The Creek (18 page)

Penny looked down, chastened. But when she looked up, Mac was still staring at her.

The next morning, as Penny walked down the street toward the cul-de-sac, a police car drove by, moving slowly down Mockingbird Lane. There had been a lot of this lately, a lot of police cars and policemen wandering about the streets, watching and looking and, Penny rather hoped, protecting.

“Hey, Penny! How ya doing?”

Her head whipped around. It was old Mr. Schuyler. He was sitting on his front porch, wearing a pair of faded overalls and drinking a beer.

“Hi, Mr. Schuyler,” she said, walking up to the porch.

“Sure is hot,” he said. A lopsided little smile wreathed his red face.

“Sure is,” she agreed.

“You want to go to Wallaby Farms tonight?”

“That’d be great,” Penny said with a bright smile, thinking,
Why is this old guy always doing stuff for us? Always organizing softball competitions and taking us for ice cream?
And that look he’d given her a minute ago. It had seemed just a bit, well, weird.

He rocked back in his chair, and Penny noticed a number of empties lined up at his feet. “Come on down after dinner, all right?”

“You bet,” she said. “And I’ll bring the boys.”

“Of course, of course. Bring the boys.” Had his smile slipped for a second?

Penny walked across the cul-de-sac and flopped down on the curb next to Teddy, Mac, Oren, and Zachary. The sun was hot and the air tangy with the scent of fresh-cut grass.

“Where’ve you been?” Oren asked, looking up from his task. He was zapping ants with Mac’s new magnifying glass.

Mac said, “Here, let me do the worm.”

Penny shrugged. “Around.”

Benji was absent. Penny had gone over earlier that day to see if he wanted to play, but he had merely shaken his head when he answered the door, the sound of his mother’s weeping loud in the background.

Penny relaxed back on her elbows, looking over at Mr. Schuyler. “Do you guys think that Mr. Schuyler’s weird? The way he hates the government and the police and all?”

“I hate the police,” Mac muttered.

“What do you mean by ‘weird’?” Oren asked.

“You know, always doing stuff, buying us ice cream,” Penny explained.

“I like ice cream,” Teddy said.

“Me, too,” Zachary said. From his bulging belly, Penny had no doubt that Zachary liked ice cream.

“Yeah, but don’t you think it’s kind of odd that he spends money on us?” she persisted.

“No,” Teddy said quickly, like Penny was going to screw everything up for them.

But Oren saw where she was going. “But they don’t have any kids. That’s why he does it. We’re, like, his … I don’t know, grandkids or something.”

“Don’t question a good thing,” said Mac, who was frying a long, plump worm. It sizzled. “If he wants to spend his money on us, let him.”

“Yeah, let him,” Teddy seconded, waving a crutch in the air.

The next morning, Penny headed over to the Schuylers’. Mr. Schuyler was fast asleep on the front porch, snoring away.

The trip to Wallaby Farms the previous night had not been very much fun. Everyone was still freaked out about Becky, and Mr. and Mrs. Albright wouldn’t let Benji go.

Penny knocked gently on the screen door, and Mrs. Schuyler opened it, all smiles.

“Penny, dear!” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. Mrs. Schuyler was wearing a flower-print dress, the kind grandmothers usually wore, and a nice fragrance rose from her, the smell of flour and melted butter.

“Hi, Mrs. Schuyler.”

The elderly woman took a long look at her dozing husband.

“Why don’t you come in so we don’t wake him up? He needs his beauty sleep,” Mrs. Schuyler said, holding open the door and ushering her into the cool of the house. “I’m afraid you caught me in the middle of baking,” she added.

“That’s okay,” Penny said easily. “What are you making?”

“My famous gingerbread.” Mrs. Schuyler smiled.

“I love your gingerbread,” Penny declared, following her into the kitchen. The kitchen counter was strewn with tin pans and ingredients: flour, sugar, eggs.

“Why don’t you sit there while I finish, and when it’s baking, we can go out back and have some lemonade. How does that sound?” Mrs. Schuyler asked.

It sounded pretty good to Penny, especially the lemonade part. “Okay.”

Penny sat on a high antique stool while Mrs. Schuyler kept up a steady stream of conversation, telling Penny how she had learned this recipe when she was at her mother’s knees; it was her grandmother’s recipe, and the secret ingredient was nutmeg.

“Nutmeg,” Penny said, looking around, seeing with new eyes the kitchen she had been in a million times. It was a very old-fashioned kitchen, with hanging pots and dried herbs suspended from hooks in the ceiling.

“Will you be okay?”

Penny snapped her head back to look at Mrs. Schuyler. The old woman was taking off her apron. “What?”

“I’ve run out of cinnamon. I’m just going to run next door. Will you be okay here on your own?”

Would she be okay? You bet she would. “Sure,” she said.

Mrs. Schuyler smiled. “I won’t be a moment.”

A moment was long enough.

“Okay,” Penny said with a cheery smile as the woman disappeared out the front door.

Penny waited until she heard the door slam and then ran to the den, pausing to glance out the front window to make sure Mr. Schuyler was still asleep. He was.

The den sported a worn-looking Barcalounger and old, dark furniture—big, heavy, masculine pieces. A desk was set against the wall, with a big chair pulled up to it. Probably Mr. Schuyler’s. She quickly rummaged through the drawers, her heart pounding fast. The top drawer contained lots of scraps of paper—ancient receipts from the look of it, all for feed. And a list that said “Hogs Slaughtered,” with the year, weight, and name of each pig neatly written out: Jack Daniel, Old Rye, Brandy, Tom Collins. What was with the weird names? Why would you name a pig Old Rye? Pigs should be named Porky or Curly Tail. She hadn’t even known that Mr. Schuyler had been a pig farmer; she thought he’d grown corn, or hay, or something involving fields and tractors.

Penny rifled through the bottom drawer. It was stuffed with tattered copies of
The Old Farmer’s Almanac.
She paused when she reached the bottom of the stack, her eyes widening. The naked girl on the front of the magazine winked up at Penny. Penny had seen girly magazines before—the boys had kept an ancient one at the fort—but this one was something else. Penny paged through it and then slapped the magazine shut and closed the drawer quickly, looking behind her.
Mr. Schuyler was right on the front porch! What if he came in for a beer and found her snooping through his desk?

In the corner of the room stood a tall, dark oak cabinet with an old-fashioned key in the lock. Penny turned the key and the door popped open. She drew a breath.

Row after row of gleaming guns blinked out at her. Long, black-barreled rifles; shotguns; sleek black handguns; an old ivory-handled pistol; deadly-looking arrows; and a scary-looking bow. There were boxes and boxes of bullets and a pair of binoculars … and thick hunting knives.

“Penny!”

Penny whirled around and shut the door to the cabinet quickly. Mrs. Schuyler was standing there, holding a container of cinnamon, a puzzled look on her kind face. “You weren’t looking in that cabinet, were you?”

“Uh, no,” Penny stammered.

Mrs. Schuyler walked over and locked the cabinet, slipping the key into the pocket of her dress. “I’ve told Al a million times to keep this thing locked,” she said. Then she wagged her fìnger at Penny. “Guns are very
dangerous. Now promise me you’ll stay away from this cabinet.”

“I promise,” Penny replied, appropriately penitent.

“Good.” Mrs. Schuyler smiled warmly. “Now let’s go finish that gingerbread.”

T
he next morning, when Penny went down to the Albrights’ house, the front door was open, and so she walked right in.

Cardboard boxes were stacked all along the entryway. They had been neatly labeled with thick black Magic Marker: “Baby Clothes.” “Wedding Box.” “Winter Sweaters.”

“I’m not letting that criminal drive us out of this house!” Mr. Albright roared, his voice carrying to where Penny was standing. “We are not the Wine-gartens! We are not running away from a kid!”

“Well, I’ve had it! Do you hear me?” Mrs. Albright shouted back, her voice breaking.

Penny was astonished. She had never heard Mrs. Albright yell at Mr. Albright.

There was a long moment of silence, and then the
sound of china shattering rang through the house.

“Now look what you did!” Mrs. Albright cried, sounding close to tears. “That was Becky’s baby cup! It’s ruined.”

“Mom, it’s okay,” Benji’s voice said beseechingly. “Look, I’ll bet I can fix it.”

Penny stepped into the doorway of the kitchen. “Uh, hi.”

Mrs. Albright stood on a high stool before the open cabinet. The top shelf was empty, and the table was stacked with plates wrapped in newspaper. Mr. Albright was glaring at his wife, and Benji was frozen, crouching next to the shattered cup on the floor.

“What’s going on?” Penny asked.

Mr. Albright looked hard at his wife. She put her face in her hands and started sobbing softly.

“We’re moving,” Benji said in a dull voice.

“Moving?” Penny asked in a hollow voice.
Moving?

“We are not moving! Why should we run and hide when that monster’s the one who did this!” Mr. Albright shouted, his face reddening, pointing furiously in the direction of the Devlins’ house. Penny could smell the beer on his breath from where she stood.

“Because I can’t take it anymore!” Mrs. Albright wailed, and threw down the mug she was holding, smashing it on the floor. Penny knew that mug. She remembered drinking hot chocolate with marsh-mallows from it.

Mr. Albright turned and stalked out of the kitchen, slamming the front door so hard it shook the house.

Mrs. Albright visibly tried to get herself under control. “Don’t mind him, Penny.” A shuttered look came over Mrs. Albright’s face, and she said, in a deliberately bright voice, “I think we need a change of scenery. I’d like to be closer to my parents. They live in New Jersey. We’ll only be a few hours away. And you can visit us anytime you want.”

Penny looked at Benji, met his stricken eyes, and said, “Great.”

Penny wandered home and went up to her bedroom.

She felt sick to her stomach. Things were never going to be the same. Not now. Not with Benji leaving. She kept playing the words over and over in her mind. Benji was moving.

She lay on the bed, staring up at the canopy, and felt
a wave of exhaustion swamp her. She hadn’t been sleeping much lately. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she felt herself drift off. And then someone was shaking her shoulder softly. She rolled away from the hand, but it kept shaking her insistently. She peeped out through narrowed lids. And then her eyes widened in horror.

Becky stood by the side of the bed, wearing the white cotton eyelet dress, her face a waxy mask, blood dripping down her neck and pooling on the pink carpet.

“Penny, why are you being so mean to me?”
Becky whispered, reaching out a hand to her.

Penny flinched, screaming, and then someone was shaking her hard and she blinked to see her mom standing over her.

“Penny! It’s just me. Mom!”

Penny stared wordlessly at her mother.

“Are you okay, sweetie? Were you having a nightmare?”

Penny nodded mutely, and her mother smoothed back her sweat-matted hair.

“Why don’t you go splash some water on your face and then come downstairs. I have to go to the
grocery store, and I need someone to help me with all the bags and the baby.”

“Sure,” Penny said shakily.

Penny shepherded Baby Sam around the store while her mother took the cart and shopped. The baby was being good, just looking around at all the shapes and bright colors and listening to the sounds. He reached for a can of tomato paste, and Penny gave it to him. He clutched it in his grubby, fat hands, gurgled happily, and immediately started to gnaw on it. Penny pushed his stroller along, pausing in front of the comic-book rack. She was flipping through a comic book when she saw them.

Mr. and Mrs. Devlin.

The Devlins were older parents, in their late fifties. Mrs. Devlin sat slumped in a wheelchair, wearing a faded housedress. She had lost so much weight, it looked like she could blow away. Her skin was paper-thin, stretched taut over her bones. Mr. Devlin was tall and heavyset, with a resigned sadness etched around his eyes, as if all the blows life had dealt him had finally taken their toll.

Penny craned her head to look at their purchases.
They were buying bananas, crackers, and ginger ale. Sick food.

They didn’t even know that their son was lying dead in the creek.

Bile rose in the back of Penny’s throat, and the image of Caleb’s dead body flashed before her eyes.

Mr. Devlin saw Penny staring at him, pale and wide-eyed, and gave her a tired smile.

“Honey, will you go out to the shed and see if there is any charcoal?” Penny’s mother asked when they had returned home. “I forgot to buy some, and I don’t want to have to go out again. It’s almost six thirty and I haven’t even started dinner.”

The shed was in the back corner of the yard, bordering the woods, and it was where her father kept the lawnmower, sleds, and other junk. Sure enough, Penny found half a bag of briquettes at the back, near a pile of mouse droppings. She was closing the door to the shed when she heard the yipping.

Standing at the edge of the dark woods was Buster, caked from head to toe in mud.

“Hey there, Buster,” Penny said. He jumped up, his feet scrambling at her legs. She bent down and he
licked her face, as if grateful to finally be back in civilization after what had clearly been an adventure. He yipped at her and wiggled his tail.

“Boy, are you in big trouble,” Penny said, shaking her head. She grabbed the dog and carried him around the side of the house and across the street to the Bukvics’. She hesitated a moment before knocking, just listening.