Zigzagging Down a Wild Trail Read Online Free PDF

interesting and unusual. Most men she knew wore their caps with almost fanatic devotion, indoors and out.
    â€œYou can’t count on young people these days,” said Bob as he searched for a Band-Aid in Jackie’s medicine cabinet. He had a paper-cut from junk mail.
    â€œYoung people? Why, you’re not so old! I hope when I’m fifty I don’t feel like my life is over.”
    After supper, while Jackie was washing the dishes, Tobrah suddenly started flattening pillows on the couch with a spatula.
    â€œBeat ’em good, hon,” said Jackie. “They need it.”
    â€œI’m going out to the drugstore to get some antihistamines,” Bob said, looking for his cap. “Does anybody want to come?”
    â€œAre you allergic to something here?” asked Jackie.
    â€œNo. My nose has been itching all day.”
    â€œIf your nose itches it means somebody’s coming with a hole in his britches,” Jackie said teasingly.
    â€œI’ve got a hole in my britches,” said Tobrah, giggling.
    Bob pulled on his cap. “Are y’all coming?”
    Jackie said, “No, we’ve got work to do.” She found a second spatula in the kitchen and started whacking the drapes. “The hard part is the places up high,” she said to Tobrah.
    â€œAren’t you supposed to beat rugs outside?” Bob asked as he went out the door. They were hitting the couch, the chairs, the shag rug. On their hands and knees, they smacked the rug, sending up fibers and dust.
    Jackie sneezed and Tobrah said, “This is fun.” Jackie experienced a rushing sensation of blissful abandon, something she’d thought only a child could feel. She remembered feeling this way once when she was small—the meaningless happiness of jumping up and down on a bed, bouncing off the walls, chanting, “Little Bo Peep is fast asleep.”
    Tobrah had a way of moving jerkily—as if she were imitating some old comedian or mocking a private memory. She skipped ahead down the strawberry rows, then stopped to pluck a bright berry.
    â€œGotcha!” she cried. She had picked up the expression at Kid World and had been applying it to everything.
    Jackie’s friend Annabelle had brought them to a farm south of town to pick strawberries. It was the last of the crop and the patch was drying out. Tobrah had been collecting all sorts of berries—green ones, deformed ones, rotten ones, as well as ripe ones. Jackie felt warm and peaceful. Tobrah’s tan skin glowed bright in the hot morning sun, and now and then she tugged at a handful of hair, stretching the curls.
    â€œDon’t pick the green ones,” Jackie said, but Tobrah didn’t hear. Jackie said to Annabelle, “I’m not sure when to correct her or when to just let her go.”
    â€œWait till she starts school,” Annabelle said sympathetically. “You won’t be able to keep up with her.”
    â€œShe’s always busy with something,” said Jackie. “She’s got a great attention span.”
    â€œShe must not have seen much TV.”
    â€œI don’t know. She won’t tell much.”
    â€œShe’s repressing her grief.” Annabelle worked in the typing pool at a social services agency and liked to talk knowledgeably about the cases she had typed up.
    â€œWhat does a little child know about grief?” Jackie asked. She threw a rotten berry across a couple of rows.
    Annabelle shook her head skeptically. “You can take a child that’s been through a trauma and give it all the love in the world and it might take years for the child to start to trust you.”
    â€œThat’s ridiculous.”
    Instantly, Jackie regretted her tone. Annabelle’s son was in a chemical-dependency program, and Jackie knew Annabelle blamed herself. But Jackie felt as though some kind of safety valve had broken in her. She was becoming impatient with adult ideas. All she wanted