Ink and Bone(77)

The snow was falling in big thick flakes. And she remembered how it looked when it fell out her window. How it would seem to melt into the black river of the street and never accumulate. But here, a white blanket was forming. The snow was clinging to leaves, forming little piles on branches.

“What do I do now?” she asked the voice.

But there was no answer. The voice was probably mad at her because she had disobeyed. Now, she was on her own. She tried to rid herself of the image of Bobo hitting Momma over and over again with that flashlight, but she couldn’t. Had she made him do that? Was it her fault? She thought that she should be sorry, that somehow it was she who drove him to do it. But she wasn’t sorry. If she’d been strong enough, she’d have done it herself.

Once, when she was in first grade, her gym teacher—a big goofy guy who thought nicknames were funny—called her something she didn’t like. He called her Lazy Daisy because she made a face one day when she didn’t want to do a hundred sit-ups—like, who did? He had other nicknames for kids too, like Big Red for Ben who had red hair, and The Rock for Brock who was kind of a big kid. He wasn’t mean exactly, but he was a teaser.

He teases because he likes you, Daddy said.

Grown men should know better than to give children nicknames, her mother said. If you don’t like it, sweetie, you’re entitled to politely say so.

So one day, she said nicely, very nicely, “Mr. Turner, can you please stop calling me that?”

“Aw, Lazy Daisy doesn’t like her nickname,” he said, not nicely.

Then he just started saying it more. She got angrier and angrier until one day, on the field when he said it again, she picked up a rock and threw it at him. It was just a small rock, a pebble really. It didn’t hurt, but she could tell by the way his face flushed that he was mad. She got sent to the principal’s office and her parents were called. She remembered that stubborn not sorry feeling she had, even though she was forced to apologize. Mr. T stopped using nicknames after that.

She kept walking, but it was getting harder and harder. Impossibly, she was starting to get sleepy, too. The snow on the ground looked like the fluffiest white blanket, as though she could lie down on it and rest. It tugged at her, even though she knew how the freeze of it would cut like knives on her skin. She felt the pull; it was hard to resist.

No, no, said the voice. Don’t do that. Keep walking.

She heard a snap and a crackle and turned around to see that white light bouncing in the distance behind her. Bobo. He was not her friend; she knew that. She kept moving, aware suddenly of a sound that was growing louder. He was crying, moaning. She’d seen that in him, that tangle of love and hatred he had for Momma. She didn’t understand it, but she’d used it to hurt him. And more than that. Somehow, she didn’t know how, she’d made him hit Momma with the flashlight. She wondered if he knew it. Would he do that to her, too, if he caught her? Would he use that flashlight on her?

The pulse of fear woke her up a little, caused her to pick up her pace. Drawing on a well of energy she didn’t even know was there, she was about to run again. Then she saw something up ahead that stopped her dead: the eyes of the big house, glowing orange. All this time she thought she was heading away, instead she was just heading back in the direction from which she’d come.

She would have cried out in anger and frustration, but she stayed quiet, choking on it, swallowed the big sobs that came up, and moved behind a big oak tree. Wrapping her arms around herself, she tried to calm down, take deep breaths. The sound of Bobo’s moaning was getting louder, growing closer. What would he do to her?

Then a thought came: those boots in Real Penny’s closet. There was a warm jacket, too. In the kitchen she could get some food and water. She’d have supplies and a better chance of surviving in the cold. She had her bearings now, knew the way to town because of what Poppa had told the clean man. Maybe it was a blessing in the skies, like her mom always said, even though Penny had no idea what that meant. When something was good that seemed bad? But what did that have to do with the sky?

Poppa hadn’t been home all day and sometimes he didn’t come back from town until the next day. Where he went or what he did, she had no idea and didn’t want to know. The house might be empty. She waited for the voice to tell her what to do, but the voice was quiet again. It was kind of like when her mommy was helping with homework. Is this the right answer? she would ask. What do you think? her mom would answer. But she could always tell whether the answer was right or not, just by the expression on her mommy’s face—a tiny, slightly worried frown or a hidden smile in her eyes. But the voice was just coldly silent. She hated the voice.

Bobo’s wailing cut through the night like an alarm, startling her into action. If Poppa was home, he’d surely come out in answer to Bobo’s call—probably with his gun.

She moved through the trees fast and quiet—her pain and fatigue forgotten for the moment. She paused at the clearing for the house and saw that Poppa’s truck wasn’t there. She waited, scanning the area, looking in the windows of the house, checking the shadows by the barn. It was quiet, just the lamp over the barn shining, casting a weak white circle of light, and the glowing orange eyes of the house.

She took a deep breath and then she sprinted to the house, limped up the creaky porch steps, turned the rattling old metal knob, and pushed inside. She shut the door hard and leaned against the wall, panting.