The Actual & Truthful Adventures of Becky Thatcher Read online

  Miss Ada shook her head. “Misses that piece of her life, maybe. Wants it back and doesn’t know what to do about it. Terrible thing about your brother, Miss Becky, but folks got to make the best of whatever mess gets spilled on them.”

  I wasn’t sure if Miss Ada meant that Jon’s death was the mess that got spilled on us, or if I was the mess left behind. “Is she gonna be sad forever?”

  Miss Ada shrugged. “Maybe not. Hope not.” She patted my head. “I heard some gossip at the store yesterday and thought you might like to know. That grounded steamboat’s engine is all spoiled up and they had to send upriver for new parts. Could be stuck here for two weeks or so,” she said.

  My goodness. A whole steamboat sitting there for two weeks, just waiting to be explored.

  “Now, Miss Becky, you git that look out your eye! I declare, you’re as bad as poor Jon was at your age.”

  I fixed a guilty expression on my face, but inside, I felt proud. Wasn’t a bigger compliment in the world to me. I smothered the last sausage and popped it in my mouth, giving a glance toward the staircase. “I’m leaving, Mama,” I mumbled, my words too soft and food filled for Miss Ada to take notice. I handed my plate over.

  She took the dish, placing a patchwork-fabric lunch sack in my hand. “You know where the schoolhouse is?”

  “Yes, Miss Ada.” Straightening my posture so I looked good and grown-up, I stepped into Daddy’s home office to say goodbye. My eye caught on a poster sitting on his desk. Daddy was nowhere to be seen, so I let my shoulders drop and roll into a hunch while I leaned forward to read.

  WANTED: 2 PRITCHARDS (Billy and Forney)

  Wanted for train robbery, bank robbery, and possible murder.

  Description: Billy Pritchard~near 6 foot tall.

  Forney Pritchard~considerably shorter.

  Few teeth, longish dark hair, fondness for liquor and tobacco.

  Generally filthy.

  Reward for information leading directly to arrests.

  If the likenesses were right, they were the ugliest men I’d ever seen. Daddy hadn’t mentioned the possible murder bit, which made the Pritchards a heap more scary and, therefore, more interesting.

  Sticking the lunch sack in my leather school satchel, I checked for my pencil case and marbles, then scooted out the back door.

  St. Petersburg was pushed right up against the west bank of the Mississippi River, and town was mostly laid out like the chessboard in Daddy’s office. It was a big change from living on the outskirts of Riley, where activity centered around the busy downtown and railroad depot.

  This tree-filled town seemed slow and sleepy from the moment we’d stepped from the Duchess Daisy three days earlier. At that time, a cargo steamboat was docked in front of us, unloading goods from St. Louis and getting loaded back up with logs from the sawmill. Other than the mill, there wasn’t much to town except a dry-goods store, a café, a tailoring shop, a butcher shop, a couple of liveries, and an empty jail. Daddy said it’d be real peaceful here. He said it’d make for an easy job of being town Judge and be good for Mama, too. It was a worrisome thing to be so surrounded by peacefulness when the marble promise I’d made to Jon required a good amount of adventuring. Still, the distant threat of two outlaws and a whole big river promised to keep life interesting.

  One block from my house, a boy about my age jumped from his porch. With an easy stroll, hands parked in a pair of suspenders, he pulled alongside me on the sidewalk. He looked so sharp in his black pants and ironed shirt, I might have been intimidated if he weren’t barefoot, shoes tied to his book strap. I wiggled all ten toes inside my brown saddle shoes. There wasn’t much wiggling room in there.

  That boy had nice black curls and smiled like he knew me. When I gave a hesitant smile back, he stuck one hand out and used the other to tip his straw hat. The sun was getting higher in the sky, and it lit up his hair in a fancy glow. Mama used to say angel glow was surrounding me when I got hit by sunlight like that. These days I doubted she’d notice if my head caught on fire.

  “Sid Sawyer, here.” His grin was wide and gap-toothed.

  Sawyer? Looking past Sid, I saw a nice blue two-story with a wide yard cut off from view by a shabby-looking fence. I scanned the property for any sign of the tattletale, but the only other soul there was too old for school. Right on the wraparound porch sat the writer fellow I’d seen the night before. He sipped from a steaming cup, reading a paper and looking like he had a headache. “Who’s that?” I asked, pointing to the rocking chair.

  “That?” Sid scratched a red spot on his cheek, left by a skitter or spider. “That’s Sam Clemens. He’s the riverboat pilot from that grounded steamboat. Said he got kicked off his passenger boat job for being ornery so they switched him over to a shipping boat for a few weeks to teach him a lesson. He’s waiting on a part to come in.”

  “What’s he gonna do while he waits?”

  Sid shrugged. “Says he’s gonna read a little and write a little and do a little of nothing at all. Says there’s plenty to catch the eye around here, but I suspect he’ll be disappointed. Anyway, I already know who you are.” He did a whistly song, going real high.

  It was a darn impressive whistle, and he didn’t look all impressed with himself, just happy, so that was something. Plus, I was willing to bet that gap tooth was mighty fine for spitting. Still, I didn’t like it when people knew things about me, especially when I didn’t know a thing about them, except that they were a better whistler and their fence could use a whitewashing.

  “Oh? Who am I, then?”

  “You’re Judge Thatcher’s daughter. Becky, right? As for me, I belong to my aunt. She’s older than dirt, but nice enough.”

  The tattler had spoken to an aunt. “You related to Thomas Sawyer?”

  “Sure I am. Tom is my half-brother. He saw you sneaking down the road last night. Where’d you go?”

  I narrowed my eyes and ignored the question, taking another look at their porch and trying to figure out where that Tom had been sitting when he saw me. “Where is that brother of yours?” I asked.

  “Half-brother,” Sid said. “And not a ripe half neither.”

  “How come he’s only a half?”

  Sid dug at his lower teeth with a fingernail and wiped whatever he’d come up with on the nearest tree. “My daddy got horsekicked when I was only a year old, then Mama got married again and had Tom. Then she died too.”

  “Bet you miss them.”

  He shrugged. “Never got to know them, so they’re hard ones to miss. I was just two and Tom was still crawling on the floor. But there’s better things to talk about than my corn cob of a brother.” Sid paused at the street corner. He pointed back toward the river a couple of blocks. A lone house stood there, brown and sturdy, made of clapboard. It had a wraparound porch and a big crabapple tree in the front yard. Early pumpkins and gourds bordered a side garden where an oldish woman stooped over a bed of flowers. Beside her was a set of worn gardens tools—shovel, rake, and hoe. The tip of every handle was painted red.

  “Now there’s something you outta know about. See her?” Sid pointed again and jabbed me twice with his knuckles. “That lady. Do you see her?”

  My arm got a little sore from the knuckle jab, but I held off rubbing. “I got eyes, don’t I?”

  “She’s a witch,” he declared. “The Widow Douglas is her name, but she’s a witch for certain. See those pumpkins? Each one is a boy or girl she’s stolen. Turns their heads into pumpkins and gourds and sets them out so all the bad spirits are sure to find her.”

  Peering closer, I saw that there must’ve been at least ten stolen heads around that garden. You would think she’d have been strung up and hanged for that level of witchery. “Don’t people get mad? Where’s she steal them all from?”

  Sid waved a hand vaguely. “Probably a big city upriver. Chicago, maybe. They got so many people up there, folks’d hardly notice a few missing.” He looked at me, most likely waiting for me to shiver or let out a fearful
moan.

  Instead I shrugged. Jon always said fear was like a cake cooling in the window. If you happen to stumble upon some you should keep it to yourself instead of sharing it around. “Shame for those who get snatched, but I reckon we’re safe enough.”

  Sid scowled plenty. “I reckon we’re not. See her red-tipped tools? Might as well be a devil’s pitchfork in that mix. She’s always outside with her crazy weeds and herbs.” He stared at me again, jutting his chin out for good measure. “Evil weeds and herbs. For her spells, I imagine.”

  I squinted at the herbs. One looked like lavender to me. And I saw a bunch of mint for certain. Miss Ada says it spreads like gossip. But I knew it wasn’t polite to argue too much when a new friend is pointing out the town witch. Besides, those red-tipped tools were a dead giveaway. Everyone knew red was a devil color unless it was on clothes, strawberry jam, the American flag, or Christmas decorations.

  “Anyway,” Sid said, “stare too long at her front door and your eyeballs pop right out and then you turn into a pig. Plus, her big hound is voodoo cursed. She can put her soul into him. You’ll see him wandering around town late at night, but really it’s her.” He put his hands in those suspenders and whapped them against his chest, glancing at me sideways. “Us boys got near five dollars in the pot for whoever steals something from inside the house. Reckon we’ll be trying real soon.”

  He made a left toward school, whistling again. I caught up with a little skipping that I reined in before Sid saw. Jon always said to keep my fishskin skipping for when I was with girls. Boys don’t like to be around skirt-tossing skips and giggles, he’d say. “What do you have to steal for the bet?” I asked. “Spells and such?”

  I had only one true experience with spells and witchy folk back in Riley. My armpits started trickling just thinking about it. Still, five dollars was a good amount of money, I was awful fond of winning bets, and Jon would have loved the sound of this one. As long as I had his marbles on me, it was my responsibility to treat them to some worthy adventures. Witches and gambling seemed like a good start.

  “Any proof that you been inside,” Sid said. “Dead man’s toes, jar of cursed warts. Whatever witchiness is handy.”

  “Is Tom doing the bet?”

  “No, he’s too yellow and prissy. Ho, now!” Sid gave me a good shove, his eyebrows near jumping into his hair. “Get moving,” he hissed, tilting his head at the Widow’s house. “She’s watching.”

  Sure enough, the Widow had noticed us whispering and stood straight up, shovel in hand, facing our way. Once both of us were staring, her free hand did a wiggle in the air and then pointed straight at our hearts!

  “Go!” I squeaked, and we both took off.

  He paused two blocks from the dirt path that led off the road to the schoolhouse and caught his breath. “Good thing Tom wasn’t with us. He would’ve wet his pants for sure.” Sid smiled and leaned closer. “He wet his pants only last year. Had too much lemonade during the school picnic up on the high meadow over thataway. Did it near the old cave, away from all the hoo-ha, but did it all the same.”

  I nodded, still breathing hard. Pants wetting was good information to have. I tried to think if I had anything to trade back. “Couple of outlaws went missing upriver a ways. Daddy says they might be heading downriver to town. Thieves and murderers.”

  Sid gave an appreciative whistle and kept walking. “Murderers is good. Say, go ’head and tell where you went last night, won’t you?”

  “Snuck down to check on that grounded steamboat and saw a bunch of men sitting around a fire. That man staying with you was telling stories he wrote himself while they all drank whiskey.” I watched for a reaction and was pleased to see he was paying close attention when I mentioned such a forbidden thing as whiskey. “Got offered some.”

  Sid stopped again outside a real pretty white house with a proper-painted fence. He licked his lips, and looked kinda nervous and kinda hopeful. “You take it?”

  “Naw, depending on the kind, it might burn a hole in my stomach, since I’m not grown.”

  He looked relieved and nodded. “I heard that too. Otherwise I’d try some just about anytime.”

  The dirt path to the school was only ten yards off, and I could see the red building tucked into the trees. My dress started feeling even tighter around the neck, when something hit me right in the eye. My head snapped back and I couldn’t help but let out a small shriek (just a small one, I reckon) because it hurt so and came out of nowhere.

  I clutched the busted eye with two hands, trying to press the stabbing pain back where it came from. In all my shuffling about, I must’ve stomped right on one of Sid’s bare feet, because he howled like a wolf. I squinted my good eye open in time to see that he’d dropped to a knee right in front of me. Before I could stop moving forward, my legs slammed into his bent body, and I flew right over and tumbled.

  Good Lord, then there was a terrible, awful bang on my knee, and I near passed out trying to decide whether or not to take a hand from my dangling eyeball in order to check that my knee was still there. Also, to pull my dress back down over my rear end.

  “Move! Move aside!” A shadow swept over me, and the smell of flowers followed. “What on earth is going on here! Sid Sawyer, what have you done! Oh, you poor thing!”

  “I think my eye’s out,” I whispered, my hands still plastered to my face. “I can feel the blood.”

  “Sid, you run in and get a wet cloth,” a kindly voice said. I felt a gentle hand on my back as a rush of boys’ voices beat around me.

  “It was this ball!”

  “He got her right in the face!”

  “Danny Boggs did it!”

  The kind voice grew firm as it interrupted. “Daniel Boggs, did you throw that ball?”

  “It was an accident,” a boy mumbled.

  “Boys, just clear out! Clear out and get to school. Let me get a look at this eye. Give me that cloth, Sid.”

  Soft hands pried my fingers away, and I braced myself for the kind woman to gasp and faint. It was to be expected, with my eye dangling like a piece of fish bait.

  “Well, honey, it’s not bad at all. The ball was made out of knitting yarn. It was tightly wound, but knitting yarn nonetheless.” She dabbed at my eyes with the cloth. “I suspect you’ll be fine. There’s no blood, just some tears from your eye watering.”

  Knitting yarn? Well, shoot. I sat up and blinked. More water came out, but she was right. My eyeball was firmly in its socket, and I was late for school.

  “I’m Mrs. Sprague, the preacher’s wife, honey. I stopped by the day you all arrived to have a visit with your mama, but your daddy said she was feeling poorly. And you’re Becky, isn’t that right? I saw you at church yesterday morning. Your mama must still be sick, her missing the service.”

  She’ll be missing more, I wanted to say, but I didn’t think Mrs. Sprague would want to hear about my mama not being on friendly terms with the Lord, not to mention other people. She looked too nice with her poufy blond bun and her blue-and-white checked dress, and I didn’t want to mess up her pretty face by making it frown. “Yes, ma’am, she’s still getting over a cold.”

  “Well, I know how that is. Are you feeling fine to go on to school?”

  “I’m all right, ma’am.” I struggled to my feet, a little embarrassed. The pain seemed to have disappeared along with my horrible eye injury. I felt a tickle on my shin, prepared to slap the offending skitter, and lit up when I saw torn tights and a beauty of a knee cut.

  “Oh!” cried Mrs. Sprague. “Look at that knee! There’s some blood there, honey. Come on inside so you can take those tights off. I’m afraid they’re too torn for mending, but you’ll be fine without them. Sid, you wait here to walk her to school and explain to Mr. Dobbins. I know how strict he can be with being on time.”

  Sid waited while I limped inside. The house was like a museum of badly crocheted doilies. Small ones were tucked under table candles and a large one was draped over the plum-colored parlor s
ofa. Too many to count were strung on the walls. I liked Mrs. Sprague even more because those doilies were so awful looking. It showed that even preachers’ wives had flaws.

  We left the house with another cloth and some bandages and a paper bag that smelled like rapture itself. “Those are for being so brave, dear,” she said, squeezing my shoulder. “I’m sure Danny Boggs didn’t mean to hit you.”

  I nodded. Danny Boggs, Danny Boggs, I committed to memory. Now I had two boys on my list of people to get some vengeance on.

  “I’m glad he owned to it,” Mrs. Sprague said. “His daddy may go easier on him for that.” She tilted my chin up with a gentle smile and studied my eye. “Makes me think of John 8:32.”

  “Jon who?”

  “It’s a Bible verse, dear. John 8:32 says that the truth will set you free.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, thinking two things. First, that instead of setting him free, the truth would most likely get Danny Boggs a whipping or scolding at home. Second, I guessed that my brother Jon and the Bible’s John probably wouldn’t be friends up in Heaven, having different opinions on what sorts of things made a person feel free.

  After thanking Mrs. Sprague for the bag of goodies, Sid and I hurried to the schoolhouse, taking turns peeking inside the mystery bag. Inside were four sugar cookies, fresh from the oven and dotting the bag with a little baking grease.

  “Reckon you’ll share?” he asked, pulling open the schoolhouse door.

  “Sure I will. Wasn’t your fault about the ball,” I told him, taking a deep breath before stepping inside. “Sorry about your foot.”

  “Sorry about your eye and knee. That’ll give you a real nice scab, though.”

  I grinned. That was something. I did like a good scab to pick at. Plus, it was a good reminder that I didn’t ever want to grow up and turn into a responsible young lady. Responsible young ladies didn’t pick scabs and they didn’t sign up for bets about the town witch.