It was nearly one, but she didn’t want lunch. She was still too upset from the morning’s events at the high school to consider eating. Skye was accustomed to parents whose walls of denial went up like the force field on the Star-ship Enterprise, but the Yoders had no clue that their son was hooked on something, and it wasn’t phonics.
Even though she’d been gone from Scumble River for many years before her recent return, Skye remembered that the townspeople liked to handle their problems by themselves. Still, she was upset that Homer had refused to call the police on Mr. Yoder, and had forbidden Skye from contacting them. She rubbed her bruised upper arms and shivered. Yoder had clearly assaulted her and threatened them both.
After brooding for a bit, Skye remembered the emergency chocolate bar she had stashed away for just such an occasion. In one smooth motion she snatched her key ring, turned toward the file cabinet, and retrieved the candy.
She was just peeling back the silver wrapper of a Kit Kat when the PA blared. “Ms. Denison, please report to the office. Ms. Denison, please report to the office.”
Skye reluctantly rewrapped the bar and tucked it into her skirt pocket. Why did everything always have to happen on a Monday?
The junior high’s new principal, Neva Llewellyn, paced outside her door. She had held the job only since September, having been promoted from high school guidance counselor when the previous principal was forced to leave unexpectedly. For some reason, the Scumble River School District had great difficulty holding on to its employees.
“What’s up?” Skye asked as she stopped in front of Neva.
“It’s Cletus Doozier.”
“Junior’s brother?”
“Cousin. His father, Hap, and Junior’s father, Earl, are brothers.”
“I got to know Earl and Junior pretty well last fall. They really helped me out.” She smiled wryly. “That’s quite a family.”
Neva wrinkled her nose. “Wait until you meet Hap. The cheese slid off his cracker long ago.”
“Wonderful. Is that his real name?”
“Far as we know.”
Sighing, Skye asked, “So, what’s up with Cletus?”
“He’s got a black eye and bruises all along the side of his face.”
Skye drew a sharp breath and winced. “Did he say what happened?”
Neva put her hand on the knob. “Says his father beat him up.”
Skye closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head sadly, then gestured for Neva to open the door. She entered the office and looked at the eleven-year-old sitting at the table coloring. He was small for his age, and his feet dangled above the floor. The left side of his face was entirely black and blue.
She pulled up the other chair. “Hi, Cletus, my name’s Ms. Denison. My job is to talk to kids who need help or have something bothering them. Would you tell me what happened to you?”
“Dad beat on me again last night.” Cletus didn’t raise his head from his drawing.
She knew better than to try and touch him. Abused children didn’t like to be handled. “Has this happened before?”
“Yeah, usually when he’s drunk. But this time I thought he was gonna kill me.” Cletus stared at her with dead eyes.
Skye kept her face expressionless with great effort. Pity was the last thing this child would accept. “Cletus, I have to call and report this. Then someone else will want to talk to you. In the meantime, I’m going to get the nurse to look at you. Okay?”
He nodded without emotion and went back to his coloring.
After closing the door, Skye asked Neva to locate the school nurse and fill her in. Then she found Cletus’s cumulative folder and sat down to call the Department of Children and Family Services to report the abuse.
She was surprised when DCFS said they would have a caseworker at the school within the hour and would talk to the parent immediately afterward. It was usually the next day before they sent someone. Skye shrugged. They must be under investigation again.
After Skye completed her call, Neva came over and sat on the edge of the desk. “Be prepared. Hap is not going to take this peacefully.”
Skye reached into her pocket and retrieved the Kit Kat bar. Its smooth chocolate surface felt soothing under her fingertips. She broke it down the middle and handed Neva half. Both women took bites. The afternoon was shaping up to be as bad as the morning had been.
The three o’clock sun beat down hotly as Skye walked toward the parking lot thinking about buying a new car. She had to make a decision. She’d been borrowing her grandmother’s for nine months and that wasn’t right, even if Antonia couldn’t use it anymore. Skye’s Impala had been totaled last fall. Luckily she had walked away without a scratch.
A voice interrupted her thoughts: “Skye! Skye Denison, is that you?”
Skye looked to the left and spotted a woman hurrying across the grassy area that separated the senior from the junior high school.
Oh, no, it’s someone else I should remember but don’t.
She hated hurting peoples’ feelings by admitting she didn’t recognize them. It was tough to be back in her hometown after having been gone for twelve years.
As the woman got closer, the breeze ruffled her short brown hair from its smooth caplike style and played with the hem of her simple gray knit dress. Everything about her seemed familiar, but it was her expression that finally struck a spark of recognition in Skye. Her open features bore a look of good humor and high spirits.
“Oh my God, Trixie Bensen! What are you doing in Scumble River?” Skye grabbed her old friend and gave her a big hug. Trixie and her family had moved away during the girls’ sophomore year.
Hugging Skye back, Trixie said, “My husband bought the old Cherry farm a few months ago. I’m interviewing for a job at the high school.” She took both of Skye’s hands and stepped back to look at her. “How about you? Don’t tell me you live in town. You vowed never to settle down here.”
By unspoken agreement the women moved to a concrete bench along the sidewalk.
Skye sat with one leg tucked beneath her and said, “Well, I did manage to escape for quite a while. I went to the University of Illinois, then spent several years in Dominica serving in the Peace Corps. After that I attended graduate school and did my internship in Louisiana, and spent a year working in New Orleans.”
“Wow! So how did you get back here?”
“Oh, last year I had a little trouble with my supervisor and ended up breaking up with my fiancé, so I needed a place to recoup. I’ll look for another job in a year or so, once I get a good evaluation.”
Trixie patted her hand. “I’m so sorry for all the bad stuff.” She grinned. “But this is too cool. We’re together again.”
“Tell me what happened since you moved. Why didn’t you write me back?” Skye frowned, remembering how hurt she had been when she never received a reply to her letters.
“When we moved to Rockford, my parents had a misguided idea that I would adjust better if I didn’t have any reminders of Scumble River, so they never gave me any mail. They never told me until I was getting ready to move back here.”
“Well, that explains a lot.”
Trixie screwed up her face and shook her head. “Parents.”
“So tell me the rest.”
“Okay, it’s not very exciting. I finished high school in Rockford. Went to Illinois State for my B.A. and then got my master’s in library science from the University of Illinois. I married Owen Frayne right out of college and we’ve been renting a farm in Sterling until we could save enough to buy our own. And voilà, here we are.” Trixie beamed.
“You might be just in time. A lot of farmland is being purchased by developers who are gambling that Scumble River will become the next satellite suburb of Chicago.”
“Boy, I’ll bet people around here are hot on that subject.”
“Lots of fighting going on between neighbors, and even between fathers and sons.”
Trixie frowned. “That’s a shame. Is your family thinking of selling?”
“No. Grandma Leofanti would rather die than sell an inch of her land.”
“That’s good. Does she still make those fantastic apple slices?”
A look of sadness crossed Skye’s face. “No, I’m afraid not. She’s still strong as an ox physically, but her mind’s not too good for recent stuff, and she forgets to take care of herself sometimes. Around Christmas the family hired someone to live in and make sure she’s okay.”
“That’s too bad. She was such a fun person. So outspoken. And a real feminist. She always seemed ahead of her time. More modern than your aunts.” Trixie was silent for a moment. “Did you have trouble finding someone to take care of her? We sure did when Owen’s mother was sick.”
Skye nodded. “Yeah, we finally had to hire someone from an agency in Chicago. They supply women fresh off the boat from Poland. Mrs. Jankowski, the one we have now, seems okay, but she speaks very little English and that can’t be good for Grandma. Plus, she doesn’t drive, so she and Grandma are both stuck on the farm unless someone picks them up.”
“It makes you scared to get old. Maybe that’s why people stop going to visit the elderly. They see their own future and can’t stand it.” Trixie shuddered.
“At first I sort of felt that way,” Skye admitted. “But then Grandma started telling me the family history. She’d never talk about the past before, so I’m finding out a lot about my family. We’re up to her first year of marriage. Grandpa was not her only fiancé. The first guy got killed in an auto accident. Sounds to me like she married Grandpa on the rebound. I stop by almost every day after school. Actually, that’s where I’m heading when I leave here.”
Trixie jumped up. “You’d better get going then. She’ll be looking for you.” She rummaged in her purse, finally locating a scrap of paper and stubby pencil. “Here, write your number down.”
After Skye complied, Trixie tore the slip in two and wrote her number on the other piece. They hugged and Trixie scurried back the way she had come.
Skye climbed into her borrowed car and turned the air conditioner to max. After pulling her hair into a ponytail, she peeled off her pantyhose, slid on a pair of blue cham bray shorts, and removed her skirt.
The fuel gauge showed less than a quarter of a tank. She’d better stop for gas on her way back from seeing Grandma. Her visit with Trixie had put her behind schedule and she didn’t want to arrive just as her grandmother was sitting down to eat.
Grandma Leofanti lived halfway between Scumble River and the neighboring town of Brooklyn. Skye’s Uncle Dante, her parents, and her Aunt Mona all lived along the same road—separated only by acres of corn and beans. They could all see one another’s houses when the crops weren’t mature.
Heading north, then turning east, she spotted the remains of the original Leofanti farmhouse, which had been leveled in the tornado of 1921. The only thing left was the building’s chimney, which rose out of the field like the stack of a ship sailing on a sea of corn. A few minutes later she passed her relatives’ farms. No one was in the front yards and all the garage doors were closed.
As Skye pulled into her grandmother’s driveway, she noticed a large group of hawks circling the isolated farmhouse, braiding the breeze with their feathered wings. She frowned. That was weird. She didn’t remember ever seeing more than a single hawk at a time before. A shiver ran down her spine and she was glad to emerge from the car’s icy interior into the heat of the June afternoon.
The white clapboard house was situated about a quarter of a mile back from the road, surrounded on three sides by fields. It was small by today’s standards and Skye often wondered how her mother, two younger sisters, and a brother had managed to live there without killing each other.
She had parked in her usual spot beside the garage, and as she crossed the concrete apron, her grandmother’s cat, Bingo, paced anxiously near the front door of the house. He was solid black with a tiny patch of white on his chest. Antonia had told Skye she named the cat Bingo because it was the only way she’d ever get to call out the word, since she never won the game when she played.
Skye bent and scooped him into her arms. “What are you doing here? You know you aren’t allowed outside. Did you get away from Mrs. Jankowski?”
Bingo blinked his golden eyes and yawned. Hoisting the cat up to her shoulder with her left hand, Skye grabbed the knob and pulled with her right, only to stumble backward when the door wouldn’t open. That was odd. First Bingo was outside, and now the door was locked. Grandma hadn’t locked her doors since she’d stopped leaving the house.
The key was kept on a nail hanging on a nearby window frame. Skye used it to open the door and replaced it before going inside. The entryway was painted a dark green, with worn gray linoleum. Its dankness reminded Skye of a cave. Straight ahead, five stairs going up led to the rest of the house.
She called out as she climbed the steps into the kitchen, “Mrs. Jankowski, it’s Skye.”
There was no answer. The kitchen light was off and the stove empty. She set Bingo down. He immediately ran to his water bowl and hunched down for a long drink.
What in the heck was going on? Her grandmother liked to eat at four and it was already ten to. And where was Mrs. Jankowski?
The dining room was empty and the door to the bathroom was open, so she could see that no one was inside. Skye peeked into Mrs. Jankowski’s room. The bed was made and the dresser top was clear.
“Yoo-hoo, anyone here?” Skye’s voice quavered. Had something happened to her grandmother? The only reason she left the house was to go to the doctor. Where was Mrs. Jankowski?
The living room was empty. Grandma’s chair was placed against the wall, squared with the empty eye of the television set. Beside it, her knitting bag was partially open with needles sticking out the top. Pink, blue, and yellow yarn seeped out the edges, indicating that Grandma was working on another baby afghan.
Taking a deep breath, Skye forced herself to walk toward her grandmother’s bedroom. Other than the screened front porch, it was the only place she hadn’t looked.