Mrs. Poulsen stood on the porch with her familiar look of magnanimity. “I’m surprised your folks let you out after dark. Did you hear about that girl who was kidnapped?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“It was in the Eagle. The article said she went to Granite. Don’t you boys go to Granite?”

“I do. But I don’t think she was kidnapped. She probably just ran away from home.”

She shook her head. “That’s even worse. Worrying her folks and everyone else like that.”

“Maybe she had a reason,” I said.

The old lady turned on me, displaying a ferocity I wouldn’t have guessed she possessed. “What reason could that awful girl possibly have to hurt her poor folks like that? Kids today don’t care about anyone but themselves.”

My temper flared. “She’s not awful. You are.”

Her mouth opened so wide that I thought her dentures might fall out.

Just then Joel handed me his mug. “I’ve got to use the bathroom,” he said and without waiting for permission ran into the house. Mrs. Poulsen was too stunned to stop him. About five minutes later he came back out. Me and the lady were still glaring at each other.

“Let’s go, Joel.”

“Yes, you bad boys go on home.”

“You’re a mean old lady,” Joel said. “And you’re cheap.” We stepped off the porch and he turned back again. “And your hot chocolate stinks!”

When we were back home I turned to Joel. “That was bad.”

“I told you she was mean.”

“Any luck with the pills?”

Joel nodded. “Got them.”

“Let me see.”

He pulled the bottle from his coat.

I read the label. “This is Librium.”

“What’s that?”

“I think it makes you happy.”

“Happy pills?”

“Yeah. We needed penicillin.”

Joel put the pills back in his pocket. “I’m keeping them anyway. Mom could use some of these.”

THURSDAY, NOV. 22

The next day was Thanksgiving, and fate played us a winning hand. We put on our Sunday go-to-meeting clothes and went to Uncle Norm’s for dinner. Before we left I went in and checked on Grace. She looked about the same, though she thought the pills I gave her were helping. I kissed her on the forehead and told her I’d bring her back some leftovers, which we both agreed were even better than the actual dinner.

Thanksgiving dinner was to Aunt Geniel what the Sistine Chapel was to Michelangelo. We’ve all seen magazine pictures of Thanksgiving feasts with large, perfectly browned turkeys and shiny, butter-basted rolls. Then we learn the photographer’s tricks, like using shoe polish to burnish a raw turkey, making it look perfectly roasted, or adding marbles to soup to make it appear chunkier.