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“This is Mrs. O’Brien,” said Chief Springer.
“Peggy O’Brien,” she interrupted.
“She’s a social worker from over in Gordonton,” the chief went on, talking to Bunny. “We’re lucky she was here today and we could locate her.”
“Why?” said Bunny, her eyes wide. “Why lucky?”
“ ’Cause we want her to talk to your daughter,” said Chief Springer. “We’ve got a problem here, and maybe Mrs. O’Brien can help.”
Bunny grabbed my wrist. “She’s not talking to Martha. Martha’s not talking to anyone.”
“Don’t make this hard on yourself,” Chief Springer said. “We just want to do some talking. This lady here is trained to give help.”
“We don’t want any help,” snapped Bunny. “We’re perfectly fine.” She was still squeezing my wrist.
“You’re not fine,” insisted Chief Springer. “This is a serious thing, and this is a small town.”
“Leave us alone,” said Bunny, her voice rising.
Chief Springer motioned Bunny to calm down. “Don’t force my hand,” he said.
Sergeant Tony suddenly pointed a finger. “We’ve carried your family before,” he huffed.
“Now, now,” said the social worker. “There’s no need to get excited. I’m just here to talk to Martha.”
Bunny stared at all of them. Her eyes were wild. She started to say something and stopped, her mouth frozen in a perfect “O.” Over in the square, a motorized saw buzzed a long, aching plea through the hot afternoon air.
“Come on, Martha,” Bunny said. “We’re leaving.” Dragging me by the arm, she pushed roughly past Chief Springer and the wide, solid social worker. Neither tried to stop her, and Bunny pulled me out into the hall.
“Don’t do this, Bunny,” yelled Chief Springer, but by then we were down the corridor, banging out the lobby past Mrs. Donaldson. Bunny’s car was parked in front, and we drove straight home.
When we got there, Bunny slammed the door and stomped around the living room, muttering in rage. After a few minutes, though, she started to wind down. By the time Chief Springer and the social worker arrived, about an hour later, Bunny was collapsed on the couch. I touched her on the way to let them in, and she rattled like a bag of sticks.
Chief Springer explained that a juvenile delinquency petition had been filed against me and that I was being t
aken to a temporary foster home. “I’m sorry, Bunny,” he said. “I didn’t want to have to do this.”
Bunny sat without saying anything or looking at anyone.
“This is a lovely foster family,” said Mrs. O’Brien. “We could have put Martha in the Children’s Home, but I’m sure you’ll agree this is better. The Vernons—do you know them? They lost their daughter tragically a few years ago. Of course, Mrs. Calhoun, you’ll be able to visit. We’ll get this all straightened out.” She turned to me. “Now, come, Martha. Let’s pack some clothes.”
I hesitated.
“This is a serious thing,” said Chief Springer.
The social worker wiggled two thick fingers at me, and I went numbly. I took the old, brown suitcase down from the shelf in the front closet. It’s faded and dusty and coming apart at the seams, but it’s the only suitcase Bunny owns. My father left it. Bunny once said that when he disappeared, he took everything worth putting in a suitcase and left the suitcase.
While Mrs. O’Brien watched, I opened it on my bed, then stood staring into my clothes closet.
“Oh, come on, just throw in any old thing,” she said. “We can always come back for more.”
I reached into the rack of clothes, grabbed a bundle, and dumped them in the suitcase. Mrs. O’Brien suddenly spotted something in the closet.
“A bathing suit!” she called out. “Bring it along. We’ll go swimming.”
A few minutes later, I arrived at the Vernons’ house with a suitcase full of wrinkled clothes and my striped bathing suit.
THREE
