Hidden Places Read Online Free PDF

is very ill.’’ I wrapped the notebooks inside the slicker again and stuffed everything back into the burlap bag.
    ‘‘Luke thinks the man’s gonna die,’’ Jimmy said quietly.
    I felt a pang of alarm. ‘‘Did he tell you that?’’
    Jimmy nodded.
    ‘‘What else did Luke say?’’
    ‘‘Not much,’’ he said with a shrug. ‘‘You know Luke.’’
    Sometimes I wondered if I did know Luke. He had been a happy little boy until his father died. Then, for a while, he had looked to his grandfather to take Sam’s place. But when Grandpa Wyatt had suddenly died, it seemed as though the little boy in Luke had died along with him.
    ‘‘Do you think they’ll cancel school today?’’ Jimmy asked, interrupting my thoughts. ‘‘It’s still snowing.’’
    Outside, the wind still hadn’t let up. I could barely see the barn through the gray, swirling flakes. ‘‘I don’t care if there is school. You’re not going any farther than the barn on a day like today.’’
    Jimmy did a little dance of joy as he gathered his hat and mittens from beside the stove and began bundling up to do his chores. Luke wandered into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
    ‘‘Guess what, Luke! No school today!’’ Jimmy announced.
    ‘‘Is the m-man dead yet?’’ Luke asked.
    His words felt like a knife in my heart. I looked into my son’s hollow eyes. ‘‘Listen, Luke—’’ I began, but Jimmy interrupted me.
    ‘‘Hey, Luke! You’ll never guess what the hobo’s name is! Gabriel ... like the angel! And his last name is Harper. Get it? Harp... the thing the angels play in heaven?’’
    I hadn’t made the connection until Jimmy pointed it out. Now the stranger’s name sounded phony to me. Maybe it was a nickname like my aunt ‘‘Peanut’’ whose real name was Cecilia, or my mama who had been called ‘‘The Singing Angel.’’ If the hobo was some kind of a writer, maybe Gabriel was his pen name. I shoved my arms into the sleeves of my coat and wrapped a scarf around my head.
    ‘‘Keep an eye on the fire until we get back, okay, Luke? Throw on more wood if the coal doesn’t catch.’’
    I was so tired from reading most of the night that I plodded through my chores as if in a dream, my thoughts on Gabriel Harper’s tale of the prodigal son. I wished I’d had time to read more of the story. I could easily picture the prodigal’s father reading about the wrath of God at the dinner table. Grandpa Wyatt had always read from the Bible after dinner, too, allowing no one to leave the table until he’d finished an entire chapter. I’d never seen much point in reading a long list that told who begot whom, or a bunch of rules about priests sacrificing animals and sprinkling their blood every whichway, but I hadn’t dared to question my father-in-law. Like the father in Harper’s story, Grandpa Wyatt was not an easy man to approach. Since his death, the Bible had remained in the bureau drawer in his room. None of my kids had asked me why.
    As I trudged out of the barn, lugging a milk pail in each hand, a sudden movement near the back porch caught my eye. Across the wide expanse of white, two dark, hunched forms emerged from the house—one tall, one short. I saw a flash of red—Luke’s hair—and realized that Mr. Harper was leaning on Luke, limping across the yard through the snow toward the privy.
    The fool! He was in no condition to be wandering outside in a storm! Suppose he slipped and fell? I hurried toward them as quickly as I dared, the milk sloshing in the pails.
    ‘‘Hey!’’ I called. ‘‘Hey there! What do you think you’re doing?’’
    As I had feared, Mr. Harper’s knees suddenly gave out and he crumpled to the ground, pulling Luke down with him. I set the pails down and slogged through the drifts to help. Before I could reach him, Mr. Harper crawled the last few feet to the outhouse on his hands and knees. Luke was up and brushing snow off his clothes by the time I got