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We all looked at her blankly.
She waved her hand impatiently. “Stick,” she said. Moses handed her a twig.
Minnie drew a lopsided house in the dirt—a peaked roof, two windows, and a door. “This is the sweet little house,” she said in a singsong voice.
I groaned. It was a child’s fantasy.
“Hush! She draws a picture of what she saw,” said Tauseret.
Minnie added a jumble of scratches above the door.
“What are you writing, Minnie?” Apollo asked.
“She don’t know how to write,” said Bertha.
I moved behind her. The scratches were shaky but were letters indeed. They spilled off the side of the house because she couldn’t fit them all in. If I ignored the strange spacing, I saw they spelled out TOMS JUNCTION. I spoke it out loud. “It might be a train station name,” I said, amazed.
“I have touched and seen people through you while we were apart,” Tauseret said. “Some may still be open to me. I will send a message for them to meet us at this tomsjunction, I will send it to everyone I can reach. I will send it and pray.”
“Well, mention the state of Iowa while you’re at it,” I said. “That should narrow down the search a few hundred thousand miles.”
“Dang,” said Earle. “Trust the lady, why don’t you. A lady what can turn from a buffalo chip to pretty can do anything.”
I left the children babbling excitedly to Earle and carried Tauseret back to her sarcophagus, where she closed her eyes, and moved her lips as if uttering silent prayers.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Saving you, as I should always have done,” she answered, then spoke no more.
On a break between shows I asked to see Miss Lightfoot in Mr. Ginger’s tent. She followed me with a fan in one hand and a handkerchief in the other.
“I’m taking the children away from Mink,” I said to them both. “Tonight if possible, and I want you to come too.”
“Abel!” Miss Lightfoot exclaimed. “Dr. Mink won’t let you steal them.”
“It’s not stealing,” I said. “They’re people.”
“How do you plan to go?” asked Mr. Ginger.
“We could all fit into the children’s wagon,” I answered.
“Now, that is stealing,” said Mr. Ginger.
“When was the last time you were paid?” I asked. “How much money does he owe you all?”
“He’s keeping it safe for us,” objected Miss Lightfoot. She peppered her neck with quick little dabs of her handkerchief. Mr. Ginger stared down at his brightly shined shoes.
“I think he owes you all a wagon and horses at least—that’s not stealing.”
“I can’t, honey bun,” said Miss Lightfoot. Her voice trembled. “What if he catches us? What then? He’s a cruel man, Abel.” Her fan twitched in her other hand as if with a butterfly mind of its own.
“I’m taking the children, whatever you say,” I told them.
Miss Lightfoot sighed. “And so you must, the poor, dear mites.”
“Where?” asked Mr. Ginger.
“We’ll make our way back to Maryland somehow,” I said. “My family lives in a resort where there’s lots of room for children and plenty of people who will care for them—love them, even. We’re all show folk. We take care of one another.” I hoped that didn’t sound like a criticism.
