William S. and the Great Escape Read online

  “Aunt Fiona probably didn’t answer your letter,” William told Jancy, “because she was sure that if she got them back, Big Ed would just show up and grab them away again.”

  “I know.” Jancy hung her head so that a bunch of her thick, streaky-blond hair swung down, hiding her small face. Jancy got teased about her hair—got called Mop Head and Rabbit Tail and even worse names. Actually, William thought her curly hair was her best feature, at least when it was clean and combed, which wasn’t all that often. He’d told her so before, but now he said nothing at all, and after a while she said, “I know” again, in a faint weepy voice. “But I am leaving, for absolute sure and certain, and I just can’t leave the poor little things here all alone.”

  “Humph!” William snorted. “All alone? Not hardly. Even with you gone, and maybe me too, that still leaves—let’s see.” He pretended to count on his fingers. “Seven”—he stopped to sneeze—“that leaves eight big Baggetts, if you count Gertie.”

  “Yeah, exactly,” Jancy said. “That’s exactly why I can’t leave Trixie and Buddy here.”

  William got her point, and he couldn’t help but agree, but just then another thought hit him. “I don’t get it. What I don’t get is why you’d want to bother with them. Well, Trixie maybe.” He could sort of understand that. Trixie was kind of hard to resist. “But Buddy? I mean, wasn’t he the one who flushed the toilet?”

  Her face still hidden by her hair, Jancy nodded. “I know,” she kind of gasped. And when she went on, her voice sounded wobbly. “But it wasn’t his fault. Not really. Al, or else it was Andy—Buddy never can tell them apart—told him that a toilet is just the right size for a guinea pig bathtub, and when you flush, it’s just like a guinea pig washing machine. It was that crummy twin’s fault. I know it was awful dumb of Buddy to believe him, but he’s only four years old. And who’s going to tell him what else to not believe after both of us leave?”

  William could tell she was crying by the sound of her voice, even though a heavy hunk of hair was hiding her face. “Crying won’t do any good,” he said.

  But of course it did. After a few minutes of listening to her sobs and watching her skinny little shoulders shaking and quivering, he sighed and said, “Okay, okay. I’ll think about it.” And he meant it, even though it didn’t take much thought to figure out that one reason, even the main reason, that Jancy wanted him to run away too was because she knew about—

  “Oh thank you, thank you, William.” Jancy interrupted his suspicious musings. And then her special talent for mind reading—at least where William was concerned— kicked in. “And it’s not either because of your money,” she said. “All that money in your running-away piggy bank.”

  William’s snort was even louder. “My Getaway Fund is not in a piggy bank,” he said.

  “Well, whatever you keep it in,” Jancy said quickly. “It’s not because of your money. It’s because you don’t belong here either. You’re not like the rest of them. You’re not nearly as mean, and ever so much smarter and …”

  William didn’t have to listen to know the rest of what Jancy had to say. He’d heard her say it before when she wanted to get something out of him. But he also felt pretty sure that she said it because she knew it was true—at least the part about being smarter. But he still had a strong suspicion that his running-away money had a lot to do with it.

  He shrugged. “Well, okay then, maybe I’m in. So what are your plans? I mean like when—and how?”

  “When?” Jancy’s smile, still tear wet, was wide and beaming. “Well, as soon as ever I can. Tomorrow or else the next day, for sure.” She nodded again, so hard her curly mop bounced up and down. “Not a minute later.”

  “Ookaaay,” William drawled the word out slowly. “But then comes how. How are you going to do it?”

  “Well,” Jancy’s big eyes rolled thoughtfully. “I guess I’ll just …” Her voice trailed off to a whisper and then came slowly back. “Well, I’ll just pack up all their clothes”—long pause—“and something to eat on the way, and then …”

  “Yeah,” William prompted. “And then?”

  Jancy’s bony little face widened into a wobbly smile. “And then you’ll decide what to do. You will, won’t you, William?”

  William shoved to the back of his mind a lot of troublesome unanswered questions concerning such things as how and when, and the even more serious one about what Aunt Fiona’s reaction might be to their unannounced arrival. He sneezed again, wiped his nose on his sleeve, sighed, and said, “Yeah. Well, sort of looks like I’ll have to.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Back in the crumbling remains of what had once been a large farmhouse, the plumbing seemed to be working again, so what was left of Sweetie Pie must have moved on into the septic tank. So things were back to normal. Or, if not what most people would think of as normal, at least to “as usual.” There was the “as usual” fistfight between two of the big guys on the back porch, the “as usual” screams from Gertie for Babe and Jancy to come help in the kitchen. And some of the usual roars demanding peace and quiet from Big Ed Baggett. Roars that made Little Ed stop yelling at Rudy or whichever other brother he was beating on, without cutting down much on how many punches he was throwing. Twenty-year-old Little Ed was Big Ed’s first kid, and people went on calling him Little Ed, even after he got to be as big as a horse.

  Also, as usual, Jancy was busy scooting around trying to get her hands on something she could feed Trixie and Buddy. As for William, he was on the floor behind the raggedy remains of what had once been a leather couch, eating a slightly raw bowlful of whatever it was Gertie was trying to cook. Something you might think of as beef stew if you were feeling optimistic.

  When the bowl was empty, down to the last greasy drop, William peeked out, considering whether it might be possible to sneak into the kitchen and get a little more. In the end he decided against it. It looked like most of the Baggetts were there that evening, at least half a dozen of them. Whenever that many Baggetts crowded into a space where there wasn’t room enough to have a real free-for-all, the only thing they could think of to do for entertainment was to pick out somebody to torment. And William knew who that was likely to be. Who, for instance, might get punched or kicked or swatted, or even picked up and kind of tossed around from one oversize Baggett to another.

  Not being in the mood to be treated like a piece of playground equipment, William went the other way, scooting out the side door and up the stairs. And then on up the flimsy pull-down ladder that led to the dimly lit, slant-ceilinged attic that was his private living area. Not that the other Baggetts didn’t know where he was. But most of the time they didn’t bother him because of the dangerously decrepit ladder, and the fact that most of them were too big and awkward to squeeze through the small trap-door opening that led to the attic area.

  There were other reasons too why William’s space— it could hardly be called a room—was fairly private. Reasons that came and went with the seasons. Like, for instance, the fact that there was no heat in winter, and a certain amount of oozing dampness whenever it rained. And now, in August?

  In August, William’s attic usually provided the kind of heat that burned your eyes and throbbed in your ears, and made even the palms of your hands wet with sweat. Heat that on days like today would probably keep all the bigger Baggetts downstairs with their cold beers and electric fans.

  William took off his shoes and most of his clothing before he collapsed on top of the lumpy nest of old quilts and sleeping bags that more or less served as a bed. But not before he had arranged some necessities within arm’s reach. Things like his journal, his fountain pen, his water jar, and Doubleday’s Complete Works of William Shakespeare.

  Usually he spent some time on the journal first— the journal that had been suggested by Miss Scott as a summer project for anyone who was interested in writing or acting. You should write not just about the things that happened during the summer, Miss Scott had said, but what you felt and thoug
ht about those events, using dialogue whenever you could work it in. And then, if you were interested in acting, you should read what you’d written out loud—acting it out as you read. Like making your voice soft and warm when you read the good things, and harsh and bitter when the words led in that direction. William had done quite a bit of reading-out-loud practice ever since school had let out earlier that summer.

  Miss Scott. Someday, William thought he might write a really long essay on what he thought and felt about Miss Scott. All about how he had known how special she was that very first day of seventh-grade English. How she could make boring stuff like diagramming sentences into a kind of game, and even the mushiest poems sound so strong and important that you felt you might try to write one someday. That is, if you ever found someone you could feel that mushy about. And, of course, one of the most important things about Miss Scott had been Shakespeare and The Tempest.

  Besides teaching English at Crownfield Junior High, Miss Scott taught drama at the high school, where every year she put on a couple of plays, and one of them was always by William Shakespeare. The actors were mostly high school students, but with a few especially talented nonstudents from elsewhere in the community. And last year, when skinny little William Baggett was only in seventh grade, Miss Scott had cast him as Ariel in the high school’s production of The Tempest.

  He didn’t know why. He would have asked her, except he was afraid that if she thought it over she might change her mind. Of course, most of the rehearsals were held after school, which left only a few times that she had to get him released from a class at the junior high. That never seemed to be a problem for Miss Scott. She not only managed to get William excused from his junior high classes whenever it was necessary, but she somehow understood, without him having to explain, why it wasn’t necessary to inform his family that he was appearing in a play by William Shakespeare.

  That had been a big relief. William could just imagine what might have happened if any of the older Baggetts had shown up to watch a member of their family come onstage dressed in tights and a filmy tunic and sing things like, “Full fathom five thy father lies, Of his bones are coral made,” while he bounded around the stage waving a wand that made all sorts of magical things seem to be happening.

  So even though a lot of people said that the kid who played Ariel in last year’s Shakespeare production had stolen the show—and even though there were four Baggett kids who were more or less enrolled at Crownfield High and managed to attend classes occasionally—if any Baggett had the slightest clue that William had played the part of Ariel, they never bothered to mention it when he was around.

  When The Tempest was over and the school year nearly was, there had been the day when Miss Scott asked William to come to her office. He didn’t think he’d done anything wrong, but he was still feeling a little bit nervous as he pushed open the office door. But there she was, sitting at her desk, with lots of her silky blond hair piled up on top of her head, and wearing a very modern dress that, on her, somehow managed to look slightly Shakespearean. And smiling in a way that let him know he could stop worrying about what he might have done wrong.

  “William,” she’d said, “I just want to be sure that you know how much I appreciated all your hard work this past semester. And also to tell you again how talented I think you are.” She was reaching into her desk as she went on, “I have a book here that I really think you should have.”

  “A book?” William had asked, while in the back of his mind a few possibilities started flipping around. Possibilities like eighth-grade English grammar to help him get ready for next year. Or maybe something Crownfield eighth graders usually read in class, like The Mill on the Floss. But then Miss Scott was holding out this big five-pound package. A package that turned out to be Doubleday’s Complete Works of William Shakespeare, illustrated by Rockwell Kent.

  Thinking back to that very special day in June, William almost forgot about the heat of August as he reached over with both hands, pulled the heavy book closer, and opened it to where he’d left off—Twelfth Night, act one, scene three. Before that there’d been The Tempest, of course, which he’d known almost word for word by the time the production was over. And then there had been A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which Miss Scott had suggested he read next. Now that he’d read it carefully, William could see why.

  A Midsummer Night’s Dream was easy to understand as soon as you managed to memorize which character was in love with which other character before they got love potions poured into their eyes. (Which, of course, changed everything so you had to start memorizing all over again.)

  William did wonder if all the lovey-dovey scenes, and some of the magical stuff like fairies and a guy with a donkey’s head, might turn off modern audiences— particularly teenage ones. But to William himself, some of the strange Shakespearean lines weren’t all that different than things he heard all the time. For instance, when Egeus’s daughter, Hermia, won’t obey him, and he says, “As she is mine, I may dispose of her.”

  Okay, that’s a pretty weird thing for a father to say, but William could remember hearing Big Ed Baggett say, “You’re my kid, and you’ll do what I tell you or I’ll knock your block off.”

  But that was A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and now he was starting on Twelfth Night. In fact, he’d been planning to spend some time tonight finding out what the character named Sir Toby Belch was all about. Except that now, because of Jancy, he had other things to do.

  Reluctantly William closed the huge book, picked it up, and, pulling out his big knapsack, slowly slid Shakespeare down to the bottom of the bag. First things first.

  He looked around. Off to his left was a whole stack of books that would have to be left behind. Beat up, ragged copies mostly that various people, mainly teachers, were going to throw away, and had let him have instead because they knew how much he liked to read. Everything from Peter Rabbit to Ivanhoe. But his knapsack would hold only so much—so good-bye, books. Someday, when he was rich and famous, he’d buy brand-new leather-bound copies of every one of them.

  Next came getting his money out of its secret hiding place, which involved going down to the part of the attic where the slanted roof was so low you had to slither on your stomach. It was a difficult and dangerous maneuver. Dangerous because there weren’t any floorboards in that part of the attic, and if you didn’t keep your balance on the narrow crossbeams, you would land on the lath and plaster ceiling—and probably go right through. Right through the ceiling and wind up in one of the second-floor bedrooms, along with a lot of ancient dust and plaster. And, with his luck, probably right on top of one of the biggest Baggetts. It was a pretty hair-raising possibility, particularly if it were to happen while you were carrying a heavy cloth bag in your teeth. A bag that held your lifetime savings.

  But he managed to stay safely on the crossbeams, and once he was back at his makeshift bed, he made a hollow in the bedding and emptied the whole bag into it. Nineteen one-dollar bills, and a whole lot of nickels, dimes, and quarters. He’d counted it fairly recently, but just to make sure, he did it again before he put it all away, right next to Shakespeare in the bottom of the bag. There it went. A whole lot of hard-earned money. Thirty-one dollars and seventeen cents.

  So he himself was almost ready, but that left a whole lot of things that needed to be worked on. Things that Jancy might, or might not, have thought about or prepared for. Which made at least one more meeting in the hayloft necessary, and at least another day after that to get ready. William got back into a raggedy pair of jeans and a faded T-shirt that used to belong to one of the twins and went looking for Jancy.

  CHAPTER 4

  It took until early the next morning for William and Jancy to finally manage another meeting in the hayloft. By then William had the trip, at least the first half of it, carefully planned. Cleverly planned, if he did say so himself. “‘Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,’” he told himself, which was one of Miss Scott’s favorite quotes. One that see
med to suggest that what you were inside might be worth something, no matter what family you’d been born into. For instance, straight-A brains might be good for something, even if some careless but all-powerful director, like God maybe, had cast you in the role of a Baggett. In the kind of family scene where, over the years, a good report card only got you punched out by Al and Andy for doing it just to show them up. But in this case he’d definitely thought up some remedies that were going to come in handy.

  “So, I’ve been working on our getaway plan.” William started the next morning’s session as soon as Jancy joined him in the moldy hay. “I think it’ll work pretty well, but there are still a couple of minor problems. Like, for instance, how and when all four of us are going to walk away from here carrying a bunch of luggage without anyone noticing. Have you thought about that?”

  Jancy nodded quickly, stopped nodding, and began to shake her head. “Not very much,” she said. “How are we going to do it, William?”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about it, and what I think is that we have to leave in the middle of the night. Like maybe three o’clock in the morning.”

  “Really?” Jancy gasped. “That early?”

  “I’m afraid so. You know that during the day, any day till around midnight, this whole place is likely to be crawling with Baggetts, along with a bunch of their roughneck friends.”

  Jancy shrugged and nodded. She also knew, of course, that even though Big Ed Baggett and a couple of the oldest boys had sort of on-again, off-again jobs, the off days seemed to happen a lot oftener than the on ones. And as for the four Baggetts who were supposed to be going to summer school at Crownfield High, they seemed to spend more time thinking up reasons why they couldn’t go than they ever spent at school. Which meant that some of them would probably be hanging around too, ready to witness and trip up any daylight escape attempts.