Protecting Marie (8 page)

“You'll still look better than me,” Fanny said, glancing at her left hand. She wiggled her fingers and waltzed her hand back and forth. “A winter ghost, as usual. Hey, how's Joey?”

“He cried at Disney World. Tom scared
him silly. I think fourteen-year-old brothers are a curse. Get this: He convinced Joey that it wasn't called Disney
World,
but Disney
Worm,
and that invisible worms were everywhere—falling from buildings, coming up through the ground, even streaming out of Mickey Mouse's ears and eyes.”

“Tom's a creep.”

“Tell me.”

“Was Joey okay?”

“After about a half hour of comforting from my mom, he was all right, I guess. But he kept scratching himself, and Tom would blow on the back of his neck or touch him with a stick or something, and he'd jump like a rabbit and shriek, ‘Worms! Worms! Go away!' It was great, though—my dad called Tom a worm for two whole days and swatted him, too.”

“Poor Joey.”

“He was
so
cute, Fan. I tried to explain how many miles away from home we were, and all he kept saying was, ‘A mile is when you take a trip. A mile is when you take a trip.'”

“Give him a big fat kiss for me.”

“I will. I think we're the only normal ones,” said Mary. Her lips made a funny sound. “I think I hate my family. Especially Billy and Tom. You couldn't ask for two worse brothers. They're fighting all the time and driving my mom crazy. And my dad bought this pair of shorts with Donald Duck heads all over them, which he actually wears in public.”

Fanny giggled. She could picture Mr. Dibble wearing his shorts with pride. Not one ounce of embarrassment. That's what she liked about him. He did things her father would
never
do.

“I keep thinking,” Mary continued, “with my luck, I'll run into some cute guy when I'm with him, and I'll have to say that the goofy man in the kiddie shorts is just some harmless weirdo who's been following me around.”

After Fanny laughed, there was a staticky silence.

Mary's voice changed. “And then there's my grandma. A really strange thing happened.”

“What?”

Mary sighed. “Well . . .”

Waiting, waiting.

“Mary, what happened?”

“Well . . . I walked into the bathroom at my grandma's in the middle of the night. Last night. From the hallway I could see the light shining under the door, but I didn't think anyone was inside because she
always
leaves the light on. So I opened the door and—bam—was face-to-face with my grandma. She was just leaving. She startled me completely, but more than that, she looked so . . .
scary.
Her hair was long and stringy and hanging all over her shoulders. Down to her
waist
, like an octopus or something. I didn't even know it was her at first. I've only seen her with her hair in a tight, neat little bun. That's the way it's been all my life. I never even thought about her
having
long hair before.” Mary paused. “I was shaking all over for a second. She didn't know I was so upset. At least, I don't think she did. She just kissed me on the forehead and shuffled out of the bathroom. She didn't mention it today.”

“You're not scared now, are you?”

“No. Now I feel stupid. But I'll never think of my grandma in the same way again. I know it shouldn't have, but it really freaked me out.” Mary breathed deeply and exhaled right into the receiver. “I was so upset I broke our promise about our gifts to each other, about waiting for Christmas. I opened mine at about two
A.M.
And
—I loved the earrings. And so you have to open yours. Right now. While we're on the phone. I'm wearing them as we speak, you know. I look smashing.”

“Let me get it,” said Fanny.

The gift from Mary was on top of Fanny's dresser. It was a small box, wrapped in a cover torn from a
Seventeen
magazine. Fanny ripped the paper, opened the box, and laughed. “Can you believe it?” she said. “You have excellent taste.”

“And so do you.”

They had given each other the same earrings. The earrings were simple, but beautiful. Each one consisted of three clear, marble-sized beads dangling from a silver hook. The
beads had wavy threads of orange running through them. They looked like pieces of hard candy.

“I got them from that vendor on State Street,” said Fanny. “You know, the woman with the huge pink cheeks and the weepy eyes. The one who wears patchouli.”

“Me, too.”

“Of course.”

“Of course.”

“I can't believe we bought the same exact earrings,” said Fanny.

“Maybe it's a sign.”

“Of what?”

“Maybe it means we're really sisters,” said Mary. “Oh, oh—I'd better hang up. I hear someone coming, and I'm using my dad's calling card. He'll kill me sooner or later, but I'd rather it be later. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Click. Bzzzzz.

The round green light on the phone went out when Fanny tapped the button that said
TALK–OFF.
She set the phone down on her bed
and turned to face her mirror. The oval mirror was framed in gold and hung above her dresser, leaning slightly to the right. Before she put her earrings on, she pushed her nose up with her index finger. If only my nose were a bit smaller, I'd be pretty, she thought.

One earring got tangled in a strand of hair as Fanny tried to fasten it. When they were both in place, she tossed her head. With each movement she made from side to side, the beads produced a fine, thin sound.

Fanny stopped; the earrings stilled. She studied herself in the mirror. She tried to imagine what her face would look like when she was an old woman. She wondered how old she would be when
she
would begin to scare children simply because of her appearance. Her face registered a momentary surge of sadness for Mary's grandmother, and then it occurred to her that one day soon her father might find himself in a similar situation. One day soon he might frighten someone. All of a sudden, Fanny breathed on the mirror, and her image disappeared in a fog. She moved away
from the mirror, turned her back to it. She just wanted everyone home. Everyone, meaning her father and Mary.

Before she left her room to find her mother, Fanny made her bed. Then she closed her eyes and touched both earrings at the same time. “I wonder where he is this very minute,” she said to no one at all.

L
istening. Listening. Listening. Watching the clock. Listening. Listening. Listening. Fanny's ears pricked up at the dull thud of a car door slamming and footsteps on the porch. Interspersed with those familiar noises was a soft, sharp ringing sound. What is
that
? she asked herself. If she were still a little girl, she would have been convinced that it was reindeer bells or the secret language of Christmas elves. Determined to act nonchalant, Fanny stayed upstairs. I'll wait until I'm called, she thought. This meant she had to fight with herself to stay put. The urge to race down the steps to greet her father at the door was so powerful she had to grasp the banister tightly, bite the inside of her cheek, and will her feet to behave like rocks.

Amid the rustlings of coming home, Henry's voice resounded. “Fanny! Oh, Fancy!” At the same time, the hallway clock marked the hour and Fanny took the steps two
by two.

Dinner and Henry arrived at seven o'clock sharp, just as Henry had said. Dinner was not what Fanny had expected. Dinner was a dog.

Fanny saw her father and brightened immediately. And then she saw the dog. Her heart leaped, but fluttered and fell just as quickly. It was amazing how this moment reminded her so of the moment she had first set her eyes on Nellie. Nellie. The beautiful, black, shiny puppy that had been hers and no one else's.

“Whose is he?” Fanny asked.

“He's a she,” Henry replied. He released the dog from its leash, but the dog remained still as stone until Henry said, “Okay.”

The dog swept through the living room and stopped right at Fanny's feet. The dog sat. Wet pawprints connected Fanny to Henry like the links of a chain.

Then Henry walked over to Fanny. His coat was still on, and his hair had been whipped into a frenzy by the wind. He stood at her side. Father, daughter, and dog became the three
points of a triangle. “Fanny,” said Henry, “I'd like you to meet Dinner. Dinner, my daughter, Fanny. You belong to each other.”

Something stirred inside Fanny.
“Dinner?”
she said to Henry.

“Yes, Dinner. I know it's an odd name, but she's had it for three years, so I think she's stuck with it.”

Dinner straightened, making herself very tall; then she cocked her head ever so slowly. All the while, her big, round eyes were blinking. They were the brown of root beer with glassy black pupils. A dot of reflected light, like a spark, gleamed in the middle of each pupil. A circle in a circle in a circle. Two little targets.

Fanny didn't know where to look. If her eyes rested on Dinner for more than five seconds, she was afraid she'd be taken with her. If she looked at Henry, she was afraid she'd forgive him. She stared at the bowl of pinecones on the coffee table.

“Well,” said Henry, “Merry Christmas. A few days early.”

What was she supposed to say? Or do? It struck Fanny that she hadn't even hugged her father yet. She swayed, and steadied herself by reaching out to him and grabbing onto his coat. She kept her eyes glued to the bowl of pinecones; it blurred into a brown cloud.

“Merry Christmas,” Henry murmured again. He embraced her tightly, squeezing her shoulders with his fingertips. Her face was mashed against his navy blue scarf, and she could smell smoke from the wood stove at the cabin. After they had broken away from each other, Henry ran his hand along her cheek, as if he were trying to absorb all her doubts. “It's for real this time,” he told her. “I promise.”

Be intrepid, Fanny told herself. Intrepid. It was a word that Henry had taught her, a word that meant unshaken, dauntless. To be intrepid, Henry had said, was admirable. Fanny swallowed. “May I have that in writing?” she asked slowly. She was surprised at the sureness of her voice.