Pig-Out Inn by Lois Ruby Page B

met,” said Tag, waving to a trucker who was pulling in for a late-afternoon breather. Fenway raised his lazy head for a second to bark absently at the driver, then settled back into his coil at Tag’s feet.
    â€œYou going to be out here long?” I asked.
    â€œUntil the sun goes down. By then everybody’s in for the night.”
    â€œOh. Well, see you later.” Now was my opportunity. Stephanie was taking a nap and Tag was peddling, so I grabbed the keys from the hook in the kitchen and stole over to Tag’s cottage. I’d made a couple of attempts to find Cee Dubyah’s note, but Tag had done one thorough job of hiding it—or maybe he carried it with him all the time.
    Tag’s cottage was looking pretty good; he’d probably have done all right in an Army barracks. I rummaged through the papers and comic books on Tag’s desk; even found odd dollars between the pages of a Sports Illustrated , and about seventy-five dollars more scattered around in his drawers, which were mostly empty. No sign of the note. It was deadly hot in the room. I thought I’d do Tag a favor and turn on the air conditioning so he could come back to a cool cabin when he was through work. Flipping open the control box of the window unit, I found it—Cee Dubyah’s note folded into a tiny square.
    Dear Tag, my boy,
    I got to do this, so we can be together someday. You and me are like two peas in a pod, and she’s got no business keeping us apart.
    Listen, I checked these people out real good, and they’re okay. They’re Quakers. Did ya ever read in school about the Quakers who kept the escaped slaves, so no one could find them? They’ll watch out for you. But you understand I have to stay away, because the cops’ll be looking for me until this all blows over and she forgets all about it.
    You’re just like a cat who jumps out of a tree and lands on his feet every time. You’ll do all right, son . Here’s a few dollars to start your business with. I’ll be back to get you as soon as I can. I swear, we’re going to Fenway Park before the summer’s out.
    Your dad,
    C.W.
    I folded the letter back up the way it was. I wished I hadn’t found it. My chest felt tight and sore because the letter was so sad, and I was disgusted with myself for invading what little bit of privacy Tag had. Once, when we were in our Doctor Zhivago stage, Stephanie and I found some love letters my father and mother had written back and forth, and we devoured the first two, giggling and practically panting through every line. But I felt sort of sick afterwards, and I never admitted to Momma that I even knew where the letters were stored. Momma and Dad never looked quite the same to me after that. I wondered if I was going to be able to treat Tag just the same. The last thing I wanted was to feel sorry for the kid, but even with the air conditioner blowing in my face at full blast I couldn’t shake the hot heavy feeling of sadness that gripped my chest.
    I knew I wouldn’t be able to tell Stephanie about the letter. She’d always lived in a regular three-bedroom, two-story house with her mother and father and two brothers, and there were very old apple trees in the yard, and they’d never once had to submit a change-of-address card at the Post Office. She wouldn’t understand about the Laytons of the world.
    I turned off the air conditioner and put the note, folded no bigger than a postage stamp, back where I’d found it.

EIGHT
    â€œYour father wrote us a letter,” Momma said as Tag slurped up a bowl full of sweet cereal milk, spoon by spoon. He didn’t even look up, but Stephanie and I could tell he was listening by the way his shoulders grew stiff and alert.
    Momma continued, “He says he’ll get back just as soon as he can.”
    â€œWe’re supposed to look after you,” I added.
    â€œDid he say that?” Tag asked