CHAPTER 34
Dad was gone when I came downstairs the next morning, and for once, I was okay with that. I needed a plan. I couldn’t simply hand him the Polaroids. In fact, I woke up regretting that I’d swiped them at all. It would have been better to somehow have the police—the ones who weren’t friends with Nillson—discover the photos on their own, maybe after they received an anonymous tip. Maybe even Gulliver Ryan could have been alerted, an out-of-towner who Sheriff Nillson distrusted. Discovered that way, the pictures could be used as evidence. Otherwise, Nillson would simply deny they’d been in his house, ever, that it was coincidence the carpeting resembled his.
As of now, my best bet seemed to be to return the manila envelope to the box I’d found it in, then call in the tip from a pay phone. I hyperventilated at the thought of sneaking back into Sheriff Nillson’s basement, though. My fear left me paralyzed, waiting for a better idea to show itself. It’d been so long since I had a good night’s sleep that my brain felt sludgy.
I found myself thinking of trick soap. I’d gotten it as a gag gift from Anton during sixth-grade Secret Santa. It looked like regular soap, smelled like detergent, but when you used it, it turned your hands black. That’s how I felt, like the more I scrubbed at the surface of things, the dirtier I became.
I decided to tuck the photos away beneath my mattress for now. They could hide alongside my diary and Maureen’s. I was suddenly overcome with a desperation for my drums, a hunger for the order, the solid core I felt when I sat behind my kit. This was the longest I’d gone without playing them since I started. I’d visit Mrs. Hansen, see how she was doing, and if it seemed okay, I’d ask her if I could hang out in the garage. She’d already said I could, but I was afraid my drumming would remind her of Maureen.
I checked on Mom, who was sleeping. Junie had left a note saying she was spending the day at her friend Libby’s. I called Libby’s mom to make sure that was all right.
“It’s fine,” Mrs. Fisher said. “Matter of fact, I was about to call to see if you minded if she stayed overnight. We want to go to the drive-in tonight. Libby begged to bring Junie along, and you know how late that can run.”
“That would be great,” I said. One less person to worry about. “I’ll send along some money with her next time she’s over to pay you back.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “It’ll come out in the wash.”
I hung up and made myself breakfast. I usually ate toast, but last night’s mission had taken it out of me. I set a cast-iron skillet over the largest burner and cranked it to high. When the air above went hazy, I dropped in a healthy chunk of butter. While it sizzled, I cut a circle out of the center of two slices of white bread, using one of the rounds to push the melting butter around the pan. Then I added the bread, listening to it soak up the butter, and cracked an egg into each hole. The trick to a perfect toad in the hole is to not let the egg whites soak too deep into the bread because then it gets soggy. You want the yolk to just set where it touches the pan before you flip it. Give it another minute or so on the other side, and voilà, the perfect breakfast. Junie would always beg my holes off me because they were the best for sopping up the yolk. It was a treat to get both.
I ate the meal standing at the counter and washed it down with a glass of milk. I wondered if Mrs. Hansen had been eating. I needed to bring her some food. That’s what the neighborhood did when Agatha Johnson up the street lost her husband to a heart attack. The hotdishes just kept coming.
I rummaged through our cupboards, pushed aside cans of green beans and peas, until I located a red-and-white can of Campbell’s condensed Chicken and Stars soup. I’d heat it up, pour it into Dad’s thermos, and bring it over along with a couple bologna sandwiches. It wasn’t a hotdish, but I didn’t want to take the time to make one, and besides, the day was already sticky.
I took a cool shower while the soup simmered, then pulled on a yellow terry-cloth romper. A day as hot as this, I wished I could put my hair in short ponytails, but I might as well scratch a treasure map X over my nub if I wanted to draw attention to it. I settled for a large barrette at the nape of my neck that at least lifted the hair a bit. I peeked in at Mom again. She’d gotten up to smoke a cigarette by the smell of it but was now still. I packaged Mrs. Hansen’s food in a paper sack, tossed in a red apple, slid on my Dr. Scholl’s, and took off.
My neck tingled as I walked, buzzed like someone was watching me, but when I turned, no one was there. I wrote it off as a reaction to the blistering sun until I crossed the street just as a blue Chevelle steered onto our block, pulling up alongside me.