me for picking flowers that didn’t belong to me.
I threw the flowers down and took off as fast as my legs would carry me, directly through the mustard, toward the trestle. If I had thought, I would have run across the gulch and up the other side. It wasn’t necessary to take the trestle. But I wasn’t thinking. I fled as I had come, across the railroad bridge.
Back by the onion flowers a voice squawked and screamed. Was this the bogeyman Grandpa Erhardt had told me about? The one who waited at the top of the stairs? The one Mama had assured me was only a joke? This bogeyman had waited at the top of the embankment, among the trees.
Running on the rough ties was awkward. I stumbled, caught myself, and stumbled again. If I fell over the edge, I would break my neck, and the bogeyman would get me for sure, down there in the wash. I didn’t know what a bogeyman did when he caught you.
A sharp pain pierced my right side, below the ribs. I pressed my fist against it. Behind me now, heavy shoes thudded on the bridge. The voice howled unintelligible words.
Even if I made it across the trestle, it was a long way back to town. The water tower and the grain elevators looked like gray giants lined up on the horizon, distant friends I would never reach.
If I gained the far side of the bridge, should I dash into the brush? Could I hide there? The heavy shoes were close. They would catch me before I could escape. Only a few feet now. His grunting breath touched my hair.
“Oh, My God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell, but most of all…”
Fingers brushed my dress. Propelled by horror, I flew through the air, landing hard on cinders and gravel and solid earth, twisting and kicking, rolling through the grass and screaming, “… because they offend Thee, My Lord, Who art all good and deserving of all my love …”
There was nowhere to go. I curled into a ball, wrapped my arms around my head, closed my eyes, and sobbed, “I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace—” Nothing happened. I stoppedpraying. There was absolute stillness except for the sound of my thick breathing. Turning my head slightly, I opened one eye.
Sitting on the grass beside the rail bed, wildflowers cradled in one arm, was Hilly Stillman.
6
I SAT UP. “WHAT are you doing out here?”
Hilly held up the yellow and white flowers. Tears stood in his eyes, and his nose was running. He misunderstood my question, and I didn’t ask him again.
Getting to my feet, I surveyed the damage. Both my knees were scraped and dirty, likewise one of my elbows. There were long scratches on my thighs where I’d dived into the cinders and gravel, and my chin was hot and tender.
In the west, the sun was lying flat on the tracks. A pinkish yellow shaft of it lit Hilly, washing his profile and his white shirt in a dramatic glow. His unhappiness began to smooth away. In repose, Hilly’s face retained the curved, unformed look of an eighteen-year-old boy’s. The skin was still soft despite years in the sun and cold of Main Street. If Hilly got his sanity back, would his face become old? He held the flowers out to me. They felt cool in my hands.
“Pretty,” Hilly said.
I nodded. “I have to get home,” I told him. “It’s late. Mama’s going to be mad.”
We walked along the verge of the rail bed, saying little. You didn’t have to talk a lot to Hilly. Sometimes words confused him, as when Mama had told him he could buy ice cream with his earnings. But he liked to listen to others talk. Mama said Hilly listened to other people’s conversations with sweet rapture, as though he were at a concert. This made some people nervous, but not Mama. When Hilly was around, she talked to me about anything that came into her head because it entertained him.
When he was excited, Hilly lost what little control of his words he had. No one wanted to sit by him at a softball game
I threw the flowers down and took off as fast as my legs would carry me, directly through the mustard, toward the trestle. If I had thought, I would have run across the gulch and up the other side. It wasn’t necessary to take the trestle. But I wasn’t thinking. I fled as I had come, across the railroad bridge.
Back by the onion flowers a voice squawked and screamed. Was this the bogeyman Grandpa Erhardt had told me about? The one who waited at the top of the stairs? The one Mama had assured me was only a joke? This bogeyman had waited at the top of the embankment, among the trees.
Running on the rough ties was awkward. I stumbled, caught myself, and stumbled again. If I fell over the edge, I would break my neck, and the bogeyman would get me for sure, down there in the wash. I didn’t know what a bogeyman did when he caught you.
A sharp pain pierced my right side, below the ribs. I pressed my fist against it. Behind me now, heavy shoes thudded on the bridge. The voice howled unintelligible words.
Even if I made it across the trestle, it was a long way back to town. The water tower and the grain elevators looked like gray giants lined up on the horizon, distant friends I would never reach.
If I gained the far side of the bridge, should I dash into the brush? Could I hide there? The heavy shoes were close. They would catch me before I could escape. Only a few feet now. His grunting breath touched my hair.
“Oh, My God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell, but most of all…”
Fingers brushed my dress. Propelled by horror, I flew through the air, landing hard on cinders and gravel and solid earth, twisting and kicking, rolling through the grass and screaming, “… because they offend Thee, My Lord, Who art all good and deserving of all my love …”
There was nowhere to go. I curled into a ball, wrapped my arms around my head, closed my eyes, and sobbed, “I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace—” Nothing happened. I stoppedpraying. There was absolute stillness except for the sound of my thick breathing. Turning my head slightly, I opened one eye.
Sitting on the grass beside the rail bed, wildflowers cradled in one arm, was Hilly Stillman.
6
I SAT UP. “WHAT are you doing out here?”
Hilly held up the yellow and white flowers. Tears stood in his eyes, and his nose was running. He misunderstood my question, and I didn’t ask him again.
Getting to my feet, I surveyed the damage. Both my knees were scraped and dirty, likewise one of my elbows. There were long scratches on my thighs where I’d dived into the cinders and gravel, and my chin was hot and tender.
In the west, the sun was lying flat on the tracks. A pinkish yellow shaft of it lit Hilly, washing his profile and his white shirt in a dramatic glow. His unhappiness began to smooth away. In repose, Hilly’s face retained the curved, unformed look of an eighteen-year-old boy’s. The skin was still soft despite years in the sun and cold of Main Street. If Hilly got his sanity back, would his face become old? He held the flowers out to me. They felt cool in my hands.
“Pretty,” Hilly said.
I nodded. “I have to get home,” I told him. “It’s late. Mama’s going to be mad.”
We walked along the verge of the rail bed, saying little. You didn’t have to talk a lot to Hilly. Sometimes words confused him, as when Mama had told him he could buy ice cream with his earnings. But he liked to listen to others talk. Mama said Hilly listened to other people’s conversations with sweet rapture, as though he were at a concert. This made some people nervous, but not Mama. When Hilly was around, she talked to me about anything that came into her head because it entertained him.
When he was excited, Hilly lost what little control of his words he had. No one wanted to sit by him at a softball game
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