The Daring Escape of Beatrice and Peabody (25 page)

‘Now, there are some things we want to remind you about,’ Mrs Potter is saying. I am washing the mixing bowl and putting away the eggs. My birthday cake is in the oven. The cake is made with lots and lots of snowy white sugar. There’s a world of difference between a cake made with corn syrup and one made with sugar. Ask Peabody.

Mrs Potter sinks into a chair by the table. Her limp is getting worse. ‘I want to remind you of some things so you don’t forget.’

I giggle. ‘You can always remind me of everything I need to know. I am right here.’ I drop the washrag into the sink and come over and wrap my arms around her.

‘Bless your heart, Bee,’ she whispers. ‘You really are cute as a bug’s ear.’ Then she pulls away. ‘Now, I’m serious. There are some things we need to go over. Sit down.’

I sit. Peabody jumps onto my lap. I can smell the cake baking. It is heavenly. I do not want to talk about serious things. I scratch Peabody between the ears.

‘Now, somebody who owns a house is going to have to remember everything. Like don’t forget to drain the pipes before the winter. That’s why the water is so filthy now.
No one drained the pipes for years after your grandfather moved to Florida. And don’t forget to put on the storm windows the first of October and don’t forget to take them down the first of April. You’ll get enough good sun then to start warming the house.’

‘But why do I need to know all this?’ I ask, feeling anxious.

‘Shush, Bee. I’m telling you important things. The roses out front need to be pruned in the fall. Don’t let Peabody get near Mrs Marsh’s chickens or you’ll have a tempest in your teapot. Stay away from that woman. And the front door will stick if you don’t oil the hinges.’

I am not listening any more. I have scooted my chair closer and am wrapping my arms around her.

‘You will be fine.’ She squeezes me back. Then the teakettle is whistling and she asks me to make her a cup of tea.

‘Very weak, Bee. I like it very weak now.’ She rubs her leg and winces.

I bring the tea over and sit down and rub her leg. ‘How come it is bothering you so much more now?’

‘Humph,’ she says. ‘I could write my own autobiography. Maybe I will when I have time.’ She leans over and whispers, ‘I didn’t get the whole musket ball when I pulled it out of my hip myself. Mrs Swift doesn’t want me to tell you. But the truth is, I was a soldier. I fought for General Washington at Bunker Hill. Pretended I was a boy. I had
to do my own operating on myself so I wouldn’t be found out. My leg has never been the same.’

‘I don’t want you to tell her what?’ says Mrs Swift, coming into the kitchen for a cup of tea.

‘Nothing,’ says Mrs Potter, and we all let it drop, which is okay by me because I really don’t want to think about how old Mrs Potter is while I am hugging her.

‘Sit down.’ Mrs Potter pulls out a chair for Mrs Swift. ‘I’ve been telling Bee about the things she needs to know.’

Mrs Swift sighs deeply. ‘Yes, you already know about the leather envelopes in the attic. The bills are very old, but no matter. I’m sure they still work.’

I put Mrs Swift’s cup on the table. ‘But we can do this all together, right?’ I look anxiously from Mrs Swift to Mrs Potter.

‘And I want you to go to school, Bee, and college. Nobody has been able to make anything of themselves without a proper education. Even in my day.’

‘But …’

‘Beatrice, we came to show you there’s a long line of women behind you who have stood on their own two feet, and to show you that you can do it too.’ Mrs Swift sips at her tea.

I drop into my chair. ‘But where are you going? I don’t want you to leave me.’ Already my eyes fill. ‘I don’t want to be alone again.’

‘But you’re not alone, Beatrice. You have a family
now.’ Mrs Potter puts her hand on mine. ‘And you’ve accomplished it all yourself.’

‘Yes, dear,’ says Mrs Swift, ‘and we won’t go until you’re ready.’

I look at Mrs Potter and wonder about the musket ball in her leg. I wonder about Mrs Swift’s mama saying it was a shame she was born a girl, and about my own mama, Bernadette, who wouldn’t let her papa hide her away.

As I think about them all, I feel their bones gathering within me, knitting their strength to my insides. And I feel new tears dripping right over my diamond.

That afternoon, while the cake is cooling, I find a new issue of the
Billboard
in our mailbox.

I rush upstairs, where Pauline is changing Sophie on the bed and rubbing Johnson’s Baby Powder all over.

I show her how I look for news of Bobby every week. ‘But why, Bee?’ Pauline scoops Sophie up in the air and kisses her little pea-sized toes.

‘Bobby promised we wouldn’t lose each other.’

‘Well, don’t invite him here. I already told you I don’t want to be around a man who smells like pigs. And neither do you – do you, little Sophie?’ She kisses Sophie on the cheek.

‘But, Pauline, he likes you. He is awful sweet on you.’

She looks at me and scrunches her nose and goes back to loving on Sophie.

‘I’m sure he doesn’t smell like pigs now, Pauline.’ I say it sharp. Sometimes she makes me awful mad. I know she has it wrong. I know what matters is what’s underneath. And there’s a very fine man under there. Just ask Cordelia.

I decide then and there to tell her the whole story of Bobby, just like her
Story of Bee
.

‘Sit down. I have something to say, Pauline.’

I tell her everything, about how Bobby was the Hurricane and how one of the other runners tripped him during a race and how Ellis found him all despairing and gave him a job. I remind her about the boys chasing me and how Bobby spent day after day teaching me to run fast. With his thick glasses he might not be able to fly bombers, but he could build them. He wanted to do more than spend his life working for Ellis. ‘But most of all, Pauline, he really cares about me. He told me not to quit, to keep trying and trying, and if I did I would find strength deep inside myself, and when I found it, I would be proud, really, really proud.’

She runs her hands through my curls the whole time I am talking. She gets the brush and sweeps it through my hair about a thousand times. I think I can purr.

‘I didn’t know all that about Bobby,’ she whispers.

‘I guess you weren’t looking very hard.’

She looks at me for a moment and then brushes more and more while Sophie sleeps right beside us. ‘I am sorry, Bee. I am sorry about everything.’

I let her pull my hair back with a ribbon and my diamond shines. ‘How did you get so beautiful, Bee?’ she asks.

I reach up then, and I am in her arms. I let her hold me and I feel her breath on me and her heart beating. I smell the apple shampoo in her hair. The place deep
inside where my heart used to ache is filled with other things now.

‘I bet lots of folks would like to be more like you, Bee,’ she whispers, holding me tight. ‘I know I would.’

We are sitting around the table after a big roast chicken dinner with gravy and mashed potatoes and I have to hold my belly, I am so full.

I am proud as a peacock I am such a good cook and I am grateful to Ruth Ellen’s mama for showing me how. She says I can go over and learn more things any time I want. I think I will any day now.

Peabody whines that he is ready for something else to eat. I tell Pauline and Sophie to shut their eyes and I go get my birthday cake. It is high and chocolate and sprinkled with coconut all over the buttercream frosting and everything about it is just right for a girl turning thirteen. I am very good at baking cakes.

Sophie’s eyes are big as moons as she snuggles in Pauline’s arms and watches the candles. When I set the cake down, I show her, this is how you blow the candles out. She will turn two months soon, and it’s never too early to learn.

I start cutting the cake and when I look up Mrs Potter and Mrs Swift are standing behind Pauline and Sophie. They are so faint I can hardly make them out.

Mrs Potter watches me give Pauline the first piece. She put a new feather in her flappy hat and it is dipping in the hot August breeze that tumbles through the open window. She has to tie the strings tighter to keep the hat on her head. Then she reaches down and scratches Peabody behind the ears. He hardly notices, though, because he is so busy eating cake.

‘Do you want some?’ I whisper to them.

Mrs Swift is already shaking her head, they do not want any cake, and she is putting her finger to her lips and pulling Mrs Potter away. I reach out for them and feel my heart breaking, but this time Mrs Potter shakes her head. Peabody looks up as they thin out and their edges blur, but Pauline and Sophie don’t notice anything but the cake. Pauline reaches for another slice.

Mrs Potter winks one last time. Mrs Swift smiles softly and points to the library, where her autobiography sits waiting.

And then, in the blink of an eye, they are gone.

Just like they said they would be.

I am sincerely grateful to my husband, Steven, my children, my parents, and the Still River Writers for encouraging me through the years it took to write this novel, for listening and offering ideas, and for reading the manuscript so many times.

I am also thankful for my editor, Michelle Frey, who saw Bee’s heart from the very beginning and helped to make the novel all that it could be, and also to her assistant, Kelly Delaney, and intern, Stephen Brown, for their many hours of work on the manuscript. Thank you also to all the staff at Knopf/Random House who had a hand in bringing Bee into the world, and thank you to the literary team at Faber and Faber for taking Bee by the hand and bringing her across the Atlantic.

I am grateful to my agent, Elizabeth Harding of Curtis Brown Ltd, for her guidance and encouragement, and also to her associate, Ginger Clark, for making this edition possible.

Thank you also to my friend and former newspaper colleague Paul Della Valle for his accomplished book, Massachusetts Troublemakers: Rebels, Reformers and Radicals from the Bay State. His biographies of Lucy Stone and Deborah Sampson provided the clay I needed to begin crafting the characters of Mrs Swift and Mrs Potter.

Kimberly Newton Fusco is the author of two previous, award-winning novels for children published in the USA,
Tending to Grace
and
The Wonder of Charlie Anne
. Before becoming a novelist, Ms. Fusco, a graduate of the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism in New York City, was an award-winning reporter and editor for the Worcester, Massachusetts,
Telegram & Gazette
. She lives in Foster, Rhode Island, with her family. You can visit her on the web at kimberlynewtonfusco.com.

Tending to Grace

The Wonder of Charlie Anne