Small as an Elephant - Jennifer Richard Jacobson [13]
No one was in the entryway, so he rang a little bell. A woman popped her head out from around a doorway.
“Is there a Becky Martel staying here?” he asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” she said, but she didn’t seem sure. She wandered over to a book and put her glasses on to check. “No, we don’t have a Martel. . . . Does she go by her own name?”
The question startled Jack. Was she asking if his mother might have registered under a different name? Which seemed possible, what with her wanting to feel like someone else and all.
“I mean,” said the woman, seeming to read Jack’s confusion, “does she have a different name from her husband?”
“Oh. She doesn’t have a husband,” Jack said, perhaps a little too quickly. And then, feeling as if he needed to say more, he added: “She’s my aunt, and she’s coming for a stay on the island, but she must be at another B and B.”
The woman nodded but looked at him more carefully now.
He tied the clothing around his waist tighter, said “Thanks anyway!” and bolted out the door.
He threw on his backpack and was ready to run to the next street over, when he realized that his can and two bottles were missing. Who would have taken them? Someone else as hungry as he was at this moment?
“Threw them in the recycling bin,” said a man coming around the corner with a rake in his hand. “It was good of you to pick them up.”
No! Should he ask for them back?
The man leaned his rake against the porch and went into the B&B.
As much as he wanted to run from the place before the lady inside spotted him again, he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving the can and bottles behind. Maybe, Jack thought, the bin is out back — maybe in a shed. He could find it and get his can and bottles back himself. Behind the B&B was a hinged wooden box about the height of a trash can, and he guessed it might hold recyclables. After making sure no one was watching, he carefully lifted the lid. If the man appeared again, he could say he was just getting his own bottles back.
Sure enough, there they were, on top of a bunch of other soda cans, wine bottles, and even big juice containers. He pulled his can and the two plastic bottles off the top while he calculated the worth of the cans and bottles below.
They wouldn’t mind, would they, if he took a couple? Sure, they were worth money, but the man had just taken his, hadn’t he? And he hadn’t thought a thing of it, which probably meant he was planning to recycle these cans and bottles, not redeem them.
What could he put them in? Jack looked under the lid of a second barrel. It was filled with garbage. He spied the handle of a plastic shopping bag and pulled it free. Then he filled the bag with bottles and cans, tallying up nearly two dollars’ worth, trying to shut up the voice in his head that whispered, You’re stealing, you know.
Suddenly, something came flying toward him, and the heavy top of the box came crashing down on Jack’s right hand. He didn’t scream, for fear of being caught, but tears jabbed his eyes as he pulled his hand free. It was his pinky, the pinky on his right hand. His pinky was killing him.
He stared at the black-and-white cat that was now perched on top of the box. Its tail twitched as it stared at Jack. Was this a guard cat? Was it protecting the property?
Frozen there, holding his hand, Jack recognized a familiar scent coming from the kitchen. Bacon. One of his favorite things. His stomach called out, reminding him that he needed breakfast. No way was he going to get crispy bacon at the grocery store, but he had to get something. He hadn’t really eaten since the picnic yesterday, and, between the hunger pangs and the throbbing in his pinky, he was in no condition to go searching for his mom.
He moved back toward the bin slowly, expecting the cat to hiss or jump at him. Sure enough, the cat crouched, giving only a moment’s warning before it leaped into the air.
Thankfully, it didn’t leap at Jack but away from him.
Jack