Sneaking Away
I’m a bushel of jitters, shut up in this hotel room with Grandpa’s pelt money. So much money! I count it four times—and get four different amounts. If Mama knew that, I’d be practicing sums until Christmas. I bury it deep inside the suitcase.
Sleep isn’t possible. I don’t even undress. I lie atop the bedspread. And I listen.
I’m accustomed to night sounds back home. The deep-bass barrump of frogs makes music with whippoorwills, crickets, and owls. A fox might howl to his vixen, and other critters stop to listen before they all blend together again, comfortable-like.
When I was at our tent, the town seemed quiet, but in the hotel with other buildings leaning close, sounds come from inside the hotel and out. Coughs, snores, laughs, voices. Pans clatter, chairs scrape, door hinges squeak, someone sings off-key. Reminders that folks I don’t know are closer than ones I do.
Disturbing sounds interrupt. Stairs creak, and footsteps walk past my door. I jump up and hold my breath. The footsteps continue down the hall, and I hear the solid sound of a door closing. I breathe again, but not with ease.
Are Grandpa and the boys asleep in the tent? Is General keeping watch? Where is Rawley, the boy who spied on us? And what made Grandpa whittle a door wedge long before the need arose?
The moon makes a path of light across the dark floor. I sit on my suitcase smack-dab in front of the window—watching.
My second-floor room overlooks the street, where squares of light tell of folks awake downstairs. Lighted windows are everywhere. I lean my forehead against the pane and watch them go out one by one. I make a game of guessing which will be next.
I don’t plan to sleep, but a noise startles me awake. I jump up, every speck of me alert. I rub my forehead where it leaned too long on the window. The squares of light are gone from the street, and darkness in my room presses close.
A knock on my door makes me jump. My hand reaches in my pocket for my jackknife, the only time I’ve done that without mumblety-peg on my mind.
“It’s me, Ginnie Lee,” Grandpa’s voice whispers.
I rock the oak wedge back and forth to loosen it. I tug it free and crack open the door.
Grandpa carries his squirrel rifle. I want to throw myself in his arms and feel safe, but the look on his face keeps me scared.
“We’s goin’.” He picks up my suitcase. “Ya got the money?”
“No, you do.” I nod toward the suitcase.
“T’ain’t safe fer us here no more,” he says.
I haven’t felt truly safe since he sold the pelts, but his words make my fear more real. An army marches in my chest as we creep downstairs. The creaky steps seem to shout, “They’re leaving! They’re leaving!”
General and the boys wait in the alley with Stonewall.
Shadows watch as moonlight follows us out of town. Darkness makes walking difficult as we head up the slope we came down earlier. Pebbles slide under my feet and roll down the hill, breaking the quiet like thunder.
Johnny trips in a hole and lets out a yelp. He’s not hurt and we keep on. Stonewall brays a complaint, and Grandpa speaks softly to him. I remind myself to breathe.
I want to ask why we sneaked out in the dead of night. But talking doesn’t seem safe, on account of all that money and the boy whose daddy owns the store. Yet, voices in my head won’t keep still, and fear breathes chills down my back.
