Caroline’s things in that trunk, gathering dust and the hazy scent of mildew. From underneath the blanket of torn letters, she had carefully extracted the good-girl books (repellent things) and pushed them underneath the dresser in her room. Her own clothes remained in its drawers. This was her exodus, her new beginning, and it seemed fitting for her to take whatever she could of Caroline along.
Perhaps, Portia thought, it might count as a kind of penance. She hoped it would not be considered grand larceny instead.
She had her little cloth bag in the bicycle’s basket, with some stolen food, her stolen ledger, and Caroline’s letter scraps. She wasn’t going to leave them with Mister. He didn’t deserve to keep them. Even if he didn’t know he had them.
She had a trowel from the garden shed.
She had a stop to make before she left town.
She was leaving later than she had wanted to because Mister, usually a creature of habit, had changed his evening routine and demanded coffee in the parlor before he went upstairs to bed. Portia stood in the hall and waited, watched the minutes shudder past while he sipped from his mother’s best china cup and set it into its matching saucer. Sip. Clink. Sip. Clink.
It was maddening.
Finally, he set cup and saucer on the tray next to his chair and waved his hand once, signaling Portia to retrieve everything and take it to the kitchen. She left the dishes in the sink. By the time Delilah got up in the morning, Portia thought, she’d be miles away and out of earshot. Delilah could yell all she wanted about having to do Portia’s work.
When she walked back down the hallway and peeked into the parlor, Mister was gone. She hadn’t heard his feet on the stairs, but that wasn’t unusual. The house had a way of swallowing sound, turning its inhabitants into silent apparitions. Portia looked around at the dark wood walls, at the worn floors, at the stairs that sagged in the middle. She knew every squeaky spot, every knot in the wood, every dull patch where the finish had worn off under years of thoughtless assault by feet and hands. She was surprised to find herself feeling a twinge of something—regret? longing?—as she readied herself to leave.
But there was no time for that.
She ducked down the hall to the kitchen, where she had hidden her belongings under the sink earlier that morning. She made her way to the back door, opened it carefully so it wouldn’t cry out and betray her, and slipped into darkness. Down the steps. Around the corner of the house. The bicycle was waiting.
It was all so simple.
Except for this:
As Portia pushed off and began to pedal, as the gravel crunched under her wheels and she felt the first rush of motion toward her freedom, one lone shaft of moonlight touched her path and revealed her, just for a moment. And Delilah, watching from the upstairs window, saw her go.
Something about a place where no one has ever been happy makes you pedal extra hard to get away.
Because of the fog and because the shadows were deep, Portia had to feel her way into the cemetery, along the stone wall, to find the gate, down the gate to find the latch. It lifted easily. This gate, unlike others in town, was never locked. Maybe because it was like an extension of the church and God’s door was always supposed to be open. Not a door Portia had ever knocked on before, but for Caroline, she made an exception.
She could see just well enough to find the outline of Mister’s family mausoleum, where generations of ill will were buried. Caroline’s grave was behind it, under a plain slab with a plain engraving Portia traced with her index finger.
CAROLINE ELIZABETH SALES
JANUARY 10, 1922 – MAY 22, 1939
RESIDENT OF THE MCGREAVEY HOME
It had always been easy for Portia to forget that Caroline was three years older—she had been so fragile, so quick to shatter. But seeing the numbers etched in stone, Portia could not help but think how quickly she would
Perhaps, Portia thought, it might count as a kind of penance. She hoped it would not be considered grand larceny instead.
She had her little cloth bag in the bicycle’s basket, with some stolen food, her stolen ledger, and Caroline’s letter scraps. She wasn’t going to leave them with Mister. He didn’t deserve to keep them. Even if he didn’t know he had them.
She had a trowel from the garden shed.
She had a stop to make before she left town.
She was leaving later than she had wanted to because Mister, usually a creature of habit, had changed his evening routine and demanded coffee in the parlor before he went upstairs to bed. Portia stood in the hall and waited, watched the minutes shudder past while he sipped from his mother’s best china cup and set it into its matching saucer. Sip. Clink. Sip. Clink.
It was maddening.
Finally, he set cup and saucer on the tray next to his chair and waved his hand once, signaling Portia to retrieve everything and take it to the kitchen. She left the dishes in the sink. By the time Delilah got up in the morning, Portia thought, she’d be miles away and out of earshot. Delilah could yell all she wanted about having to do Portia’s work.
When she walked back down the hallway and peeked into the parlor, Mister was gone. She hadn’t heard his feet on the stairs, but that wasn’t unusual. The house had a way of swallowing sound, turning its inhabitants into silent apparitions. Portia looked around at the dark wood walls, at the worn floors, at the stairs that sagged in the middle. She knew every squeaky spot, every knot in the wood, every dull patch where the finish had worn off under years of thoughtless assault by feet and hands. She was surprised to find herself feeling a twinge of something—regret? longing?—as she readied herself to leave.
But there was no time for that.
She ducked down the hall to the kitchen, where she had hidden her belongings under the sink earlier that morning. She made her way to the back door, opened it carefully so it wouldn’t cry out and betray her, and slipped into darkness. Down the steps. Around the corner of the house. The bicycle was waiting.
It was all so simple.
Except for this:
As Portia pushed off and began to pedal, as the gravel crunched under her wheels and she felt the first rush of motion toward her freedom, one lone shaft of moonlight touched her path and revealed her, just for a moment. And Delilah, watching from the upstairs window, saw her go.
Something about a place where no one has ever been happy makes you pedal extra hard to get away.
Because of the fog and because the shadows were deep, Portia had to feel her way into the cemetery, along the stone wall, to find the gate, down the gate to find the latch. It lifted easily. This gate, unlike others in town, was never locked. Maybe because it was like an extension of the church and God’s door was always supposed to be open. Not a door Portia had ever knocked on before, but for Caroline, she made an exception.
She could see just well enough to find the outline of Mister’s family mausoleum, where generations of ill will were buried. Caroline’s grave was behind it, under a plain slab with a plain engraving Portia traced with her index finger.
CAROLINE ELIZABETH SALES
JANUARY 10, 1922 – MAY 22, 1939
RESIDENT OF THE MCGREAVEY HOME
It had always been easy for Portia to forget that Caroline was three years older—she had been so fragile, so quick to shatter. But seeing the numbers etched in stone, Portia could not help but think how quickly she would
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