Chapter Seven

That evening, Jillie pooled bits of food from the dinner plates. Pieces of napkin-wrapped dinner roll formed an inviting lump in the nylon fabric of her backpack. For whatever reason, Margo slacked off a bit on her surveillance, and Jillie sneaked a banana and an orange into her cache.

The next morning, she prepared eggs, sausage and frozen biscuits. But this time she made four extra patties of sausage, two extra hardboiled eggs, and three extra biscuits.

“You know by now how much food to cook.” Margo bent over to bring her face inches from Jillie’s. “You think I don’t know what you’re up to?”

Jillie gulped loud enough for anyone within earshot to hear.

“You think I’ll let you have the extra food rather than let it go to waste?” Droplets of spit peppered Jillie’s face, jettisoned from Margo’s mouth with every “s” and “t” in her rant.

Jillie wiped the slobber away with the back of her hand then hung her head in what Beth had called her contrite act. “Sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“You got that right. Just because breakfast is one of your meals here doesn’t mean you can eat twice as much as the rest of us.” She pointed at the now-cold sausage and biscuits. “That’ll be your dinner.”

Smiling inwardly, Jillie hung her head.

“Honey Buns?” Cleg called from the living room. “It’s time for our show.”

Margo narrowed her eyes. “Now clean up this mess. Tomorrow morning we’ll go to your farm.”

“The show’s starting,” Cleg’s whine floated into the kitchen.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” Margo shouted back. “Lord, why is it I’m the only one in this house with the sense to take care of things.” She glowered at Jillie then left the kitchen.

In spite of her growling stomach, Jillie folded the food scraps up in a paper towel instead of snarfing it down. She finished the dishes then stuffed the package of food under her baggy T-shirt.

“I gotta go to the bathroom,” she hollered toward the living room.

Margo yelled back, “If you miss the bus, I’m not taking you.”

Music from re-runs of a once-popular crime show meant the Elliotts would be stuck like zombies in front of the tube for the next hour or so.

Glad that Margo hadn’t followed through with her threat that Cleg would walk her to the bus stop, Jillie ran upstairs and stuffed the latest wad of food into her backpack. Then she pulled the sheets from her bed, along with two more she’d washed and stashed in her closet. As quickly as she could, she tore the faded, threadbare things into strips, which she stuffed under the mattress. She ran out the door just in time to catch the bus.

Supper was spaghetti. The cooking smells made Jillie’s empty stomach growl, and when Margo left the kitchen for a couple of minutes, she slurped down a spoonful of the tangy sauce and sucked up several strands of half-cooked pasta. The food burnt her tongue and put a blister on the roof of her mouth, but she didn’t care. She kept her mind busy by going over the details of her plan.

That night, she waited until the household was silent, except for Cleg’s foundation-rattling snore. She retrieved the strips of bed sheet and braided them the way she’d learned in Girl Scouts. Hopefully, the makeshift rope would be strong enough for what she needed. She didn’t let herself think about what would happen if it weren’t.

After pulling one end of the rope through the handle of her suitcase, she circled it around the handle and tied a square knot then threaded it through the straps of her backpack. She hefted the load a couple of times then congratulated herself when the rope held fast.

Jillie heaved the suitcase and backpack onto the bed. Ancient, rusty springs squealed, and she froze, holding her breath. When no feet pounded on the wooden floor toward her room and no voice questioned what she was doing, she planted her hands against the wrought iron bed frame and pushed the whole thing toward the window.

But the bed’s iron legs scraped so loudly against the warped wood floor, Jillie had to bite her lip to keep from panicking. If the Elliotts discovered her trying to escape, they’d probably put bars on the window. Or they might even move her someplace where they could lock her in. She’d die without ever finding her sister.

She shivered. Help me, Beth.

For the next several minutes, she moved the bed a few inches at a time, stopped to listen, and moved it a few more inches until it rested just beneath the window sill.

Careful to put her feet on the iron bedframe under the mattress, she grabbed the wrought-iron headboard and pulled herself up onto the bed. To prevent the rusty springs from squealing again, she slowly moved her feet along the metal frame until she stood under the window.

After wrapping one end of the braided rope around her waist to keep it from being yanked out of her grasp by the weight of the luggage, she pushed the suitcase and backpack through the window. Once the luggage bumped against the tin roof outside the room, she unwound the rope from her waist.

Relieved when the cadence of Cleg’s snore continued unbroken, Jillie carefully played out the braided rope. As she’d hoped, the luggage slid down the roof as if the corrugated tin were a water slide.

But Jillie’s sweat-slick hands lost their grip, and the rope burned her palms as it shot through her fingers. Instinctively, she opened her scalded hands and flapped them as the suitcase and backpack thumped onto the packed dirt beside the house.

Once the pain subsided, she held her palms in the moonlight spilling through the open window. No blood, only the redness and soreness caused by rope-burn.

Cautiously, she squeezed through the window—arms first, as if she were diving into a swimming pool. When her fingers came into contact with the roof, she carefully pulled her legs and feet the rest of the way through the window and then righted herself. Clutching the window sill, she stood still long enough to catch her breath.

Her tennies offered little traction on the steeply slanted, corrugated tin, and she nearly slipped several times before managing to inch her way to the roof’s edge. Fear of being caught made a boulder in her throat as she began to shinny down the old tree.

But when she reached the lowest tree limb, she realized it was still a long way to the ground—a lot further than it had seemed during her earlier reconnaissance. She’d have to hang from the limb by her arms and hope she didn’t hurt herself in the drop.

After slowly lowering her body off one side of the limb, she dangled for several heart-stopping seconds, then took a breath and let go. She landed with a plop onto the hard dirt next to her luggage, pain like an electrical shock shooting up the leg that’d taken the brunt of the fall. She sat on the ground and rubbed her ankle until the pain lessened, then stood and stepped to her luggage.

She untied the sheet-rope from her bags, wound it up, and hid it in the gap between the tree and house. Then she slipped the straps of her backpack over her shoulders, lifted the suitcase, and made her way down the driveway’s outside edge toward the road.

Cool night air washed over her, and she inhaled as deeply as her lungs would allow. The light breeze smelled like dirt, trees, animals, weeds and dried flowers.

It smelled like freedom.

But instead of singing and dancing for joy as was her impulse, Jillie moved quietly. As soon as the Elliotts discovered her missing, they’d be out looking for her.

And she didn’t want to think about what they’d do if they got her back into that house again.