The Breeders (10 page)

Clay punches my arm. “God, you sure do got balls for a bender. Wait, do benders have balls?”

I give him a cold stare.

He waves his hand dismissively, a blush climbing up into his cheeks. “Never mind.”

* * *

In the back of the Jeep, the ruts in the road feel like craters. Ethan and I lie across the back seat, covered in a large canvas that’s got us both sweating. Clay’s driving. Every time the Jeep slows, I expect the townies to rip off our cover and arrest us.

Everything that matters is stuffed in two sacks in the back of the Jeep. Changes of clothes, my mother’s quilt, Auntie’s knitting needles, the Superman figure Arn was carving, Ethan’s comic book, any spare food and water. It’s amazing how items that used to mean the world to me I tossed without a thought. It’s easy to know what matters when what you really love is stripped from you.

The Jeep jerks and Ethan and I rock back and forth and nearly knock heads. Lying pressed together like this, it’s hard to see his face, but I feel his hand tighten around my arm. I give him a squeeze, but that’s all I can offer. My stomach’s in knots. Questions run in my mind till I’m dizzy with them. What will we have to do to free my family? How will we pull it off? What happens if I can’t get back to Ethan? Our whole plan’s paper-thin and it all hinges on Clay. Clay who I didn’t trust, who I’m not sure I do. As the sun pokes through the holes in the canvas blanket, I wonder if this will be my last day breathing free air.

We rock to a stop, gravel crunching under the tries. I hear the guard holler down. We’re here.

Clay shouts a friendly hello and the gates creak open. For him, there’s no identifying himself, no weapons confiscation. He’s a good ally to have. If only I knew for sure he was our ally.

Insides the gates, I feel the weight of what we’re doing pressing down on me until I can barely breathe. I focus on listening and trying not to move.

“Stay here. I’ll be back after dark,” Clay whispers from somewhere above.

I want to answer, but the Jeep rocks as he jumps out. He’s gone.

Three hours goes slow when you’re cramped in the back of a Jeep, trying not to make a sound.

Darkness falls. The light filtering through the canvas is a dusky gray. Ethan’s fallen asleep on my arm and I can’t feel my fingers. Every few minutes male voices shout, guns fire. Waiting makes me crazy. Where the hell is Clay? I’m about to slip up the canvas and attempt a peak when there’s a hand at my back.

“Don’t move,” the voice whispers.

We’re done for.

The canvas slips back and there’s Clay, washed and dressed in clean jeans and a fresh button-down shirt. The pearl snaps on his breast pockets wink in the twilight. I feel the rivers of sweat on my face and neck. I’m a hot mess. It doesn’t matter what I look like. Clay thinks I’m a bender, and besides, after tonight, I’ll never see him again.

As I untangle myself from Ethan, I glower at Clay’s sparkling appearance. “Nice to see you had time to get a change of clothes. Did you have a bath? A massage?” I wipe the sweat from my brow.

“Shh,” he puts a finger to his lips and then holds up a bandanna, a wide-brimmed cowboy hat and a brown coat. “You’ll be hot, but least you’ll be covered.”

I clench my teeth to keep the sarcastic remarks from slipping out. I put on the clothes. Then we both look down at Ethan.

“I told him to stay in the Jeep,” I say, looking at his curled form, his hair lying in damp strands across his face. His mouth twitches in a dream. I hate leaving him, but I don’t want him where I’m going. I brush a strand of hair from his face. “Let’s get this over with,” I say to Clay.

He nods. “Follow me and try to act like you belong.”

In the twilight, little gas lamps flicker on either side of the street, a few more in the windows. The noises of the day have quieted. A few drunken calls spill out from the brothel. A woman cackles from an upper window. Besides a handful of stragglers, the streets are mostly empty. All respectable persons have gone home. Down the road lamps glow in the windows of the well-to-do. Right about now, my family would be cleaning up from supper. Auntie’d be knitting in her rocking chair on the porch. Ethan and I would dig out the molding deck of cards and invent a few games until the light grew too dim. My mama would rub the kinks out of Arn’s shoulders. I blink the painful image from my mind and turn my eyes to the task at hand.

We stroll down the road, the same one I traveled not more than a few days ago. Clay saunters, smiles, stops to chat. The men lift their hats to Clay. I stand stiffly at each exchange, hoping no one notices me. Hoping I don’t run into the Warden.

A toothless old man crosses the street and makes a beeline for us. He extends his wrinkled hand and for a moment I think he’ll snatch me. I flinch, but he limps past and starts pumping Clay’s hand like a dying man at a water well.

“I jest want ta thankee again fer the help, son,” he says, through the few teeth left in his mouth. “Thought I was up a crick with that charge. Not a dime in me pocket when I got pinched.”

Clay lifts his reassuring smile. “Don’t mention it, Hawk. Glad to help.”

The withered man’s face glows with gratitude. What did Clay do for him? Probably something like he did for me at the jailhouse. It eases my frayed nerves a little to remember how he put himself on the line.

Hawk finally lets go and we continue past the brothel. My stomach knots as I peer in the open doorway. A few weary men hunch over the bar. One unfortunate old woman in ratty underwear and too much makeup slings drinks. Her eyes are like dull hunks of coal. Clay puts a hand on my shoulder and shakes his head. Thank God. I couldn’t stand seeing a townie with his hands on my mother. I’d do something we’d both regret.

We stride past the darkened doctor’s office, the general store, the armory. Clay never slows. My stomach flip-flops as we come up to the jail, but Clay doesn’t turn. I glance in as we walk by and see Darrel’s dirty boots up on the desk, his head back. The Warden is nowhere to be seen.

When we run out of shops and hit the residential end of the street, I’m confused. I shoot Clay questioning looks, which he ignores. When he continues past the rest of the homes, with their dimly lit windows and smells of cooked meat, and heads straight for the last house on the road, the stately white ranch with the wrap-around porch, I grab his arm.

“This is the Sheriff’s,” I hiss.

He removes his arm from my grip and scans the road. With his face set all calm, he nods. “Thanks for the tip, hot shot, but I think I know where I’m going. Duck behind there and wait for me.” He points to a slanted wooden outhouse. “I got to send the guard on a little errand.”

I scowl, but bite my tongue. If I make a scene here, it will be the end of me. I slip behind a battered outhouse several yards from the Sheriff’s white picket fence and watch from the shadows as Clay slips through the gate into the lion’s den.

From my dark hiding space, I can see everything. Gas lamps light the front rooms of the Sheriff’s house. I note the smoothly carved furniture, the shiny upright piano in the sitting room, the polished silver tea set on the table. I scan the windows for my mother and Auntie, but see no one.

Clay strides up the gravel path and greets the guard at the front door. They chuckle about something I can’t hear. Clay motions back toward town and the guard nods, picks up his rifle and crunches down the street. When the guard’s out of sight and the road quiet, Clay waves me forward. I slip out from behind my hiding spot, feeling more nervous than ever. My skin crawls beneath my layers of clothing. What are we doing?

He leads me around the side of the house. We trot past the little backyard with patches of clipped green grass and four apple trees heavy with red fruit. Beneath the trees is a weathered wooden swing. I imagine the Sheriff wiling away the hours, rocking beneath his apple trees. He probably needs to relax in between butchering families in their sleep.

Clay steps up to the back door, grabs my arm and pulls me in. Our bodies are so close, I can smell the sticky sweetness of his aftershave. My eyes rest on the curve of his jaw, the stubble on his chin. My cheeks flush beneath my bandanna. I shake my head and focus.

“Here’s the plan. I head in and make sure the coast’s clear. You slip down the basement real quiet. I’ll send ’em down to you. When you’re ready, head out the back gate. They’ll be a ride waiting.”

“What about Ethan?”

“He’ll be there, too. Okay?”

I nod.

Clay looks up at the house. “Let’s get started. We only got an hour.”

Clay puts a key in the lock and cracks open the back door. I follow on his heels. To my right is the basement stairs. I tread carefully into the dark basement. I don’t dare fumble for a lantern, just plunge into the cool darkness with my hands outstretched. When my feet hit the concrete floor, I shuffle forward and almost smack into a pole. I wrap my arms around the cool metal beam. It gives me something solid to hold onto when most of me feels like dust picked up in a twister.

Footsteps overhead, whispering. I can’t tell who’s speaking, but I hear a female voice. My mom? God, why won’t they hurry up? My heart thuds against the metal pole.

A beam of light trickles down the basement stairs. Someone’s coming. Please God, let it be my family.

A foot appears, then an ankle, followed by a white cotton dress that’s frayed at the hem. Auntie. In the lamplight clutched in her outstretched hand, she looks twenty years older, all wrinkles and sagging skin. She’s wearing a clean cotton housedress and a head rag over her hair. I want to run to her, but my arms feel anchored to the pole. I watch her expression as she searches for me in the darkness. Her eyes adjust and lock onto mine. She shuffles to a stop; her hand flies to her mouth. “Riley?”

My arms aren’t anchored anymore. I throw them around her.

I clutch her bony frame and she strokes my hair, murmuring sweetness like she used to do when I was little. She smells like fresh baking and wood smoke. I don’t want to stop hugging her, but I can’t help but keep one eye on the stairs. My mama. Where is she?

Auntie follows the direction of my eyes and shakes her head. She runs her hand over my hair and tries to get up the courage to tell me. She doesn’t have to. I can see it on her face.

“Where is she?” I ask, my voice trembling.

“They took her this morning.”

Pain slams into my chest. This can’t be happening. She was supposed to be here. Hot angry tears spring to my eyes.

Auntie pulls me to her. Some tears escape down my nose before I wipe them roughly away. Auntie pulls back and traces a tear with her crooked finger.

“If I know your mama, she’ll give ’em a fight. She’ll be right as rain until you can get her.”

I gaze up at Auntie’s face, wanting to believe, but I can see the truth in her face like when I was eight years old. She found me crying that I’d never get married. She held me and said the right man would come along. I shouldn’t worry my pretty head about it. When I looked into her face even then, I could tell she was giving me the words I wanted to hear, not the ones she believes. She’s doing that now.

“What will happen to her?” I ask, afraid for the answer.

She twists her mouth down and shakes her head slightly. Then she takes hold of my shoulders and peers into my face. “You get to her. You do what you have to and get her out. And quick, darlin’. You have about a week before …”

I stiffen. “Before what?”

Auntie shakes her head. “Just get to her. I know you can.”

“How? I don’t even know where she is.” I set my chin on Auntie’s boney shoulder. She snakes her arms around me. She pets her hand over my hair again and again, stroking in time with her words, spurring me on. “That youngin’ up there can sniff out where they tucked her. He’s a good ’un. Useful. Looks like you already got him in your pocket if he’d risk bringing you here.”

“He’s only helping because he feels bad about what happened to Arn. He said he’d help get you out. That’s all.” I hate the childish tone in my voice, but I can’t stop thinking of my mama in the clutches of monsters, their sharp teeth snagging at her flesh. I shake the image away.

Auntie stops and pulls me back. Her hands clamp tight around my arms. “I’d bet a truck bed full a squealing piglets that’s not the case, but no sense in all this talk. You got to go. Sheriff’s due home any minute.” Auntie takes my hand and leads me back to the stairs.

I pull back. “You’re coming with me.”

Auntie squeezes my hand. “Sorry, turnip, the old lady’s staying put. Got too many bunions and my arthritis is flaring up. Road’d just make ’em worse.”

I shake my head. “No, Auntie. You’re coming.”

Auntie grips my arms at the wrists. “Since when do you tell your Auntie what to do? You’d have to drag me kicking and screaming and I don’t think you’ve got the taters to do it.” Her grip softens. She leans forward, a reassuring smile spreading up her face. “Sheriff’s taken a liking to Auntie’s famous bread. He doesn’t mind if I swat at him or call him a dirt pie. I got my own bedroom and three squares and all I got to do is cook and clean up. Not a bad way to spin my last yarn.”

“I can’t just leave you here. He’s a murderer.”

Auntie takes me by the shoulders and gives me a dead-eyed glare. “Listen up, young lady. I’m staying.”

I tuck my chin to my chest and pick at the hem of my jacket. It’s hard to say what I really mean. “But I need you, Auntie.”

She hugs me again. I smell the wood smoke in her silver hair. “You don’t need me, nor nobody. You got Auntie’s spunk. Jesus, you broke into Sheriff’s house for the love of Pete. You can get your mama from those bastards.”

I stare at the concrete floor, but she lifts my chin until I’m looking at her.

“Don’t even think about your old Auntie. I’m not done yet.”

“I’ll get you out as soon as I find Mama. I promise.”

“Alright, punpkinhead. Now, go. Tell Ethan I love him.”

I hug her once more and she kisses my forehead. She leads me to the stairs and I shuffle up the steps and feel my way to the back door. In the small span of darkness, she’s a million miles away. Leaving her feels wrong. I stand in the foyer and look back down.