Hidebehind

Twenty

I was staring at Grandpa across my bowl of cereal the next morning, wondering what exactly had happened the night before, when there was a knock at the door. It was pretty early for someone to come by—especially for a Saturday—so my ears perked up. I stayed where I was and let Great Grandma see who it was, but when I heard her exclaim, "Oh! Morning, Officer. What brings you here?" I popped out of my chair and went to peer around her at the policeman standing on the patio.

"Mrs. Jones," the policeman nodded, "you know you need to call me Al."

Great Grandma chuckled a little. "Then you need to start calling me Ethel. Doesn't matter if I used to teach your mother."

"I'll try. But I'm here on official business, ma'am."

"And what business is that?"

He tipped his head in the direction of her farm. "You seen your silo, recently?"

Great Grandma clicked her tongue in thought. "Not in a few weeks, no. I don't make it back to that part of the property often, not since the golf cart broke down. Something I should know about it?"

"Well, it's clear to see it off the interstate—got a great view, especially with them leaves falling off the trees."

"I'm not on the interstate much. Just keep my business in town."

"It's covered in graffiti, ma'am. Lots of it. Fresh, from the look of it. Not down by the bottom, where it's easy to reach, but it seems someone's been climbing the ladder—the markings are high up."

"Graffiti?" Great Grandma sounded sincerely shocked. "But that would mean someone's coming onto my farm—trespassing."

The officer nodded. "That does seem likely."

I looked from Great Grandma to the policeman and back to Great Grandma. She was utterly stumped, I could tell. "Well . . . why would anybody want to do that?" was her eventual response.

"I thought you might know," replied the officer, sighing in disappointment. "Saw it on my route, today. Thought I'd come by. Guess this means I'll make a report for vandalism . . . unless you think otherwise?"

"Oh, no, by all means, Al. Make that report. I don't want hooligans trashing up my farm. It might not be the prettiest thing around anymore, but I sure as Hell don't want kids thinking they can do what they want on my land."

"I'll take care of it immediately, Mrs. Jo—er—Ethel."

The policeman smiled flatly and turned to go. I stared at Great Grandma as she just stood there, staring off into space for what seemed a solid minute.

A thought struck me. "You know, not long ago, I was exploring, and I didn't see any graffiti on the silo."

Great Grandma swiveled to ponder me. "And when was that?"

"Oh . . . a couple of weeks ago, maybe? I've just explored a few times, but I never saw anything on the silo."

"So it must have been recent."

"It must have."

The old woman frowned at me, suddenly. "You shouldn't be ranging around this farm," she said. "There're snakes and old farm equipment, and bugs. Lots of bugs. And you know . . . now that I'm saying it, sounds just like what a boy would want to go out and explore." Her frown morphed into a smile. "Why don't we go take a look at the silo today? Check out this graffiti for ourselves?"

I couldn't say no; it wasn't as if I had anything at all to do. So I nodded and forced a smile onto my face, inwardly grumbling about it.

Just about an hour had passed when, right before Great Grandma and I were about to head over to the silo, the phone rang. I didn't hear any of what was said, but she told me afterward that a reporter from the local news station wanted to come do a story on the graffiti. At first, Great Grandma had been hesitant, but then, she told me, she figured it'd be good if the kids that had done it knew their actions had been noticed. She hoped it would keep them from coming back. So we waited another half hour before venturing out in order to meet the reporter.

I decided to wait on the patio. Grandpa was in a strange mood—wandering the house, muttering—and it made me feel sad and odd. The house felt a little suffocating.

The two mangy dogs that roamed the farm found me, sitting on a rotting wicker chair as far away from the tick jar as I could manage, and I was petting them in spite of myself when a car drove up and a woman in a suit popped out of it.

"Marian Gregg," the woman introduced herself, holding out her hand for me to shake.

I surveyed her and decided she was all right, so I accepted the shake. "My Great Grandma's inside."

"Right here, Robbie," said the old woman, exiting the house right at that moment. "How are you, Marian? How's your sister?"

The reporter smiled. She looked like somebody's mom. Maybe even like my own. I stared at the gravel drive.

"Fine, Mrs. Jones. Ellie is just fine. Moved to Tulsa to take a job down there. Now, can we drive you over there? That way we don't have to walk."

"Oh, I move pretty fast for an old girl, but if Robbie and I can fit in your car, then that saves me the trouble!" Great Grandma waddled over to the car and Marian unnecessarily helped her get in.

For a moment, I hesitated, but the reporter smiled at me, and I felt awkward, so I went ahead and got in to distract myself.

The silo wasn't that far away for me and Jay, but I was glad for the drive. Great Grandma would have taken forever to walk. The minute the silo came into view, we could see the graffiti, even through all the dust and dirt kicked up by the car. There was a ton of it—like the officer had said, it was mostly up at the top, but there was also a trail of it leading up and around the ladder. Even though the graffiti consisted of a bunch of black squiggles, like some huge spider web entwining a quarter of the old structure, it was immediately familiar, and the reporter reminded me of why:

"It's just like the markings on the Oxcart school building, isn't it?"

That was exactly where I'd seen it. Jay and I had played that we'd figure out the school graffiti, but we'd totally lost interest after a few days, and then all the stuff about my Grandpa and Jimmy took my mind off it. The Oxcart graffiti had proven stubborn, but it was removed within a week of it being sprayed up there, and none had appeared since . . . until now.

"Make sure you get the top, Ron," Marian said, climbing out of the car and talking to the cameraman already there and setting up. He had a huge camera on a tripod, and there was another guy there with some sort of white umbrella-like thing. "How about you and Robbie making a statement of some sort?" Marian asked Great Grandma.

"It's Robert," I muttered. The woman apologized, and I smiled. She was nice. But I added, "I don't want to say anything."

The whole filming took about five minutes, once things were set up. When the camera turned to Great Grandma, she said, as seriously as she could, "I just want whoever did this to know that it's not right—going onto someone's property and vandalizing like this. You need to turn yourself in and pay for the damage you've done."

When the cameraman unexpectedly swiveled to me, I had nothing to add, and I just stood there looking stupid until he realized I wasn't going to talk and rotated to Marian, who wrapped up the story.