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  The waitress sauntered over. "What’ll it be?"

  "Glass of milk, please."

  "What happened to you, boy?" she asked.

  My disguise seemed to be working. "I fell down some stairs," I said in my lowest voice.

  She smiled. "Sure you did."

  While waiting for my milk, I thought about Frank. When we arrived at the store, I’d waited until he went inside before leaving my hiding place. Standing in the darkness, I’d peered through the window and watched him slump into his chair. He looked weary, depressed, defeated. Momma had won. Frank and I were homeless and she had everything. Everything, but no one. Maybe in some small way, my stepfather and I had won after all. If Momma had one weakness, it was she hated being alone.

  The waitress returned with the milk and handed me a piece of chocolate pie.

  "I didn’t order pie."

  "You like chocolate pie, don’t you?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "Don’t worry, it’s on the house." She leaned in close and whispered, "I’ve fallen down those same damn stairs a few times myself."

  My benefactor looked around six feet tall, in her mid-forties, and model thin. She wore her frosted hair in a French twist and had hazel eyes that half-closed when she smiled.

  She pointed to a three-inch scar on her left forearm. "Courtesy of my ex-husband. But I got even."

  "How?"

  "I shot the bastard." She handed me a fork. "It didn’t kill him, but it put the fear of God into him. He hasn’t come around in two years." She picked up a pot of coffee. "I’m Rita. If you need anything, just holler."

  CHAPTER 7

  I’d never thought about shooting Momma. I had on occasion wished she’d die or disappear. My fantasies involved death by accident or natural causes. Murder had never entered the picture.

  I finished the last of my pie and motioned for my check.

  "I’ll take that." A hand reached over my shoulder and snatched the ticket from Rita.

  I turned. "What are you doing here, Frank?"

  "Looking for you, Becky."

  "Becky?" Rita asked. "You’re a girl?"

  "I figured it was safer to pretend to be a boy."

  "You sure fooled me." She pointed at Frank. "Is he the one?"

  "No, he’s my stepfather."

  The waitress looked Frank over real good. "Are you sure he’s not the one who hurt you?"

  Frank’s head snapped back. "Do I look like the sort of man who’d beat a child?"

  "Can’t go by looks." She brushed a wisp of hair behind her ear. "I’m Rita. You want coffee?"

  "Sure." Frank took the stool beside me. "What do you want to eat, Ladybug."

  "I had some pie."

  "You need more than pie," he said as Rita poured his java. "A couple of grilled cheese sandwiches, fries with gravy, and another milk, please."

  She smiled. "Coming right up."

  I waited until Rita left before asking Frank how he’d found me.

  "Helen called and said you’d run away. She wanted to call Sheriff Tate, but I told her I’d find you and bring you home."

  "I’m not going home."

  "If you don’t, Tate will be knocking down Johnny’s door before morning." Frank took a sip of coffee. "That is where you’re headed, isn’t it?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Didn’t you realize that would be the first place they'd look for you?"

  I didn’t answer. When I left Sugardale, my plan had seemed so logical. I’d find Johnny, tell him what happened, and we’d leave the state tonight. By the time Momma discovered I’d run off, Johnny and I would be in Tennessee.

  "I’m glad I decided to stop for coffee," Frank said. "Hitchhiking can be dangerous, especially for a girl."

  "Living with Momma can be dangerous." I hid my face in my hands. "I can’t take any more of her."

  Frank put his arm around me. "Let’s eat, Ladybug. Then we’ll figure out what to do."

  *****

  "Rita seems nice," Frank said when we climbed into his truck.

  I nodded.

  He started the engine, eased onto the highway, and headed south.

  "Where are we going?"

  Frank grinned. "Since we’re this close, we might as well visit Johnny."

  "You’re taking me to see Johnny?"

  "We can’t stay long. Helen will call Sheriff Tate if I don’t get you back soon."

  "Thank you, Frank." Seeing Johnny might give me the courage to face going home.

  *****

  Ten minutes later, we entered Kirbyville. I spotted Johnny’s car at the Dairy Freeze.

  "You’re sure that’s Johnny’s black Mustang?" Frank asked.

  "I’m sure."

  He pulled into the crowded parking lot. "You stay here. I’ll get him."

  "Why can’t I go too?"

  He pointed to my face. In my eagerness to see Johnny, I’d forgotten about the bruises. "We’d better tell Johnny I fell down the stairs."

  "What is this aversion you and your mother have to telling the truth?" Frank asked.

  I lowered my head. "I don’t want Johnny to get mad and do something crazy."

  "Your intentions are good, Ladybug, but the truth always comes out. Lying just makes it worse." Frank brushed back my hair. "Besides, Johnny wouldn’t believe that story anymore than I did. I’ll be right back."

  It seemed like an eternity before my stepfather returned. "Where’s Johnny?" I asked.

  Frank slammed his door. "He’s not here."

  "But there’s his car."

  "Maybe he let someone borrow it. I don’t know."

  "I’ll find him." I opened my door and started to get out, but Frank grabbed my arm.

  "We have to go now, Becky. Close the door."

  "But I haven’t seen Johnny yet." Laughter suddenly filled the air. A group of young people exited the Dairy Freeze.

  "There’s Johnny." I started to get out, but Frank stopped me.

  "Becky—"

  "Johnny’s here, Frank. He’s right there . . ."

  Johnny leaned against his car. A pretty brunette leaned against him, wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered something in his ear. They laughed, and then kissed.

  I looked at my stepfather. "I guess Momma and I aren’t the only liars in the family."

  "I’m sorry, Ladybug. I wanted to leave before you saw them."

  "Like you said, the truth always comes out." I stepped out of the truck.

  "Come back, Becky. You don’t want to do this."

  Ignoring my stepfather’s warning, I walked toward the crowd. Pain, humiliation, and pure rage surged through me. My whole body shook. I stopped about a dozen feet from Johnny and his friend.

  At first, no one noticed me. Then one of the girls asked, "Who’s that?"

  "I don’t know," a tall blond replied. "What happened to her face?"

  "Hello, Johnny," I said, hating the tremor in my voice.

  Johnny stopped kissing the girl and looked up. "Rebecca!" He straightened up so fast, he knocked the brunette into the arms of the guy behind her.

  "Surprised to see me?" My eyes shifted from him to his girlfriend, then back to him.

  He pointed at her. "This isn’t what you think. She doesn’t mean anything to me."

  The girl slapped Johnny’s arm. "What do you mean by that crack? Who’s the chick with the messed up face?"

  "She’s my fiancée."

  "Fiancée? Since when?"

  Johnny and the girl started arguing. I turned and walked away. I was almost to the Ranchero when he caught up with me.

  "Let me explain, Honey," he begged. "I didn’t know you were coming. If I’d known —"

  "Then you wouldn’t have got caught cheating. Right?"

  "I’m not cheating. Not really. She’s in one of my classes."

  "I see. You couldn’t come to Sugardale this weekend because your homework assignment was to kiss your classmates."

  He grasped my arm. "I stayed to work overtime to make extra money
for us."

  Johnny had given me a ring, a dainty silver flower with a diamond chip in the center. I took it off and put it in his hand.

  "Don’t do this, Twig."

  I got into the truck, slammed the door. "Can we go now, Frank?"

  "Wait, Mr. Wooten." Johnny motioned for me to roll down my window.

  I hesitated, then rolled it down halfway. Part of me wanted to run away, but a bigger part of me longed for Johnny to say the words that would build a bridge across the dark chasm he’d created between us. The truth or a good lie would do as long as it paved my way back to the boy I’d loved all my life.

  "What happened to you?" Johnny asked.

  "Momma found out we’ve been seeing each other." I pulled back my bangs to show my stitches. "I ran away from home tonight. I thought we could elope. Reckon you’re too busy."

  He reached inside, touched my shoulder. "That kiss didn’t mean anything to me. I love you."

  "It meant something to me." I pushed his hand away. "Momma claims men can’t be trusted. Apparently, she’s right."

  Johnny grabbed the window with both hands. "You know Helen’s crazy."

  I started rolling up the window. "I don’t ever want to see you again, Johnny Santo." My words were a lie, but the ounce of pride I had left demanded they be spoken. "Let’s go, Frank."

  "Give me another chance," Johnny yelled as we pulled out of the parking lot.

  Using the side mirror, I watched Johnny grow smaller and smaller until the black night swallowed him.

  CHAPTER 8

  A light rain began to fall as Frank and I headed home. He told me it was okay to cry, but I was too numb. The picture show in my mind kept repeating the same two scenes in perfect tempo with the windshield wipers—Momma beating me with the broom, and Johnny kissing the brunette. Frank stopped at our store. He told me to wait in the pickup, but for once, I didn’t do as I was told.

  The whistle of the train drew me to the tracks. At first, I could only hear the clickity-clack of its wheels. Then it rounded a distant curve and I saw the light—big, bright, and warm. The light cleaned away the darkness before it. If I joined my body with the light, maybe I could be clean and bright too. The movie running in my mind would be turned off forever. I walked up the embankment and climbed onto the tracks.

  "Get off the tracks, Becky," Frank screamed. He ran toward me, but slipped and fell on the wet grass. "Please get off."

  My stepfather had been trying to save me all night. First, from Momma’s anger and later, from Johnny’s betrayal. It seemed like Frank spent half his time trying to save me. Trying and failing. Still, he wouldn’t give up. Now, he wants to save me from the light, but the light is too fast.

  "Ladybug, don’t do this." He struggled to get on his feet. "Don’t do this to me, Becky!"

  The fear in his voice penetrated my frozen brain. Frank would witness my body’s joining with the white light and be haunted by that picture every day of his life. He’d feel responsible. Wouldn’t Momma like that—me dead, and Frank tortured by guilt. How could I justify hurting my one true friend? Stepping off the tracks, I half-walked, half-slid down the soggy embankment.

  Frank pulled me into his arms. "Don’t ever do that again, Ladybug. I love you. I couldn’t bear losing you like that."

  I saw a movie once about an ancient Greek named Achilles. He was invincible except for his heel. Everyone who fought him died. One day, a really smart man just pulled a plug out of Achilles’ heel. Everything inside of the Greek hero drained out onto the sand.

  When Frank said he loved me, he pulled the plug out of the internal wall I’d built to hold back all my misery. I started sobbing right there by the railroad tracks. He sat down in the wet grass, pulled me into his lap, and rocked me. Only Frank knew how much rocking soothed my soul. Oblivious to the rain, we rocked back and forth in time with the clickity-clack of the train’s wheels as they rolled past. That train traveled miles down the line before I ran out of tears.

  "Why would Johnny do this to me?" I asked between sobs. "We’ve loved each other forever. Planned on getting married."

  "Men do crazy things sometimes, Becky. We do things without thinking them through. If it seems right at the moment, we just jump in."

  "Is that what happened with you and Momma?"

  Frank nodded. "I should’ve got to know Helen better."

  "But then you wouldn’t have married her."

  "Probably not."

  "Then we wouldn’t be friends."

  He hugged me. "That’s why I am glad I married her."

  Frank was lying for my sake. He would’ve been fine without me. But what would’ve happened to me without him?

  "Do you believe Momma is all bad?" I asked.

  "I don’t think anyone is all bad."

  I wiped my cheek. "But she is hard to love, isn’t she?"

  "Yes, Ladybug, at times she’s very hard to love." Frank kissed the top of my head. "It’s late. We’d better get home."

  I buried my face in his chest. "I can’t take another whipping tonight."

  "I’m moving back." He lifted my face, looked me in the eyes. "I won’t let Helen lay a finger on you. She’ll have to kill me first."

  A shiver ran through me. As far as I knew, Momma had never killed anyone, but I figured that if push came to shove, she could.

  *****

  It’d quit raining by the time we got home. I sat in the truck listening to the shouting coming from inside the house. I couldn’t make out the words, but knew Momma and Frank were arguing about me. My hand kept reaching for the door handle. Every instinct in my body urged me to skedaddle, but I’d promised Frank I’d wait in the pickup until he returned.

  The shouting stopped suddenly. I hung my head outside the window trying to hear any noise coming from the house. Total quiet. The only thing more frightening than two adults fighting is the silence that follows. Your imagination goes wild. In my mind, I saw Momma stabbing Frank with a butcher knife.

  Frank was usually calm in a crisis. But if this night could drive me to contemplate suicide, maybe it had driven him over the edge too. Momma had a Picker’s knack for pushing people beyond their limit. What if she’d tried to work her Picker ways on Frank tonight? Perhaps she’d stopped screaming because she was dead. In a fit of justified rage, Frank might have strangled her.

  It seemed plausible to me that one or both of them could be lying in a puddle of blood, gasping for their last breath. Should I go check on them? I could call an ambulance. I needed to go in, but my legs wouldn’t move. The deeper the silence grew, the heavier my limbs became. All I could do was hold my exploding head, rock, and try to muster my courage.

  *****

  I stood on our front porch and studied the four-inch strip of painted wood that separated the outside world from the insanity that resided inside. I’d never paid much attention to the threshold before except to sweep it or step over it. But tonight, its significance was indisputable. It was the boundary between comfort and pain, safety and danger, perhaps even between life and death.

  The outside light was off. Even so, the darkness of the porch provided more safety than the lights inside could ever offer. For never in my sixteen years had Momma struck me, kicked me, or hurt me while I stood on the front porch or in the front yard. The possibility that someone might witness such an attack made her nervous. Right now, one of the neighbors could be peering out their window watching me. If still alive, Momma would know that too. As long as I remained on the front porch, I was safe.

  But what about Frank? Was he hurt? Bleeding? Did he need my help to bind up any wounds Momma might have inflicted? If he’d killed Helen, he’d need my help to hide her body. Where would we bury her? The north side of the greenhouse would be best.

  "Please, God," I whispered, "don’t let Frank be dead." I should’ve said the same prayer for Momma’s sake, but I couldn’t. I didn’t desire my mother’s death, but if forced to choose between her survival and Frank’s, I’d pick Frank. That realiza
tion heaped a large measure of sadness upon my soul.

  The front door swung open. Momma stood there, her blond hair piled high in a topknot. A fresh coat of crimson polish decorated her nails and a matching tint of war paint graced her lips. If she’d been dressed in her new teal suit instead of her floral nightgown and fuzzy slippers, I’d have sworn she was on her way to church. No blood stained her garments. But if Frank was alive, where was he? Why hadn’t he returned to the pickup?

  "Are you going to stand out there all night, Becky Leigh?" She stepped back to give me room to enter the house. The light from the hallway spilled out onto the front porch.

  I didn’t move. After several attempts, I managed to ask, "Where’s Frank?"

  "Right here, Ladybug."

  I turned around to find my stepfather coming around the side of the house. He must have come out the back door. I blinked back tears of relief. "Are you all right?"

  "I’m fine," he said. "I asked you to wait in the truck."

  "It got so quiet. I was afraid something might have happened."

  "We haven’t killed each other . . . yet," Momma said.

  "Your mother is kidding. You always did have a flare for the dramatic, Helen."

  She lit her cigarette. "Since everyone seems bent on running off tonight, maybe I should dash off to Hollywood. You two would like that, wouldn’t you?"

  "There’s no call for sarcasm," Frank said. "Remember our agreement."

  "What agreement?" I asked.

  "I’ll let your stepfather answer that. After all, he’s the man in charge." She blew little smoke rings at Frank. "Isn’t that right, Sugar?" She turned and walked into the living room.

  "What’s Momma talking about, Frank?"

  "Go inside, Becky. It’s cold and we’re both soaked."