Free Wolf Hollow by Lauren Wolk Page B

wouldn’t even shoot a sleeping deer. Who took pictures of mayapples. And gave me back a penny when he didn’t need to. And had never hurt anyone, anyone, since coming back from that terrible war. Not that I knew of.
    I didn’t believe Toby was crazy. Not even a little bit. And I didn’t believe he would hurt Mr. Ansel, German or not.
    But if Betty and Andy had been in the belfry, they couldn’t have been on that hillside. They couldn’t have thrown that rock.
    I lay on my bed and thought my thoughts until I heard my mother calling me down to help get supper started. And a little beyond that.

    â€œYou must have enough wool by now to knit a sweater,” my grandmother said as we washed and peeled potatoes together at the sink.
    â€œWhat wool?” I sloshed a potato in the wash water until it came away white.
    â€œYou’ve been gathering wool this whole time, Annabelle. Not a word out of you.”
    I shrugged. “Just thinking about Ruth.”
    â€œA terrible thing to happen to anyone, let alone a sweet girl like her.”
    â€œBut you don’t think Toby did it, even by accident, do you?”
    By now everyone in the house knew about the conversation at the Glengarrys’ that afternoon.
    Aunt Lily had sniffed and said, “That Toby has always smelled like brimstone to me.”
    Henry had said, “Naw, Toby’s not like that.”
    James had said, “Avast, there, matey.” Which we took to mean no.
    My grandfather had shaken his head and mumbled something about a sheep in wolf’s clothing.
    I already knew how my mother felt. My father . . . I wasn’t sure. He hadn’t said a word on our way home from the Glengarrys’ house. And, once home, he’d spoken only to my mother and then gone straightaway to his chores.
    â€œOh, I don’t know what I think,” my grandma said, cutting a potato so thin I could see light through the slice. Hers were the best scalloped potatoes in the county. “Toby is odd, I have to say. And those guns of his give me pause. But I’ve never seen him act rough with anyone. And I’ve never heard of him speaking ill of the Germans, including Mr. Ansel.”
    â€œWell, Toby doesn’t speak much about anything,” I had to admit.
    â€œNo, he does not. But I’ve always wanted people to judge me by my actions, and I hope I can do the same for him, who has never done me wrong. Or my family, neither.”

    My father came in to supper that night pink with evening but smelling like soot.
    â€œI spent some time with Toby this afternoon,” he said in the middle of eating my mother’s ham, my grand-mother’s potatoes, and my cauliflower, which James referred to as “little white trees” and rarely ate.
    We all looked at my father and waited. I, especially, wondered what Toby had had to say about the goings-on of the past week.
    â€œI did most of the talking,” he said. “Knocked on the door, Toby answered, asked me in. There was no place to sit but on the one chair and I would not sit if he couldn’t, so we both stood there looking at each other like a couple of goats.”
    My father didn’t admire goats very much. I, if lazy, was a little goat. If stupid, a goat. If dirty, a goat. And the rest of us, too.
    We waited. He would not have mentioned the visit at all if there were not more to tell.
    â€œThat shack of his is a hard place,” he said, “though he’s nicened it up a bit. Not much of a bed, more like a nest. Pine boughs covered with burlap. No pillow. An old army blanket. The one chair, castoff. A fire pit dug in one corner with just a hole for a vent. Odds and ends on the hooks above. But . . .” And here he stopped. Sat back in his chair. Ran a hand over his jaw. “There were pictures everywhere. On all four walls. Of the orchards. The woods. Sky all by itself in lots of them, at sundown.”
    He paused