Sharon Creech - Walk Two Moons

In the motel, as I was remembering these things, Gram came and sat on the edge of my bed. She said, “Do you miss your daddy? Do you want to call him?”

I did miss him, and I did want to call him, but I said, “No, I’m fine, really.” He might think I was a goose if I had to call him already.

“Okay, then, chickabiddy,” Gram said, and when she leaned over to kiss me, I could smell the baby powder she always used. That smell made me feel sad, but I didn’t know why.

The next morning, when we got lost leaving Chicago, I prayed: “Please don’t let us get in an accident, please get us there in time—”

Gramps said, “At least it’s a mighty fine day for a drive.” When we finally found a road heading west, we took it. Our plan was to curve across the lower part of Wisconsin, veer into Minnesota, and then barrel straight on through Minnesota, South Dakota, and Wyoming, sweep up into Montana, and cross the Rocky Mountains into Idaho. Gramps figured it would take us about a day in each state. He didn’t intend to stop too much until we reached South Dakota, and he was really looking forward to South Dakota. “We’re gonna see the Badlands,” he said. “We’re gonna see the Black Hills.”

I didn’t like the sound of either of those places, but I knew why we were going there. My mother had been there. The bus that she took out to Lewiston stopped in all the tourist spots. We were following along in her footsteps.

Once we were well on the road out of Ill-ah-noway, Gram said, “Go on with Peeby. What happened next?”

“Do you want to hear about the lunatic?”

“Goodness!” Gram said, “as long as it’s not too bloody. That Peeby is just like Gloria, I swear. A ‘lunatic.’ Imagine.”

Gramps said, “Did Gloria really have a hankering for me?”

“Maybe she did, and maybe she didn’t,” Gram said.

“Well, gol-dang, I was only asking—”

“Seems to me,” Gram said, “you’ve got enough to worry about, concentrating on these roads, without worrying about Gloria—”

Gramps winked at me in the rear-view mirror. “I think our gooseberry is jealous,” he said.

“I am not,” Gram said. “Tell about Peeby, chickabiddy.”

I didn’t want Gram and Gramps to get in a fight over Gloria, so I was happy to continue telling Phoebe’s story.

I was at Phoebe’s one Saturday morning when Mary Lou Finney called and invited us over to her house. Phoebe’s parents were out, and Phoebe went all around the house checking to make sure that the doors and windows were locked. Her mother had already done this, but she made Phoebe promise to do it as well. “Just in case,” Mrs. Winterbottom had said. I was not sure “just in case” of what—maybe in case someone had snuck in and opened all the windows and doors in the fifteen minutes between the time she left and the time we did. “You can never be too careful,” Mrs. Winterbottom had said.

The doorbell rang. Phoebe and I looked out the window. Standing on the porch was a young man who looked about seventeen or eighteen, although I am not as good at guessing people’s ages as blind Mrs. Partridge is. The young man was wearing a black T-shirt and blue jeans, and his hands were stuffed into his pockets. He seemed nervous.

“My mother hates it when strangers come to the door,” Phoebe said. “She is convinced that any day one of them will burst into the house with a gun and turn out to be an escaped lunatic.”

“Oh, honestly, Phoebe,” I said. “Do you want me to answer the door?”

Phoebe took a deep breath. “We’ll do it together.” She opened the door and said hello in a cool voice.

“Is this 49 Gray Street?” the young man said.

“Yes,” Phoebe said.

“So the Winterbottoms live here?”

After Phoebe admitted that yes, it was the Winterbottom residence, she said, “Excuse me a moment, please,” and she closed the door. “Sal, do you detect any signs of lunacy? There doesn’t appear to be any place he could be hiding a gun. His jeans are really tight. Maybe he has a knife tucked into his socks.”

Phoebe could really be dramatic. “He isn’t wearing any socks,” I said. Phoebe opened the door again.

The young man said, “I want to see Mrs. Winterbottom. Is she here or what?”

“Yes,” Phoebe lied.

The young man looked up and down the street. His hair was curly and mussed, and there were bright pink circles on his cheeks.

He wouldn’t look us straight in the eye, but instead kept glancing to left and right. “I want to talk to her,” he said.

“She can’t come to the door right now,” Phoebe said.

I thought he might actually cry when Phoebe said that. He chewed on his lip and blinked three or four times quickly. “I’ll wait,” he said.

“Just a minute,” Phoebe said, closing the door. She pretended to look for her mother. “Mom!” she called. “Yoo-hoo!” She went upstairs, thumping loudly on the steps. “Mother!”

Phoebe and I returned to the door. He was still standing there with his hands in his pockets staring mournfully at Phoebe’s house. “That’s strange,” Phoebe said to him. “I thought she was here, but she must have gone out. There’s a whole lot of other people here though,” she added quickly. “Scads and scads of people, but no Mrs. Winterbottom.”

“Is Mrs. Winterbottom your mother?” he asked.

“Yes,” Phoebe said. “Would you like me to leave a message?”

The little pink circles on his cheeks became even pinker. “No!” he said. “No. I don’t think so. No.” He looked up and down the street and then up at the number above the door. “What’s your name?”

“Phoebe.”

He repeated her name. “Phoebe Winterbottom.” I thought he was going to make a joke about her name, but he didn’t. He glanced at me. “Are you a Winterbottom too?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I’m a visitor.”

And then he left. He just turned around, walked slowly down the porch steps and on down the street. We waited until he had turned the corner before we left. We ran all the way to Mary Lou’s. Phoebe was certain that the young man was going to ambush us. Honestly. Like I said, she has a vivid imagination.

On the way to Mary Lou’s, Phoebe said, “Mary Lou’s family is not nearly as civilized as ours.”

“In what way?” I asked.

“Oh, you’ll see,” Phoebe said.

Mary Lou Finney and Ben Finney were both in our class at school. At first I thought they were sister and brother, but Phoebe told me they were cousins, and that Ben was living with Mary Lou’s family temporarily. Apparently there was always at least one stray relative living at the Finneys’ temporarily.

It was complete pandemonium at the Finneys’. Mary Lou had an older sister and three brothers. In addition, there were her parents and Ben. There were footballs and basketballs lying all over the place, and boys sliding down the banister and leaping over tables and talking with their mouths full and interrupting everyone with endless questions. Phoebe took one look around and whispered to me, “Mary Lou’s parents do not seem to have much control over things.” Phoebe could sound a bit prissy sometimes.

Mr. Finney was lying in the bathtub, with all his clothes on, reading a book. From Mary Lou’s bedroom window, I saw Mrs. Finney lying on top of the garage with a pillow under her head. “What’s she doing?” I asked.

Mary Lou peered out the window. “King of kings! She’s taking a nap.”

When Mr. Finney got out of the bathtub, he went out in the backyard and tossed a football around with Dennis and Dougie, two of Mary Lou’s brothers. Mr. Finney shouted, “Over here!” and “Thataway!” and “Way to go!”