The Buried Book (14 page)

CHAPTER 25

We’re not here to pass judgment. We’re here for the truth.

Jasper stayed balled up in the drainpipe all night. It was out of the wind, but more importantly, he was too terrified to move. He eventually fell into a fitful sleep, a sort of waking nightmare filled with hairy bus drivers and the sound of poor Roy squealing.

He woke with a start. The muted-gray beginnings of dawn lit the sky above the ditch. It would be another hour until sunrise, but he was already running out of time. He pulled his stiff arms and legs out of the culvert and forced himself to stand up. The first frost of autumn hadn’t come yet, but the promise of it blew in the air. He shivered in his damp clothes and marched his aching body along the bottom of the trench. The suitcase had landed in the mud next to where the bus driver had pulled over.

A tightness in his throat warned him he’d gotten too cold lying there in the dark puddle. He could hear his uncle’s voice in the back of his ears.
The surest way to freeze to death when you’re out huntin’ is to let yourself get wet.

Heeding this warning, Jasper hurried to his suitcase and pulled it out of the muck. By the thinnest slice of luck, it hadn’t popped open. Clutching it in his freezing hand, he scrambled up the far side of the ditch away from the road. A grove of trees loomed a hundred yards ahead. Behind it sat the shadow of a farmhouse. He’d have to be quick. The farmer would be up any minute to tend to the livestock.

He darted into the cover of the trees and stripped off his wet, muddy clothes. Even his underpants and socks were damp. Naked and shivering, he relieved his bladder against one of the thick oaks, then opened his bag. Two sets of clothes. That’s all he had, but they were dry. He pulled on his shirt and pants and instantly felt warmer but not quite warm enough. He considered his other set of clothes in the suitcase and the pile of muddy garments on the ground. The wet clothes would ruin the rest along with his mother’s diary. He grabbed the book up from the bottom of the bag and checked to see that the pages were all still there.

One of the farmhouse windows lit up through the dark trees.

Jasper pulled the second pair of clothes on top of the first and threw his filthy, wet rags into the suitcase. The door to the farmhouse fifty yards away swung open with a loud creak as he stuffed his mother’s book into the waist of his pants. Jasper ducked behind a tree.

A woman walked out onto the front porch with a pail. She stood and stretched for a moment, staring out into the grove. Jasper held his breath, certain she’d seen him and would scream bloody murder. She didn’t. She just picked up her pail and headed toward the barn behind the house.

Jasper snatched up his suitcase and darted from tree to tree, making his way toward the field of corn flanking the road. A dog barked somewhere out behind the farmhouse.
Shit.

Jasper took off running for the furrows between the cornstalks. The thick leaves flapped against his shoulders as he ran, not stopping until five hundred yards separated him from the house. He slowed to catch his breath and listened. He couldn’t hear the dog or anything else following him. Above his head the sky was growing lighter, not yet pink with sun but light enough to see.

He reached up and grabbed a ripe ear of corn from the stalk next to him. Starving, he hardly managed to strip off the leaves and silk before taking a bite. He’d devoured the first ear of corn and had started on another before he took off walking again. Several feet to his right, he heard a car pass by on the road. He had to get going.

He had no idea how many miles lay between him and his uncle’s farm.
Five? Ten? Less than ten,
he decided. His father’d once told him that Burtchville was ten miles from Port Huron, and the bus had gone at least five before pulling to its terrible stop.

Jasper shuddered and tried to shake off the memory of the driver. Maybe his uncle had been right to castrate poor Roy.
Maybe nuts do make you crazy.
His hand reached down involuntarily and probed his own anatomy. It bore no resemblance to what he had been forced to pet. None whatsoever, but he jerked his hand away all the same. He felt sick.

Jasper dragged his bad hand down the row of corn, hoping the scrape of the leaves and slap of the stalks would undo what had been done.

By the time the corn turned to wheat, he’d gone at least three miles, crossed two creeks, and climbed one fence. Behind the tufts of grain, the golds and reds of the rising sun bled out into the sky. Every half mile or so, he poked his head out of the field to check the road. Lake Huron peeked out from behind the shoreline buildings here and there. Just when his hopes were climbing, he ran out of wheat field.

A wire fence blocked him from the large road crossing ahead. Beyond it lay Burtchville with its little shops and houses. It was both a comforting and worrying sight. He couldn’t wander through town with a muddy suitcase. He would run into grown-ups who knew his uncle. They’d want to know what he was doing and why he had a suitcase with him. Jasper hunkered down in the wheat to rest his tired legs and think.

He could ditch his suitcase and tell anyone who asked that he was running to the store for his uncle. That wasn’t so unusual. Kids got sent to town by themselves all the time. Wayne was always running raw milk to the creamery. He stood up and squinted at the buildings across the road. He could swear that the gray one three blocks over was the creamery. He plopped back down, wishing he’d paid closer attention to the roads when they’d gone for ice cream. The only other option was to try to go around and avoid town altogether. St. Clair Road flanked the west side of Burtchville and led north. It crossed Harris Road west of his uncle’s farm. He walked that way home from Miss Babcock’s schoolhouse.

Mind made up, Jasper got to his feet and turned back into the tall wheat. He followed the edge of the cross street west in search of St. Clair Road. It would be better not to have to talk to other grown-ups. He didn’t know how many lies he could keep straight in his head.

“Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive,” he whispered to himself. It was one of his father’s favorite quotes. It was kind of how he felt, like a sneaky spider hiding in the grass.

“Hey! Who’s out there?” a voice came booming across the field.

Jasper dropped to the dirt at the sound.

Rustling footsteps were making their way toward him. He debated whether he should run to the street or deeper into the field. He was fast at a sprint, but he was tired and dragging a suitcase full of wet clothes.
The road,
he decided. He sprang up to make a dash for it and ran straight into the chest of a large boy.

“I got him, Pa!” the boy shouted.

When Jasper’s dazed eyes came into focus, he saw it was his classmate Cecil Harding, the sixth grader who’d called his mother a hussy.

A large straw hat appeared attached to an enormous man with a full beard. He had a rifle in his hand, and it was pointed at Jasper. He lowered the gun and looked down at the boy with a mix of irritation and bewilderment.

Cecil clapped Jasper on the back and laughed. “We thought you was a fox. Mean little sucker’s been gettin’ into the henhouse lately.”

“Oh. Uh—I’m sorry” was all Jasper could think to say.

“What on God’s green earth are you doin’ in my field?” the man demanded. “Don’t you know you could’ve been shot?”

Jasper just blinked at him, at a loss for something to say.

“Where’s your parents?” Mr. Harding stood the gun up next to him and studied Jasper’s face.

“He don’t have parents,” Cecil answered for him, then added, “I mean, he’s stayin’ with his aunt and uncle.”

Jasper nodded, hoping that might be the end of it.

Cecil’s dad looked down at his muddy suitcase and back to his face. “Where are you going, son?”

“Back home to my uncle’s farm,” Jasper said, studying his feet. It was true. He didn’t want to be a sneaky spider weaving webs, but the truth just seemed to exasperate the man.

“Why are you by yourself? Walking through my fields?”

“I was on a bus and . . . ,” Jasper started. He couldn’t tell the man what had happened, especially not in front of Cecil. He’d rather die. “And it broke down. I was so close to home, I thought I could walk the rest.”

The man nodded with his mouth in a hard line, waiting for more. Finally, he said, “You still haven’t answered my questions.”

“Oh. Sorry . . .” Jasper frowned. He’d have to be a spider. “My dad had to work today, so he sent me on the bus. When it broke down, I was worried I’d be late for school, so I . . . tried to take a shortcut. I guess I got a bit lost. I’m sorry, sir.”

The man stared hard into Jasper’s face. It was only then that he remembered about the black eye. Jasper grimaced and lowered his head.

After a long silence, the man asked, “You had breakfast?”

“Sir?” Jasper looked up.

“Have you had breakfast?”

Jasper shook his head.

“Well, come on then. You can eat with Cecil. He’s headin’ to school soon too.” With that, the man picked up Jasper’s suitcase and headed back into the wheat field.

CHAPTER 26

Did you ever tell anyone what happened?

Jasper followed behind Cecil’s dad across ten acres of wheat to a small white house with green shutters. He tried to stay silent along the way.

“You really take a bus by yourself?” Cecil asked under his breath so his father wouldn’t hear.

Jasper nodded.

“Wow,” Cecil said, obviously impressed. “How’d ya get the shiner?”

Jasper didn’t answer. He just kept walking, trying to figure out what on earth he was going to say to Miss Babcock. He hadn’t thought about school until Cecil’s dad had cornered him. It was a Monday. He’d been to school that past Friday. Miss Babcock wouldn’t know anything about his trip back to Detroit. She would think it was just another day.

A low whistle blew next to him, and he looked over at Cecil. “Man, I knew you’d get a whuppin’ at home, but I never seen a kid catch a black eye.”

Jasper caught his meaning. Everyone at school knew he was facing punishment for fighting at school, he realized. Everyone would figure his uncle had given him the black eye. From the look on Cecil’s face, he saw that this was a bad thing. It was the same look Mrs. Carbo had given him. Like something was wrong with him.

“No,” he blurted out. “I just got hit . . . We was runnin’ around in the hayloft. You know? Ran smack into the crossbeam.”

Sneaky spider.
His uncle had warned him time and time again not to go running through the loft. It was dark and hot up there, and the framing timbers were covered over with hay.

“Ouch!” Cecil nodded and grinned. “I guess that’ll teach ya.”

“Yep.”

They finally reached the house, and Cecil led him around back to the well pump to wash up. The house was twice as big as Uncle Leo’s two-room cabin. It reminded Jasper of the half-burnt house out in his uncle’s back fields, or the way it must’ve been before the fire. There was an upstairs and everything.

Cecil, his little sister, and his parents all had chairs at the big round table. Cecil grabbed a small stool from the kitchen for Jasper, who squeezed in between the large boy and his father.

“Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest, and let this food be blessed. Amen,” Mrs. Harding said softly with her head bowed.

Jasper bowed his head and repeated, “Amen,” with the rest of the Harding family.

Forks and knives clinked and clanked, but Jasper kept his head down, wishing he could disappear. He didn’t want anyone to notice him there or to ask any more questions. His breakfast of stolen corn was better than nothing, but the smells of ham and bacon were almost too much to bear. His eyes flitted to the edge of Cecil’s plate now piled high with flapjacks.

“Jasper,” Mrs. Harding said in a scolding voice. “Aren’t you hungry, dear?”

“I’m okay.” He didn’t dare look her in the eye.

“Cecil, help your friend here to some food,” Mr. Harding commanded.

Cecil promptly scooped eggs and bacon and flapjacks onto Jasper’s plate. He seemed slightly annoyed Jasper hadn’t done this for himself.

“Thanks,” Jasper whispered and dutifully picked up his fork.

“So, Jasper,” Mr. Harding began, “I understand you gave my son a bit of a whuppin’ the other day.”

Jasper stopped chewing and forced his eyes up to the man at the head of the table. He didn’t know what to say. He glanced back at Cecil, who still had the shadow of a bruise under his left eye. “I . . .”

“Oh, I don’t doubt he deserved it.” The man cast a glance at his son. “What prompted a little guy like you to take on this big galoot?”

“I—I don’t know . . . it was just a misunderstanding.” The last thing Jasper wanted was to get Cecil in trouble, especially since they’d sort of made friends after the incident. Jasper prayed he could leave it at that. An uncomfortable silence fell over the table, and he knew he’d have to say more. “I thought he called me stupid. But he didn’t.”

“Hmm,” the man grunted. He was about to say something else, but he was interrupted by Cecil’s mother.

“So, Jasper, Cecil tells me you’re staying with your aunt and uncle. Is that right?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jasper stiffened. It was Cecil’s mother who had declared his mother something despicable.

“Leonard and Velma are such good neighbors. We haven’t seen them at the Rotary Club in ages. You will tell your aunt that I said hello, won’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He gave her a wide grin. It was the first time he’d dared look at her.

“Good gracious, Jasper.” She set down her fork. “How did you get that black eye?”

“He was running in the hayloft,” Cecil answered with a mouth full of food. “Smacked right into a beam.”

“She wasn’t asking you, Son,” Cecil’s father snapped.

“Honey, don’t talk with your mouth full,” his mother added.

Jasper turned back to his food and stayed quiet, but he could feel the woman’s eyes on him for the rest of the meal.

After they were done eating, Jasper helped clear the table and offered to clean the dishes.

“We’re gonna be late,” Cecil warned his helpful little friend.

“Yes, you should get going,” Mrs. Harding agreed. She brandished a wet washrag and wiped her son’s face, giving him a full inspection before releasing him out the door.

Jasper turned to follow him but was caught by the wrist. He jerked his hand away on instinct before realizing it was Cecil’s mom.

She took an offended step backward and lowered her washrag.

“Oh. Sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to . . .”

Mrs. Harding gave him a long, cool appraisal like a cat might study a mouse. She offered him the rag and said, “You have a bit of syrup, dear, right there on your cheek.”

“Uh, thanks.” He took the rag and wiped his cheek.

“What do you have there?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. She touched the string of white shells hanging from his neck and disappearing under his shirt. It was his mother’s necklace.

“No—nothing,” he stammered.

“It doesn’t look like nothing.” She pulled the string of shells out of his shirt until the hand-beaded medallion emerged with its beautiful flowers and secret symbol. Her eyes narrowed. “Where did you get this?”

“It’s my mother’s,” he said, taking a step backward. It seemed like she was accusing him of something.

“She gave it to you?” The word
thief
was written all over her face.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said slowly. “She told me to keep it safe and to always think of her. Before she left.”

“Before she left?” Her eyebrows raised. There was a smug smile in her eyes, and Cecil’s words that day on the playground came back to him. This woman did not like his mother. “And where did she go exactly, dear?”

Jasper could tell by the hidden smirk on the woman’s face that she knew he had no idea where his mother had gone. She knew Althea Williams was a bad woman, a hussy. He felt the overwhelming urge to punch her in the nose just like he’d punched her son. Instead, he lied, “She had to work longer hours at the dairy in Detroit. She’s being promoted . . . to a manager. She might even be president of the dairy someday.”

“Hmm,” she sniffed. “I guess that’s a good reason to leave your son.” The way she said it told him she thought the opposite was true.

He frowned and turned to leave.
What does this dumb lady know about anything?
But it felt like she’d put a stain on him he’d never wash away. There was something wrong with him just like there was something wrong with his mother.

“Did she tell you what it means?” Mrs. Harding forced him to turn back.

“Huh?”

“It’s Indian, you know.”

“Indian?” He looked down at the necklace despite himself.

“It came from the Black River Reservation. Our church group had a mission there back when I was a girl.” She lifted the pendant in her hand. “It’s a wedding necklace.”

“A wedding necklace?” he repeated.

“In a way. It wasn’t good Christian marriage out there. Our minister tried to consecrate the ones he could for the good of the children. We even gave them rings to use, but they preferred these.” She dropped the necklace. “I don’t seem to remember Althea helping with the mission. Shoot, I hardly remember seeing her in church. Ever ask her how she got it?”

He just shook his head.

She flashed a self-satisfied smile. “You better git. You’re going to be late for school.”