” I told her. “We like the dark. It's like velvet.”

  “That it is,” she said. “And we like the snow, too.”

  I bit my lip. Dark and snow. One problem after another.

  “How about marshmallows in our cocoa?” Josie asked.

  “Left-hand cabinet,” I said.

  To begin with, Josie and I had to get off Long Island, I knew that; we had to get to Route Seventeen and exit at Ninety, and after that we were home free. I had walked that last few miles dozens of times: the grocery store off the ramp, the road curving over the hill. We'd cross the bridge and the house would be there, nestled in the trees opposite the Old Man's mountain.

  I could do it in my sleep.

  I called back over my shoulder, reminding Josie where we were going: “It's a house in the woods, Josie,” I said. “A house on the river, a safe house.”

  I swept half boxes of cereal off the counter into a carton, cans of chicken noodle soup, sugar, salt, anything I could find to eat, then, wasting precious time, went up to the attic for Josie's old Christmas ornaments.

  I heard a car and froze on the top step. The sound of the motor grew louder and then gradually disappeared. My heart was beating fast.

  Stop, I told myself. The mustard woman was far away, in her house somewhere, scarfing up her dinner, littering her sweat suit with crumbs.

  But I knew we should leave as quickly as we could. I'd learned that when I'd run before. The first hours made all the difference, the hours before anyone knew you were gone.

  I scurried into the attic, found the box of ornaments, and pulled it after me to the stairs.

  When I finished, the car was piled so high it was hard to see out the windows. It was completely dark now, except for the white flakes hitting the window. In the kitchen Josie was bent over the table, a cup of cocoa in one hand, her knife in the other, and the smooth chunk of wood in front of her.

  “Josie?” I reached out for my own cup of cocoa and sipped at it, feeling the warmth of it on my lip, the sweetness of the marshmallow in my mouth. I touched her shoulder. “We can't wait anymore.”

  Rubbing her eyes, she glanced toward her bedroom. I knew she wanted to take a nap. I did too; I was tired now, and thinking of the long trip ahead of us was almost too much.

  “We'll have an adventure,” I said. “You, and me, and Henry.” I hesitated. “If we don't go, they might make me live somewhere else.”

  She stood up. “We'll go, then.” She looked around at the kitchen, touched the table, the back of the chair. “Yes,” she said. “We'll go.”

  “Can you drive?” I asked.

  Please let the snow stop, I thought.

  She smiled. “Of course.”

  I made one last trip to the car, carrying her knives, the small drill, pieces of wood, and then I was back, hoisting Henry onto my shoulder. “No biting, if you don't mind,” I told him.

  We went outside, Josie looking up at the sky, holding out her hands to catch the flakes while I opened the garage doors, and then we were off, skidding our way down the street.

  Suddenly the snow did stop, and we saw a moon over our heads. “It looks dusty,” Josie said. The houses stood out as clearly as if it were daytime; trees threw sharp shadows across the snowy lawns, and the dark streets curved like ribbons through that white world. I put my head back against the headrest, thinking we'd done it. The hardest part was over.

  “Do you know about directions?” I asked.

  She turned her head to one side. “It depends. I know the way to the end of Long Island, I know how to get upstate….”

  “Upstate, yes.”

  “Across the Triborough Bridge.” She frowned, looking worried. “Isn't that right?”

  “I think so.” Henry was scratching around in back, trying to make room for himself.

  “There's a map somewhere.” Josie leaned across me, one hand off the wheel.

  “I can find it,” I said quickly, reaching for the glove compartment. A tiny pinprick of light
appeared as I snapped it open. The small space inside was filled with all kinds of things: one of Josie's silk gloves, a couple of dimes, a squished box of tissues, and at the very bottom, the map of New York State.

  I unfolded it, spreading it out against the door of the glove compartment. It was a mass of color and lines and tiny words that were hard to see in that dim light. I bent over it, squinting. Palisades Parkway. Route 17. It was all there, one line after another, leading me home to Branches.

  I looked up as I heard the blare of a horn, and then a car swerved past us, its lights sweeping over the road. “Are you all right?” I asked Josie.

  “Right as rain,” she said.

  I sat back and closed my eyes, thinking of Izzy, drawing them all in my mind, wondering if they'd think I was doing a terrible thing.

  “It belongs to you,” the Old Man had said. Would he say that now? I wondered.

  Why not? said Steven in my mind.

  Izzy's face in front of mine. Would she say, “Do it, Hollis”? I thought she would.

  I was doing it anyway.

  Suddenly I sat up straight. How much gas did we have? It was almost a miracle to see the Mobil sign off to the right. I touched Josie's arm, pointing, and we pulled off the road, waiting for the attendant to fill the tank while I counted out my running money.

  “Good idea,” Josie said, and I had to smile at her. She'd have driven until the tank was empty, and might never have remembered.

  I was hungry now, really hungry. The hot chocolate hadn't lasted long. And I hadn't had lunch. Maybe I could hurry inside for a bag of potato chips and a chocolate bar. I glanced out the rearview mirror to see a car pulling up in back of us at the pump. The man was impatient, tapping his horn for us to get out of the way. There'd be no time to buy anything, not even enough time to rummage through the back to find the bags of food.

  I thought of the mustard woman. She'd come up the path tomorrow afternoon to get me, trying to smile, acting as if this would be a lovely afternoon tea at that woman's house—what was her name? Eleanor. When we didn't answer the bell, maybe she'd go around the back to see if we were in Josie's garden. But soon enough she'd figure out that we weren't there. She'd stand on tiptoe to look in the window of the garage, and it would be empty. If we were lucky, she'd wait awhile. She might think we'd be back any minute. But the minutes would stretch out to an hour, and then she'd know. She'd really know. And then she'd call the police.