Free Chasing Redbird by Sharon Creech Page B

sink and polished the taps, just as she had liked them.
    Somebody had that medallion and sooner or later I was going to find out who. Zinnia Taylor: detective.
    A week after Jake gave me the ring, Uncle Nate’s film arrived. We all crowded around as he opened the packet, eager to see his “proof.” One by one, he turned over the pictures: our cows, the barn, the ash tree, the cardinals.
    â€œWhere is it?” Ben asked. “Hurry up.”
    Slowly, Uncle Nate went through the pictures. “That ain’t it,” he said. “That ain’t it, either.” On he went: the porch, the field of tomatoes, Poke at the creek. As he turned over the picture of Poke, he shouted, “There! There it is!” He looked up at us, excited, eager, proud and expectant.
    â€œThere’s what?” Ben asked.
    â€œThe proof, dag-blast it, the proof!” The photo was blurry, as if taken during an early-morning mist.
    â€œNate—” Mom said gently. “It’s a picture of you —”
    â€œWhere’s the proof?” Ben asked.
    â€œRight there before your eyes,” Uncle Nate said.
    â€œBut it’s you —” Mom repeated.
    â€œI know that . I ain’t a complete noodle.”
    â€œBut where’s the proof ?” Ben pleaded. “Where’s Jessie?”
    Uncle Nate grinned. “Dag-blast it, she took the picture!”
    In the midst of the hush which followed Uncle Nate’s announcement, Mrs. Boone arrived. I’d not seen her for years and years, and I wouldn’t have known who it was if Mom hadn’t greeted her at the door. The Mrs. Boone I remembered was a plump, hearty woman with soft brown hair. This new version of Mrs. Boone—or Louanne, as my mother knew her—was a skinny, frail thing with hair like stiff straw. Her chicken neck stretched forward, supporting a face lined with wrinkles. It was as if someone had opened up the former Mrs. Boone and released the one inside—and the one inside wasn’t a little girl—it was a little old lady.
    I couldn’t take my eyes off her, trying to figure out if maybe this was a different Mrs. Boone. But my mother acted as if there was nothing whatsoever that was different about her—except that she seemed upset.
    â€œSit yourself down, Louanne,” my mother said. “You look frazzled.”
    â€œI am,” she said, darting a glance at us kids who were still gathered around Uncle Nate and his photographs.
    â€œWhy don’t you all go in the other room so Louanne and I can talk?” my mother said.
    â€œMaybe one of them should stay,” Louanne said.
    It was a peculiar thing for her to say, and we all stared at her, waiting for her to explain.
    â€œWhich one’s Zinny?” she said.
    Gretchen pushed me forward. “This one.”
    â€œMaybe Zinny should stay,” Louanne said. “What I’ve got to say concerns her.”
    I thought about bolting for the door and making a quick escape, or falling down in a fit and thrashing around and maybe even going unconscious. Everyone hovered there, curious about why Louanne Boone wanted me to stay.
    â€œGo on,” Mom said, “go find something to do. Zinny—you stay here.”
    Reluctantly, they shuffled out of the room—all, that is, except May, who decided to wash the dishes.
    â€œMay, you too. Go on.”
    â€œI’ll just do up these dishes first,” she said.
    â€œGo on —”
    â€œOkay, okay, okay! If you don’t want any help, that’s perfectly fine with me!” May said, stomping off.
    Mrs. Boone fiddled with her key ring, clearing her throat several times. “You got new curtains,” she said.
    â€œThree years ago,” Mom said.
    â€œAnd I like the way you’re doing your hair.”
    â€œThank you, Louanne. Yours looks nice, too.” (It didn’t, though. Mom was just being polite.) “Now, is there some reason you