The letter is postmarked December 5. Mom mailed it a week ago.
Dear Frankie Joe,
I was real glad to hear from you. I am SO bored.
I knew about the four half brothers, FJ told me when I called him to come get you. Guess I forgot to mention it. I’m glad you have your own room. I have no privacy in this joint.
No news yet from the lawyer but he was optimistic. Ricky talked with him, too. I guess I’m over my mad at Ricky.
My new friends still want me to go into business with them. Don’t know what yet. One gal’s got this friend who has the scoop on something big. They are a lot of fun. One gal is from New Jersey. Boy does she talk funny. And another one is from Las Vegas. She used to deal cards at one of those casinos! She’s showing me how to deal like the professionals do.
My friends were set up, too, just like me. None of us belongs in here.
I’ll write when I know more.
Love ya,
Marti
XOXOXO
FJ’s sitting on the bed, watching me. I hand the letter to him to read before he asks. I can’t afford to raise his suspicions now.
He reads the letter fast, then hands it back to me. “You need any more stamps . . . envelopes?”
“No sir. I got plenty, especially since Mom’s gonna get out early.”
He hesitates. “I wouldn’t count on her getting out before her sentence is up.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not her first offense”—he hesitates, rubbing at his mouth—“and it sounds like she’s making big plans.”
“Right,” I say hotly. “She’s being enterprising!”
He gives his head a little shake. “Martha Jane was always one to chase rainbows.”
Aargh. Now he’s talking about rainbows.
He gives his head another shake. “A lot can happen between now and then, Frankie Joe.”
It already has, I think. It snowed too early, so I can’t leave until the snow melts. I begin to wonder just when that will be.
Mr. Puffin would know.
As FJ turns to leave, he looks around the attic. “You, uh, you doin’ okay up here? You want, I can move those boxes to the storage shed. Need to get rid of a lot of this stuff anyway.”
No! He’ll find my escape box if he does that.
“That’s okay,” I say quickly. “I mean, I got plenty of room . . . and, uh, the storage shed is all snowed in.”
“That’s true. Well, okay then. When it warms up, we’ll get things cleared out and give the place a fresh coat of paint. In the meantime, you can be thinking about what color you’d like it painted. Okay?”
“Sure.” All these lies make my insides feel moldy, like I have smut balls inside me.
The off-road tires on my Rover Sport are perfect for the slushy mix of rain and snow that falls early this afternoon. The legitimate Huckabys stored their bikes in the storage shed when the first Alberta clipper came through. But not me.
“Yoo-hoo, Frankie Joe.”
I slow down, recognizing one of the women from the Quilt Circle. “Um, how are you doing, Mrs. . . .”
“Wilkins. I’m Mrs. Wilkins. Remember?”
I nod.
“How lucky we ran into each other. I need to talk business with you.”
“What kind of business?”
“Delivery business. Now that winter’s here, I thought you could pick up groceries for me on Saturday mornings. I can call in the order ahead of time.”
A new customer!
“Sure! I charge a fee.”
“Elsie Peachcott told me. Fifty cents a delivery, I believe?”
“Yes ma’am. You wanna start tomorrow?”
“Indeed. Oh, and my neighbor Mr. Perkins thought you could do some errands for him, too. He’s on a walker, you know. I’ll introduce you to him when you bring my groceries by. Now I must get out of this weather. It’s freezing out here. See you tomorrow.”
It is freezing—colder than freezing. The temperature drops below thirty-two degrees all the time now. But I don’t let the cold interfere with my delivery service. Or snow or ice. And my quilted clothes and Wellington boots keep me plenty warm.
Which is good because my business is really growing. Miss Peachcott. Mrs. Brown. Mrs. Barnes. And now Mrs. Wilkins and Mr. Perkins.
I start pedaling again. I’m going to Gambino’s Pizza Parlor, hoping Mr. Puffin is there. The muscles in my legs feel like cords of steel when I pump the pedals up and down. My lungs don’t even burn anymore when I breathe in the cold Canadian air. The slivers of ice that fall off the knotty tree limbs don’t hurt my face, either, because my skin has weathered, like tough leather.
Just like Mr. O’Hare’s, I think. Thinking of him makes me wish I were in the desert with him today, hunting space rocks.
Soon I think. Soon.
“Frankie Joe!” Mr. Puffin says as I walk into the pizza parlor. “Pull up a chair and have some pizza with me. I been missin’ you. I ordered a twofer, so we can have a whole one each, you want.”
“I better have just have one slice. Lizzie’s fixing supper right now. And I came to see you about—” I think fast. How can I get the information I need without spilling the beans about my escape plan? I eye the pizza in front of me.
Of course! Talk about our business deal.
“I came to find out when you’ll need me to start delivering pizza again. Last time I saw you, you said something about planting seed in the spring.”
“That’s right.”
“So when do you do that . . . exactly?”
“Well now, depends on when the soil’s warm enough. I like to get mine in the ground early—before the rains begin. Seeds need water to sprout, you see. Late March usually, maybe first of April.”
“So the snow should be gone by the end of March?”
“About then, yeah.”
My new escape date.