Then it froze.
Grandpa hollered, and two shapes took off toward the tall rows of corn.
A shot blasted a hole through the quiet and the shadowy forms toppled.
My knees folded and I sat down so hard it knocked the wind out of me. I was too scared to breathe until I saw one of the thieves get on his knees and start sobbing and begging Grandpa not to shoot him, while the other one cowered nearby.
“Why, you’re hardly more than babies,” I heard Grandpa say. He knelt next to them, telling them they didn’t have anything to be fearful of—he didn’t plan on shooting either one of them or calling the law on them—at least not this time.
“I’m likely to do both if you boys come back here stealing out of my garden again. How old are you children anyway?”
The big boy said he was ten but his brother was only seven and wasn’t allowed to be out at night. Grandpa took both boys by the hand and walked through the garden, the little one dragging a burlap bag behind.
“You tell me what you want, and I’ll show you how to harvest so it won’t damage the crop,” Grandpa said.
Soon the boys filled the bag with potatoes and onions and carrots and ears of corn. Grandpa showed them how to tie their sack in the middle of a long pole so they could share the heavy load on the way home.
“A load is always lighter if it’s shared. I want you to remember that. You want more, you knock and I’ll give you what can be spared. I want to show you something else before you leave,” he said, leading the boys over to where Queenie was tied.
He unhooked the leash, and Queenie, grateful for freedom, ran to the boys and started jumping up. Grandpa gave a hand signal and the dog sat down, watching Grandpa and waiting.
“This dog is part of our family, and I won’t stand for her being tormented. She wants to be your friend. Go on over there now and get acquainted with her.”
The smallest boy approached Queenie and put out a hand. Queenie closed her teeth gently over the dirty little arm, leading him around the yard and back to Grandpa.
“Her name is Queenie, and we’re right fond of her. She’ll do your bidding if you just ask her. Tell her to sit and she’ll sit right down.”
Recognizing the command, Queenie sat. The boys looked up at Grandpa wide-eyed.
“Okay, hold out your hand and she’ll shake hands with you.”
The older boy held out a hand and Queenie extended a paw.
“Now, boys, I don’t want to hear tell of you mistreating this dog or any other living thing for that matter.”
Grandpa put Queenie back on her leash and led the boys out to the road.
“You go straight home and don’t be dallying along the way. And you remember that we have us a gentleman’s agreement: You are welcome on my property anytime as long as you knock on my door first. Get along with you now.”
I was wide awake after all the excitement, so I sat with Grandma and drank milk coffee while Grandpa told and retold the story of how he’d shot into the air to scare the boys.
“I hated like the dickens to have to scare ’em like I did, but them little hooligans needed somebody to get their attention. I’m hoping they’ll think twice next time, but there’s no telling. What they need is somebody at home to jerk a knot in their tail and straighten them out, but I expect that’s where they’re learning their thievery.”
“If you caught me stealing, you’d more than likely wring my neck,” I said.
“More than likely,” Grandpa agreed, “but that’s because you been taught right from wrong. Maybe them little fellows don’t know better.”
Grandma said she didn’t want to hear any more foolishness from me and Grandpa about wringing people’s necks. She had her no-nonsense face on, so Grandpa aimed a yes ma’am in her direction.
“Tell it again,” I begged.
“I figure you know it well as I do, you do the telling this time. I’ve plumb wore my teller out.”
Every week or so after, always just before dawn, we heard a tapping at the front door, getting a little louder if Grandpa didn’t hurry down. He pulled pants and suspenders over his long johns and went out to help his new friends fill their bag. Grandma followed him downstairs and put a pot of coffee on the stove. Sometimes she gave the boys a sack of oatmeal cookies or a pint of damson preserves, and a time or two she gave them a basket of eggs.
We never had another chicken disappear.
Carlotta didn’t play with me at school, at least not much, but one day at recess she joined me at the seesaw. When the girl on the other end hopped off, Carlotta caught the board and held it until my feet were on solid ground. I liked that about her—she wasn’t the kind of person who’d get off the seesaw and leave the person on the other end to hit the dirt. She held out her closed hand and passed something to me, folding my hand around it before she walked away. I opened my fist and saw a citronella nut like the one her grandmother carved that day. She didn’t come back to school after that. And one night soon after, the camp disappeared.
I never saw Carlotta again.
But I still imagined myself dancing with her, chin up and eyes flashing, mirrored skirts swirling in the light of a gypsy fire.
19
Birds of a Feather
Aunt Lila was a beauty operator, Licensed and Board Certified. My mother’s older sister by five years, she came to live with us because she was between husbands again. Eddie Kamphey hadn’t suited her, at least not for long, so she’d left him in
