Shadowmaker (13 page)

I saw Anita watch me from the window, but she suddenly moved away. No one else was on the street, so I slipped out the first jar, filled it with soil, and fastened the top. By the time Anita had reappeared in the window, a thin little boy in her arms, I was busy planting begonias again.

The boy waved, and I smiled and waved back. Reassured, Anita walked away from the window, but I sat back on my heels, a strange, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. No little boy should look so weak and ill. Johnnie should be out running and playing and having fun with other children. What if Anita was right about the toxic waste and
Mom was right about the need to help? One way or another, I felt justified in taking the soil samples.

It didn’t take long to plant the begonias, and in less than a minute I had filled the second jar and deposited it with the first in my paper bag.

I was still on my knees, tidying up after myself, when a harsh voice startled me, and I jumped to my feet. Facing me was a short, muscular man. I could see he had a real attitude problem.

“What’s all this? What are you doing?” he shouted.

“Harvey,” Anita spoke from the open doorway. “She brought the begonias as a present. She even planted them to apologize.”

I peeled off my dirty gardening gloves and stretched out my right hand. “Hi, Mr. Boggs,” I said. “I’m Katherine Gillian.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “I know who you are.” He touched the end of the paper bag with one toe. “What have you got in here?”

“My gardening stuff,” I said. I was sure my hands were trembling as I picked up my trowel and stuffed it and the gloves into the bag, leaving it on the ground as though I didn’t care what happened to it.

I held my breath, wondering what Harvey Boggs would do, but he didn’t move toward the bag. “What did you come here for?” he demanded.

Anita took a few quick steps across the porch, toward us. “I told you, Harvey,” she said. “The girl brought me the flowers. She said she was sorry about … about …”

Harvey finished the sentence his own way. “About her mother buttin’ in where she doesn’t belong.”

I didn’t say anything. My heart was pounding, and it was hard to breathe.

Harvey scowled at me, then stomped up onto the porch and said to his wife, “Get her out of here.”

Just before he reached the door I got up enough nerve to call out, “Don’t forget, the begonias have to be watered, and if it doesn’t rain tomorrow, they’ll have to be watered again.”

He grunted and slammed the door.

Anita whispered, “Thank you for the flowers,” and hurried into the house after her husband.

I picked up my paper bag, with the weird feeling that eyes were crawling up and down my backbone, and deliberately sauntered toward the car, afraid that Harvey might have second thoughts or decide to take a look in my paper bag. If he knew what I had in this bag, what might he do to me? I hoped he wouldn’t hit his wife again because I’d come with begonias.

Suddenly, I heard the front door open, and Harvey Boggs yelled, “You … girl … hold on a minute!”

I stopped and slowly turned to face him. I was shaking inside, and I hoped it didn’t show.

Glaring at me, he growled, “My wife and me don’t want you here, so don’t ever come back.”

A
s soon as I arrived home, I handed the bag to Mom and confessed what I’d done.

“Thanks for wanting to help, Katie,” Mom said, “but you put yourself in danger. These samples can’t be accepted in court, because there’s nothing to verify them, and what you did wasn’t strictly legal.”

“The legal part can come along with the official inspectors,” I told her. “At least this way you can find out if the soil is toxic, and if it isn’t …” I put a hand on her shoulder and practically begged, “Mom, if it
is
toxic, I know you’ll do everything you can to help Anita Boggs and her little boy, and that’s what I want too. But if it’s not toxic, will you please, please, please drop this investigation and stick to writing your novel? I think that’s a fair deal.”

“Fair enough,” Mom said. “First thing tomorrow, I’ll
send the samples to Houston to be tested.” Then it occurred to her what I’d done and she held me at arm’s length. “Take a bath and shampoo,” she ordered. “Really scrub.”

“Mom,” I asked, “have you talked any more with Mrs. Willis? About Lana Jean, I mean?”

“No,” Mom said. “The poor woman. We should call her and ask if she’s heard from Lana Jean. These runaway kids—they don’t realize the suffering they cause their parents, who have no idea where they are, how they’re faring, or even if they’re alive or dead.”

I broke in. “I still don’t think Lana Jean’s a runaway.”

“Honey,” Mom said, “it’s a pattern. She ran away from home before. It’s very likely that she did it again.”

“I know what you learned about runaways when you wrote that article,” I answered, “but I still don’t think Lana Jean would run away. She had no reason to run. When she telephoned me, she was so excited about going out with Travis, she was coming unglued.”

“According to what Travis told you, that date with him was all in Lana Jean’s mind.”

“I know, but I’m really feeling torn.”

“Don’t you believe Travis?”

I thought about his easy, friendly smile and the way his eyes sort of lit up when he looked at me, and I answered, “I believe him, but I believe Lana Jean too. I mean, she was so crazy about Travis that she could have made up all that stuff about him saying she was interesting and asking for a date whether it happened or not, but the point is that she thought it had really happened.”

“Are you sure?”

“She couldn’t have faked all that excitement. Besides, she’d been honest in everything she told me about Travis. Why would she suddenly make up a story?”

Mom shrugged. “I honestly don’t know, Katie.”

“I feel like I should try to
find
her. The way you feel you should investigate the Hawkins brothers.”

“Where? How? What have you got to go on?”

I shook my head and sighed. “Nothing. It’s just a feeling.”

Mom put her hands on my shoulders and looked deeply into my eyes. “I’m sure that Lana Jean will make contact with her mother or show up within the next couple of weeks, but if by some rare chance she doesn’t, I’ll see what I can do to help you find her.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled as I went off to take a bath. I was glad for Mom’s help, but I wasn’t satisfied. If we waited another couple of weeks, we might be too late.

Too late for what?
I asked myself, anxious about the unknown.

The next morning I had just settled into my desk in English lit when Billy Don suddenly towered over me. “Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” I answered, looking up, up, up. He had to be the biggest guy on the football team.

“I thought maybe you were mad at me,” he said.

“I’m not mad at you. Why would I be mad at you?”

“Yesterday I said
hi
to you, but you didn’t say anything.”

B.J. was already in his seat, his head cocked and a grin on his face as he shamelessly listened to my conversation.

“I’m sorry,” I told Billy Don. “I had a lot on my mind. Tammy told me you’d said hello and scolded me for daydreaming.”

Billy Don’s smile filled his broad face. “I’m glad you’re not mad, because the Future Farmers dance is in three weeks, and I want to ask you to go with me.”

I must have looked as astonished as I felt, because Billy Don’s smile vanished, and all two hundred and sixty pounds of him seemed to sag. “Somebody else probably asked you already,” he mumbled.

B.J. actually snickered, and I wished I could poke my pencil through his mean little pointed head. I hadn’t given a single thought about going to the FFA dance, and I certainly hadn’t imagined going with Billy Don, but B.J.’s unkindness made me so mad I heard myself saying, “No one’s asked me, Billy Don. I’d like to go with you.”

After I’d said the words, I wanted to crawl under my desk, but Billy Don was so happy he nearly shouted. “You would? Great! Give me your phone number! I’ll call you!”

The bell rang, and Mrs. Walgren ordered Billy Don to his seat. B.J. turned to grin maliciously at me and said, “You’ll be sorry. Maybe Travis was going to ask you.”

I called B.J. the nastiest name I could think of and told him to mind his own business. I wondered how much Travis had told B.J. Then I realized in misery that if Travis invited me to the dance, it would be too late. I’d already promised to go with Billy Don.

Trying to think rationally, I reminded myself that the
dance would be in three weeks. By that time, according to Mom, Lana Jean would have come home, and there was no way I could go out with Travis, knowing it would break Lana Jean’s heart. But Billy Don as a date? What had I done? I sighed and settled back to listen to what Mrs. Walgren was saying.

“I don’t assign book reports,” she said. “It’s too easy—and boring—to simply write a short repetition of the plot. We have talked about the depth of meaning in the stories we’ve studied, so you know where I place emphasis.
Emphasis
means
importance
, and the most important part of any story, in my opinion, is the meaning the author imparts to his readers. So in your interpretations I want you to emphasize the actual meanings in the classic novels you’ve read.”

Billy Don’s hand shot up, and Mrs. Walgren said, “Interpretations simply mean what you, yourselves, interpret from the authors’ meanings—what you get out of the stories.”

A dark-haired girl in the front row said, “I don’t get it. I mean, if the author means something in his story, then why doesn’t he just say it?”

“We’ve talked about symbolism,” Mrs. Walgren answered, and I was surprised to see that Billy Don didn’t raise his hand. Did he actually understand what symbolism was? “I hope you remember that in symbolism an idea or an object often stands for something else.”

The girl groaned. “I hate symbolism. It’s hard.”

A guy in the row by the window waved a hand. “Could I sharpen my pencil?”

“Not until I’ve finished explaining the assignment,”
Mrs. Walgren said. “I want each of you to understand it thoroughly, because the grade you’ll get on your interpretations will greatly affect your final grade in the class.”

A few of the kids groaned, and one asked if he could be excused because he had baseball practice.

“Nice try, but no one’s excused,” Mrs. Walgren said. “Now listen carefully, all of you, and take notes, because I’m not going to be asked four hundred times when the interpretations are due, or how long they’re supposed to be, or all the other questions people usually come up with. Ready?”

Papers rustled as notebooks were opened. Two kids dropped their books on the floor, but soon order was restored and Mrs. Walgren laid down the rules.

“You will work individually in preparing your interpretation, although you may request the help of any other member of the class when you present it.” Her voice became firm as she slowly and distinctly said, “We will all cooperate. If we are asked to help act out someone’s interpretation, we will not refuse. Got it?”

There were only a few halfhearted groans, because she hadn’t told us yet all that we were supposed to do.

“You will each choose a classic novel to interpret,” Mrs. Walgren went on. “It may be one we’ve read in class, or it may be one you’ve read on your own. If you have a question about the appropriateness of your choice, you may submit the title to me for approval during the next two days.”

Julie raised a hand. “Can it be something that was made into a movie?”

“You are expected to read the novel, but some very fine
novels have been made into films, so I won’t rule them out. Now pay close attention,” she said. “Find the deeper meaning in the novel you choose and give it your own interpretation. As you know, I appreciate drama and symbolism. You can create characters or use characters that come from the story itself to either act out a short scene or set up a diorama.”

She interrupted herself to address Billy Don. “A diorama is a stationary, three-dimensional scene using props and a backdrop.”

“Huh?” Billy Don said.

“I’ll give you an example of an excellent diorama a student presented last year,” she said, and went on to describe the
Man of La Mancha
scene Tammy had told me about, in which the song “Impossible Dream” was used to illustrate the theme of the book.

“Now, as many of you know,” she continued, “I have a props closet. It’s filled with things you might use in your interpretations. You’re welcome to use anything in the closet—swords, capes, artificial flowers.… You’ll find quite a collection of odds and ends, and you may bring from home anything else you might need. If you have any trouble finding the right props, come to me, and I’ll help you. We will begin to present the interpretations in two weeks. Any questions?”

“The bell’s going to ring,” someone said, and it did.

I left English lit wondering what in the world I could do as my interpretation. I didn’t have any ideas.

I told Travis about the assignment on the way home after school.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s a tough one.”

“She told us about the
Don Quixote–Man of La Mancha
diorama,” I said. “What were some of the others?”

“I don’t remember most of them. A lot weren’t very good and some of them nobody understood.” He turned to glance at me. “You know my friend, Duke Macon?”

“He’s in my history class,” I said, and wondered why Travis seemed to be studying my expression.

But the thought lasted only a second, because Travis chuckled and said, “Duke got Delmar and me into those fake swords and plumed hats. We had to be the Three Musketeers and have a sword fight.”

“The musketeers didn’t fight each other,” I said. “I mean, they had a couple of brawls with their fists, but they were on the same side. They wouldn’t fight each other with swords.”

“That’s what Mrs. Walgren said. Duke couldn’t explain what his interpretation was about except that he thought the author liked sword fights, so he got a D.”

“That’s not much help.” I leaned back against the seat and sighed. “I can’t even think of what book to use.”