Page 134 of The Reformatory

Robert wiped runny snot from his nose on the back of his hand, and some of the petroleum jelly smeared on his lips with the taste of medicine. Would it sting if it got in his eyes? Or blind him? What if he got as far as the woods and couldn’t see? The escape plan felt hopeless in a hundred ways. Robert’s stomach cinched tight. If Warden Haddock found him with his photographs and haint jar, he would kill him. It seemed obvious now, but Robert wondered how he had forgotten that part while he was sliding back out of Haddock’s window, almost grinning. Even if he didn’t run away, what would he do if he went back? Could he hide the jar and photos somewhere? Robert wondered if it would be worse to run and be chased by dogs or to stay and be afraid he’d be discovered. Could he put the stolen items back in the drawer? Was there still time?

A crow cawed near him. When Robert looked up, the crow was only Blue, leaning on a wobbly fence post. Blue was wearing a cap and striped tie that looked out of date, maybe the way he had dressed in life. The fence post he was leaning against was the only one that wasn’t standing completely upright, like a loose tooth. Robert should have known to look there first; the weeds were thick around Blue’s feet, to his knees.

He meant to say thank you but instead he said, “I would’ve found it. I just didn’t want anybody to see me.” He was so relieved that his heart was racing.

Blue shrugged.

“Did anybody get hurt in the fire?” Robert said.

“Hurry up and get through the hole or you’re wasting the whole point of the fire.”

But Robert had to know. “Tell me.”

“Not because of me,” Blue said. “Someone got stupid and ran at it with a towel and he ran too close. He’s all right, though. His hand’s sore, but it’ll heal. He jumped back fast.”

Robert imagined a boy engulfed in flames, screaming like the boys who had died with Blue. He would hate himself if he made someone hurt like that or if someone died for him. “You swear on your mother?” Robert said.

Blue frowned but he nodded. “Yes. On my mother. You have the jar?”

Robert tapped the satchel he was carrying.

Blue grinned. “Told you it would work. And you were so scared.”

“I’m still scared,” Robert confessed.

He expected an insult, but Blue’s face softened. “We’ll make it—promise. Like I said, you’re my best friend now. I wouldn’t let my best friend get caught.”

“But”—Robert hated to say it—“you couldn’t help Redbone. He was your best friend before me.”

Robert waited, hoping Blue would point out a dozen ways he was a different case, but Blue never answered. So Blue couldn’t promise safety, only his help. Maybe that was enough.

“Will I still be able to see you in the cornfield?” Robert said.

“It’s hard to show all the time, but I’ll come when I can.”

“And in the woods after that? At the creek?”

“Yes,” Blue said. “All the way to the railroad trestle. I’ll be watching even if you don’t see me. And when I want to call you…” He croaked like a crow again, his eyes turning black like a bird’s before he blinked and they looked like normal eyes again.

“How will I tell you from the real crows?”

Blue laughed. “Real crows get scared! Crows love pecking at dead things, but they sure don’t love spirits. If you hear a crow near you, you’ll know it’s me.”

Uncle June had cut the cornfield fence links in a neat, regimented line, the loose flap hanging by a nail on the fence post so no one could see it sagging. When Robert unhooked it and pushed the broken fencing down flat in the weeds, he had more space to crawl through than Warden Haddock’s window, although his face itched from the ground. Once he had gotten through to the other side, he propped the fencing up, trying to make it look as natural as Uncle June had. He could tell it was sagging, but it wasn’t obvious. If no one knew which way he’d run, they were most likely to think he had headed toward the farm road beyond the Negro side of the campus. Maybe they would send the dogs the wrong way.

Just like that, Robert was in the cornfield. He would have loved the cover from fuller fall corn, but even the summer corn rows were tall enough for him to crouch down unseen as he walked parallel to the fence’s straight path toward the woods, which still weren’t in sight in the massive field. He occasionally found broken or abandoned farming tools in his path, but none of the work crews or supervisors were in the cornfield so late in the day, so close to supper. Robert tried to stay clear of the fence in case any groundskeepers were working on the other side, but as he ran he saw glimpses of the Reformatory campus through the fence: an old water pump, a storage lot full of large crates, a parking lot with two more old white trucks.

But he was alone in the cornfield—truly alone. No sign of Blue now, but he trusted Blue’s promise that he was with him even when Robert couldn’t see him. He didn’t run fast enough to wear himself out or to trip over his feet in the boots from Papa, but he ran at a steady pace between the cleared rows of corn stalks, weeds, and leaves lashing at his arms. The satchel on his back was uncomfortable as it bumped harder and harder against him the faster he went, but Robert Stephens breathed through his tightly gritted teeth and ran for his life.

37

5:10 p.m.

Thick black smoke billowed from the kitchen’s side door like a rearing dragon’s head. A scream from inside was a thirty-year-old echo in Fenton Haddock’s ears. He was no stranger to screams, to be sure, but a scream from burning sounded like no other. Haddock had not stood this close to any burning except a bonfire since That Night thirty years earlier, when he had sworn off both liquor and flames, and time both peeled away and slowed, making each footstep interminable as he walked through the wall of smoke to behold the fire’s work.

Smoke battered his eyes, but he blinked to see tendrils of flames scrabbling like fingers to reach toward the outer kitchen from the fire’s nest on the stovetops that were now hidden behind mist. Instead of the pounding fists from behind the burning shed door (Let us ouuut!), footfalls surrounded him as kitchen workers and boys scattered and groundskeepers ran inside to help douse the flames. Crutcher led a screaming boy through the doorway. A towel the boy had been clutching was left smoking on the floor. The boy’s face was bright with terror and agony.

Haddock wished he had brought his camera. The fire was glorious. And terrible. But glorious. Haddock’s mind felt cleaved in half: one part excited, the other mortified. The hungry flames were a delight, but, dear Lord, if the fire spread and burned down the whole kitchen, or the cafeteria—