The Great Gilly Hopkins

“OK? We gotta do better than that! How ’bout you William Ernest, honey? How do you like Mr. Randolph’s new tie?”

“It’s beautiful,” the boy whispered reverently.

“See, well.” Trotter was immediately sober. “William Ernest approves.”

“Good, good,” said Mr. Randolph, his dignity also once again intact. “Would you walk with me back to my house then, son?”

The boy slid out of his chair and took the old man’s hand.

“See you tomorrow, hear?” Trotter said.

“Thank you. Yes. Thank you. And you, too, Miss Gilly. See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah. OK,” said Gilly, though by this time tomorrow she figured to be in Missouri at the very least.

She dried the dishes as Trotter washed them and put them to drain, her mind aboard the Greyhound bus skimming across something that looked like a three-dimensional version of the topographical map in her geography book.

Trotter beside her was chuckling again over Mr. Randolph’s sporting Melvin’s dancing ladies. “His son’s this big lawyer”—lawyer!—“over in Virginia. I’d give a pretty penny to see his face when he gets a load of that tie. Mercy on us, wouldn’t I ever?”

After they finished cleaning up in the kitchen, Trotter went into the living room and stretched out on the couch. Her one trip upstairs on Sundays was to change out of her good dress, so she’d be on the couch the rest of the day, napping or laboriously reading the Sunday paper. W.E., back from next door, turned on the TV and lay down on the rug to watch an old movie.

Now was the time. Gilly started for the stairs.

“You want to join us, honey? There’s a football game on Channel 9, ’less W.E. cares about this movie.”

W.E. got up, obediently ready to switch channels.

“No,” Gilly said. “Not right now. I got things to do.”

“Well, OK, honey.”

If she was going to go, she would have to leave now. By tonight Trotter would go upstairs and find the money gone, and nothing was sure about what might happen with Mr. Randolph’s lawyer son next door.

She packed quickly although her hands shook. The first thing was to gather all the money together and put it into her pocket. It made a lump as big as an orange. Too bad she’d thrown away that silly shoulder bag Mrs. Nevins had bought her last Christmas.

Her jacket—“First thing next week we’re going to have to buy you a good, warm coat,” Trotter had said. She had been waiting for the support check—her jacket was hanging by the front door, downstairs, past the open living-room door. Trotter was probably asleep, and, if Gilly was very quiet, perhaps W.E. wouldn’t hear.

She crept down, keeping her suitcase under her right arm to conceal it as best she could with her body. Crossing the short, bright strip before the door, she glanced in. Neither head turned. She was safely to the front door. She took her jacket off the hook and poked it above the suitcase, so that she had a free hand for the knob.

“Where you going?” She jumped around at W.E.’s whisper. In the dark hallway his glasses flashed.

“Just out,” she whispered back. Oh, god, make him shut up.

He did shut up and stood silently, looking first at her, then at the suitcase, then back at her.

“Don’t go.” His little face squeezed up at her like his tiny voice.

“I got to,” she said through her teeth. Opening the door, pulling it shut behind her, shifting the suitcase and jacket to either hand, and running, running, running, down the hill, the pulse in her forehead pounding as hard as her sneakered feet pounded the sidewalk.

Once around the corner, she slowed down. Someone might notice her if they saw her running. No bus came by. There were hardly any on Sundays. She settled herself at once to walk the mile or so to the bus station, stopping to put on her thin jacket against the November wind. The bus would be heated, she reminded herself, and in California the sun always shines.

It was dusk by the time she got to the bus stati

on. She went straight to the ladies’ room and combed her hair and tucked her shirt into her jeans. She tried to tell herself that she looked much older than eleven. She was tall, but totally bustless. Hell. She zipped up her jacket, stood up straight, and went out to the ticket counter.

The man didn’t even look up.

“I want a ticket to California, please.” As soon as the words were out, she heard her mistake.