Time for Andrew (2 page)

A loud clap of thunder made us all jump. Under the table, Binky whined.

"Poor old dog," Aunt Blythe said, "he's terrified of storms."

Dad went to the window and peered out. Turning to Mom, he said, "It looks like it's letting up. Maybe we should leave for St. Louis while we have a chance. We don't want to miss our plane."

Turning to me, he hugged me so hard I thought my ribs would crack. "Have a good summer, Drew. Behave yourself, take care of your aunt, write to us. We'll see you in eight weeks."

I clung to Dad, pressing my face against his shirt, breathing in the smell of him. Terrible scenarios raced through my head. Plane crashes, terrorists, bombs, automobile accidents. The world was full of war and danger. Nobody was safe.

"Don't go," I begged. "Please don't. What if something happens to you and Mom?"

Dad's arms tightened around me, his breath stirred my hair. "We've talked about this so many times," he said softly. "We were lucky to get the grant, Drew. Very lucky. I can't back out of the trip now."

"But there's history right here. You said so yourself. Why do you have to go all the way to France? You could set up a dig in the backyard. I'd help, I bet we'd find all lands of old things—medicine bottles, broken china, stuff our ancestors owned."

I talked faster and faster, hoping to keep Dad from interrupting, from saying no, from leaving, but of course it didn't work.

Resting his hands on my shoulders, Dad put some space between us. "Chin up, Drew," he said firmly. "No tears. You're a big boy now."

I turned to Mom. Like Dad, she held me close, kissed me, told me she loved me. Tears shone in her eyes as she pulled away from me, but she didn't relent.

Behind me, I heard Aunt Blythe at the sink, washing dishes and pretending not to listen. If I cried, she'd know the truth—I
was
nervous, fearful, whatever else my parents had said.

"Okay, go then," I shouted. "Leave right now. See if I care!"

Mom reached out for me, but I dodged away. "I don't need you, I don't need Dad either!"

To keep from crying in front of everyone, I ran down the hall, opened the first door I saw, and dashed inside. Too
late I realized the room was already occupied. An old man in a wheelchair sat beside a window. Of all the places I might have gone, I'd chosen Great-grandfather's sanctuary.

"Who is it? Who's there?" He peered at me fearfully. In the gray light, his face was skull-like, the skin stretched thin as paper over his bones, his eyes sunken.

Just as startled as he was, I stared at him. Never had I seen anyone so ancient. I wanted to run back to the kitchen, but Great-grandfather was speaking to me, one trembling hand raised as if to defend himself.

"You've come back," he quavered. "But it won't do any good. It's my house now, not yours."

Dad came into the room behind me and grabbed my arm. "What are you doing in here?" he whispered. Then, turning to the old man, he said, "Hello, Grandfather, it's Ward—remember me?"

When Great-grandfather said nothing, Dad added, "I'm Ed's son. Your grandson."

Great-grandfather made an inarticulate noise and shook his head. "Edward's dead," he muttered. "Died years ago. In a war."

"I know," Dad said, "I know. I miss him too."

Taking Great-grandfather's hand, he studied the old man's face for a moment. "This is my son, Drew, your great-grandson," he said softly. "I'm sorry he startled you, but you know how boys are—a little thoughtless sometimes, a little—"

Great-grandfather yanked his hand away from Dad. Scowling at me, he banged the floor with a cane. "Don't let him near me. I know all about him!"

Aunt Blythe rushed to his side. "What's wrong, Father? Drew didn't mean—"

Great-grandfather turned furiously to his daughter. "He's a wicked boy! Send him back where he came from, I won't have him here!"

Aunt Blythe gestured to Dad, and he led me out of the room. As soon as the door closed behind us, he said, "What on earth prompted you to bother Grandfather?"

"I just wanted to get away from you," I mumbled. "I didn't know he was in there." I tried to keep my voice from shaking but it quavered anyway. Great-grandfather had frightened me half to death.

"From the look on his face, you scared the wits out of him," Dad said. "I wonder who the devil he thought you were."

I shuddered. "Someone he didn't like very much, that's for sure."

Aunt Blythe stepped into the hall and gave me a sympathetic hug. "Lord knows who Father mistook you for," she said. "He drifts back and forth through the years as if time doesn't exist for him—at least not as we understand it."

She looked sad and tired, older too, worn down by worry. Contrite, I leaned against her side. "I'm sorry I upset him."

"Don't worry." Aunt Blythe patted my hand to show me she understood. "Father's probably forgotten about it already."

Mom was waiting for us on the porch. The worst of the storm had passed, but the rain still fell steadily. It gurgled in the downspouts and flowed over the edges of the gutter, creating a curtain of falling water. The wisteria's purple petals speckled the floor like confetti and clung to an old wooden swing. On the walls, ivy rustled as if the house were telling itself secrets.

My parents hugged and kissed me again, but they made it clear they were really leaving this time. Tears wouldn't keep them. Neither would arguments. Trying to be brave, I stood on the porch and watched the car splash downhill through the puddles in the driveway.

Aunt Blythe touched my shoulder gently. "Let's go inside, Drew. I'll take you to your room. While I fix dinner, you can unpack and make yourself at home."

Reluctantly, I followed my aunt into the shadowy hall. Now that Mom and Dad were gone, the house seemed bigger, darker, scarier. The wind and rain made sad, searching sounds. Branches tapped the windows like homeless souls begging to come in from the cold.

Overhead the floor creaked as if someone were tiptoeing from room to empty room. Startled by the noise, I glanced at my aunt, but she was striding up the steps ahead of me, talking cheerfully about the things we'd do when the rain stopped. If she sensed the presence of unseen beings, she gave no sign of it.

Down the hall behind a closed door, Great-grandfather coughed. Thinking he might emerge from his lair, I raced upstairs after Aunt Blythe. Nothing, not even a ghost, could frighten me more than that old man.

Aunt Blythe led me to a small room at the top of the steps. Before she went downstairs, she gave me a hug. "I'm so glad you're here, Drew. As you can guess, Father's not much company. Most of the time, Binky and I rattle around the old place like two marbles in an empty coffee can."

Alone in the room, I did nothing for a few minutes but stand at the window. Rain poured down the glass like tears, blurring the fields and woods into a sea of ripply green. Near the house, trees tossed and swayed. At the bottom of the hill, the highway stretched northward, leading to Illinois and Iowa, and southward to St. Louis. It was a lonely view, just right for a lonely person.

"Make yourself at home," Aunt Blythe had said, but I didn't think that was possible. Home to me was a modern apartment in Chicago, furnished with sleek Scandinavian imports. The only old things were Dad's artifacts displayed in brightly lit glass cases.

In my aunt's house, I was surrounded by antiques. A tall, carved headboard leaned ominously over the bed I was supposed to sleep in. A spooky wardrobe with mirrored
doors lurked in a corner. Bureau, rocking chair, desk, bookcase _ everything in the room had been owned by other people. Dead people. The thought made me shiver.

To chase the ghosts away, I turned on the lamp, but its light made the shadows bigger and darker. I was tempted to run down to the kitchen, but the memory of Dad's words stopped me. "Fearful, nervous, insecure"—wasn't that what he'd told Aunt Blythe? She'd already seen me behave like a baby once today. I didn't want to give a repeat performance.

I'd unpack, I'd put my things away, I'd try to make myself at home.

For the next twenty or thirty minutes, I kept myself busy. I filled the bureau with a jumble of socks, underwear, T-shirts, and jeans. I made room in the bookcase for the paperbacks I'd brought with me. I found a place on the desk for a picture of Mom and Dad and me. I taped posters to the walls—a surfer riding a huge wave, the Chicago skyline, a sailboat on Lake Michigan, the stone lions in front of the Art Institute.

Left with a pair of shoes and a windbreaker, I opened the door opposite my bed. Instead of finding a closet, I was surprised to see a flight of steps. Almost blocked by piles of magazines and boxes of old clothes, they led up to a dark attic.

Cold, damp air blew down into my face, tickling my nose with the smell of dust. At the same moment, the floor creaked right over my head.

The first thing I thought of was the flash of white I'd seen at the attic window. Was someone hiding up there? Had it been his footsteps I'd heard earlier? His eyes I'd felt? Slamming the door shut, I pressed my ear against the wood and
listened. Except for the pounding of my own heart, I heard nothing. The attic was silent.

Backing away from the door, I let my breath out in a long sigh. No one was hiding in the attic. Or anywhere else. In old houses, floors creaked all the time. Why did I always let my imagination run wild? It seemed to me I'd been born with eyes and ears that saw and heard things nobody else noticed—monsters in the shadows, footsteps in the dark.

Downstairs, the hall clock struck six. Maybe it was dinnertime. Surely I smelled roast chicken. Taking the steps two at a time, I followed my nose straight to the kitchen.

Aunt Blythe was standing at the stove, her back to me. When I entered the room, she turned around, a spoon in her hand, and smiled. "I hope you like spaghetti, Drew."

I stared at the bubbling tomato sauce. "Where's the chicken?"

Aunt Blythe looked at me. "Chicken?"

Steam rose from boiling water and misted the kitchen windows. The scent of oregano filled my nose.

"When I was upstairs, I smelled roast chicken," I said. "I know I did."

"Your nose was playing tricks on you, Drew." Aunt Blythe smiled and picked up a box. Dumping long straws of pasta into the pot, she said, "I'll fix chicken tomorrow night."

Great-grandfather joined us for dinner. Before he appeared, I heard the squeak of his wheelchair in the hall. I glanced at my aunt, but she just smiled.

"Brace yourself," she said. "We'll probably have to introduce you all over again."

Great-grandfather wheeled himself into position at the head of the dining room table. Aunt Blythe fastened a large plastic bib around his neck, the land you sometimes get in
a seafood restaurant. When she was finished, he fingered his silverware. His hands were bent and twisted, the backs roped with blue veins, the skin discolored.

Finally, he raised his head and looked at me. "Andrew," he mumbled. "Andrew."

Aunt Blythe smiled, obviously pleased that he'd remembered my name. "That's right, Father. Isn't it nice to have him here?"

Great-grandfather scowled. "No," he muttered, "not nice at all. Told you I don't want him in the house. Hasn't changed a bit, just as bad as ever, can't fool me."

He shot me a look of such pure hatred that I froze, fork halfway to my mouth, and stared at him. Backing away from the table like an angry child, he turned his wheelchair and propelled himself toward his room.

Aunt Blythe scurried after him. "Father," she said, "for heaven's sake, come eat your dinner!"

I sat at the table alone, staring at my spaghetti. Outside, the rain fell steadily. The wind blew and the house creaked like an old sailing ship caught in a storm far from port.

When Aunt Blythe returned, she apologized. "I don't understand why Father's so hateful to you. He won't listen to a word I say."

I watched her put Great-grandfather's dinner on a tray. "I think it might be best to let him eat in his room tonight. Go ahead, Drew. I'll join you as soon as I can."

The minutes crept by, marked by the slow ticktock, tick-tock of the hall clock. Bushes tapped on the windows, an icy draft eddied around my ankles, the house continued to murmur and groan. Under the table, Binky shivered and crept close to me. Laying his head on my feet, he whimpered.

By the time my aunt returned, her spaghetti sauce had
congealed in a cold puddle. She apologized again and ate quickly.

After dinner, Aunt Blythe lit a fire to drive off the storm's chill. While I read a paperback I'd brought from home, she worked on a patchwork quilt. Binky snoozed on a cushion by the hearth. In his room, behind a closed door, Great-grandfather slept.

Looking up from my book, I watched Aunt Blythe's needle flash in and out. Almost finished, the quilt spread across her lap and fell to the floor in a heap of bright calico.

When my aunt noticed I was studying the design, she told me the pattern was called Tumbling Blocks. "It's an optical illusion, Drew. You can't tell the tops of the blocks from the bottoms. When you look at them, they seem to shift back and forth."

I stared at the quilt. Aunt Blythe was right. The pattern changed directions, teased my eyes. "It's like the one on my bed," I said. "Only mine's older."

Aunt Blythe nodded. "Great-aunt Mildred made that quilt almost a hundred years ago."

The fire hissed and popped and sent a shower of sparks flying up the chimney. I leaned closer to my aunt. "Do you ever wonder about the people who used to live in this house?"

"What do you mean, Drew?"

"Well, so many of their belongings are still here—things they touched, things they made. It just seems strange...." While I spoke, I looked around the room, finding faded photographs on the mantel, a pair of china dolls sharing a child-sized rocking chair, shelves of old books. My voice trailed off. I wasn't sure what I was trying to say.

Aunt Blythe ran one finger over the row of stitches she'd just finished. "Things last longer than people," she said softly.

That was true, but it wasn't what I meant. "The people, our ancestors—do you think they're still here somehow?"