Secret Brother Page 26

  “He seems quite reluctant about saying his name. What he gave us as a last name makes no sense.”

  “What?”

  “Doll.”

  “Doll? Could anyone have a name like that?”

  Grandpa shook his head. “I don’t know. I guess anything could be a name. I’ll give them what we have and hope more comes from him over time. For now, everything will stay as is.”

  “But what about the poison? Did he say anything, give you any clues to what might have happened?”

  He shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  “Dr. Patrick believes he won’t accept that. He’ll only accept being sick.”

  I thought a moment. “So someone he trusted might have done it?”

  “Maybe.” He paused and then added, “That’s what Dr. Patrick thinks.”

  “How horrible.”

  “Yeah, it’s a mess.” He stood up. “Get started if you want. We’ll finish after dinner tonight, unless you had other plans. It is Saturday night.”

  “No, I’m staying home to do this. With you,” I added. “And we’ll have our usual celebration dinner.”

  He smiled, and then he came over and kissed me on the cheek. “Sometimes I think I’m looking right at your mother and I’m twenty years younger.”

  The tears that came to my eyes wouldn’t let me speak. I watched him leave, and then I turned back to the tree and to Willie’s toy village. How could anything so beautiful cause someone to panic?

  Where had he been?

  What had happened to him?

  Did I want to know? Maybe it was better to leave it all in some sort of limbo. On the other hand, what right did I or any of us have to keep him from his family?

  Even if they didn’t want him? I asked myself.

  How could they possibly not want him? But why weren’t they looking for him?

  Maybe they were all dead.

  These gruesome thoughts were discordant notes rung in the presence of our Christmas tree and the electric trains and tiny village. I plugged everything in and watched the trains start around slowly. Willie’s look of joy lit up my mind and pushed those dark thoughts away. My doing what he loved brought him back beside me.

  Of course, he faded away again.

  After you lost someone you loved, memory was a painful thing, even for the dead.

  Thornton Wilder was right in his play Our Town. We had read it last year aloud in class, and everyone, even the boys, had tears in their eyes when Emily Webb returned to watch the living. The narrator warned her not to. He said the dead gradually lost interest in the living. They went on to something else, and memory only slowed that down. She would only suffer more.

  I had to go on to something else.

  And maybe Count Piro also had to.

  Maybe he would reach out for my hand and let me help him step out of the darkness.

  Would I take hold?

  18

  “How pretty. There’s a phone call for you,” Myra said. She had come up behind me without my knowing and stood silently for a few moments taking in the work on and around the tree that I had completed.

  “The phone rang?”

  Aaron had said he would be calling, pressuring me to do something with him, but I thought he would at least wait until tomorrow.

  “I guessed that you might be too involved in the tree to hear someone ringing you up, so I answered.”

  “Thank you, Myra,” I said, and went to the phone in the living room.

  It wasn’t Aaron; it was Lila, and from the sound of excitement in her voice, it was clear she couldn’t wait to get to a phone to call me. “Something happen between you and Aaron?” she asked as soon as I said hello. She was breathless. Maybe she had run to the nearest phone.

  “Why are you asking?”

  “A bunch of us got together at the Meadows for lunch.” The Meadows was one of the half dozen upscale restaurants in Prescott that featured a buffet lunch on Saturdays. They had a few rooms for dining, and Prescott teenagers laid claim to one occasionally.

  “No one called me about it, not that I could have gone.”

  “Well, I just assumed you’d be with Aaron, so I didn’t call you. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right.”

  I sensed her hesitation in the pause. “Aaron showed up,” she blurted.

  “And?” Did he start telling everyone what was going on at my home? Most of my classmates avoided the subject of the poisoned boy and what my grandfather was doing for him. At least, they didn’t want to ask me questions directly, but I was sure Aaron was enjoying being a source of information about it all. To be fair, I never said he shouldn’t say anything. In fact, I had hoped the attention would give Grandpa Arnold second thoughts. But that was all a while ago. I didn’t know what I wanted to happen now.

  “And almost immediately, he began flirting with Sandra Roth. Vikki Slater is having an open house tonight. I heard Aaron tell Sandra he’d see her there. He made it sound like she should wait for him. Won’t you be going?”

  “No. No one told me about that, either, but it doesn’t matter. My grandfather and I are doing our Christmas tree. It’s a tradition for us to have dinner together the night we finish.”

  “We did ours already. We usually have it up a week or so before Thanksgiving.”

  “We had some distractions,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “So what about Aaron? He’s not going to see you tonight if you don’t come to the party?”

  “He’ll live,” I said.

  “What?”

  “We’re having some serious problems at my home, Lila. My social life is not at the top of the list at the moment.”

  “Oh, that boy. Your grandfather still wants to keep him there?”

  “Yes. Until more is known, at least. My grandfather’s constantly checking with the police,” I added. “Thanks for calling to cheer me up.”

  “I thought you’d like to know what’s happening,” she whined.

  “Sometimes it’s better to be stupid,” I replied.

  “You’re really weird sometimes.”

  “I wonder why,” I said.

  She giggled nervously.

  “I have to go, Lila.”

  “Do you want me to tell you what happens at the party?” she quickly asked.

  “Enjoy yourself, Lila. You don’t have to be my little spy.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said, ignoring everything I was saying.

  “Whatever,” I replied. “Gotta go.”

  It wasn’t until after I hung up that her phone call bothered me. Was Aaron trying to show me that if I didn’t act more obedient, he would move on to someone else? He probably knew Lila or someone else would call to tell me about his flirting with Sandra Roth, especially if he had made it that obvious. Would he go home and wait for my phone call, expecting me to be hurt? If so, he’d wait a long time.

  What I had just told Lila was true. As my grandfather would say, my little romance had to take a backseat to what was going on here. Sometimes something was so unimportant in relation to everything else that he would emphasize it by saying, “Not only does that have to take a backseat, that has to go into the trunk for now.”

  I returned to decorating the tree. I heard Dorian come down the stairs and go to the kitchen and then hurry by again and head back upstairs. She didn’t even look in on me. I hoped nothing more was happening. It was like walking on brittle glass around here now. I couldn’t help anticipating cries for help or someone shouting, “Get the doctor quickly!”

  Myra returned to keep me company.

  “Is everything all right upstairs?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes. Mrs. Camden just wanted to get him a nice cup of tea with some honey.”

  “Your influence, I’m sure,” I
said.

  Myra even made fun of herself and the way the British turned to a cup of tea no matter what the problem. “Our main contribution to the civilized world,” she joked. She sat on the sofa watching me. While I worked, she told me more stories about her youth, how her family celebrated the holidays, how important a Christmas pudding was to her mother, who was proud of what she had made. Suddenly, she began talking about her older brother, who had died in the First World War. She rarely spoke of him. I always assumed they weren’t that close. I pretended to be concentrating on the tree decorations and barely listening, but the truth was, I was hanging on every word. From the way she described him now, it seemed he was more like a second father to her.

  “He had a great sense of humor and was so easygoing that he rarely got angry at anyone. He would just give someone who annoyed him a pitiful look, shake his head, and walk away. I always had trouble imagining him on a World War One battlefield. I could see him trying to reason with the enemy pointing a gun at him. He taught me patience. ‘Myra,’ he would say when I was annoyed, ‘you take a breath, count to ten, and reconsider how important that is.’ I refused to accept that he had been killed and simply forced myself to believe he was still away. Until the war ended, that is. Others were coming home. I would stand outside our door and imagine him appearing on the street, limping along, maybe, but there in the flesh, proving the report of his death was just a mistake.”

  All this time, I never really gave thought to the fact that she had lost her brother, too. Of course, she’d had him longer, and the circumstances were different, but it was still the loss of a sibling. Like me, she had to rely on memories. I wondered if they faded and then, when we were older, returned as vividly as she was relating hers now. She, too, must have been very lonely for a while.

  “Didn’t you ever meet anyone and fall in love, Myra?” I asked her when she paused, sinking back into her reminiscing.

  “Oh, I did,” she said. “I was engaged, you know.”

  “I never knew that.” I turned to face her. “What happened?”

  “Something called the Spanish flu,” she said. “Millions died from it after the war.”

  “Yes, I know. We read about that in history class. What was his name?”

  “Brenden,” she said. “Brenden Stormfield. He was tall, with light brown hair. He had a mustache that was more auburn, however. And eyes your color and your mother’s. His father was a barrister. He had a sister a year younger than me. She married a man in the import-export business and went off to live in India.” She smiled. “Pretty little thing.”

  “Did she ever write to you or anything?”

  “No. People are like that, you know. We pass each other like trains in the night. You see a face in a lit window as the train goes by, and you’ll never see it again. Oh, listen to me,” she said after a moment. “You have me in a chin wag.” She stood up. “I’ve got to see about that problem My Faith was having with the hot water in the kitchen. No one fixes anything right unless you’re hovering over him. You’re doing a lovely job on that tree. Your grandfather will be proud.”

  She hurried off. I knew she was making up the chore. She was just embarrassed at how much personal information she had told me, but she had so much to tell. No matter how well we were taught history, nothing compared to hearing her express how it was to live through two wars, especially when she described the bombings in London during the Second World War. Lately, it seemed, she was more forthcoming about the details. I thought she had decided that I was finally old enough to appreciate and understand what it meant to battle for survival. Maybe she thought that was what I was doing now, what we were all doing, battling for survival, especially my grandfather and me.

  How lucky I am to have her in my life, I thought, and turned back to the tree with more enthusiasm. About an hour later, Grandpa returned and, just as Myra had predicted, applauded how much I had gotten done.

  “It’s coming along beautifully,” he said. “Better than ever.”

  Before I could ask him anything about his visit with the police, Dorian stepped in and asked him how it had gone. I wondered if he would tell her anything in my presence. He glanced at me first and then began.

  “They’re circulating the new information. A check was done on outstanding police bulletins, but there was nothing meeting William’s description or situation. I’m bringing my man back into it,” he added. He meant his private detective. I was surprised at how determined he was to find out what he could and perhaps, as a result, have Count Piro returned to his family after all.

  “He’s doing a lot better,” Dorian said. “However, I think tonight I’ll bring his dinner up and sit with him. He’s still so fragile emotionally.”

  “He’s lucky to have you, Dorian,” Grandpa told her. She smiled, and then, when she turned to leave, he followed her out, and they spoke in whispers in the hallway.

  I didn’t have all that much left to hang on the tree. I went back at it, and while I worked, I had Willie’s electric trains run over the tracks and through the model village. When he and I had worked on the tree together, we were just as silent as I was now, both of us concentrating too hard on what we were doing. But it was in that silence that we tightened our love and dependence on each other. There was always joy in Christmas, but this year, the joy heightened the ache in my heart. It would be a battle to smile and laugh. On Christmas morning, there would be a gaping space under the tree where Willie’s presents normally would be. Did Grandpa think he could fill it with presents for Count Piro? I hoped not. Was that mean?

  “Sorry I wasn’t here to help more,” Grandpa said when he returned and interrupted my musing. “Can’t believe how much you did and how perfect it looks.”

  “Kept my mind off things. Holidays bring smiles and tears,” I said.

  “Yes,” Grandpa said. “We’ll try for more smiles. Say,” he continued, looking around as if someone could be hiding behind the furniture, “where’s that young man of yours today? Why wasn’t he here to help?”

  “He’s not my young man, Grandpa. We’ve just been dating a little.”

  “Oh?” He lifted his eyebrows. “When I was your age, seeing a girl as many times as he’s seen you meant marriage was just around the corner.”

  “It did not. You could fill a zeppelin,” I said, which was how Grandma Arnold used to check him when he exaggerated. He laughed and fiddled with one of the silver balls that had yet to be hung. He looked at me to see if I approved of where he was placing it. I nodded.

  “Okay, but don’t expect advice to the lovelorn from me,” he said. “I know more about trucks than I do about women. Trucks are less moody. Maybe Dorian can help there. I imagine she’d be more helpful about such things than Myra or My Faith.”

  Since we were being so honest with each other all of a sudden, I grew brave. “You seem to know how to please Dorian,” I said, and held my breath. Would he growl back at me?

  “She’s settled in a groove, just like me. We’re two of a kind,” he replied instead.

  “Yes,” I said. I felt how he was studying me. He knew that at the start, I wasn’t fond of how quickly she had become part of our lives, but I didn’t have those feelings now. “You’re right. She’s very nice and more than just some private-duty nurse.”

  “She is,” he agreed. I waited to see if he would add anything more, but he decided to change the subject. “I’m going to be really hungry tonight,” he said, slapping his hands together. “You’re having dinner here, right?”

  “It’s Christmas tree dinner,” I said, and his smile deepened. Was it possible? Was it possible that happiness and love could return to this house?

  “I’ll take a picture of this one,” he said when we had finished the decorating. “We’ll call this Clara Sue’s tree.”

  “It’s our tree, Grandpa. You picked it out, didn’t you?”

  He reached out to pu
t his arm around my shoulders and pulled me closer for one of his William Arnold hugs, practically lifting me off my feet and planting a kiss on the top of my head. Then he started out. “Got to get ready for dinner,” he said. “I’ll wear that Christmas shirt your grandmother bought me a while back.”

  I turned off the electric trains and slowly followed him up the stairs. Count Piro’s door was open. I looked in, expecting to see Dorian, but instead, I saw only him in his wheelchair, his back to the door as he gazed out the window. I wondered what he was thinking. Was he regretting that he couldn’t be out there like Willie often was, maybe wearing his Superman cape and rushing about chasing imaginary villains? Or was he thinking about his lost family? Did he dream of going out our gate and home?

  His shoulders were hoisted a little as if he had a cold breeze at the back of his neck. He was clutching the arms of his wheelchair like someone who was about to rise out of it and stand on his own. His arms were tightening, extending.

  That’s exactly what he’s hoping to do, I thought. I watched and held my breath. He had his feet on the floor and was beginning to rise. Oh, do it, I thought. Stand on your own two feet, and begin your journey home.

  He rose higher, his arms extending and tightening further. I heard him groan with the effort. He leaned forward as he rose, and then, when he was just about out of his chair and on his feet, he toppled over to the right and fell to the floor, collapsing as if his bones were only pipe cleaners. He moaned, but he didn’t cry. I rushed to him.

  “Are you all right?” I asked, kneeling beside him and taking his right hand.

  He gazed up at me. I saw no pain in his face, no physical pain. Instead, there was sorrow and loneliness, a look of desperate solitude, the look of someone chained to a wall, shut up in a room without windows, and confined to the sound of only his thoughts. Even his voice had disappeared. His lips moved ever so slightly, and then he whispered. I drew closer to hear him.

  “Cathy,” I heard him say softly. “Momma.”

  I put my arms under his and lifted him. It wasn’t difficult, because he was so light. As carefully as I could, I got him back into his chair. Should I run for Dorian? I wondered. She was probably in her room, maybe in the bathroom. Instead, I fixed his feet on the footrests of the wheelchair, brushed back his hair, and checked to see if he had bruised himself. He watched me silently. Then he turned to look out the window again.