A Year on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [76]
“I never knew what a huge responsibility it was,” Cici said with a sigh, “having free food.”
“Not exactly free,” Lindsay pointed out. “The way I figure it, the Brunswick stew only cost us about twelve dollars a serving.”
The other two turned a questioning gaze on her.
“One hundred twenty-five dollars for the meat,” Lindsay explained. “Fifteen dollars for the propane, twenty dollars for the containers, not to mention the electricity for the freezer, and don’t forget you paid Noah six dollars an hour to shell beans.”
“It was worth it,” said Cici, raising her glass.
“Definitely,” agreed Bridget. “I would have spent twice as much never to have to shell another bean or husk another ear of corn. I sent a quart of stew home with him,” she added, “as a thank-you.”
“Good,” said Lindsay, in a slightly subdued tone. “It’ll probably be all he gets to eat tonight.”
Quietly, she told the other two about the folly in the glade and the encampment she had found there, complete with the remnants of their erstwhile garden. When she had finished, they were all silent for a while.
Then Bridget said, “He could have stolen money, or tools, or valuables from the house. God knows, we never lock anything up. Instead he chose to steal . . . garden plants.”
“He must have been living there all summer,” Lindsay said, gazing into her wineglass as she rocked. “Maybe even before we moved in.”
“This is a serious situation.” Cici was frowning worriedly. “We can’t just let him camp out on our property. For one thing, he’s a minor, probably a runaway. We have to call social services.” She looked at the other two. “Don’t we?”
Lindsay hesitated, then cleared her throat. “Actually, that was Reverend Holland on the phone just now.”
Bridget’s brow knit. “Methodist or Baptist?”
“Baptist. I thought I’d call to thank his wife for the persimmons—”
“Good idea,” agreed Cici.
“And while I had him on the phone, I thought I’d see if he had any advice on the, well, situation.”
“Oh.” Cici sounded a little surprised. “That’s a good idea, I guess. He would know who to call.”
Lindsay nodded. “That’s what I thought. It turns out, Noah is a chronic runaway, and it sounds like he has good reason. The father sometimes doesn’t show up for weeks at a time, and when he does he apparently can get pretty violent.”
Cici and Bridget made soft signs of sympathy and concern, and focused their attention on Lindsay.
“He dropped out of school, just like I suspected, but he’s never been in any real trouble . . . no drugs or anything.”
“That anyone knows about,” Cici had to say.
Bridget waved a hand. “How many drugs could you buy on six dollars an hour?”
Cici thought about that, and shrugged.
“Anyway, he’s never been in trouble with the police,” Lindsay went on, “and he works when someone will give him a job, and he stays wherever he can find a place. People from the church—both churches, I guess—have tried to help him out, but whenever social services gets involved, he just runs away again.”
Cici sighed. “Great.”
Bridget said, “But there’s got to be something someone can do.”
Lindsay said glumly, “I don’t know what. I’ve been thinking about it all day.”
“And even if there was something to be done, we’re not the ones to do it,” Cici said. “We don’t even know the kid.”
Bridget gave her an incredulous look. “Cecile Burke, you’re the one who spearheaded a campaign to save an entire village in Africa! What do you mean, ‘we’re not the ones to do it’?”
Cici frowned uncomfortably into her wine. “African villages are a lot different than teenage boys camping out in your woods.”
“Well at least he has some place to camp,” Lindsay pointed out. “And he’s getting regular meals, thanks to Bridget, and a little cash for whatever. If we turn him in, who knows where he’ll end up?”
They thought about that for a while, and none of them liked the picture. Finally Cici said, “And what do you