The Grimm Chronicles, Vol.1 (28 page)

“The boxes are on the second floor,” Fran said. She very quietly placed her keys on the table. I did the same with my purse and followed her into the hallway, where there was a narrow carpeted staircase leading upstairs.

I followed her up the creaky stairs. At the top was a single room with a single window. The ceiling of the room was triangle-shaped where the roof came together, and the walls were all lined with an ugly fake wood paneling. There were once bookshelves lining the walls. A dozen bookshelves, at least. They were gone now, but I could still see their outlines on the walls and the light brown carpeting. Boxes and boxes sat on the floor. I walked around them, amazed that each one was filled to the brim with books. Old books. Really, really old books with crumbling covers and paper that carried the most wonderful smells.

The smell of old books. I laughed a little.

“What’s funny?” Fran asked sharply.

“Oh. I’m just a weirdo, that’s all. I love the smell of old books.”

She stepped beside me, looking down at the open box and sighing. “Well, I don’t think that makes you weird.” She reached down into the box, pulling out a faded copy of Catch-22. “I bought this book in 1961, two days after it came out. I had to borrow money from my mother to get it, too. I read it twice before Christmas came around.”

“It looks nice.”

“It’s more than nice,” Fran said. The edge had escaped her voice. Holding the book seemed to calm her or at the very least take away whatever anger had been building up inside.

I’d like to see television have
that
kind of power.

“What about this one?” I asked, pointing into the box. I dared not touch the next book. It looked older than my grandparents, wrapped in plastic to protect it from oily fingers. There was a very familiar character on the cover.

“Oh.” Fran giggled. She actually
giggled
! “That’s an original.” She reached down and carefully picked up the book, holding it by its edges. “
Uncle Remus and Br’er Rabbit
, by Joel Chandler Harris. A good collection of Br’er Rabbit stories, although not without controversy. The author tried his best to mimic the dialect used by slaves at the time, and it’s since become quite controversial. Still, the stories about Br’er Rabbit have historical significance and I’m glad someone got them down on paper so his stories could be enjoyed for another century or two. He was quite the trickster.”

“Yeah he is.”

She gave me a strange look, but said nothing, carefully returning the book to its place in the box. “This box and the others need to go downstairs into the living room. Can you do that for me?”

“Of course.” I bent down, lifting up the heavy box of books. Fran seemed surprised by my strength.

“I was thinking we would take them down together,” she said.

“Oh, no. The stairs are too narrow. Better I just get them done myself. Maybe you could just walk in front of me so if I trip, I’ll land on you.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“That came out wrong.”

“I suspected as much. But I’ll help in whatever way I can.”

“Whatever way” ended up being her sitting in the kitchen while I did all the work. And to be honest, that was just fine by me. In the kitchen, she couldn’t snap at me for doing something wrong … and she couldn’t see me sneaking a peek at the inside of the boxes. She had everything! Old books about the Civil War, copies of Jane Austin and Charles Dickens classics that looked like originals, even an ancient version of
Grimms’ Fairy Tales
with a strange cover that looked like a painting of Cinderella.

Ten boxes later, I was nearly spent. An air conditioner kept the first floor cool, but upstairs the summer heat was slipping in through the window. I was sweating. My legs felt sore and stiff. In the living room, I stood in front of the air conditioner sitting in one of the windows and lifted my shirt slightly to let the cool air in. There was a beautiful antique blue couch with tufted cushions resting against the wall, and on the other side of the room was an old, old TV. Like, we’re talking vintage here: it literally was encased in a wooden frame. I loved it.

“Alice, come in here,” Fran called out.

I sighed, forcing my body away from the wonderful cool air. In the kitchen, Fran had taken a seat at her table, moving aside two of the boxes so she could make room for a plateful of weird square-shaped cookies.

“Eat a few of these,” she ordered.

I reached hesitantly for the plate, grabbing one cookie. I bit it in half, then fought the urge to spit it out onto the white linoleum floor. It tasted like cardboard with a hint of caramel.

Fran watched me eat. I must have had a strange look on my face because she asked, “Are you feeling all right?”

“Oh.” I glanced down at my stomach. The cramps had subsided to a dull ache, and I wondered if my hand had unconsciously went to my abdomen from time to time. “Um … well, to be honest, I’ve had sort of an upset stomach lately …”

“Say no more.” She stood up, walking over to her cupboards. “I have the perfect tea for that. You take a seat and let me boil some water.”

“Oh really, you don’t have to do that.”

She pulled out a porcelain mug and unwrapped a tea bag from a small tin that had been in the “Misc.” box. I smelled it immediately: mint, with a hint of ginger and lemongrass.

“On second thought … maybe I should have some tea.”

“That’s the spirit,” she said, walking over to the stove and lighting one of the burners. She grabbed a small metal teapot from the “Misc.” box and filled it with water, then set it on the burner.

I took the moment to look around. It really was a nice little kitchen. Quaint. Near the top of the ceiling, the bright blue wallpaper gave way to a horizontal strip of dancing bears. The strip wrapped around the entire room, broken up only by cupboards. The fridge was old and yellow. The sink looked new, though, with a shiny new faucet. I felt bad about the faucet. How recently had she put it in?

“Are you moving?” I asked, curious about how much this nice version of Fran might tell me.

She simply shrugged and ate one of the stale cookies. “A big old house like this is too much for one person. I don’t use the living room. The guest room is full of junk. The basement is—was—full of more junk. I just use my library and my bedroom and quite frankly, a house this big deserves someone who’ll put it to good use.”

That seemed sad. “You probably use the kitchen, though.”

A little smile cracked on Fran’s lips. “Not often. Otherwise, I would have realized these cookies are stale.”

I laughed. “Well, I didn’t want to say anything …”

She set her half-eaten cookie back on the plate. “I wish you would have. I certainly wouldn’t have taken a bite.” Her eyes seemed to sweep around the room with a renewed sense of satisfaction. “Yes, this house is a pain in the butt. I’ll be glad to be rid of it.”

The kettle began whistling. Fran got up with a very quiet groan and grabbed the kettle. She poured the steaming water into my cup. I wrapped the tea bag’s string around one finger to keep it from slipping into the water.

“This should be in every woman’s kitchen cabinets,” Fran declared. “And our men should have to go out and buy it for us if we run out. That’s the least they can do.”

I chuckled. “I’ll remember that.” I took a sip of the tea. It had a wonderful, crisp finish. After just two sips, my stomach felt a little more at ease. “Wow! This really works well.”

“I know some things,” Fran said defiantly. “You don’t get to be as old as me without picking up a few good tips now and again.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes. It was a comfortable sort of silence, though, and the cool air blowing in from the living room felt good on my glistening skin. “Can I ask a question about one of the books?”

Fran’s face lit up. She was nearly unrecognizable. “Of
course
you can.”

“The
Grimms’ Fairy Tales
book …”

She smiled, nodding. “It’s old. Nothing close to an original, but it was printed in the early 1900’s. It contains the original stories, not the cleaned-up ones that censored all of the violence. I may be an old lady, but I don’t like my books censored.”

“Where did you find that book?” I asked.

“Oh, I do believe it was given to me by my grandfather. He gave me lots of books that I kept. That one, though … it seems like I’ve always had it.”

I took another long sip, staring at the corner of the floor where the doorway opened into the hall. The linoleum had begun to peel. “Mary misses hanging out with you,” I blurted out.

Fran’s eyebrows lifted. “She misses
hanging out
with me? I had no idea we
hung out
.”

“Oh. I guess old people don’t use that phrase … not that you’re
old
or anything! I mean … well, she would probably like having tea with you again.”

Fran grunted, staring at her oven. She crossed her legs. “Maybe after I move.”

“She told me you used to ride a motorcycle.”

“Oh, that sly dog,” Fran said, smiling. “She told you about my motorcycle, did she? Well, you’ll be happy to know I sold it years ago. Ten years of cruising around like some renegade biker was plenty for me. It was my husband’s passion, though. I had fun, but he
loved
it.”

“I’m sorry he’s gone,” I said.

Fran gave a little nod. “Sometimes, even good people die too young. And he was a good man. He wasn’t perfect by any means, but then again neither was I. We loved each other and we made each other laugh. You get to a point in your life when you no longer search for the perfect Prince Charming … you search instead for the guy who makes you happy.”

“I think I’m already there,” I muttered, taking another long sip of tea.

“Good for you,” Fran said. “I hope you kids aren’t all going out looking for sullen vampire princes to date. They’re really not all that fun outside of a book.”

“I can assure you I’m not.” I sipped, thinking. “I get the feeling my friend is waiting for someone who doesn’t exist. Or maybe she’s looking.” I shut my eyes. “Gawd, I hope she’s not looking. She has a great boyfriend.”

“But it’s not working,” Fran finished.

“Oh, it’s working for him more than it seems to be for her,” I said. “Kind of like, oh I don’t know, like she’s got other priorities now. But like, they sometimes fight.” I buried my hands in my face. “Who am I kidding? They
always
fight.”

“It sounds like they’re suffering from the hedgehog’s dilemma.”

“Say what?” I set my hands down. I thought I’d misheard her.

“The hedgehog’s dilemma,” Fran said. “It’s used to describe relationships. During hibernation, hedgehogs can stay warmer if they keep close, but they can’t keep too close or they’ll stab each other with their spines.”

“I don’t understand. How does that relate to Trish and—I mean … oops!” I slapped a hand over my mouth. “How does that relate to my friends?”

Fran crossed her legs, sighing. “Oftentimes, human intimacy and mutual harm goes hand-in-hand. To be close to someone, you sometimes feel pain.”

“Tell me about it,” I muttered, taking another sip of tea. “I just don’t think my friends realize that.”

“Dear,” Fran said, touching the tips of my fingers. “Very few teenagers realize that good relationships take work. And sometimes being close to someone can cause some hurt. Losing my husband was the hardest thing I ever went through. But I wouldn’t trade those memories for anything.”

I nodded, staring at her. There was happiness hiding inside the lines on her face. “I hope I experience that some day,” I said. I didn’t say any more. Maybe if Trish had asked me … maybe I would have told her that I was just a little scared about the future. Would I still be hunting Corrupted ten years from now? Or would I be dead? Could I retire somehow?

Fran sighed, tapping her finger on the table. “I should call Mary. She’s right: we don’t see each other enough anymore. It’s …”

She stopped. I didn’t prod. Her eyes had grown a little glassy.

“She … well, my husband was her brother, you see. He and she had the same green eyes and the same clownish chuckle. When I see her, when I hear her laugh … it still hurts a little. That’s the hardest thing about loving someone so, so much.”

“I bet Mary loves you too, though.”

Fran thought about it, then nodded. “You’re right. Today, I’m going to call her.” She looked down at my empty cup of tea. “Do you feel better now?”

“I do. My stomach hasn’t felt this good in days.”

“Here,” she said, standing up and reaching into the “Misc.” box. She grabbed three more packages of tea and shoved them in my hands. “Take these. I’ll make sure I leave some more for you at the library. I’m going to be taking some time off so that I can plan my move. Will you help again?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “Any time.” Provided I’m not fighting Corrupted monsters, I wanted to add.

She took a deep breath, placing her hands on her hips. “I should get you home.”

I followed her out the door, taking one last look at her house. I wasn’t sure exactly how we were going to deal with the Grayles, but one thing was certain: