“Oh, bless you, sweetheart. I was only talking crazy.”
“Nobody will take away William Ernest’s Mrs. Trotter; now, will they, Miss Gilly?” Mr. Randolph reached out and felt for the boy’s head and patted it.
“Of course not,” said Gilly sharply. “I just want something to stand on to finish my job.”
“My, my,” said Mr. Randolph, “You really have yourself a prize helper here, Mrs. Trotter. Young people nowadays hardly…”
“If you want, Mr. Randolph…” She would have to be careful—talk slowly as though the idea were just occurring to her—“I could maybe do your house when I finish here. Course I’d have to have a stepladder, probably—”
“Didn’t I say she was a prize, Mrs. Trotter?” Mr. Randolph was beaming. “I might even have a ladder in my basement…”
Gilly jumped up from the table, then caught herself—slow down, slow down. Her heart was pumping crazily. She made herself sit down.
“Maybe after supper I could take a look. I’d sure like to finish that chandelier tonight.”
; Trotter and Mr. Randolph nodded and chuckled happily. People were so dumb sometimes you almost felt bad to take advantage of them—but not too bad. Not when it was your only way to get where you had to go.
The stepladder was old and rickety, but it would beat trying to climb those bookshelves of Mr. Randolph’s, which looked as though they might come right over on top of you if you pulled at them. She set the ladder up under Trotter’s chandelier, and as she painstakingly wiped each piece of glass with her ammonia-water rag, she would have to grab the ladder from time to time, dizzy as she was with the smell of the ammonia and the thought that by tomorrow night at this time she’d be on her way to California.
Late that night she packed the brown bag and shoved it far under the bed. Tomorrow from the school pay phone, she’d call the bus station and find out how much the ticket cost. Then all she had to do was get the rest of the money.
Gilly was coming out of the phone booth the next day when Agnes appeared demanding her money. She pretended to be grumpy about the five dollars Gilly gave her, but there was a greedy gleam in her eyes. She was pleased, all right.
“Can we get more?” she asked.
Gilly shook her head. “That’s all there was. I split it three ways.”
“Looked like a lot in your pocket yesterday.”
“Yeah, but the rest was all in ones.”
“I don’t see why you split equal with that weird kid. He wouldn’t know the difference.”
“He’s not as dumb as he looks.” Gilly looked Agnes straight in the eyes. “He acts stupid, maybe, but if he thought you and me were cheating on him…”
Agnes shrugged. “Well,” she said, “next time, let’s not use him.”
“OK, sure, next time,” Gilly agreed, knowing happily that there would be no next time with creepy Agnes the Stoke. Tonight she would be bound for her new life—her real life.
She got rid of Agnes at the front gate with some lie about Trotter forcing her to scrub all the dirty pots in the house. Agnes said she’d go on home. She wasn’t too crazy about cleaning pots and pans.
The stepladder was in the hall. Gilly put her schoolbooks down on the table and went right to it. As she was leaning to pick it up—“Gilly, honey, want some snack?”
She straightened up quickly. It would be better to eat while she had the chance. She gave the ladder a pat and went into the kitchen.
Trotter was sitting at the table. She seemed to have finished her daily Bible reading, for the Good Book, still open, was pushed to one side. Right before her was a piece of notebook paper, half filled with her square, laborious script. She had a nineteen-cent ball-point clutched tightly in her right hand. When Gilly came in, the huge woman smiled shyly at her over the top of her reading glasses.
“Writing one of my old children. I do miss ’em when they grow up and leave me, but the Good Lord knows I ain’t much at writing.” She looked down at her letter and sighed. “There’s more of them cookies in the tin box next to the refrigerator.”
Gilly poured herself a twelve-ounce glass of milk and took four of the cookies.
“Sit down, Gilly, honey. I ain’t really busy.”
Gilly sat down at the far side of the table.
“Things is going better for you now, ain’t they, honey?”