Riding the Flume (6 page)

Now the books were lined up neatly on the shelves of the bookcase. Francie ran her finger across their spines. There were books about plants, animals, and geology. There was poetry . . . Whitman and Wordsworth were Carrie's favorites. There was a huge dictionary. But there was no diary that Francie could see.

She opened all the drawers in the dresser—they were empty. She already knew it wasn't in the nightstand drawer—it had contained nothing but the box of matches.

Charlie had said that Carrie had kept the diary hidden. Francie stood in the middle of the room and turned around in a slow circle. She wondered suddenly if Carrie herself had stood here long ago and looked around her
room for a hiding place. “If I were Carrie, where would I hide my diary?” Francie whispered. She thought about how Charlie had said Carrie loved mysteries. Then it wouldn't have been in the drawers, even buried under her clothes—that would be too easy. Wouldn't Carrie have picked a more mysterious spot?

Under the feather bed? She touched it with a finger. No, that wouldn't work—Mama and Josie turned the mattresses every month and put them out in the sun twice a year to air out. Anything hidden under there would be found.

Her glance fell on the wardrobe. “Maybe it has a secret compartment,” Francie murmured, and as soon as she'd said the words, she knew that's what Carrie would have loved—a secret compartment. The two narrow doors of the wardrobe met in the center. Francie walked over and opened them. As she had expected, it was empty. She ran her hand along the side panels and the back. The wood was thin and hid no secrets.

She knocked on the bottom of the cabinet, producing a muffled thud. Shouldn't it sound more hollow? Her heart started hammering in her chest. Kneeling, she reached under the wardrobe and placed her other hand on the outside of the wood. Then she knocked again. It still sounded muffled, and she couldn't feel any vibration.

“It's got a false bottom!” Almost frantic, she ran her fingers over the floor of the wardrobe. It felt smooth, but on
the right side there was a slight indentation—a nick in the wood as if someone had dropped something heavy and it had made a mark. No one would pay the least attention to it—unless she were thinking about secret compartments. Francie turned her finger over, dug her nail into the nick, and pulled up.

It moved! Francie's heart was beating so hard she thought she might faint. She lifted the board and looked underneath. In the dim light from the oil lamp, she could see a book lying in the space between the true bottom of the wardrobe and the false bottom installed above it. Francie reached in and her hand closed on the soft, smooth leather. The diary! She lifted it out, placed it on the floor beside her, and then lowered the board, tapping it back into place with her knuckles. She felt the smooth wood with her fingers. How had Carrie made this secret place? Or had she just happened to discover that her wardrobe had a false bottom? “I'll never know,” Francie murmured, but it crossed her mind to check her own wardrobe. Maybe it had a secret compartment as well!

A creaking step outside in the hallway had her leaping to her feet. She spun around, staring at the door. She had absolutely no idea how long she'd been in Carrie's room. She listened as the steps moved slowly down the hall and into her parents' room—it must be her father heading for bed. Mama would be coming soon, and she often stopped in Francie's room for a final good night.

Francie grabbed the book, shut the wardrobe doors as quietly as she could, and blew out the lamp. She walked on tiptoe to the door. No sound came from the hallway. Slowly she turned the knob and cracked the door ever so slightly. She held her breath. She could hear the rustle of her mother's dress as she moved around downstairs in the parlor. Quickly Francie slipped out the door, shut it silently, took three steps to her own door, opened it, and slipped inside.

For the second time that night Francie stood in the middle of a room and waited until her eyes grew accustomed to the dark and her fast-beating heart stilled to normal. There were no sounds of footsteps in the hall. After a moment she moved to her nightstand and lit the lamp. She clutched Carrie's diary to her chest and looked around the room. She must find a place to hide it here, quickly, before her mother knocked on her door.

Without much hope, she threw open the doors of her own wardrobe. She felt the floor, but though it was the twin of Carrie's in every other way, she could tell immediately that there was no false bottom—instead, the true bottom of the cabinet dropped two inches below the level of the door opening. “Maybe Carrie's false bottom would fit here,” she said, and knew as she said it that she was right. If she could somehow sneak the board from Carrie's room to her own, it would slide easily into the floor of her wardrobe and rest smoothly at the level of
the door opening. Maybe tomorrow she could try that, but there was no time tonight.

She heard a slight pop as her mother put her feet on the first step. Jumping up, Francie looked around the room. She could hide the book in the dresser, under her clothes, but sometimes her mother opened Francie's drawers, putting away mended clothes, and looking for tears to have Josie repair. It was too risky.

Creaks from the hallway told Francie that her mother was at the top of the stairs and moving down the hallway. Francie looked up. Her wardrobe had a kind of crown of carved wood around the top, and just as her mother knocked on her door, Francie put her foot on the edge of the wardrobe floor, boosted herself up, and dropped the diary down behind the carved panel. It was only a temporary solution, she knew, because Josie dusted up there regularly, but for tonight it would do. It wasn't likely that her mother would want to check the top of the wardrobe tonight.

“Francie?” her mother's soft voice came through the door. “Are you still awake?”

Francie dropped down onto the overstuffed chair in the corner, grabbed a random book from her bookshelf, and drew a breath to answer. “Yes, Mama. Please come in.” She was surprised to find that her voice sounded firm. It was only her hands that were trembling.

“You're not even ready for bed yet!” The surprise showed in her mother's voice, as she came in carrying a set
of Francie's underdrawers. “Is everything all right?” She went to Francie's dresser, opened it, and laid the underdrawers on the top of the pile.

Francie felt her face going hot and was grateful for the lamp's low light. “I'm fine, Mama,” she said. “I just got involved in my reading.” She smoothed her hand over the cover of the book in her lap.

“Are there any other clothes to mend?”

Francie watched her mother finger through the piles of clothes in her drawer and thanked the impulse that made her look elsewhere for a hiding place. “I don't think so.”

Her mother looked at the book, and Francie knew her next question would be what she was reading. She must change the subject.

“I wanted . . .” Her mind churned. “I wanted to thank you for talking to Father,” she rattled on. “He's allowing me to go to Connor's Basin after all.”

“I didn't talk to him,” her mother said. “You are quite persistent enough on your own.” She smiled. “But he does believe in keeping promises. He's quite pleased that you feel the same.”

Francie swallowed, feeling guilt sweep over her. She was deceiving her father. How could she do such a thing? But how could she not find out about Carrie's note and her diary?

“I do,” she said, vowing that after this she would never deceive her parents again. Or break a promise.

Her mother rose. “I hope you'll go to sleep soon,” she said. “It's not good for your eyes to be reading in this low light.”

Francie nodded. “I'm done for tonight,” she said. She rose, kissed her mother good night, and shut the door after her. Then she picked up the book she'd pulled off the shelf—
An Essay Concerning Human Understanding.

Francie almost laughed out loud. Would her mother have believed she was sitting up late reading a philosophy book? Not likely!

M
ay 7, 1886. A robin is sitting on a branch directly above my head as I write this—if I had a worm he might come eat out of my hand! It's so warm today—I will take off my shoes and stockings and go wading in Dead Man's Creek, even though the water temperature is not far above freezing. Tomorrow I will take the trail that leads up to Connor's Peak. The weather promises to be fine, and I hope to make the summit before midday.

May 8, 1886. I did it! I hiked all the way up to Connor's Peak and back again. Papa was furious, for I didn't make it home before dark and missed supper. He is terrified that something terrible will happen to me—that I'll be eaten by a bear. Silly—as if I didn't know to make noise and scare the bears off. As punishment I was not allowed to eat at all, but I don't care. The view from the top was food enough for me.
The snowcapped peaks beyond were wreathed in clouds and seemed to touch the blue, blue sky—the smell of pine resin was heady perfume. The delicate mountain violets are just beginning to bloom—I think they are my favorite of the wildflowers. Charlie will be so jealous that I went without him, but I wanted to be absolutely alone at the summit. Does God feel like that sometimes—wishing He could be all alone with His creations, without the pesky humans crawling all over the place like stinging ants?

Francie scowled. It was like Carrie to compare herself with God. Her handwriting was scrawling and spidery—Francie remembered their mother always pointing out how illegible Carrie's school papers were. Francie ran her thumb along the gilt edges of the little book—the pages were soft, almost like cloth. A part of her wanted to read through the night, and a part of her didn't want to read it at all. It felt wrong, somehow—as if she were peering into someone's bedroom window and watching the most private part of that person's life. Suddenly she wanted to slam the book shut and hurl it across the room. Why did Carrie have to be so incredibly stupid as to get caught in a landslide!

But stronger than her reluctance and anger was the compulsion to find out about the note and what mystery surrounded it. She felt as if she couldn't quite catch her breath as she turned to the last page. It was dated Aug. 13, 1888, two days before the landslide. Carrie's handwriting
was even more scrawly than usual, with several ink blots, which seemed to indicate either that she was in a great hurry or that she was very upset.

Aug. 13, 1888. I saw Old Robert again today. He took me up over the mountain and showed me my tree. My tree! It is enormous, bigger than any other sequoia in the entire valley. Maybe it's the biggest tree in the entire world! And so old . . . think of the history it has witnessed. I can't fathom it. It is so, so beautiful . . . a Prince among trees. No, a King . . . an Emperor! And I am the steward. No, I am the knight, sworn to protect my Emperor or die in the attempt! Can Old Robert really give me a tree? He says he can . . . he showed me the will and it looks very official. He says I must not tell anyone about this great gift. But how can I keep silent? I am bursting with the joy and the responsibility. I will tell Charlie—he can keep the secret. And perhaps I should consult with someone who knows about wills. Surely it would be safe to tell Mr. Court. As soon as I can find a way into St. Joseph, I will make an appointment to see him. After the White Mountain walking tour—they're counting on me to be there for that.

Francie shut the book with a sharp
pop.
The White Mountain walking tour. Before the landslide it used to be offered every year for the tourists. People from St. Joseph and from even farther away would come to see the wild-flowers, the sequoias, the deep canyons cut by the river,
and the powerful river itself—all the views the Sierras were becoming famous for. Carrie had been allowed to go as a sort of assistant guide, to help the ladies over the rougher parts of the trail.

They'd brought her sister's body back—Francie had watched as they'd lifted her off the mule. She could remember the feeling of the splintery hitching post—she'd stood beside the mule, rubbing and rubbing that post with her fingers as she'd listened to the story of what had happened.

“Mrs. Jenkins spied a clump of that yellow columbine way out on one of them rock outcroppings,” the old guide had said. “I told her it was too dangerous, but she wouldn't let it rest, she begged Carrie to climb out and get it for her.” The old man rubbed a shaky hand over his chin and pulled his hat brim down lower over his eyes. Francie, looking up at him, could see the tears running down his grizzled cheeks. “That silly woman kept pestering her—talking as if Carrie was afeared to try it,” he said through clenched teeth. “I think Carrie tried it just to shut her up. She started out and the whole thing collapsed.” He closed his eyes, as if by doing that he could erase the picture in his mind. “It was only luck we found her body—she was more than half covered with that broken rock.”

It had been the last of the White Mountain walking tours. No guide had dared to advertise anything so dangerous in the six years since. The tourists still came, but
they didn't go up on White Mountain anymore. Carrie was buried in the mountains she had loved. And, thought Francie, smoothing the soft leather of the diary with her finger, her secrets were buried with her.

Who was Old Robert? Where was this tree he had supposedly given her? Francie opened the diary once more and looked at the pages. Could she find more clues to this mystery in the diary? It would mean reading the entire book, entry by entry. She closed her eyes. How could she bear to read her sister's most private thoughts?

“I must bear it,” she whispered. “For the sake of Carrie's mystery.” She smiled a bitter little half smile. While she was alive, Carrie was always inventing pretend mysteries. But when she died, she set off a real mystery. How she would have loved to solve it!