Savvy (19 page)

I’M IN
THE
WALL
.

I’M IN
THE
WALL—I’M IN
THE
WALL
.

I’M IN
THE
WALL—I’M IN
THE
WALL—I’M IN
THE
WALL—I’M IN
THE
WALL
. I’M IN
THE
WALL—I’M IN
THE
WALL—I’M IN

THE
WALL—I’M IN
THE
WALL
.

I’M IN
THE
WALL—I’M IN
THE
WALL
.

… IN
THE
WALL
.

I held up my hand as though trying to silence some of the voices, knowing that the others, including Carlene, were all watching me with keen interest.

“It’s Samson,” I said. “I can hear him. He says he’s in the
wall
. What does that
mean?
” Everyone looked from me to Carlene, shocked and bewildered.

Fish roared at Carlene, sending her bushy mane of blond hair flying straight back and making her squint against his squall. “Tell us where he is!”

I didn’t wait to see if Carlene answered. Dropping my pen and Carlene’s ugly foot, I jumped up and shot out of the bedroom, following the volume of Samson’s voice like a children’s game of hot and cold, until I was standing again in front of the table that Samson had tried to climb under earlier. That was where his voice was loudest, but I had checked there already …

I’M IN
THE
WALL
.

I’M IN
THE
WALL—I’M IN
THE
WALL
.

I’M IN
THE
WALL—I’M IN
THE
WALL—I’M IN
THE
WALL—I’M IN
THE
WALL
. I’M IN
THE
WALL—I’M IN
THE
WALL—I’M IN

THE
WALL—I’M IN
THE
WALL
.

I’M IN
THE
WALL—I’M IN
THE
WALL
.

… IN
THE
WALL
.

I looked at the paneled wall of the bar directly behind the table and noticed now that the panels were uneven, overlapping one another like the sliding doors of a small closet. I hadn’t realized that those panels could open.

The others had followed me into the living room and watched now as I knelt on the floor by the paneled bar, banging on the boards and shouting to Samson as I tried to figure out how to slide them open. It only took me a second to find the latch and slide the first panel aside.

“He’s here!” I cried out. “He’s in here!”

There Samson sat, curled up—knees to chest—in the middle of an assortment of junk and debris. Old files and dusty shoe boxes were stacked around him inside the hidden storage space, along with bags of old clothes and a couple of broken-handled pots and pans.

Samson blinked at us from his hidey-hole lockup as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. He was clutching a black plastic ballpoint pen that he must have found inside the storage area, and was using it to draw all over himself. Squiggles and doodles wiggled and jiggled up and down his arms, happy faces and stars, rocket ships, robots and bugs all decorated his skin, shifting and moving and prattling-tattling in that jumbled, jangling chorus inside my head.

I pulled Samson from out of the wall and hugged him to me tightly, trying to listen to his thoughts. Allowed for once into my brother’s inner world, I wished he hadn’t drawn on himself quite so much—I couldn’t make sense of all the noise. But I was so glad to see him, I could think of little else. Samson’s mishmash medley inside my head was like beautiful music.

As soon as we’d found Samson, everyone converged on us at once—

Lester and Lill appeared around the corner from the kitchen, looking relieved—

Carlene came out of the bedroom hoisting a broom that she pointed our way, as though she planned on sweeping us all out of her home, or maybe on jumping aboard and flying off into the storm—

And on top of the rest, the police chose that moment to kick down the door.

T
he next hour was sheer chaos. Additional police cars arrived on the scene just moments after the first drenched and dripping officers smashed into Carlene’s trailer. Investigators poured through the house, as well as through the Heartland Bible Supply bus. As the rain stopped and the skies cleared, nosy neighbors, all home and glad for some real-life entertainment in the midst of their quiet Sunday afternoon, spilled into the street to watch the storm blow over and the drama unfold. Someone took away Carlene’s broom, and all three adults—Lester, Lill, and Carlene—were taken outside to talk to the officers. A child welfare caseworker, a middle-aged woman wearing gray slacks and flat shoes, stood over us kids protectively. People kept talking all around, but the voices were all outside of my head, so I could tune them out; I could turn them off and just concentrate on Samson.

Bobbi, Will, and Fish were all seated next to one another on Carlene’s sofa. Bobbi slouched back against the cushions doing her best impression of a bored teenager, popping and snapping a new length of chewing gum, obviously annoying the caseworker, while Will watched the comings and goings of all of the officers intently. Fish looked pale; his storm had settled down as soon as we’d found Samson, but trying to scumble it had left him weary and worn out.

Samson and I sat on the floor in front of the others, leaning against the front of the sofa. Samson’s ink-covered hand rested in mine; he was still clinging tightly to his ballpoint pen. Every now and then I’d catch a word or phrase amidst the jumble of his thoughts, but as nonsensical and sweet-toned as it all was, his voices soon settled into a soothing kind of background melody.

Soon, paramedics joined the crowd, offering us blankets and water and checking each of us over; asking a lot of questions and photographing Will’s black eye and Fish’s scratched face.

We tried to explain again and again what had happened as people jotted notes into notepads. I tried to tell the officers and the caseworker and the paramedics that it was all my fault that we’d run away. I tried to tell them how terribly important it was that we get to Poppa—get to Poppa soon! All those precious minutes ticking by were minutes with him we were wasting.

“I’m responsible!” I repeated in exasperation. “It was
my
idea to go down to Salina. My idea to sneak onto the bus. It was even my idea to trick Lill into thinking we’d called home,” I said. The adults listened in their adult way and nodded and uh-huh-ed and a-ha-ed. But I never really felt convinced that any of them believed me … and I hadn’t even mentioned my savvy.

I was afraid that things were going downhill fast for Lester and Lill, and I felt sick to my stomach with worry for them and ashamed about our lies and deception. I hadn’t done a very good job of taking care of them.

The future didn’t look too bright for Carlene either—what with her locking Samson into her storage space and all. But I didn’t trouble myself as much with her. She was just a nasty, rotten apple.

“Do you know anything about our poppa?” I asked the caseworker in the gray slacks, hoping that she might know something. “Will we get to see him soon?” But the woman just offered us a sorry, practiced smile and shook her head. No matter what or who I asked, all I ever heard was “We don’t know yet” or “That’s being sorted out” or worse, “Please just sit quietly and let the officers do their job.”

The hubble-bubble was far from over. Kansas state troopers had begun to arrive, adding two additional vehicles to the already jammed-up and puddled street outside. From where I sat, I could see them through the busted-down door. I was beginning to think that we were
never
going to make it to Salina. It looked more and more like arrangements were being made for Pastor Meeks and Miss Rosemary to come and pick us all up in Manhattan to take us back with them to Hebron. I couldn’t let that happen. We’d come too far to go home now.

One of the troopers got out of his shiny silver car in a hurry not even bothering to put on his funny dented hat. He raced up the short walk toward the trailer. His dark hair was clipped shipshape short and his young face was pulled tight with misgiving. The officer looked familiar, and I recognized him as just an older, more shaved-and-muscled version of Will Junior. This man must be Will and Bobbi’s brother, Bill.

I’ve never seen such a look of relief on anyone as I saw then, when Bill found us all sitting in the living room safe and sound.

“Bill!” shouted Bobbi, jumping up with Will as soon as they saw the man coming. Bobbi rushed forward to wrap her arms around her older brother’s chest. Will stood back a bit self-consciously.

“You okay, Roberta?” asked Bill.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she answered, letting go and stepping back.

As soon as Bill released Bobbi, he grabbed Will to him in a big bear hug and looked as though he wasn’t ever planning on letting go. He held on and on.

“What were you thinking, kid?” I heard Bill whisper affectionately. “Were you looking for trouble like your old man used to get into? Don’t try to be like me, Will. You’re too smart for that.”

It took me a moment to adjust my understanding of things. It appeared that I might have been wrong as wrong in believing that Will Junior was Bobbi’s brother.

Will had a secret. Now I knew his secret.

It occurred to me that Bill must have been mighty young when Will was born. I could just picture Miss Rosemary, with her need to make all things spick-and-span and apple-pie, taking over the raising of her own grandson. At least it finally made Will
Junior
make some sense.

When Bill finally let go of his son, the man was wiping tears from his eyes, struggling to regain his state trooper composure, and I saw my chance to finally tell my story to someone who might listen.

“Officer Meeks? … Uh, Mr. … Bill … sir?” I had no idea of the right thing to call this man, but as he turned his attention to me, I struggled on, knowing that I had to stand up tall for Lill and Lester, stand up tall and pull them out of the stew I’d put them in. “Sir, you’ve just got to believe me—this is all my fault! I just wanted to see my poppa!” And with that, I burst into tears.

O
nce I’d begun to cry, sitting on the floor of that dim living room, still sixty miles from Salina Hope Hospital and Poppa and Momma and Rocket, I couldn’t stop. It wasn’t pretty, delicate crying either. It was full-on, snot-dripping, chest-wheezing, jibber-jabber wailing. Will stepped away from his daddy to kneel down and take my hand in his. Samson leaned up against me. The child welfare caseworker walked over to the bathroom and retrieved a box of tissues, but every one I pulled from the box smelled of mothballs and Carlene, which made me cry all the harder.

“You must be Mississippi Beaumont,” said Bill gently.

“She likes to be called ‘Mibs,’ Dad,” Will asserted, coming to my rescue.

Bill pulled a chair over by me and sat on its edge. “Is that right, Mibs?” he asked.

I gave a big sobbing nod, trying to calm myself down so as not to give the very worst possible first impression. I noticed Bill looking at Will’s hand on mine, and for a minute Officer Meeks looked done-in and young as young.

“You’ve been through a lot these last few days,” Bill said gently making me want to bawl even more. “I know your dad’s over there in the hospital in Salina, and I know you probably just wanted to go find him, right?”

Another big sobbing nod.

“Then maybe we should go do just that.”

Everyone looked up at Bill Meeks as though wondering if they’d heard him right. Even the caseworker looked startled.

“Officer, you can’t—” the caseworker started saying, but stopped as Bill looked up at her firmly.

Bill asked the caseworker to give us a little room to talk. He wanted to hear our whole story from top to bottom firsthand. We all joined in on the telling as the caseworker took a seat along the wall. Bill listened keenly and without interrupting, occasionally running his hand across his razor-short hair.

When we’d finished our tale, Bill sat there for a time without saying anything.

“Is our poppa okay?” a small voice fell like a pebble into the stillness, rippling the tension in the air like deep water. With Samson’s hodgepodge of thoughts already streaming incoherently through my brain, it took me a moment to realize that he had spoken aloud. I tried to swallow, but found my throat was too rough and too tight as I waited for the man’s answer.

Officer Meeks shook his head. “I haven’t heard anything recent about your dad, but I’ll see what I can find out. I need to talk to some people here and figure out what’s going to happen next. You kids wait here. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He stepped away to converse with the officers outside. As I watched him go, I couldn’t help but wonder if Bill’s hair grew out curly like his son’s, and the last of my tears dripped off my chin, leaving me red-eyed and headachy. I could see Bill talking to Lester, talking to Lill, and then talking to Carlene. I could hear a clock tock-ticking slowly somewhere in the kitchen, like its battery was running low or like it too was holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen.

After finishing with Carlene, then speaking with several other officers, Bill spent a long, long time on a cell phone before coming back into the trailer with a stiff-necked, hard-shell look about him. He didn’t sit back down in the chair, but stood over us instead, looking lawful and steady in his crisp uniform, with his badge and his gun and his trooper face on. He spoke first to me and Fish and Samson, his words sounding practiced and formal, yet his tone was round-cornered and kind.

“I’m very sorry to tell you that your father’s condition hasn’t improved. He’s—well, he needs his family around him now. It’s important that we get you down to Salina soon.”