while Agnes T. Ritter moved her mouth back and forth for a few seconds, but instead of talking back to Opalina, she caught sight of something out the window and said, “There’s Mrs. Judd.”
It didn’t sound like Mrs. Judd. You could always tell her car because Mrs. Judd turned off the motor and coasted to a stop to save gas. The car outside was parked with the engine running.
The rest of the Persian Pickle realized Mrs. Judd was not acting normal, and we all stood up to look outside. Forest Ann even went to the window and peered out past the red glass plate Opalina kept there to catch the light. With the afternoon sun shining through it, the plate glowed like fresh blood. “It’s Septima, all right. She forgot to turn off the motor, and she’s running,” Forest Ann said. “Anybody ever seen Septima run?”
I took a step toward the window to get a better view, and it was not a pretty sight. Mrs. Judd moved like a runaway thresher. I knew something was wrong.
“Ella’s not with her,” I said, shivering. Even with Hiawatha and Duty to watch after her, Ella might have taken ill. Or she could have fallen or been burned by the cookstove. A dozen things could happen to a person who lived alone.
“I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation,” Mrs. Ritter said quietly, but she clasped her hands so tightly, the knuckles turned white. Only Agnes T. Ritter acted unconcerned. She bit down on a scone, and in Opalina’s parlor, which had grown quiet, the crunching sounded like a cow in dried cornstalks.
Mrs. Judd lunged through the door, flinging it so hard that it banged the wall and then came flying back and hit her on the fanny, bumping her forward into the living room. Her eyes, behind the thick glass of her gold spectacles, opened wide in surprise, and I would have laughed if I hadn’t been so worried.
“Ella?” Forest Ann whispered, asking the question for all of us. “Is something wrong with Ella?”
“Ella’s fine,” Mrs. Judd said. She caught her breath while the rest of us let out ours in unison.
Mrs. Judd gasped for air again. She looked pale and old as she slumped into one of Opalina’s horsehair chairs and slid into a corner. She looked around at the members of the Persian Pickle Club. “Ella’s fine,” she repeated. “It’s not her, thank the Lord.” Mrs. Judd gulped down a mouthful of air. “It’s Ben Crook.”
Nettie gasped and put her hands to her face. The blood rushed to my head, and I gripped the back of a chair to keep my legs from sliding out from under me.
“I said it’s Ben Crook,” Mrs. Judd repeated. “He’s been found. Hiawatha dug him up in Ella’s far-north field right before dinnertime.”
Chapter
5
M rs. Judd slowly looked around the room, stopping for a few seconds to exchange glances with each one of us. Her eyelids flickered when she came to Rita.
“How’s Ella?” Forest Ann asked, breaking the silence with a jerky voice.
“Prostrate with grief. Awful broke up,” Mrs. Judd said. “Just as you’d expect. She thought the sun rose and set … ?” Her voice trailed off and she looked at her hands a minute before she shook her head and told us, “Like I said, Hiawatha found Ben up north on the Crook place. Ben was out there by the road, where somebody’d buried him. Hiawatha came to Prosper and me to ask what to do.”
“He’s real smart for a colored,” Nettie said. She hadn’t approved of Hiawatha and Duty Jackson moving onto the Crook farm, but she’d changed her mind after she saw how well they took care of Ella. About the time Ben disappeared, Ella’s hired man ran off, so Mrs. Judd had driven Ella up to Blue Hill, where the Jacksons were barely scratching out a living, and the two of them invited Hiawatha and Duty and all the kids to move into the shack behind Ella’s house. They agreed to work the farm on shares and do chores for Ella. Even if they didn’t make much money, they’d have a place to live and something to eat. The
It didn’t sound like Mrs. Judd. You could always tell her car because Mrs. Judd turned off the motor and coasted to a stop to save gas. The car outside was parked with the engine running.
The rest of the Persian Pickle realized Mrs. Judd was not acting normal, and we all stood up to look outside. Forest Ann even went to the window and peered out past the red glass plate Opalina kept there to catch the light. With the afternoon sun shining through it, the plate glowed like fresh blood. “It’s Septima, all right. She forgot to turn off the motor, and she’s running,” Forest Ann said. “Anybody ever seen Septima run?”
I took a step toward the window to get a better view, and it was not a pretty sight. Mrs. Judd moved like a runaway thresher. I knew something was wrong.
“Ella’s not with her,” I said, shivering. Even with Hiawatha and Duty to watch after her, Ella might have taken ill. Or she could have fallen or been burned by the cookstove. A dozen things could happen to a person who lived alone.
“I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation,” Mrs. Ritter said quietly, but she clasped her hands so tightly, the knuckles turned white. Only Agnes T. Ritter acted unconcerned. She bit down on a scone, and in Opalina’s parlor, which had grown quiet, the crunching sounded like a cow in dried cornstalks.
Mrs. Judd lunged through the door, flinging it so hard that it banged the wall and then came flying back and hit her on the fanny, bumping her forward into the living room. Her eyes, behind the thick glass of her gold spectacles, opened wide in surprise, and I would have laughed if I hadn’t been so worried.
“Ella?” Forest Ann whispered, asking the question for all of us. “Is something wrong with Ella?”
“Ella’s fine,” Mrs. Judd said. She caught her breath while the rest of us let out ours in unison.
Mrs. Judd gasped for air again. She looked pale and old as she slumped into one of Opalina’s horsehair chairs and slid into a corner. She looked around at the members of the Persian Pickle Club. “Ella’s fine,” she repeated. “It’s not her, thank the Lord.” Mrs. Judd gulped down a mouthful of air. “It’s Ben Crook.”
Nettie gasped and put her hands to her face. The blood rushed to my head, and I gripped the back of a chair to keep my legs from sliding out from under me.
“I said it’s Ben Crook,” Mrs. Judd repeated. “He’s been found. Hiawatha dug him up in Ella’s far-north field right before dinnertime.”
Chapter
5
M rs. Judd slowly looked around the room, stopping for a few seconds to exchange glances with each one of us. Her eyelids flickered when she came to Rita.
“How’s Ella?” Forest Ann asked, breaking the silence with a jerky voice.
“Prostrate with grief. Awful broke up,” Mrs. Judd said. “Just as you’d expect. She thought the sun rose and set … ?” Her voice trailed off and she looked at her hands a minute before she shook her head and told us, “Like I said, Hiawatha found Ben up north on the Crook place. Ben was out there by the road, where somebody’d buried him. Hiawatha came to Prosper and me to ask what to do.”
“He’s real smart for a colored,” Nettie said. She hadn’t approved of Hiawatha and Duty Jackson moving onto the Crook farm, but she’d changed her mind after she saw how well they took care of Ella. About the time Ben disappeared, Ella’s hired man ran off, so Mrs. Judd had driven Ella up to Blue Hill, where the Jacksons were barely scratching out a living, and the two of them invited Hiawatha and Duty and all the kids to move into the shack behind Ella’s house. They agreed to work the farm on shares and do chores for Ella. Even if they didn’t make much money, they’d have a place to live and something to eat. The
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