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The truck was still in place, but a moment later she saw someone step down from the porch and walk toward the truck. It was definitely a man—she could tell by the way he moved; he was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and work boots along with a baseball hat. He was also alone. She was certain he would suddenly stop and turn in her direction, but instead, he simply pulled open the door and climbed into the truck. Soon she heard the engine start, and then the truck was backing out. When it reached the gravel road, it headed in the direction opposite the town, toward God knew where.
She waited, then waited some more. But other than the sound of birdsong, there was nothing. In time, she crept toward the house. She wanted to make sure that no one was still inside, that it wasn’t a trap. She stepped up onto the porch and saw dusty footprints leading to the door, imprinted on the mat, and then heading back toward the porch steps.
When she opened the door, no footprints were visible; there were none on the linoleum floor in the kitchen or on the stairs, either. Upstairs, she saw Go, Dog. Go! and Iron Man on the stand next to Tommie’s bed. In the bathroom, her clothes hung from the shower-curtain rod, and her wig was near the sink, just where she’d left it. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed.
Still, she remained shaky as she hurried back to the creek. Tommie continued to kick through the grass and the dirt before noticing that she’d approached.
“Did you find it?” he asked.
“No. I guess it’s just lost.”
He nodded before picking up the jar. “How long can I keep them?” he asked.
The sound of his voice was soothing, even if she still felt far from normal.
“We’ll bring them back after dinner, okay?”
Back at the house, she opened Tommie’s backpack and studied the drawing that he’d made, hoping it would stop her from thinking about the truck and the man who’d shown up out of the blue. When she saw the image of their old house, with its flat roof and large windows, she felt sad but smiled anyway.
“This is great. You’re quite the artist.”
“Can I watch cartoons?”
“For a little while. While I make dinner, all right? Do you want me to bring your tadpoles to sit with you?”
“Uh-huh,” he mumbled as they went to the living room. She turned on the television; luckily, cartoons were on.
“Don’t sit too close to the screen. It’s not good for your eyes.”
He nodded, lost in the show in just a few seconds.
She put the jar on the coffee table and retreated to the kitchen. She realized that she’d forgotten to defrost the chicken—or was it supposed to be hamburger tonight? Because she kept picturing the man with the truck, it was all but impossible to remember.
“Is it chicken or hamburger tonight?” she called out.
“Hamburger,” Tommie called back.
Oh, that’s right, she thought. They’d had chicken the night before, with beans and carrots, and she’d nibbled on the carrots that Tommie hadn’t finished….
From the freezer, she pulled out two servings of hamburger, hesitated, then put one of them back. With her stomach clenched like a fist, there was no way she’d be able to eat a full meal. Nor, she realized, was she even hungry.
She found a ziplock bag, slid in the serving of hamburger, then placed it in warm water to thaw. She sliced carrots and cut a few florets from a stalk of the cauliflower. All went onto the baking sheet. She turned on the oven, knowing it would take a few minutes to reach the desired temperature, and saw that her hands were trembling.
She couldn’t stop looking out the window to scan the gravel road out front. Were they safe here? And if they weren’t, where could they go? She didn’t have enough money for another escape, for bus tickets and rent and food, and as she put the baking sheet in the oven, she wondered how much time she had if Gary really had sent the man with the pickup truck.
Minutes? Hours?
Or was she allowing her thoughts to run away from her again, just as she’d done with Peg?
She went to the front door and, after opening it, stared again at the dusty footprints on the mat and on the steps. This wasn’t like Tommie and his dream that someone was on the roof, not in the slightest. And it wasn’t like Peg, who’d said something she probably said to every single stranger who showed up at the store.
This was real, no doubt about it.
From the living room, she could hear the cartoons; every now and then, Tommie laughed. She cooked the hamburger in a frying pan, conscious of the knot in her stomach. When the vegetables were soft, just the way Tommie liked them, she put most of the food onto Tommie’s plate and called him to the table. They ate their meal largely in silence, Beverly picking listlessly at some of the cauliflower. She felt jumpy, poised for sirens and flashing lights and a sudden angry pounding on the door.
But no one came.
As she put the dishes in the sink, she reflected that if Gary had sent the man, he wouldn’t waste any time coming for them. He wouldn’t risk the chance that she’d run again; he wouldn’t risk losing Tommie. Last year, after he’d punched her, he warned her that if she ever tried to leave or take Tommie from him, he would track them to the ends of the earth and, after he found them, she would never see Tommie again.
