Homecoming Read Free

policeman saw us. Foster homes or something,
     I dunno. I don’t want to risk it. But one kid . . . and I’m pretty old so it doesn’t
     look funny.”
    “Okay. That sounds okay.”
    “We’ve got to get to Bridgeport.”
    James thought about that, then nodded his head. “I never listened much to Momma’s
     talk about her. What will she be like, Aunt Cilla?”
    “Rich,” Dicey said.
    “It would be a long walk,” James said.
    “Long enough,” Dicey agreed. She got out of the car fast.
    It was full dark, an overcast night. The parking lot was nearly empty; only two cars
     besides theirs remained. Dicey wondered how many cars were left in the other three
     parking lots that spread out from the other sides of the building. It felt as empty
     as all of space must be. She hoped there were cars in each lot. The more cars there
     were, the safer their car was for them.
    Dicey headed confidently for the walkway, as if she had every right to be where she
     was, as if she had an important errand to run, as if she knew just where she was going.
     She remembered a telephone at the far end of the building. It wasn’t a real phone
     booth, but a kind of cubicle hung up on the wall, with an open shelf underneath to
     hold the directory. James could probably see her from the car, if he looked for her.
     From that distance, she would look small.
    The walkway was lit up, and the store windows were lit, so she moved through patches
     of sharp light. At the phone, she took out the directory to look up bus companies
     in the yellow pages. She ran her finger down the names, selected one that sounded
     local and reached into her pocket for change.
    She heard footsteps. A man approached her, in a uniform like a policeman’s, but tan
     not blue, and without the badge. He took his time getting to her, as if he was sure
     she’d wait, sure of his own strength to hold her, even at that distance. He moved
     like he thought she was afraid of him, too afraid to run.
    “Hey,” the man said. His shirt had the word “Security” sewn onto it. Where his belly
     sagged, the shirt hung out over his pants. He carried a long-handled flashlight. He
     wore a pistol at his belt.
    Dicey didn’t answer, but she didn’t look away.
    “Hey kid,” he said, as if she had shown signs of running and he needed to halt her.
     He was heavy, out of shape. He had a pig-person face, a coarse skin that sagged at
     the jowls, little blue eyes and pale eyebrows, and a fat, pushed-back nose. When he
     came up next to her, Dicey stepped back a pace, but kept her finger on the number
     in the book.
    “You lost?”
    “Naw. I’m making a phone call.”
    “Where do you live?”
    “Just over there,” Dicey said, pointing vaguely with her free hand.
    “Go home and call from there. Run along now. If you were a girl, I’d walk you over,
     but—”
    “Our phone’s broken,” Dicey said. “That’s why my mom sent me here.”
    The guard shifted his flashlight, holding it like a club. “Phones don’t break. How’s
     a phone break?”
    “We’ve got this dog that chews things up. Slippers, papers, you know. He chewed the
     phone. The cord, actually, but it’s all the same—the phone’s broken.”
    “Are you bulling me?”
    “I wish I was.”
    “What’s your name, kid?”
    “Danny.”
    She felt funny, strange, making up lies as quickly and smoothly as if she’d been doing
     it all her life.
    The man took a piece of gum out of his pocket, unwrapped it, folded it in half and
     stuck it into his mouth, chewing on it a couple of times.
    “Danny what?”
    “Tillerman.” Dicey couldn’t make up a new last name, except Smith, and nobody would
     believe that even if it was true.
    “You don’t look more than ten. Isn’t it late to be out?”
    Dicey shrugged.
    The guard grew suspicious. “Who’re you calling?”
    “The bus company. My sisters and me are going down to Bridgeport some time soon, to
     stay with my aunt.”
    He chewed and thought.