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hundred yards away. She is kneeling in the brush. Her back is turned to me, so I stop and watch from a distance. She is holding something in her hands. She is crying.
    I spy from the shadows and wonder if the skinny, brown-capped gypsy boy is spying on the spy. The woman is talking quickly. Jarring back and forth between whispers and shouts. “Time to bury the past,” she says, loud enough for me to hear. Who is she talking to? Why does her voice sound familiar? I lean closer and strain to focus. With bare hands, she digs a hole into the soft ground and places a box into the shallow opening. She covers the box with dirt, and over it she spreads a layer of dead leaves. It disappears under the tree.
    The woman stands as she throws something into the river, something small and shiny. All I see is the glint of it before she yells, “Happy now?”
    She dusts her hands on her skirt, turns, and for just a second, I see her face. She sweeps blonde hair from her eyes and I am certain. She is my mama.

CHAPTER 6
     
    I hide behind the face of the hill and hope Mama doesn’t see me on my belly, peeking through newborn cedars and sweet gum scrubs. I spy as she talks to the air, and buries a box, and throws away a key. It is all I can do not to jump out and call to her, but fear speaks first. What if I’m not supposed to know about this? I cower lower, behind the grassy bank. I wait for a long time after she leaves, until I’m sure it’s safe to move. Then I go to the spot where she has hidden her secrets. I know I shouldn’t do it, but I brush away the leaves and I scoop out handfuls of dirt and I find her wooden box, like a coffin, buried under the sycamore tree.
    It is locked, so I feel for my pocketknife. Careful not to make a mark, I pry the lock, but it won’t shift. The sun is sinking, and I am running out of time.
    A branch breaks in the distance and I’m hit again with sizzling. Someone is watching me. I hope it is just the gypsy boy. I hope it isn’t Jack.
    A hawk screams, scared from its perch. The wind howls, the leaves wave warnings. Another twig snaps into the forest floor. Closer this time. I turn to look. Listen. I see only the day giving into night. But I know I am not alone.
    I hurry to cover the box, exactly the way Mama had buried it. I scatter dry leaves over the spot and stand, looking around with wide white eyes, like Mr. Sutton’s horses when stray dogs circle the pasture. “Hello?” I say to the woods. No one answers. Another twig breaks, close behind me now. “Who’s there?”
    Again, nothing.
    I am too afraid to run. I stand, turning, watching, holding my pocketknife. “Come out!” I shout, louder this time.
    Down a bit, close to the water, branches are bending and leaves are crunching. Then I hear the sounds of someone, or something, running away.
    Just as quickly as the noise began, the woods quiet down. The hawk returns to his perch, the moon shines a new yellow light on the fading canopy, and all becomes still again. I don’t move. I stand and listen and breathe. A coon shows itself in the clearing, and I finally get the courage to head home to Mama.
    I find her in the kitchen. Ella Fitzgerald sings from the speaker. Red beans are simmering, and the house smells like sausage.
    Mama leans over the counter. Her feet are crossed at the ankles, and she rubs an old string of pearls around her neck. She never looks up from the book she is studying. “Where’ve you been?”
    “At the library,” I lie to Mama. I feel it like a punch in my gut. I stir the pot so I don’t have to see her reaction if she knows. “What’ve you been doing?”
    She keeps right on reading. “Cooking,” she says. “Just cooking.”

     
    Mama cooked all night, but it didn’t seem to matter. Jack didn’t come home after all. I’m on my way home from school now, hoping he’s still gone, but when I turn the corner I see his truck parked in front of our house. Pins shoot through my bones like I’m one of those