Maybe I would give old Roberta Ellsworth a call. She and I used to be good friends when we were little, I mean years ago. But we had kind of gone different ways as we got older, if you know what I mean. Sometimes that just happens, for no particular reason. Sometimes I felt bad about not spending any more time with her, since it had been me that drifted away from her, not the other way around. Roberta had become a wallflower—but if she wasn’t interesting, she was at least nice, and she’d be someone to talk to. Someone besides my mother and poor old Franks and my horse.
Old Roberta didn’t have many friends either. She wasn’t pretty enough, which if you’re a girl means basically it’s all over for you. That’s not what I think, but it’s the rule most people seem to live by, at least in high school. Roberta had a tendency to pick her nose in public ever since we were in kindergarten, and she always sounded like she needed to blow her nose. Not exactly Miss Popularity material. But when you have a broken leg, and you’re stuck inside all summer…hell, at least we could talk about something different for a change, and I could tell her all about Miz Elizabeth Powell from London, England. It might be good to catch up with her, and see what all had taken place in her life in the last six or seven years. Just for a change of pace.
I’m no raving beauty myself, you know. I haven’t mentioned much about what I looked like back then, but the fact is I was pretty overweight—so is Mother, so it’s genetic—and my hair has always been kind of stringy and thin, and my hips are almost as wide as my shoulders. I wasn’t getting a lot of attention from the fellows on the football team. Which was fine with me, of course. The people I care about don’t mind what I look like. But it’s not pleasant being one of the plainer girls in school. Even if you don’t put much stock in how much attention people pay to you, it’s still kind of hard to get ignored all the time. It wears on you after a while.
Out in our neck of the woods you can hear a car coming when it’s still pretty far off. I think Brother heard it first, because his ears kind of pricked back and he looked around as he was running. Then Frankie heard it, and then finally me. I turned and watched the road that came from the highway, which was about a ten-minute drive from our place. Sure enough, there was one of those ridiculous new minivans that look like some kind of moon unit, raising up a cloud of dust. Franks stopped Brother and we both stood there watching. Soon the minivan was close, and then it slowed down and stopped in the road. The driver’s window rolled down and a preppy-looking guy with his collar turned up stuck his head out.
“’Scuse me!” he called. “Looking for the Grunveldt farm?”
“Right next door,” I said, pointing.
“Thanks,” he said. He rolled up his window—probably didn’t want to waste his air-conditioning, I thought—and went up another hundred yards to the Grunveldt’s driveway.
“Haley, don’t!” screamed Frankie. “What did you tell him for?”
“Jeez, Franks,” I said. “He would have figured it out anyway.”
“I’m not going!” he shouted.
“Not going where?”
“I’m not going back to Gowanda!” he said.
And with that, he spurred Brother into a graceful leap over the fence and took off across a pasture, heading for God-knows-where. I was so surprised by this that it was several moments before I could remember that I ought to be saying something about it.
“Frankie, come back here!” I yelled. “Where are you going on my horse? Damn it! Frankie!” But he was already too far away. Brother was in a dead run, his long neck stretched out in front of him and his legs working like four pinwheels, almost like a cartoon horse. Brother could really fly when he put his mind to it. It was like he’d thought things over and decided he was on Frankie’s side. I hadn’t seen him run like that since he was a colt.
“Oh, shit,” I said.
I went up to the house in a series of miniature pole vaults. I bumped my foot up against a rock once, and it hurt so bad that for a moment I could only see the color red, nothing else. Never mind what it felt like—those words haven’t been invented yet. Suffice it to say I had to stick my fist in my mouth to keep from screaming. It was way too soon for me to be up and around as much as I had been. I was going to need a whole fistful of those little white pills when this day was over.
I went inside and called Mother. She came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a rag.
“Franks took off on Brother,” I said, tears of pain streaming down my face. “I guess some folks are here to see about buying his house, and he got upset.”
“You let him ride Brother?” she said. “Haley, that was very irresponsible.”
“Oh, blow it out,” I said. “What are you talking about? He rides him all the time!”
Mother reddened. “I beg your pardon?” she said, her voice all ice. “What makes you think you can speak to me that way?”
“What makes you think it’s my fault?” I said. “Besides, there’s no time for this. We gotta tell his parents. Ma, he ran away. Okay? He ran away on my horse. He was saying something about Gowanda, too.”
Mother was mad as hell, but she could see there were bigger problems to worry about. She went to the phone and called up Frankie’s parents. I could hear her talking in a low voice while I went to the window and looked off in the direction Frankie had gone. I didn’t expect to see him, and I was right. He’d vanished.
Here’s what Gowanda is: It’s kind of a loony bin, a mental facility. All the crazy-people jokes around here are about Gowanda, just like in New York City they talk about Bellevue, which I also know from reading. It didn’t take me longer than two seconds to figure out that Franks was afraid he was going to be sent there if his folks sold the house. Of course, it never occurred to him that wherever they were going, they would take him with them. It’s not like they would have had him locked up just because they were moving, for Chrissakes. But sometimes Franks jumped to conclusions. I guess that was how bad he didn’t want to leave home. He’d rather run away than see the house get sold. Jeez, what a nut.
Maybe, I thought, Gowanda was where they sent him that time he was raving about the theater.
“Haley,” said Mother, “I want you to stay here. I’m going over to the Grunveldts.”
“They have company,” I said.
“I know. Just stay here in case he comes back.”
“He’s not coming back. Not on his own, anyway.”
“Promise me you’ll stay put?”
“Where the hell would I go, Ma?”
She snapped her mouth shut and walked out the door. I guess she wanted to sit and fret with Mrs. Grunveldt—Mother never passed up a chance to sit and fret with someone, not if she could help it. I got a little panicked when I realized there was a good chance they would call the police. The cops in this part of the world are not exactly what you’d call sensitive types. Being in a rural area, we didn’t have a proper police force—we had a sheriff, and some part-time deputies who loved an excuse to strap on their guns and rampage around in the name of law and order. If they got called out to go look for Frankie, there was no telling how that would end up. But I felt pretty safe in guessing it wouldn’t be pretty. I could just see them hauling him out by his T-shirt from wherever he was hiding, kicking and screaming, and if he happened to kick one of them accidentally, they might get a little too rough with the poor boy in retaliation. They were great ones for retaliation, those deputies. It was how things were kept peaceable.
“Lord,” I prayed, half serious and half surprised at myself, “please don’t let those screwy old biddies call the sheriff. Let Frankie be safe, and let him come to his senses and realize he’s making a mountain of a molehill. And let Brother come home, with or without him, as You see fit, because if anything happens to my horse I’m going to bust someone’s head open, and that’s a promise. Amen.”
I wish my grandmother could have been there to see me, her wayward brazen hussy of a granddaughter communing with the powers that be, because the very n
ext thing that happened was that Brother came trotting back over the hill, riderless, acting as though he’d just been out for a pleasant little jaunt. I could see him out the kitchen window. It gave me a start, I can tell you. I was glad to see him, but I couldn’t help wondering if maybe it was a reminder that I should have been going to church right along, if something as simple as a prayer was all that was needed to get things done.
My leg was about ready to fall off by this time, but I crutched on out to the corral again, where Brother was waiting patiently for me to let him in. He stood there nibbling grass, just as calm as could be.
“Now, where did Frankie get to, Brother?” I asked him. “Where’d you drop him off, old boy?”
But Brother just pushed me with his nose, telling me Hurry up, let me in and give me some sugar. I’m a good horse. So I did just that. I keep some sugar cubes in a bag in the stable, and I gave him a whole handful, because even though he hadn’t been gone ten minutes I’d been afraid I was never going to see him again. I scanned around for some sign of Frankie, thinking maybe Brother had thrown him and he would come limping along behind, but he was nowhere to be seen. Besides, I didn’t think Brother would throw Frankie. He knew there was something not quite right about him, that he had to be taken care of. Animals are good that way—much better than most people.
I went back into the house and dialed the Grunveldts. My mother answered.
“Hello?” she said. Her voice was stretched as thin as a guitar string. I imagined the two of them up there along with Mr. Grunveldt, working each other up to fever pitches of worry and excitement.
“Keep your shirt on, honey,” I told her. “Brother’s back, so Frankie hasn’t gone too far off. He’s probably hiding somewhere. Try down at the creek.”
“You think he might be at the creek?” she said. Over her shoulder she said, “Haley thinks he’s down at the creek!”
“Don’t be dragging those old mummies around with you,” I told her, meaning the Grunveldts. “If they fall down, they’ll snap in half.”
“Well, there’s no reason for that kind of tone,” said Mother.
“Just head on down there and take a peek around,” I said. “I’d go myself, but if I don’t lay down soon this leg is never going to get better.” I hung up then.
Of course, I didn’t think Frankie was down at the creek at all. He was scared to death of water. The creek wasn’t much of a creek at all, just a little trickle of water about a foot across and maybe three inches deep, but it led into a kind of swimming hole just like you might have read about in The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, if you’re the literate type. The swimming hole wasn’t very big either, but it was good for cooling off in on a hot day. There were a few fish in there, and some turtles. But Frankie was genuinely terrified of water, and the one time he and I went down there together and I took a jump in the water he started to holler and scream, telling me to get out of there before I drowned. He had a god-awful fear of drowning, that boy. So of all the places he could have gone, I knew for sure the creek wasn’t one of them.
I guess, all things considered, I didn’t want anyone to find Frankie. I knew as well as anyone else how sometimes a person just needs to run off for a while, when things get to be too much. I still thought Frankie was making something out of nothing, but in his world there was no telling what was going to upset him; if he thought this house-selling business was the end of the world, why then as far as he was concerned it was, and nobody would be able to talk him out of it. Let him be, I thought. Just let the poor old fruitcake alone. He’ll come home when he’s hungry enough.
Then I felt bad for thinking of him as a fruitcake. He wasn’t a fruitcake. He was childish, but he wasn’t stupid, that boy. And right now he was scared, and alone. I thought about praying for him too, but I didn’t want to overdo it. One miracle was enough for that day. Frankie would be all right, I thought. God watches out for fools and children, and he was certainly a little bit of both.
I laid down on my bed then and helped myself to one of those little white pills, and before I knew it I was asleep.
3
Lifting the Veil
Three days went by and Frankie didn’t show up. I probably don’t even need to mention that the Grunveldts were worried sick, and that everyone on two legs was out looking for him. That let me out, of course. I just stayed in bed.
But let me backtrack for a minute. Only a few hours after Frankie took off, and once the Grunveldts realized he wasn’t coming back, the sheriff was called. And that was just like I thought it would be. Ed Barnabas—that’s the sheriff—came out with his deputies and a bunch of dogs, and for two or three days they tore up the whole countryside, whooping and baying and knocking on doors and sniffing around creeks and woods and barns and what have you. But they never turned him up. I had to tell the whole story of how he’d taken off and how Brother had come back without him about forty thousand times. Even then, old Sheriff Ed acted like he didn’t quite believe me. He told me if I knew something more I should come clean, unless I wanted to get charged with obstructing justice or some such nonsense. He knew me and Frankie were pals, I guess, and he must have thought I was holding out on him. I told him right back that he wouldn’t get anywhere trying to push me around, broken leg or no, because I wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything nonsnakelike on this earth; and besides, I was telling the truth. I even told them I knew he couldn’t have gone far, because Brother hadn’t been gone long at all. Had to be somewhere in the neighborhood, I said. Maybe they just weren’t looking in the right place.
But after three days, Frankie would have had enough time to go around the world if he’d wanted. I still didn’t think he’d gone more than a mile or two, but he’d hidden himself good, that boy. Whatever he thought he was on the lam from, it had him scared to death. Finally, old Sherlock Holmes called off the search, and Frankie went on the books as “missing.” I figured it would only be a matter of time before his face started showing up on the backs of milk cartons.
His parents were brokenhearted. If Frankleton’s whole idea had been to prevent them from selling the house, it paid off. All their plans were put on hold, and the preppy guy in the minivan went back to the suburbs of Buffalo, houseless. I wasn’t sad about that, either. He didn’t look like he’d be much of a neighbor.
I had to hand it to old Franks. I wouldn’t have believed he had it in him to run away. I mean, that takes a certain kind of self-sufficiency, to use another one of Miz Powell’s favorite phrases. You have to know where you’re going and have the wherewithal to get there, and you have to be smart enough to stay hidden and resourceful enough to feed yourself. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more unlike Frankie it seemed. I wondered if he was getting help from someone, and if so, who that someone was.
Meantime, I stayed home, letting my leg knit up and just taking it easy. There wasn’t anything I could have done anyway. I thought about gimping up to Miz Powell’s place for tea, but I was feeling kind of shy. I guess didn’t want to make a pest of myself—if you act too hungry for friends, you might find yourself without any at all. Besides, my leg was still killing me. I didn’t feel like I was up for another adventure, even one only just down the road.
Instead, I gave old Roberta Ellsworth a call, after picking up the phone and putting it down about a hundred times. The problem was, I didn’t really have anything to talk to her about. I just wanted to talk to someone. Anyone. And finally I gave in.
They say you should never pet a stray dog, because he’ll follow you home and you won’t be able to get rid of him—he’s that starved for affection. Roberta was pretty much a stray dog herself. She acted so surprised when I called her I thought she was going to bust out crying tears of joy. I think I might very well have been the first person ever to phone her on the spur of the moment.
“Haley Bombauer?” she kept saying. “Haley Bombauer?”
“That’s me,” I said. Talking to her for five seconds had already made me tired, and I thoug
ht about pretending I’d dialed the wrong number and just hanging up. But I couldn’t do that to poor old Roberta. The dog had been petted, and now I was going to have to feed it.
“How you doig, Haley?” said Roberta, her nose all plugged up—with her finger, most likely. “I heard you broge your leg!”
“Sure did, Robs,” I said. “Got a big old cast on, and everything.”
“Oh, by goodness!” she said. “Dat must hab hurd!”
“Yup, it hurt,” I said.
“How buch did it hurd?” she said. “I bead, did id hurd a whole lod?”
I was already remembering why me and old Roberta had stopped being friends, and why she hadn’t managed to make any new friends—because she was about the most boring conversationalist this side of the Mississippi.
“It hurt a whole fuckload, Robertums,” I said. “A whole big honking bunch of hurt.”
I heard a little gasp on the other end, and then a shocked laugh. Most girls around here didn’t say “fuck.” In the Greater Mannville Metropolitan Area, that kind of talk qualified as downright scandalous.
“Haley, how cub you’re callig me?” said Roberta.
I felt kind of awkward then. I hadn’t expected her to get right to the point like that. “Just calling to say hi, Roberta,” I said. “See how your summer’s going, and all that.”
“Oh. ’Cause…you know, we habn’t talked buch ladely. Nod in a log time.”
“I know, Robs, I know,” I said. “I’m, uh…sorry about that. Just been busy, I guess.” Like for the last ten years, I thought.