When I awoke next morning, I was alone in my bed. My fingers went to my cheek. I could still feel the kiss. Sunlight was streaming through the window.
As always, the smell of scrapple was in the air—but something was different. I sat up. I sniffed. The smell was stronger than usual. Much stronger.
I got out of bed. Went to the door. Opened it. Now the smell was overpowering. And something else: sizzle. I could hear it. Griddle sizzle. Coming from our kitchen. She was making me scrapple!
“Eloda!” I cried, and ran to the kitchen. But it wasn’t Eloda turning to me from the stovetop. It was my father.
“Where’s Eloda?” I said.
“Good morning,” he said. “And you’re welcome, pig-snout lover.”
I said it again: “Where’s Eloda?”
“Released,” he said.
I gawked at him. “Released?” I knew what the word meant, but still it made no sense. “You mean, like, free?”
He nodded. “As in time served.”
I screeched. “That’s impossible! She never said. She would have told me.” I still couldn’t get it through my head. “She’s not in jail anymore?”
He was staring at the griddle. “Free as a bird.”
I hated the matter-of-fact way he said it. The kitchen was warm with summer and sweet with scrapple cloud, but I was cold as January.
I slammed my fork on the table. “She would never do that! She wouldn’t not say goodbye.” By then I might have been crying.
The spatula was still in his hand. He sagged. When he turned to me, his face was sad. “Cammie, I’m sorry…” And then he was saying ridiculous things, things I didn’t want to hear, like “The summer is over.” And “You’re a young lady now.” And “You won’t be needing a trustee to look after you anymore.” Blah blah.
I’d had enough of that bullpoop. I didn’t bother to put shoes on. I burst out the door. I was halfway down the stairs when I remembered: my bike wasn’t here. It was in the creek, where I’d heaved it.
Shoeless, still wearing yesterday’s clothes, I raced down Airy…Hector…Marshall…Swede…428. It looked the same: twin front porch. Except for one thing: the venetian blinds. They were pulled up. The windows stared at me like open, empty eyes. I pounded on the door, punched the bell button. I peered through the front window. Dark. Furniture. I went around back, pounded on the screen door. Rapped on the window. Stood in the side yard and yelled: “Eloda!”
“They went.”
A voice from the sidewalk. A kid—eight or ten, maybe—stood at the black iron fence, half a twin Popsicle in his hand. Orange. He wore a New York Yankees cap, so right away I didn’t like him.
“What?” I said.
He took a long pull on the Popsicle. “They moved.”
It wasn’t registering. “They’re gone?”
“Yeah.” He was smiling.
I stepped toward him. He backed off. “What’s so funny?”
The smile vanished. “Nothin’.”
“Both of them? They went? Moved out of the house?”
“Yeah.”
“Furniture’s still there.”
“They’re renters. It’s the Puppos. One of them’s a criminal. She was in jail. Just got out. They rent from us. We live next door. I heard you.” He bit off the top inch of Popsicle.
“It’s Pupko,” I said. “When?”
Mashed words came through his mouthful of orange slush. “When what?”
“When did they move?” She had spent the night with me.
“Today.”
And was gone when I awoke. “This morning?”
“Yeah. The criminal and her sister. They was pulling a U-Haul. I seen it.”
The minute she got out. It was all planned. Did she know I’d come looking? “Where did they go?”
The smile was back. “Don’t know.”
I walked out the gate. He backed up to the curb, watching me. I thought of smacking the Popsicle from his hand. But I didn’t.
I was suddenly feeling the sting in my raw fingertips. I began the walk home. I heard him call, laughing, “Hey, you ain’t got no shoes on!”
By the time I hit Marshall, I was running. I had remembered something: her birthday gift for me. I had never opened it, or any of the others, for that matter. She had stacked them neatly in a corner of my room.
Hers was on top. I ripped it open and burst out bawling. It was a hair ribbon. Bright green.
The next day I entered seventh grade at Stewart Junior High School.