After I officially and politely met Great-aunt Dorcas, I officially and politely asked Mom if she would like me to baby-sit Isabella. I felt sorry to leave Mom with Great-aunt Dorcas. I really did! But I had to get out of there as fast as my legs and prolegs would go.
Isabella and I got one oatmeal cookie each from a plate on the table. Oatmeal cookies were practically the same as granola.
As we ate on the porch, I checked to see if Isabella remembered stop, drop, and roll. Then we practiced run, duck, and cover, which was for tornadoes. “Now,” I told her, “let’s get to work on the new safety plan.”
Back inside, where Mom and Great-aunt Dorcas had unfortunately taken the cookie plates away, we found the basement. At the bottom of the steps sat Midnight H. Cat. “Is this a safe place?” I asked her. “What do your cat instincts tell you?”
She rubbed against my ankle, which I thought meant yes. “First we need emergency supplies,” I told Isabella.
Upstairs we opened closets until we found blankets. I counted out four, and we carried them into the basement. “We need canned goods,” I said. “And water in a jug.” Did water ever go stale?
Isabella and I practiced the steps to the basement with our eyes closed in case the lights got knocked out. “Want to walk over to the church and see if Dad has a flashlight?” I asked.
“Can we?” Isabella asked as I led her outside. “Is it safe?”
I considered. I hadn’t made any plans for being attacked. But the mean kid should be in school by now. I hopped onto the sidewalk and back onto our grass. “Look. Nothing scary.”
“How will we know our way back?” Isabella asked.
“We could throw bread crumbs. Like Hansel and Gretel.”
Isabella sniffled. “The witch put Hansel in the oven.”
I was sorry I had brought up Hansel and Gretel. “Come on. Dad is straight ahead with no turns.”
As we got close, I showed Isabella sheep in the stained glass window. I read her the sign by the parking lot where Cole Street met up with Sycamore Street. POTLUCK WITH PIE! HELP US WELCOME OUR NEW PASTOR AND HIS FAMILY.
“That’s us,” Isabella said. “Do I like pie?”
I had gotten distracted by the other side of the sign. HOW MUCH IS SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN? Someone was trying to plant a mystery that might make people curious so they would come to church. Most people liked mysteries, although not me.
From here I could see plenty of yards and houses. About 5,000 people lived here, according to Dad, and I hoped 4,999 of them weren’t mean.
A church door opened, and Dad came out—all frowny face. I glimpsed people behind him. Maybe the committee. Maybe people who would hold it against Dad if we interrupted. “We’ll ask about the flashlight later,” I said, and hustled us out of there before Isabella could say something loud.
By the time we reached the field, I was thinking of how proud Mom would be that we hadn’t interrupted and also that in Colorado everyone thought Dad was fun and funny and perfect—and I never thought anyone would think otherwise—when something shot up from behind a line of trees. “Duck and cover!” I shouted, flinging Isabella down and myself over her.
Whoosh. Then silence. I tried to remember what I’d seen, but the brightness of the sun had washed out everything except long, gangly legs and huge, flapping wings.
Wow.
An angel? Every Christmas we had a church play and some kid played Angel Gabriel bringing good news of great joy.
We ran the rest of the way to the house. Great-aunt Dorcas and Mom were standing at the bottom of the steps, and Isabella headed straight for Mom’s knees. “You get some rest,” Great-aunt Dorcas was saying. “People will want to chitchat and say their welcomes.”
“Wonderful,” said Mom faintly. “You could let them know—”
Great-aunt Dorcas nodded. “They know you need a day or two to catch your breath.”
Mom ran a hand through her sweaty hair, and it stood up in spikes. In Colorado, people knew she wasn’t big on chitchat or potlucks. I was feeling sorry for her when Great-aunt Dorcas said, “Why don’t I help you out and take Anna with me to the farm for a few hours?”
“No,” I mouthed to Mom behind Great-aunt Dorcas’s back.
“She’ll be a help with the pies.” Great-aunt Dorcas reached for my arm. “I’ll never forgive myself if we run out at the potluck.”
Mom said, “That’s kind—”
Nononono.
“These old hands are not what they used to be.” Great-aunt Dorcas was steering me toward the car now.
“Well,” Mom said, “if you need the help . . .”
I wondered what Great-aunt Dorcas’s hands used to be. “No, thank you,” I said.
I said it nicely. Even so, next thing I knew, I was sitting in the front seat of Great-aunt Dorcas’s car with my seat belt on, listening to her say the ants were getting her rhubarb this year but last year’s apples would do nicely if we skinned them.
Abduction! Dad! Jericho, I shouted in my mind. Help!