Queen Liliuokalani: Royal Prisoner (2 page)

He waved his hands in the air, exasperated. “I mean, you’re not purposeful. You just grab objects all willy-nilly and stumble around.”

“I tried to let the plans for the Holland Tunnel take us to New York, but Felix—” Maisie began.

“Have you even
used
the anagram?” Great-Uncle Thorne said, ignoring her as usual.

“Elm Medona?” Maisie asked, suddenly interested.

“The
anagram
!” he bellowed.

“Oh, you mean
lame
—”

“Silence!” Great-Uncle Thorne said, lifting his jade-tipped walking stick.

“Uh,” Maisie said. “No.”

“What do you do, then, when you’re in a pickle?”

She looked at him, confused.

“A tight spot?” he added. “Danger?”

Maisie thought of the ship fire and the attack on the village in the Great Plains and fleeing to Shanghai.

“We wait,” she said weakly. “I mean, nothing’s going to happen to us—”

At this, Great-Uncle Thorne threw his head back and laughed.
Like a hyena,
Maisie thought, even though she disliked similes.

“You two ignoramuses actually think you’re invincible?” he said, wiping his eyes. “Because you’re not.”

“We aren’t?” Maisie said, and she actually shuddered, remembering how certain she had been that no matter what happened in the past, they would be safe.

“The anagram can do two things,” Great-Uncle Thorne said, holding up two fingers. “One, it can give you necessary information about the person you meet.” He folded one finger. “And two, it can get you out of danger.” He folded the second finger, and sighed. “Of course, if you
overuse
it…” He smiled at her, showing his big teeth. “Well, that doesn’t really
matter, since you are finished with The Treasure Chest.”

“How do you overuse it?” Maisie asked.

“Irrelevant!” he announced, and continued on his way.

Maisie watched him. His gait was already slower. He kind of shuffled now.

“You probably don’t know about the shard, either,” Great-Uncle Thorne said over his shoulder almost gleefully. “No matter. No matter.”

Instinctively, Maisie’s hand went into her pocket, where she kept the shard from the Ming vase. She rubbed it between her fingers, as if it might reveal its secrets to her.

On Sunday night, Bruce Fishbaum came for dinner. Their mother had worried all day about what to make, and finally settled on pot roast, of all things. Maisie wasn’t sure, but she believed that if a person truly loved another person, she would make something fancy, like duck à l’orange or baked Alaska. She took the pot roast as a good sign of her mother’s feelings toward Bruce Fishbaum.

Great-Uncle Thorne and Penelope Merriweather
were eating out that night, which Maisie was grateful for. She did not enjoy watching two people as old as they were making eyes at each other and calling each other pet names like Duckie and Pumpkin.

“Isn’t this cozy?” her mother said, standing back to admire the table, set for four with the Pickworth china and the Pickworth silver and the Pickworth crystal. The gardener had brought in pots of hyacinths, and they stood in a line down the middle of the enormous table, sending out their too-sweet hyacinth scent.

“If you consider a table that seats twenty cozy,” Maisie said, “then yes, this is quite cozy.”

Her mother ignored her. “We’ll have appetizers in the Library, then come in here for dinner. And I was thinking that for fun we’d have dessert in the Cigar Room.”

“We can’t hang around all night,” Maisie said. “We need to pack for our trip to see Dad tomorrow.”

Her mother was fussing with the hyacinths, straightening each stem and rearranging the colors, moving the white and the pink hyacinths, then the pink and the purple.

“You two are being such good sports,” she said.

“Well,” Maisie said, “if we want to be fed, we have to put up with Bruce Fishbaum.”

“Yes, of course,” her mother murmured. “I mean, about Bruce, of course. But about Agatha, too. It shows how well you’re adjusting. And I know how hard this has all been—believe me, I know. But I’m so proud of you both.”

Apparently satisfied with the hyacinths, she looked at Maisie and smiled.

“Agatha?” Maisie said.

“Oh, dear,” her mother said. “Is it Agnes?”

“What are you talking about?” Maisie asked her.

“Your father’s girlfriend, of course. Agatha. Agnes. I promised myself I would remember it, but who in the world is named Agatha or Agnes anymore?”

If her mother noticed the look of anger that was spreading across Maisie’s face, she didn’t say anything about it. Instead, she cocked her head and said, “I hear the doorbell. That must be Bruce.” Then she scurried away, leaving Maisie alone in that overly sweet-smelling room.

Felix thought it was very strange that his mother
had made his father’s favorite appetizer for Bruce Fishbaum: artichoke-heart mayonnaise Parmesan-cheese chopped-chilies cheddar-cheese dip. His father made that dip every time they had guests over, and now his mother had made it for Bruce Fishbaum.

“What’s in this?” Bruce Fishbaum practically moaned.

“My secret,” Felix’s mother said. Which was what his father always said when someone asked him that question, because apparently adults did not like to eat gobs of mayonnaise.

“Mayonnaise,” Felix said to Bruce Fishbaum. He could feel his mother glaring at him.

“No wonder it’s so good,” Bruce said, unfazed.

Bruce Fishbaum had on a nautical tie, as usual. This one was green, and looked like it had architectural drawings on it, all lines and squiggles and numbers.

“You ever play hockey?” Bruce asked Felix between bites of dip on slices of French bread.

Felix shook his head. “I’m class president,” he said.

Bruce pointed at him. “You need to get out on the ice,” he said.

“Well,” Felix said, “I ice-skate.”

Technically, that was true. He had ice-skated in his life, though not for some time. In fact, the last time he had ice-skated was in Central Park with his father and Maisie, the winter before the divorce.

“I like ice-skating,” Felix added. Technically, that was true, too. Even though he could think of dozens of things he’d rather do, ice-skating was okay.

“I’ll take you sometime,” Bruce said. “Show you how to hit some pucks.”

“Uh-huh,” Felix said, just to be polite.

“Where in the world is your sister?” his mother asked, getting to her feet and looking around, as if Maisie was hiding somewhere in the Library.

“Packing?” Felix offered.

“She was supposed to pack
after
dinner,” his mother said.

Bruce Fishbaum waved his hand dismissively. “Relax,” he said. “More artichoke-mayonnaise dip for me.”

Then he did something that made Felix practically run out of the room. Bruce Fishbaum took Felix’s mother by the waist and pulled her down onto his lap.

“Oh,” Felix said. He was the one standing now,
looking for an exit. “Um…I’ll go find her.”

As quickly as he could, he got out of that room, and bumped right into Maisie in the foyer.

“Mom is sitting on Bruce Fishbaum’s lap,” he blurted.

“Dad is in New York with his girlfriend,” Maisie blurted back.

Maisie and Felix stood staring at each other. They both understood just how dreadful these facts were.

“Her name,” Maisie said, “is Agatha.”

“No one’s name is Agatha,” Felix said.

“Or maybe Agnes.”

“That’s even worse,” Felix said.

Maisie took Felix’s hand.

Although neither of them said anything, each knew what the other was thinking. Just a year ago, they were living happily at 10 Bethune Street with their parents. Every day, their father went off on his bicycle to his studio downtown in Tribeca. Their mother studied for the bar exam. Maisie and Felix happily walked to school together, unaware that in just a short time, nothing would be the same. They stopped at the Bleecker Street playground on their way home,
and sometimes their father found them there and the three of them walked the rest of the way together. Didn’t their mother always look happy when they walked in the door, peering at them over her funny half-glasses that she wore for reading? Didn’t their father always kiss her right on the lips? And didn’t they sing together while they made dinner, their father slightly off-key, their mother in her beautiful musical theater voice? How had they gotten from there to here, with a Bruce Fishbaum and an Agatha or Agnes?

Their mother and Bruce appeared, both of them smiley and flushed.

Maybe you did make pot roast for someone you love,
Maisie thought in horror.

“Do you know what my specialty is?” Bruce asked.

For some reason, Felix felt like Bruce was asking him, so he answered no.

“Fried turkey,” Bruce said proudly.

“Ew!” Maisie said, at the exact same time that her mother said, “I’ve heard that is the way to make a bird. It comes out surprisingly moist, right?”

“Right,” Bruce said. “The trick is dropping it in without splashing boiling oil and starting a fire.”

“That would be bad,” Felix said.

“Mom always puts the turkey in too late, and we end up eating hours after we’d planned,” Maisie said. Her chest was constricting, the way it did when she felt saddest.

“That’s not true,” her mother said, chuckling. “Well, maybe once or twice.”

“Tell you what,” Bruce said as they all moved toward the Dining Room. “When my kids are home, I’ll fry a bird and have all of you over.”

“That would be great,” their mother gushed. “Doesn’t that sound great, kids?”

It was a rhetorical question, Maisie knew. But still she said, “
Fried
turkey?”

Bruce Fishbaum pointed at her. He was a pointer, Felix realized.

“Just you wait,” Bruce said.

Neither Maisie nor Felix liked the way Bruce Fishbaum sat at the head of the table, as if he belonged there. They did not like the way he carved the pot roast, or served their mother and then them. They did not like how he poured wine into the Pickworth crystal, or held up his glass and said, “To the beautiful cook.” Nor did they like the way
their mother blushed and cast her eyes down when he said it.

Somehow, they ate their pot roast and followed their mother and Bruce Fishbaum into the Cigar Room for chocolate pudding.

Finally, the time came when they could excuse themselves, and they did, eagerly. But all of the excitement of their trip had vanished. Maisie went into her room, and Felix went into his, and they each packed their suitcase halfheartedly. Their vacation would begin tomorrow. But instead of going home to New York City and spending the week with their father doing all the things they would have been doing if their parents hadn’t gotten divorced, Maisie and Felix were going to be with a woman named Agatha. Or Agnes.

Just before Maisie climbed into her very high bed, she opened her closet door and reached into the trunk that had all the possible anagrams for Elm Medona written on its lining. She took out a small crown she’d hidden there. It glistened with what looked like real jewels, and Maisie ran her hand over them.

Then, she placed the crown on her head and
slowly—regally, she thought—walked over to the mirror.
Ha!
she thought. Great-Uncle Thorne had said they weren’t purposeful when they chose the objects in The Treasure Chest. But Maisie had seen the crown and known that it would take them somewhere far away, where kings and queens ruled. Maybe there would be jousting and knights in shining armor. Staring at her reflection, she curtsied.

“Your Highness,” she said in a solemn voice.

Maisie kept the crown on for a while longer, parading around her room and waving her hand in the funny half-swivel she’d seen Queen Elizabeth make. Finally, she took it off and put it inside her suitcase.
But wait,
she thought. The crown was bigger than most of the items they’d used before. Maisie retrieved her Mets fleece jacket. No, the crown wouldn’t fit in the pocket. Then she remembered that the fleece had an inside pocket that was deep enough to hold her catcher’s mitt when she played baseball. True, it left a bulge there, but so what? She tried, and sure enough, the crown fit. Satisfied, she got into bed and promptly fell asleep.