Authors: Lynn Austin
I had felt so isolated these past few weeks, cut off from the world with no radio or daily newspaper. Now these wires would reconnect me. I had to get inside to use the phone.
I walked all the way around the building to look for a window I could open, but the front one was the only one that wasn’t boarded up—and it was in plain sight of the road. I found another door in the rear, but it was latched from the inside with one of those little hooks and loops. I could see the latch through the window on the door. The window had small squares of glass, and I figured if I broke one of the panes, I could reach inside and unlatch the door. It made no sense to me that they would put a huge padlock on the front door, board up the windows, then leave the back door vulnerable to amateur sleuths like me.
I glanced around like a guilty person. I guess I was one. At least the rear of the building was more isolated than the front and not in plain view of anyone passing by on the road. No one would see me if I broke in. I picked up a rock and smashed the window, taking two tries to do it, wincing as the sound of tinkling glass broke the silence. Crows screeched at the sudden noise as if to betray me. My heart pounded. My chest hurt. I had been holding my breath and hadn’t realized it. The suspenseful stories I’d read had produced these physical reactions but this was the real thing—and twice as upsetting. I ran a stick around the inside of the window frame, knocking out the rest of the glass, gritting my teeth at the sound. Then I carefully reached inside and unlatched the lock.
I was officially a criminal.
Once the door was open, I drew a deep breath and tiptoed into the room, praying the phone still worked after all of my criminal activity. The office was cold and damp. It smelled like cigarettes and mildew and my parents’ coal cellar. As I waited for my eyes to adjust to the dim light, I saw the filing cabinets right beside me. Since I had already broken one law, I might as well peek into the files for Mack. The heavy drawer squeaked as I yanked it open. It was stuffed with papers. I quickly closed it again.
Fingerprints! Would someone check for my fingerprints? Forget the files. Forget Mack. I needed to use the telephone. Now. I needed to get out of here. I crossed to the phone and lifted the receiver.
Dead. No tone, no static, no operator asking if she could help me. Nothing. I had gone through all of this effort for nothing.
Should I snoop around a little more for Mack? I didn’t even know what I was supposed to be looking for. Before I could decide, I heard a rustling noise outside the front door. Keys jingled in the lock. My heart stopped. I didn’t have time to duck behind the desk and hide before the door swung open and there stood the sheriff. I let out a strangled shriek and clutched my chest.
“Oh! You scared me!”
He eyed me coldly. “Miss Ripley, I believe?” It sounded like a line from a cheap detective story.
“Yes! I . . . I . . . I . . .” All I could do was stammer.
“What are you doing here?”
For a very long moment, I had no idea. Then I remembered. “Th-the phone! I came to use the phone. B-but it’s dead.”
“That’s because the mine is closed. Didn’t you see all the
NO TRESPASSING
signs?”
“No . . . I mean, yes. I saw them . . . But I also saw that the wires were still connected and so I thought it might still work. The phone, that is. I-I need to make an important call.”
He looked at me as if waiting to hear more. Give a person enough rope and she’ll hang herself, they say. But I couldn’t help blurting out my story.
“I’ve agreed to stay here in Acorn a little longer and take care of the library and Miss Lillie. She’s all alone now that Mack . . . now that Mr. MacDougal . . . And so I need to call home. I live in Illinois.”
He still didn’t speak. From the novels I’d read, I recognized this as a typical police maneuver: say nothing and let the criminal incriminate himself—or herself, in my case. The sheriff’s uniform was neatly pressed. He wore a gun in a holster on his belt. It looked menacing—but I suppose that was the point of wearing a gun in the first place. Especially if you had to deal with criminals every day. Like me.
I drew a calming breath. “Do you know where I could find a telephone that’s in working order? I’ll be happy to make it a collect call.”
“I have one in my office. Would you like me to drive you there?”
I didn’t know what to say. I could hear Lillie’s voice in my head shouting,
A snake! That man is a snake!
Mack insisted that Lillie was usually right about people. Yet if I refused his offer, my behavior would seem even more suspicious. Hadn’t I just said that the telephone call was important? I swallowed a knot of fear.
“That would be very nice of you, Sheriff . . . to drive me there and let me use your phone . . . If it wouldn’t be an inconvenience to you, that is.”
“It’s an even bigger inconvenience to have flatlanders trespassing and breaking into buildings here in Acorn. It gives me the inconvenience of arresting them.”
“Oh, I-I-m sorry! I’m so sorry!”
He broke into a grin. No, it was more like a smirk. “I was making a joke, Miss Ripley. I’m not going to arrest you.”
I nearly crumpled to the floor in relief. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”
“Shall we go make that phone call now?”
He motioned me through the door ahead of him, and I saw a ring of keys dangling from the padlock on the front door. He closed the door and locked it again. His black car was parked by the main entrance, coated with a fine layer of dust from the dirt road. Some spy I would make. I had never even heard the car drive up the road. I wondered how he had known I was here, trespassing. Who had been watching me? I knew better than to ask.
“How far away is your office?” I asked as I climbed into the car.
“We’ll be there in twenty-five minutes.”
I bit my lip to keep from voicing my frustration. Didn’t anyone around here compute distances in miles?
The sheriff’s car smelled like engine oil and cigar smoke. He slid behind the wheel and closed his door with a heavy
thunk
. I felt trapped. My heart pounded faster. How did I know if I could trust him? He started the engine and turned the car around, creating a cloud of dust. Gravel spit and crunched beneath the heavy car’s tires. He pulled out onto the main road and drove away from town.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard your story, Miss Ripley.”
“M-my story?”
“What brings a nice young woman like you all the way to Acorn, Kentucky?”
I knew very well that he was interrogating me. “Books! Books brought me here . . . Or rather, I-I brought books here to Acorn.” I had to get control and stop blubbering. I sounded guilty and I wasn’t—well, maybe just a little. “I’m a librarian back home in Illinois, and we had a book drive to collect materials to donate to your library. I volunteered to deliver them.”
“What’s your connection to Leslie MacDougal?”
“None! No connection! I never even met him until the day I arrived. I read about the need for books in a magazine article, and we corresponded once or twice, but that’s all. I-I thought he was a woman—from his name, I mean.” I laughed nervously.
“And what have you learned from your stay with us, Miss Ripley?”
Careful . . .
“I’ve learned that we take books and libraries for granted back home. But I’ve seen how grateful everyone is around here to have reading material. They’ll read the same book over and over if there aren’t any new ones. Do you enjoy reading, Sheriff?”
“No. Books are a waste of time.”
I tried very hard not to react to such an ignorant statement. It took an enormous effort, but I kept my mouth shut. He resumed the interrogation.
“You said that you’ve agreed to stay. Why is that, Miss Ripley?”
The question caught me by surprise. I needed to formulate an answer that would be truthful. If my father had taught me anything, it was to tell the truth.
“Well . . . Acorn seems to be without a librarian at the moment. I have the necessary skills, so why not volunteer them?”
“And your job back home . . . ?”
“I was laid off temporarily, due to the Depression.”
“I see.” He took a half-smoked cigar from the ashtray and stuck it between his teeth, then drove with one hand while he maneuvered to light it. I wished he would keep both hands on the wheel. The road was narrow and twisting, with a drop-off to the river on one side, a wall of rock on the other, and no shoulders along the road where a mistake could be forgiven.
“So you’ve made yourself at home here, have you?” he asked, puffing smoke.
“Everyone has been very nice to me.”
He threw me a sideways glance. “That’s unusual. From my experience, folks around here don’t take well to strangers.”
“We seem to have a love of books in common.” I managed a smile.
“What about Miss Lillie?”
I gulped. “What about her?”
“She’s an odd one, that’s for sure. She take to you, too?”
“She’s all alone now that Mack is . . . gone. She needs my help until we find a way to contact her family. That’s another reason I’ve agreed to stay.”
He didn’t react. This man wasn’t a snake—he was a rock, and as hard to read as one. I suppose that was part of his job, especially when dealing with criminals. Like me. For all I knew, he intended to throw me in jail for trespassing and breaking and entering. I gulped again.
“Since I’ve agreed to stay longer, I need to let my family know my plans—which is why I need a telephone. The one in the mine office was the nearest one I could find.”
He still didn’t reply.
“I’m very sorry about breaking in. I’ll be happy to pay for a new window.”
He puffed another cloud of cigar smoke and tapped the ash in the ashtray. Since he wasn’t talking, I decided that maybe I should stop talking, too. The road twisted and turned as it snaked over the mountain. It felt strange to be moving so quickly and smoothly after swaying on horseback for the past few weeks.
We passed a few houses, weaving through the woods, following a river. I began to feel more and more uneasy and wished my imagination wasn’t so active. I wished I hadn’t read so many novels about evil villains. I wished I had never heard Miss Lillie call this man a snake. He could be taking me anywhere.
I breathed a little easier when we came to a large collection of houses and buildings. A town, at last. It wasn’t laid out in a grid of streets like the towns in Illinois were, but consisted of dozens of structures jammed onto narrow patches of land. The town was much larger than Acorn. It had church steeples. Stores. A big county courthouse with the sheriff’s office right beside it. We pulled up in front and stopped. I gave a huge sigh of relief, which I hoped he didn’t hear.
“Follow me, Miss Ripley.”
It seemed strange to see electric lights in the ceiling and hear a telephone ringing. I had only been away from civilization for three weeks, but it seemed like three years. The sheriff led me to a littered desk with a telephone on it. He motioned to a straight-backed chair.
“Have a seat.”
I sat.
“Wait here.”
I waited.
He disappeared into a back room. I needed a bathroom, but I was afraid to ask for one. I watched people at work all around me and tried to calm my nerves. What was I so worried about? I had wanted to use a telephone, and I was getting my wish.
I had time to think while I waited. What if the sheriff was the good guy and Lillie and Mack were the villains? What if this was my chance to escape? Surely this town had a train or a bus station. I could tell the sheriff that I had changed my mind, that I wanted to go home, that I had been tricked into staying. I could be back in Illinois in a day or two. This adventure could be behind me like a bad dream. No more outhouses. No more horse rides. No more squirrel stew. I could be home in my comfortable bed, reading novels by electric lighting and drinking refrigerated Coca-Cola to my heart’s content.
Then I thought of June Ann and Maggie Coots, waiting for their books, waiting for someone to talk to. I thought of Miss Lillie and Mack. Did I believe they were telling the truth? That they were trying to do something good for the people of Acorn, and that men like this sheriff were trying to stop them? Or did I care only about myself and my comforts and fears?
Whom should I believe? Whom should I trust?
Books. They were the answer to my questions. The sheriff considered them a waste of time. Mack considered them a treasure worth sharing with people who had little else in life. I would throw in my lot with people like Mack, like myself—people who loved a good book. People who didn’t believe reading was a waste of time.
“Are you ready, Miss Ripley?” The sheriff’s voice startled me, and I jumped.
“What? . . . Oh . . . Yes. And I’ll be glad to reverse the charges on the call.”
He lifted the receiver, dialed 0 for the operator, and handed it to me. I gave the operator my name and the number for my father’s office in the church, praying he would be there. It would upset my mother to get a long-distance call in the daytime, and she might become flustered. Besides, our home phone was a party line, and I didn’t want everyone in Blue Island to know my business. A collect call from a sheriff’s office in Kentucky was sure to give the town gossips something to gab about. The switchboard would glow like a Christmas tree.
I heard a lot of clicking and hissing coming through the wires, then my father’s deep bass voice. “Good Shepherd Church, Pastor Ripley speaking.” Tears filled my eyes.
“Hello, Daddy—?” The operator interrupted me. I had to wait for my father to accept the collect call. I started again. “Daddy, it’s me. Alice Grace.”
“What’s wrong? Where are you?”
“I’m still in Kentucky. Nothing’s wrong. I just thought I would call and tell you that I’m going to stay here a while longer.”
“That’s what Cecil said. Frankly, your mother and I were shocked when he arrived home without you.”
“I know. I mean, I thought you might be. And maybe a little worried.”
“Of course we’re worried. You’ve never been on your own for so long before.”