Wolf Hollow: Chapters 20–27

Toby rode in the back of the truck with the dogs and four other men, some from our hills, some from farther afield.

Even when my father explained how they’d lowered him into the well, and Aunt Lily said, “That was very brave of you, Jordan,” again in that soft, almost-musical voice...and the boys launched a barrage of questions about what it was like and were there snakes and centipedes and did the well go all the way to China.

“Oh,” she said, caught by an afterthought. “John, you didn’t tell us how you came to discover that Betty was in the well. Was it the bloodhounds?”

Aunt Lily was the only person I knew who could raise just one eyebrow, which had the effect of making her look both skeptical and wise.

“Amazingly, no, but there’s some gangrene in her right foot. Her leg was wedged up tight under that poncho. When she tried to move it, the poncho started to rip, so she stopped. But they think it will be okay. She may lose a toe. Too soon to tell.”

Toby had bowed his head, both hands in his lap. I stared at him, afraid of what he might be thinking. I could see places where I’d been careless with his hair. A small cowlick on his crown. An unevenness.

The scars on his left hand were as irrefutable as a fingerprint.

School was different that day, for two reasons.
First, because I walked in to find myself the subject of a standing ovation. Even my brothers joined in, though they looked a little abashed about it.

But it was also worse because Ruth was gone, too, and some of the littlest ones kept home by mothers who did not know Toby as I did and feared he might be lurking in the bushes, waiting to toss their babies down the nearest well.

Instead, the stone itself told me a thing or two about age and resilience, and the trees at the edge of the clearing quietly concurred.

Instead, the stone itself told me a thing or two about age and resilience, and the trees at the edge of the clearing quietly concurred.

When Aunt Lily returned from her call, she said, “Officer Coleman will be here tonight. More men in the morning, if he says so.” She looked sated.

The boys had arrived at the prospect of imminent supper and talk of the police coming soon.

My mother had been nurse to all of us through so many mishaps and sicknesses that not much fazed her, but I had to put down my fork.

He put out his hand and I shook it, as if we’d made a pact.
Then he climbed down the ladder, crossed the threshing floor, and walked out through the big open doors.

“Hey, that’s my Treasure Island,” James said, and in an instant they were tussling over the old book.

The house trembled with a migration to the mudroom door, the entrance of the big trooper, the excitement of my brothers, who must have forgotten, in the fray, that Toby had never done them any harm.

“Do you think you’re God?” she said impatiently. “Do you think you control things? Well, you do not. And it’s arrogant to think that you do.”

I pictured someone coming upon that well, years later, and filling it in with earth, burying her old bones deep in that accidental crypt.

The way he said it, the way he looked at me, took me aback.

“We decided to wait here for the others to catch up before we go back out,” the constable said. “We already scoured the area around the smokehouse. So much scent there that we went in circles, but the dogs finally decided on this direction.”

“No, it’s Annabelle, Mrs. Gribble. Can you put me through to the Woodberrys please? It’s very important.” I knew that would whet her appetite.

People often complained about her eavesdropping and swore they didn’t listen to her gossip, but the stories she spread had always proven true (except one April Fool’s Day when someone fed her a bogus tale about a wagon train of gypsies setting up camp in Bocktown), and she was widely regarded as the county crier.

“Not angry at all,” my grandfather said. He smiled at me from his end of the table. “Gumption’s a good thing, if you ask me.”

“So is industry,” my mother said as she slid a pan of pork chops into the oven. “Annabelle, those carrots aren’t going to peel themselves.”

“Easy, Lily,” my father said, as if she were a fractious horse. “It’s been a long day.”

An inkling told me to go back to bed before she saw me.

I slipped my hands in the big pockets of my grandfather’s coat and, as I watched her grapple with her revelations, made a fresh discovery of my own.

I slipped my hands in the big pockets of my grandfather’s coat and, as I watched her grapple with her revelations, made a fresh discovery of my own.

I unbuttoned the coat so I could work with both hands.
And unpinned what turned out to be a gold star with a face engraved on the middle, set inside a wreath. At the top was an eagle perched on a bar that had the word valor on it.

She scrutinized the medal, looking for a way out, but there was none.

A spider had left an egg sac in a web above where he’d slept, and I pictured the hatchlings cascading down into his nest of pine boughs when the thaw came next spring.

A spider had left an egg sac in a web above where he’d slept, and I pictured the hatchlings cascading down into his nest of pine boughs when the thaw came next spring.

And when we passed by the graveyard the next day there was nothing but a raised bed of bare earth, strewn with tattered flowers and leaves, where Betty had last been.

And I could not help but think of the hollow as a dark place, no matter how bright its canopy, no matter how pretty the flowers that grew in its capricious light.