Sharon Creech - Walk Two Moons

Prudence was in a frenzy. “Where is my white blouse? Phoebe, have you seen—? I could have sworn—!” She pulled things out of her closet and flung them on the bed.

Phoebe reluctantly got dressed, pulling a wrinkled blouse and skirt from the closet. Downstairs, the kitchen table was bare. “No bowls of muesli,” Phoebe said. “No glasses of orange juice or whole wheat toast.” She touched a white sweater hanging on the back of a chair. “My mother’s favorite white cardigan,” she said. She snatched the sweater and waved it in front of her father. “Look at this! Would she leave this behind? Would she?”

He reached forward and touched its sleeve, rubbing the fabric between his fingers for a moment. “Phoebe, it’s an old sweater.” Phoebe put it on over her wrinkled blouse.

I was uneasy because everything that happened at Phoebe’s that morning reminded me of when my mother left. For weeks, my father and I fumbled around like ducks in a fit. Nothing was where it was supposed to be. The house took on a life of its own, hatching piles of dishes and laundry and newspapers and dust. My father must have said “I’ll be jiggered” three thousand times. The chickens were fidgety, the cows were skittish, and the pigs were sullen and glum. Our dog, Moody Blue, whimpered for hours on end.

When my father said that my mother was not coming back, I refused to believe it. I brought all her postcards down from my room and said, “She wrote me all these, she must be coming back.” And just like Phoebe, who had waved her mother’s sweater in front of her father, I had brought a chicken in from the coop: “Would Mom leave her favorite chicken?” I demanded. “She loves this chicken.”

What I really meant was, “How can she not come back to me ? She loves me.”

At school, Phoebe slammed her books on her desk. Beth Ann said, “Hey, Phoebe, your blouse is a little wrinkled—”

“My mother’s away,” Phoebe said.

“I iron my own clothes now,” Beth Ann said. “I even iron—”

To me, Phoebe whispered, “I think I’m having a genuine heart attack.”

I thought about a baby rabbit that our dog, Moody Blue, caught and carried around—she was not actually lunching on the rabbit, just playing. I finally coaxed Moody Blue to drop it, and when I picked up the rabbit, its heart was beating faster than anything. Faster and faster it went, and then all of a sudden its heart stopped.

I took the rabbit to my mother. She said, “It’s dead, Salamanca.”

“It can’t be dead,” I said. “It was alive just a minute ago.”

I wondered what would happen if all of a sudden Phoebe’s heart beat itself out like the rabbit’s, and she fell down and died right there at school. Her mother would not even know Phoebe was dead.

After homeroom, Mary Lou said to Phoebe, “Did I hear you say your mother is away—?”

Christy and Megan gathered around. “Is your mother on a business trip?” Christy said. “My mother’s always going to Paris on business trips. So where is your mother? On a business trip?”

Phoebe nodded.

“Where did she go?” Megan said. “Tokyo? Saudi Arabia?”

Phoebe said, “London.”

“Oh, London,” Christy said. “My mother’s been there.”

Phoebe turned to me with a puzzled expression on her face. I think that she was surprised at what she had said, but I knew exactly why she had lied. It was easier sometimes. I had done this myself when people asked about my mother. “Don’t worry, Phoebe,” I said.

She snapped, “I am not worried.”

I had done that too. Whenever anyone tried to console me about my mother, I had nearly chomped their heads off. I was a complete ornery old donkey. When my father would say, “You must feel terrible,” I denied it. “I don’t,” I told him. “I don’t feel anything at all.” But I did feel terrible. I didn’t want to wake up in the morning, and I was afraid to go to sleep at night.

By lunchtime, people were coming at Phoebe from all directions. “How long will your mother be in London?” Mary Lou asked. “Is she having tea with the queen?”

“Tell her to go to Convent Garden,” Christy said. “My mother just loves Convent Garden.”

“It’s Cov ent Garden, cabbage-head,” Mary Lou said.

“It isn’t,” Christy said. “I’m sure it’s Con vent Garden.”

After school, we walked home with Ben and Mary Lou. Phoebe wouldn’t say a word. “Whatsa matter, Free Bee?” Ben asked. “Talk.”

Out of the blue, I said, “Everyone has his own agenda.” Ben tripped over the curb, and Mary Lou gave me a peculiar look. I kept hoping that Phoebe’s mother would be home. Even though the door was locked, I kept hoping. “Are you sure you want me to come in?” I said. “Maybe you want to be alone.”

Phoebe said, “I don’t want to be alone. Call your dad and see if you can stay for dinner again.”

Inside, Phoebe called, “Mom?” She walked through the house, looking in each room. “That’s it,” Phoebe said. “I’m going to search for clues, for evidence that the lunatic has been here and dragged my mother off.” I wanted to tell her that she was just fishing in the air and that probably her mother had not been kidnapped, but I knew that Phoebe didn’t want to hear it.

When my mother did not return, I imagined all sorts of things. Maybe she had cancer and didn’t want to tell us and was hiding in Idaho. Maybe she got knocked on the head and had amnesia and was wandering around Lewiston, not knowing who she really was, or thinking she was someone else. My father said, “She does not have cancer, Sal. She does not have amnesia. Those are fishes in the air.” But I didn’t believe him. Maybe he was trying to protect her—or me.

Phoebe prowled through the house, examining the walls and carpet, searching for bloodstains. She found several suspicious spots and unidentifiable hair strands. Phoebe marked the spots with pieces of adhesive tape and collected the hairs in an envelope.

Prudence was in a lather when she came home. “I made it!” she said. “I made it!” She was jumping all about. “I made cheerleading!” When Phoebe reminded her that their mother had been kidnapped, Prudence said, “Oh Phoebe, Mom wasn’t kidnapped.” She stopped jumping and looked around the kitchen. “So what are we supposed to have for dinner?”

Phoebe rummaged around in the cupboards. Prudence opened the freezer compartment and said, “Look at this.” For a terrible moment, I thought she had found some chopped-up body parts in there. Maybe, just maybe, Phoebe was right. Maybe a lunatic had done away with her mother. I couldn’t look. I could hear Prudence moving things in the freezer. At least she wasn’t screaming.

There were no body parts in the freezer. Instead, stacked neatly, were plastic containers, each with a note attached. “Broc-Len Cas, 350, 1 hr,” Prudence read, and “Mac Che, 325, 45 min,” on and on and on.

“What’s Broc-Len Cas?” I said.

Phoebe pried open the lid. Inside was a green and yellow hardened mass. “Broccoli and lentil casserole,” she said.

When their father came home and was surprised to see dinner on the table, Prudence showed him the freezer contents. “Hm,” he said. At dinner, we all ate quietly.

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything—from Mom?” Prudence asked her father.

“Not yet,” he said.

“I think we should call the police,” Phoebe said.

“Phoebe.”

“I’m serious . I found some suspicious spots.” Phoebe pointed toward two adhesive-taped areas beneath the dining room table.

“What’s that tape doing down there?” he asked.

Phoebe explained about the potential blood spots.