Running Out of Night (18 page)

What did Auntie mean, hidden in plain sight? How could I hide when I were drest up like I were goin to meet President Buchanan? I’d have to think on them words.

The door to the bornin room stood open. Auntie’s spinnin wheel and work stool set in a pool of late-afternoon
sun. Her niddy noddy and skeins of gray and brown yarn hung from pegs. A splint-oak basket set on its side—shears, needles, linen twine, and woven fabric all spilt acrost the floor next by a spiny hetchel. I bent down, scooped everythin back into the basket, and set it aright for Auntie’s return.

No more dallyin. I went back to the bucket bench, took off my shoes and rough country clothes, and shook my lucky buckeye out of the pocket. The shimmy slipped down easy over my head. It smelt of Auntie’s lavender. I stepped into the fancy dress. My first fine dress. All my clothes was always handed down from my brothers and from the church, but these fit like they’d been made special for me. I run my hands acrost the smooth blue fabric; in my whole life, I had never felt clothes so soft against my skin.

I picked up the fancy shoes, felt the soft leather, and slipped my feet into their tightness. My land, how would I ever be able to climb a tree or run in such? How would I even be able to walk? Step by step. Mile by mile, just like Moses. I dropped my lucky buckeye into my pocket, folded the country clothes neat-like on top of the shoes, and tucked them below Hannah doll in my travelin sack.

Dark were comin on. I picked up Auntie’s fresh loaf of bread, some meat, and the last of the summer peaches and stuck them into my sack.

I don’t know how I done it, but I untied the door again and opened it for the last time, never lookin backward.
How could I just walk away from the first place that had ever felt like home and family to me? But I had to.

I walked the narrow road to where I come in over a week ago. Straight back along the fence, the tall hollyhocks swayin and starin at me. Past the buryin ground, makin sure not to get any dirt on my shoes so’s I wouldn’t end up there in the ground too. On toward the long stone meetinhouse standin on a little rise above the town.

I walked up three thick granite steps and tugged at the big double doors, but they didn’t move. Was they locked? I pulled again and felt some give on the left door. It shifted, stuck, swolled by the rains, then fought against my tuggin. I pulled harder and the bottom of the door dragged, then scraped against the threshold and creaked open.

Inside, the sweet smell of flowers met me, and somewhere close by the slow
tuck-tuck, tuck-tuck, tuck-tuck
of a clock sounded its heartbeat.

In the dim light, I picked my way up an aisle surrounded on both sides by rows of tall wooden benches.

I settled myself and my sack down on a side bench that faced acrost to another row, stretched my legs, and tried to wiggle my tired toes.

“Mama,” I said, “how do folks wear such shoes and get any good walkin done?”

Mama didn’t answer, but hearin my voice fill this peaceful place helped me to settle in.

The smell of the bread made me hungry, but supper alone weren’t the same as supper with Auntie, Brightwell,
and Zenobia. I could see all their faces—Brightwell grinnin at me after he near scairt me to death in my attic room. Zenobia sittin on the big sycamore branch and swingin her long, skinny, heron-bird legs over the crick. Auntie, I could see Auntie’s blue eyes twinklin when I reached for the biscuit afore our silent prayer.

“Auntie, Zenobia, Brightwell, how about I keep talkin with you just like I do my mama and grandpa? That would be some good comfort to me, keep me from missin you so much till I find you again.”

I felt better already.

Just as I reached for the heel of the bread, I heard a sound. I stopped, listened closely, and then—a slow, dragged-out scrapin and familiar creakin. The door! The door to the meetinhouse were openin. I waited to hear if Asa or his father called out to me, but they didn’t. Someone pushed against the stuck door and stepped inside.

I
f you see the new sickle moon clear, you will see no trouble while that moon lasts
.

I
crawled acrost the floor below the bench and pushed the sack ahead of me. When I got to the end of the row, I wedged myself into the tiny space between the bench and the wall and pulled my sack into my lap.

I were pantin like one of our huntin dogs. I pushed my face into the sack and forced myself to close my mouth and breathe slow and quiet.

Step, thump, step, thump, step, thump
.

I squeezed my eyes closed.

Tuck-tuck, tuck-tuck, tuck-tuck
. Here I were near dyin of fear and the old clock kept on steady.

Step, thump
.

Tuck-tuck
.

Now I knowed how a rabbit felt. Should I break and run? But how could I run in these shoes?

Step, thump, step, thump
.

Tuck-tuck, tuck-tuck
.

I opened my eyes and looked acrost the benches and out to the tree brushin its big leaf hands against the glass.

“Who’s here?” a man’s voice boomed.

I couldn’t answer. Wouldn’t answer.

Zenobia’s face come into my head. Her eyes was open so wide I could see clear to her soul. She were standin in the cellar at my pa’s house and gettin ready to climb the ladder and run for it.

“Deer shot when it runs,” I’d said to her. But now it were her voice warnin me not to run.

“This is yer last chance. Stand up and show yerself or I’ll use the whip.”

He waited.

Could he hear my heart a-beatin?

“Show yerself!”

Swoosh. Crack
.

Even with my eyes shut I could see that whip slicin through the air.

Did he think that would make me want to show myself?

He walked along the far side of the meetinhouse, tappin at the tops of the benches.

The steps and tappin come louder.

“Where are you?” the man asked. “Where are you?” His voice singsong, wheedlin, like the one my pa and brothers used when they wanted somethin.

“Y’all come on out now. I won’t hurt you.”

I knew them words and didn’t trust them a mite more than I trusted them from my pa’s mouth.

The dark settled over me and everythin stopped. It were like the old meetinhouse held its breath, waitin to see what would happen next.

Footsteps again, then
tap, tap, tap
. Wood against wood.

I pulled into myself and tried to be smaller. I wanted to melt into the wall. Disappear.

His heavy footsteps and tappin let me know where he walked.

Now down the side aisle by the big window. Turn. Now along the benches facin each other below the clock. Turn. Now acrost another aisle. Turn. Now up toward me.

I could hear his breathin as he come closer and felt my breath movin in and out, keepin time with his.

Tap, tap, tap
.

I almost jumped when I felt-heard him tap on the top of my bench.

Then he turned again. Now the heavy steps moved down the aisle toward where he come in.

The night crowded against the window, the leaves lost in darkness but scratchin loud against the glass.

The man turned, run up to the window, and lifted the sash.

“Dang! She climbed out afore I come in.”

He pulled down the window.

Quick footsteps, then the familiar sound of the door arguin against its openin. Then the creak as the door dragged acrost the threshold.

The door slammed closed.

I didn’t move.

Tuck-tuck, tuck-tuck
.

The leaf hands scratched gently against the window.

The meetinhouse settled back into its old peace, and I could smell the sweet of the flowers again.

I let out my breath and whispered, “Thank you, Mama and Grandpa, thank you, Brightwell, Zenobia, Auntie. Thank you for bein here with me.”

My body ached, but I stayed put for a long, long time. My knees felt like they wouldn’t never go straight again. Finally, after waitin and listenin, I knew it were safe to move.

I grabbed the smooth, curled end of the bench, braced myself against the wall, and pushed myself up.

My feet, gripin against the pain of the shoes, barely held me.

I picked up the travelin sack and limped to the back door of the meetinhouse. When I pulled the door open and walked outside, the night sounds stopped. The thin sickle of new moon shone through the twisted branches
of an oak. I let out my breath. Good luck for me while the moon lasts.

Dark. Quiet. I stood still and let the peace come into me. Then I smelt it. The thick sourness of sweat and the bitterness of whiskey. I knowed that smell.

I
f a buzzard flies overhead, don’t let him cast his shadow across you or you will have nothing but bad luck for a fortnight
.

T
he wagon rattled and thundered along the rutted road. My head throbbed, achin so deep inside I couldn’t move. I opened my eyes and looked up at the dark night sky. Where were the new sickle moon, and why had my luck run out so fast?

Three bright stars, the ones my grandpa called the three-corner hat, glistered above. I felt some comfort seein how they follered along, lookin down, watchin over me like old friends.

“Grandpa, where am I? Grandpa, the stars.” His voice come to me, singin deep from his heart:

I smelt the familiar smoke of a cheroot and heard the
clop, clop
of horse hooves. The wagon hit a hole and jumped high, then slammed down, rocked, and rumbled on.

“Owww,” I moaned, holdin the sides of my head to keep it from movin. When the road smoothed, I let go. My hands felt sticky and wet. I held them under my nose—they smelt of blood. No wonder my head hurt.

I wiped my hands on a pile of dirty straw. I sure didn’t want to get no blood on my fine new dress. Then I reached up to brush wisps of hair off my face. My bonnet, where were my bonnet? I remembered Auntie’s caution to keep my hair covered. I tried to sit up, but the pure pain of it kept me down.

When I moved my hand acrost the rough wooden bed of the wagon, it run into the soft edge of my fancy green bonnet. I pulled it toward me, lifted my head, and slipped it over my hair. Just doin that took most all my might.

I woke again, my head still hurtin. Night had run to dawn, and long wisps of pink mares’ tails streaked the sky. Sunrise soon.

Sleep come again, sleep, hurtin, and a mess of dreams about Zenobia and me runnin, runnin, always a-runnin.

A big jolt shook me awake. It hurt some to open my eyes onto the clear sky and the sun burnin bright and hot on my face. My head felt like someone were tryin to split it open with a maul.

Hurtin or not, I’d spent about as much time as I could lyin down. I turned onto my stomach and looked up at a big, thick man with wide shoulders and long, dirty gray hair. Twin streams of bad-smellin smoke curled behind him.

How had he found me? Where were he takin me?

I poked my head above the rail and saw half a dozen wagons stopped in the shade of trees. Horses drank in a lazy crick, so shallow it didn’t make a whisper.

Five other wagons stood nearby in the full meanness of the summer sun. Shackled and tied to the sides of the wagons were Negra men, women, and children. Some cried; others paced in small circles till there were a rut worn into the dusty ground. Were Zenobia and Brightwell somewhere in the crowd?

I set up slow-like, brushed at my dress, and tucked a wisp of hair under my bonnet. Time to forget about the hurtin and start tryin to think out what I were goin to do. Was Yardley and Asa somewhere behind, follerin on our trail? What if they didn’t find us? I couldn’t hope that anyone else would or could save me from this scrambled-up mess of trouble.

“Whooa!” the dirty man said to his horses. “Whoooa, now.”

“Who are you and where do you think you’re takin me?” I asked, makin my voice sound stronger than I felt. Talkin made my head hurt even more.