I’d been listening to all night—as I pondered what to do.
My life had no plot. The main character in every novel I’d ever read always knew what she wanted, and in spite of numerous obstacles she would move forward toward that goal. The action would reach a climax as she struggled to succeed and then the story would resolve—sometimes tragically if she had a fatal flaw, but usually happily ever after. The murder would be solved, the romance would end in marriage, victory would be won, and the main characters would have a brand-new start. I knew that real life wasn’t exactly like a book, but why did everyone else’s life seem to hum along with a sensible plot and realistic goals, and mine didn’t?
What did I want in life?
I would like my library job back. I wasn’t sure if I wanted Gordon back. Aside from that, I had no other goals. Running away to Kentucky had offered a diversion, but sooner or later—hopefully sooner—I would return to Illinois, and then what? Should I become a farmer’s wife like my two sisters?
I tossed a pebble into the stream—it was what people in books always did for mysterious, symbolic reasons. I sighed and turned to go back inside. It was too chilly and too early in the morning to stand by a creek and feel sorry for myself. Halfway to the back door, I heard a loud bang, like a gunshot. It startled me as well as a flock of birds that rose up in flight from a nearby tree. Two more booms sounded in quick succession, speeding me the rest of the way to the back door. I fled inside and leaned against the door to catch my breath, my heart fluttering and flapping like the birds’ wings. I had been wishing that something would happen, but I hadn’t expected gunfire!
Then I noticed the deer antlers mounted above the door in the library, and I felt very foolish. Of course. People around here went hunting. Someone must be shooting his breakfast or dinner. That’s what poor people did for food, right? Hopefully no one had noticed my undignified sprint.
I was gazing at the pile of dishes in the sink, thinking that a courteous guest would wash them for her host, when the front door slammed shut, rattling the windows. I tiptoed cautiously into the library and peeked around the corner into the shadowy foyer. Mr. MacDougal was leaning against the front door. He held his right hand above his heart as if he was about to say the Pledge of Allegiance. He wore a dark glove and beneath his hand was a stain that hadn’t been on his bib overalls yesterday. He looked up and saw me in the doorway.
“Help . . .” he breathed. His eyes looked round and wide and very scared. “Help me . . .” His knees buckled, and he slid down the wall to the floor. I ran to him.
“Mr. MacDougal! What’s wrong? What happened?”
He was breathing hard, gasping. “I’ve been shot . . .” He lifted his hand, and he wasn’t wearing a glove after all. His palm was dark with blood.
“W-what should I do? I don’t know what to do!”
He stared at me, and the skin visible around his eyes and lips drained from pink to white. He slowly blinked his eyes as if he was falling asleep.
“Should I call a doctor? An ambulance? Where’s the hospital?” Stupid questions. There was nothing in this ridiculous town.
“Get Lillie,” he murmured. Then his eyes closed and he slumped sideways to the floor like a pile of rags.
G et Lillie? The only thing I knew about Lillie was that she had been upstairs yesterday when I arrived. Mack had brought her a baked bean sandwich. Lillie could be his wife or his dog or his maiden aunt, for all I knew.
I sprinted up the creaking stairs, taking them two at a time. Three doors opened off the narrow hallway; one led to the room where I had slept, one stood partially open, and the third was closed. I peeked inside the open door and found a witch’s workroom, tiny and dark. It smelled like rotten eggs and dead grass. Bunches of dried herbs and flowers hung from the slanted
My life had no plot. The main character in every novel I’d ever read always knew what she wanted, and in spite of numerous obstacles she would move forward toward that goal. The action would reach a climax as she struggled to succeed and then the story would resolve—sometimes tragically if she had a fatal flaw, but usually happily ever after. The murder would be solved, the romance would end in marriage, victory would be won, and the main characters would have a brand-new start. I knew that real life wasn’t exactly like a book, but why did everyone else’s life seem to hum along with a sensible plot and realistic goals, and mine didn’t?
What did I want in life?
I would like my library job back. I wasn’t sure if I wanted Gordon back. Aside from that, I had no other goals. Running away to Kentucky had offered a diversion, but sooner or later—hopefully sooner—I would return to Illinois, and then what? Should I become a farmer’s wife like my two sisters?
I tossed a pebble into the stream—it was what people in books always did for mysterious, symbolic reasons. I sighed and turned to go back inside. It was too chilly and too early in the morning to stand by a creek and feel sorry for myself. Halfway to the back door, I heard a loud bang, like a gunshot. It startled me as well as a flock of birds that rose up in flight from a nearby tree. Two more booms sounded in quick succession, speeding me the rest of the way to the back door. I fled inside and leaned against the door to catch my breath, my heart fluttering and flapping like the birds’ wings. I had been wishing that something would happen, but I hadn’t expected gunfire!
Then I noticed the deer antlers mounted above the door in the library, and I felt very foolish. Of course. People around here went hunting. Someone must be shooting his breakfast or dinner. That’s what poor people did for food, right? Hopefully no one had noticed my undignified sprint.
I was gazing at the pile of dishes in the sink, thinking that a courteous guest would wash them for her host, when the front door slammed shut, rattling the windows. I tiptoed cautiously into the library and peeked around the corner into the shadowy foyer. Mr. MacDougal was leaning against the front door. He held his right hand above his heart as if he was about to say the Pledge of Allegiance. He wore a dark glove and beneath his hand was a stain that hadn’t been on his bib overalls yesterday. He looked up and saw me in the doorway.
“Help . . .” he breathed. His eyes looked round and wide and very scared. “Help me . . .” His knees buckled, and he slid down the wall to the floor. I ran to him.
“Mr. MacDougal! What’s wrong? What happened?”
He was breathing hard, gasping. “I’ve been shot . . .” He lifted his hand, and he wasn’t wearing a glove after all. His palm was dark with blood.
“W-what should I do? I don’t know what to do!”
He stared at me, and the skin visible around his eyes and lips drained from pink to white. He slowly blinked his eyes as if he was falling asleep.
“Should I call a doctor? An ambulance? Where’s the hospital?” Stupid questions. There was nothing in this ridiculous town.
“Get Lillie,” he murmured. Then his eyes closed and he slumped sideways to the floor like a pile of rags.
G et Lillie? The only thing I knew about Lillie was that she had been upstairs yesterday when I arrived. Mack had brought her a baked bean sandwich. Lillie could be his wife or his dog or his maiden aunt, for all I knew.
I sprinted up the creaking stairs, taking them two at a time. Three doors opened off the narrow hallway; one led to the room where I had slept, one stood partially open, and the third was closed. I peeked inside the open door and found a witch’s workroom, tiny and dark. It smelled like rotten eggs and dead grass. Bunches of dried herbs and flowers hung from the slanted
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