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a word. She turned, crawled into the recesses of the box, and pulled the blanket over her head. I waited for awhile, staring at her brogans, then got up quietly, circumnavigated the box, and squeezed through the gap toward home.

CHAPTER FOUR The next Saturday M and I made our library trip as usual. I let M use my twenty-inch Spyder bike with the chopper handlebars and tiger-skin banana seat; I “borrowed” Heidi’s bike. (I would not have normally agreed to be seen in public on a girl’s bike, but it had a large basket convenient for transporting the large number of books we always checked out.)
    I was quiet as we rode along, which didn’t bother M. He chattered, oblivious to my silence. My thoughts were on the Creature and how she was faring. I wanted to check on her, but I didn’t know how to ditch M. As we neared the theater, I made a snap decision, turning down the alley instead of taking the street to the library. It took M awhile to realize I wasn’t with him. He stopped in midsentence. “Hey, man, where you goin’?”
    “This way,” I hollered over my shoulder. He caught up with me at the end of the blind alley.
    “Hey, what . . . ,” he started, but I held up my hand for silence.
    “Wait here,” I whispered, “I want to check on something.” I climbed the trash can by the fence.
    “Where are you going?” he asked in a stage whisper.
    I jumped over the fence. The courtyard was unchanged. I padded silently to the cardboard box, but the Creature wasn’t there. I stood looking into the box’s shadows when M dropped over the fence.
    He looked around nervously. “What are you doin’?” he demanded in a hoarse whisper. “Are you crazy?”
    I could see something in the back recesses of the box, beyond the tattered blanket, and was intrigued by the thought of what the Creature would stash away. I hoped it might give me a clue to who she was and why she lived as she did. I looked around quickly and dropped down, reaching into the box. A miasma of sweat, alcohol, and vomit enveloped my head and I rolled back out, gasping for fresh air.
    M said, “Hey,” but I took a deep breath and plunged back in, so I didn’t hear the rest. My hand reached back and closed on the object. It was a small Bible, bound in limp, black leather with the name Pauline Jordan barely legible in flaking, gold gilt letters. A screeching wail and a startled shout caused me to drop the Bible, and I scuttled backward like a deranged crab.
    M was backing toward the fence, his eyes large and fixed on something behind me. I spun around. The Creature shuffled toward me, a large cabbage nestled in the crook of her arm. The other arm stretched out, forefinger extended toward me like an accusation, trembling.
    “The man who does not enter the sheep pen by the gate, but climbs in by some other way, is a thief and a robber,” she screeched, spittle in the corners of her mouth. Then she saw my face. “The Mark,” she breathed. “The Mark follered me.”
    Her gaze drifted from me to M. “Ham,” she said, eyes burning a deep green. “Cursed be Canaan! The lowest of slaves will he be to his brothers.” She jumped a menacing step in his direction, and he disappeared over the fence without a word.
    The Creature turned to me. “Those who hate me without reason outnumber the hairs of my head,” she said with deep venom and threw the cabbage at me. I dodged it and followed M over the fence. It took me a block to catch up with him. He didn’t stop until we were on the steps of the library.
    “What was that?” he demanded between gasps for air.
    “I think it was Pauline.” I told him the story of my previous visits.
    He shook his head. “Don’t mess with her, man. She’s crazy.”

    Once inside the library, M insisted I get something by “my namesake,” so I picked up a copy of
Tom Sawyer
to go with
Treasure Island
. M got
Homer Price
and
The Underground Railroad
. We got on the bikes and headed back. I suggested a detour by the