Tracking Daddy Down

  Tracking Daddy Down

  Marybeth Kelsey

  For my husband, Terry Walter, and sons,

  Christopher Murrell, Eric Murrell, and

  Walter

  For my aunt, Ann B. Haithcock

  And in memory of my parents,

  Kathleen and Bill Kelsey

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  The summer I turned eleven, my daddy, Earl Leon Wisher,…

  Chapter 2

  “Billie.”

  Chapter 3

  My hands flew to my mouth. I could hardly catch…

  Chapter 4

  Daddy got canned? What was Aunt Charlene talking about anyway?

  Chapter 5

  Daddy’s family didn’t clear out of the diner until after…

  Chapter 6

  “Old Man Hinshaw owes Daddy a favor,” I told Tommy.

  Chapter 7

  “You see anyone?” Tommy stood in the doorway while I…

  Chapter 8

  I sat on the edge of the bed, barely breathing,…

  Chapter 9

  My plan had been to wake up early, get Tommy,…

  Chapter 10

  Daddy Joe stuck his head out the car window. “You…

  Chapter 11

  Carcasses! I fell against Tommy, my heart pumping so fast…

  Chapter 12

  We all followed Mirabelle as she rushed Whitey inside and…

  Chapter 13

  By now the train was so close I could smell…

  Chapter 14

  I cowered against the wall, searching wildly for somewhere—anywhere—to escape.

  Chapter 15

  “Aw, man. Ada Jane must’ve ratted on us for leaving…

  Chapter 16

  “We’ve got the culprits, Bud,” Whitey said, his voice quivering…

  Chapter 17

  The next morning Aunt Charlene stopped by on her way…

  Chapter 18

  Carla and I were two doors down from Clarksons’. “I’m…

  Chapter 19

  Three more days dragged by, each of them oozing into…

  Chapter 20

  “I’ve got something to tell you. Something that has to…

  Chapter 21

  Daddy and Uncle Warren had outsmarted the cops. They were…

  Chapter 22

  The next evening I sat between Tommy and Carla at…

  Chapter 23

  Tommy jerked away from Goble, clutching the kitten to his…

  Chapter 24

  Tommy and I raced to the end of the aisle…

  Chapter 25

  I woke up Sunday morning to the snip, snip, snip…

  Chapter 26

  I stood shivering at the bottom of the church steps,…

  Chapter 27

  Daddy Joe’s voice filled my room like a blast of…

  Chapter 28

  We followed the tracks out past the glass factory, through…

  Chapter 29

  I skidded the rest of the way down the hill…

  Chapter 30

  I crouched against the Studebaker, grabbing the fender to steady…

  Chapter 31

  I couldn’t even scream. I stood rooted to the ground…

  Chapter 32

  I stood next to Mama as the ambulance pulled away…

  Chapter 33

  I sunk back in the car seat with my eyes…

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  The summer I turned eleven, my daddy, Earl Leon Wisher, took a gun and robbed the Henderson County Bank in Millerstown, Indiana.

  He did it in broad daylight with his older brother, Warren, and from what I heard, they never even bothered to disguise themselves. All they did was tie checkered bandannas over their mouths, so of course they were recognized right off.

  “Morons.” That’s what Mama said the day we heard the news. “Dumb as doorknobs—both of them.”

  I didn’t say anything at the time, but I figured Daddy wasn’t as dumb as she claimed, because word had it him and Uncle Warren tore out of Millerstown that day with more than ten thousand dollars. And nobody had a clue where they ran off to, either. Nobody except me, that is, and I sure didn’t have any plans to squeal on my own daddy. I’d already lost him once, back when I was in third grade and he took off for California, leaving both us girls with Mama. I wasn’t ready to lose him a second time.

  I heard about the bank robbery on a Wednesday in June, right before my eleventh birthday.

  The day started out normal enough. I’d been out riding bikes around our town of Myron, Indiana, with my best friend, Ernestine, and my cousin, Tommy—he’s Uncle Warren’s boy. We decided to stop and play a round of double dare on South Street Hill. For riding bikes, South Street was the best—smooth and steep.

  It was my turn to make up the dare, so I gripped the middle of my handlebars, balanced my feet on the back fender, then wove from one side of the road to the other all the way down the hill. The faster I got going, the more my eyes bugged out with excitement. When I hit bottom, I jumped off my bike and sent it spinning to the grass. I lay panting on the side of the street, waiting for Tommy and Ernestine to follow my dare. But neither of them moved. They just stood at the top of the hill, like they were glued to the pavement.

  “I ain’t doing it,” Tommy hollered. “My chain’s too rusty. It might come off.”

  “Liar,” I yelled back. “You’re a sissy.”

  I knew that would get him. Tommy acted tough, but when it came down to it, he never worked up the nerve to do half the stuff I did. Not that I’m bragging or anything. Mama always said I was reckless, that I didn’t act like I had the sense God gave a chicken.

  “It’ll be a miracle if you don’t kill yourself with one of those daredevil stunts,” she’d told me.

  I glanced up to see Ernestine whizzing straight down the middle of the street, her tangled red hair blowing around her face, her mouth working furiously on a wad of gum. She skidded for several feet before stopping. A pang of envy stung me when I looked at her new red bike with its padded seat and slick chrome fenders. Her rich aunt Myrtle from Washington, D. C., had just bought it for her.

  “Chicken,” I said when she stopped.

  “Am not.”

  “Are too. You didn’t even ride the fender.”

  Ernestine spit on her handlebars and wiped them to a shine with the bottom of her blouse. “That’s because my bike ain’t broke in good enough yet. I can’t take any chances on it. My aunt Myrtle made me promise.”

  “Can I ride it?” I’d been eyeing that bike for a whole week, but so far she hadn’t let me or Tommy so much as sit on it. She claimed we might dent the fenders.

  “Myrtle says no, not till I’ve had it a month.” She fidgeted with the red, white, and blue streamers hanging from her handlebars.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter anyway,” I said, acting like I didn’t care. “Daddy’s getting me a new bike for my birthday. He says I can pick out whatever one I want.”

  Ernestine’s eyes widened big as Tootsie Roll Pops. “For real? I thought he didn’t have any money.”

  I guess I could understand why she’d think that, seeing as how Daddy hadn’t ever bought us kids anything except for a piece of candy now and then. Mama said he didn’t have money because he couldn’t hold a job. But ever since he’d come back three months ago, Daddy had been working steady at Ray’s Auto Parts over in Millerstown. Plus, he’d told me about the good job he’d had out in California and how they still owed him a bunch of money. He said he’d be getting it any day.

  “What do yo
u want, baby?” Daddy had asked me a few days ago, when I’d reminded him my birthday was coming up. “You want one of those big Kimmy dolls they got in the window at Clarksons’?”

  “Daddy, I don’t want a doll. I want a new bike, one that has streamers coming out of the handlebars—like Ernestine’s. Only I want a blue one.”

  “No problem. You want a bike; you’ll get a bike,” he’d promised. “Soon as I get the money owed me. I’ll buy the Kimmy doll for your sister’s birthday.”

  That would make Carla happy, for sure. She was only five, and she’d been begging for a Kimmy doll ever since we first saw them at Clarksons’ Five and Dime in downtown Myron. I couldn’t have cared less about the stupid thing. Mama said I’d always been a tomboy—which is why she called me Billie instead of Billieanne—and that I’d never played with dolls, even when I was little. All I knew was that Ernestine and I had lots more fun tromping along the railroad tracks or playing dodgeball with Tommy than we did brushing some doll’s hair. I didn’t blame Daddy for not knowing any of this, though. He’d been gone almost three years, and I figured he’d just forgotten the things I liked to do.

  My thoughts were interrupted by a “Whoop!” Tommy came flying down the street straight at us, both arms high above his head, his front tire wobbling like it wanted to fall off. He did some kind of tricky fishtail, bumped over the curb, then ended up smack in the middle of Mirabelle Hudson’s flower bed.

  I cringed. He couldn’t have picked a worse place to crash. I happened to know those purple gladiolas were Mirabelle’s personal favorites. She did all the flower arrangements at our Myron Methodist Church, which sat right next door to her house, and I’d heard her tell the preacher’s wife how she always saved the purple gladiolas for special occasions like weddings and church banquets.

  I also knew firsthand about Mirabelle’s fiery temper, seeing as how she’d baby-sat us kids so much. We’d only quit going to her house a few weeks ago, after Mama married my stepdad, Joe Hughes. He’d said there wasn’t any need for Mirabelle anymore since he usually worked second or third shift and was home to watch us kids during the summer days. If it had been up to me, I wouldn’t have had any baby-sitter, and that’s exactly what I’d told Mama.

  “I don’t like the way he watches over me like a hawk,” I’d said. “He makes me come home a hundred times a day to check in. And he makes us eat stupid stuff for lunch, like tuna fish salad with celery, before we get dessert. It’s not fair. Tommy doesn’t have to have a baby-sitter anymore. Besides, I’m old enough to take care of Carla by myself.”

  “Is that all?” Mama had said, after she’d stopped laughing.

  “No.” I was on a roll by then. “He’s been hogging my chair ever since he moved in here, he always gets both drumsticks when you fry chicken, and he hardly ever says a word to me except ‘Where are you going?’ and ‘You need to be home in half an hour.’ Besides that, he likes Carla better than he likes me.”

  Of course, Mama stood right up for him. “That’s not true, Billie. Joe’s a good, fair man. He cares for you both, and he’s doing his best to watch out for you. Just give him a chance.”

  I’d decided she could talk him up until she was blue in the face, but it still didn’t mean I had to like him. And I didn’t like the way she had me and Carla call him Daddy Joe, either. Mama said it showed him respect, but so far the only thing I cared to show Joe Hughes was the door.

  Tommy hopped up from the flower bed and brushed himself off. “Dang! I told you my chain was rusted. It came off when I tried to brake. The darn handlebars are loose, too. I couldn’t even steer.” He stared at his mangled bike lying in the middle of the flower bed.

  The Hudsons’ screen door flew open, and Mirabelle blew outside like a wicked storm cloud. She pointed her big beak of a nose in our direction.

  “Uh-oh!” Ernestine scrambled behind me. She squashed herself up against my back, hissing in my ear. “Ohmygosh! She’s going to kill us. I know it. She’s going to kill us.”

  Mirabelle clutched the front of her tattered house robe and huffed and puffed her short, squat body to where we stood by the flower bed. Once she got a good look at the damage, her face swelled way up and turned the color of a beet.

  “We’re real sorry, Mirabelle,” I said as fast as the words would spill out. “Tommy’s chain came off, just like that.” I snapped my fingers for emphasis. “It was an accident, wasn’t it, Tommy?”

  He stood speechless, his face pale as cream, his skinny legs quivering. I figured he must’ve been thinking about Mirabelle’s five-pound paddle, which hung on a hook by her front door. Him and I had been at the wrong end of it plenty.

  “Wasn’t it an accident, Tommy?” I said louder, kicking his ankle.

  “Uh…yeah…my darn chain slipped and then I got going up around thirty or so and I couldn’t steer no more ’cause my handlebars came loose and I—I—”

  Mirabelle snorted. “An accident? That weren’t no accident, boy! That there was vandalism. I’ve a good mind to git my paddle. Look here what you kids have done. Them’s my best bunch of glads.”

  She lunged forward, swatting at us with her hand. “Git! Git, now. Git on home. And don’t you think I ain’t tellin’ your daddy Joe about this mess, young lady. He’ll take a paddle to all of you.”

  We grabbed our bikes and pushed them down the sidewalk, since Tommy’s wasn’t fit to ride anymore. Once we rounded the church corner I peered over my shoulder, relieved to see that Mirabelle wasn’t following us. I knew we hadn’t heard the last of this gladiola incident, though. Mirabelle was sure to tell her husband, Whitey, who was also our Sunday school teacher and Daddy Joe’s uncle. Whitey would see to it we got some kind of punishment—probably a month of daily Bible study with him as the teacher.

  I wished Daddy wasn’t living in Millerstown with Tommy’s dad, Uncle Warren. It was five miles away. If only I could get to him quick and explain what’d happened, he’d smooth things over with Whitey. Daddy always had been a good talker; even Mama admitted that.

  We stopped in front of the church. Tommy turned his bike upside down on its handlebars, and the three of us were hovered over it, working to fit the chain back on, when Ernestine sucked in her breath so hard I thought she’d swallowed her gum.

  She grabbed my elbow. “Psst! Ohmygosh, Billie! Don’t look now, but here comes your stepdad. For real. We’re going to be in big trouble if he sees Mirabelle.”

  Shoot! My stomach rumbled with dread as Daddy Joe’s station wagon eased up the road toward us. What did he want anyway? Was I in trouble for not reporting home on time? Maybe he’d already seen Mirabelle and believed her story of how we’d vandalized the flower bed. He might even have her paddle.

  I kept my head down like I was busy studying the bike chain, but I watched from the corner of my eye as the car rolled to a stop. Daddy Joe cut the engine and sat there for a moment, looking at us from the open car window. I held my breath, wishing he’d sing out something bright and cheery to break the silence, something my real daddy would’ve yelled, like “Hey! It’s mighty hot. You kids want to go downtown for an ice-cream cone?” Daddy Joe didn’t, though. He just sat there, his mouth set in a frown, studying the three of us like we were pieces to some tricky jigsaw puzzle he couldn’t figure out.

  “Oh, man. He looks mad. We’re in for it now,” Tommy muttered.

  I busied myself with the chain again. “He can go jump in a lake for all I care,” I said as the car door opened.

  Chapter 2

  “Billie.”

  Daddy Joe’s deep, gruff voice froze my lungs so tight I could hardly catch my breath.

  I don’t know why he shook me up like that; he’d never laid a hand on me or Carla. He’d never even yelled that much, except to tell us to hush up when he was trying to sleep. In fact, Daddy Joe was so quiet I could never tell what was on his mind or if he was having a good time.

  Maybe that was the problem. My real daddy liked to goof off and joke around with me and Carla, even on
the mornings when he was too tired to get up. He’d let us jump on the bed and throw pillows at him, until he’d finally bury himself under the blankets and say, “I give! You girls go get your breakfast now, so I can catch a couple more winks here.”

  Those mornings with Daddy always seemed to make Mama mad, especially the time Carla threw her pillow so hard it knocked a bottle of gardenia perfume off the dresser.

  Mama had already yelled three times that morning for Daddy to get up. She’d come back to the bedroom to yell at him for the fourth time, I guess, right as the bottle crashed to the floor and spilled.

  “Phew!” Daddy said, disappearing under the blankets. “That’s some mighty powerful perfume. Somebody better clean that mess up before your mama sees it.”

  “I’m looking at it now,” she’d said in a tight voice from the bedroom door. “I also see you’re still in bed, which means you’re going to be late for work the second time this week. How long do you think they’re going to put up with that?”

  “Aw, come on, Wanda,” Daddy said from under the blankets. “Lighten up. It’s no big deal. I’ll stay later this afternoon to make up the time. Besides, I’m spending time with the kids, like you’re always after me to do. We’re having a good time, ain’t that right, girls?”

  I’d had to agree with him. And since Daddy said he’d make up the work time, I didn’t see why Mama raised such a stink about his getting up a few minutes late.

  She’d stormed back down the hall, yelling over her shoulder, “If you’d get home at a decent hour, we wouldn’t have this problem in the mornings.”