Second Verse (10 page)

Shining the light, I see the back of the space a few feet ahead, which is weird. I close my eyes. The room next to mine is a spare bedroom. There’s a closet that lines up with mine but unless I’m wrong, there shouldn’t be this much space between the rooms. But here it is. I can’t argue with what’s right in front of me. I inch further along, wondering if I should stop. I’m inside the frickin wall, for God’s sake. And if Mom and I didn’t know this was here, how would anyone ever find me if I get stuck?

Yet something urges me on. Squinting into the dim shaft of light, I scoot forward and reach out for the wall. It feels like packed dirt, but when I test it with my fingers and examine it in the light, it doesn’t crumble. Completely packed dirt or some type of cement. How long has this been here? Was there such a thing as cement when this house was built? When I reach forward again, something moves near my hip. I pull into myself, not wanting to know what could possibly be moving in this space.

I look backward. From where I am, with my entire body in the space now, I’d guess it was nearly six feet deep and much narrower in the back. My shoulders touch the side walls, and even wiggling, I can hardly move. The air is thick and stuffy and
I take short bursts of it, realizing how stale it is, how long it’s probably been since this place has been opened.

It’s like a casket or a mausoleum.

I have to get out of here.

Moving quickly, I snag my shirt on the unfinished wood. I pull my stomach in, using my toes and hips to push myself back. My equilibrium feels off and the space wavers around me like I’m underwater. A scene from my attic vision floods my brain. It’s a different dark space, wooden boards laid in a sort of rudimentary ladder against what looks like a sloping wall. It was in that dusty air that Vaughn told me to find him.

Before it was too late.

With trembling hands, I move as quickly as I can, an inch-worm on steroids. Splinters dig through my jeans but I keep moving. A slight breeze moves through the space. I whimper, trying not to think about how little sense that makes. I’m finally back in the closet, kneeling in a heap amidst my shoes, when I hear the rustling. Peering into the space, I see a large package, wrapped in plastic and pressed against the side wall. The edge of it flaps in the breeze and I eye it curiously.

“Lange?”

Crap. Mom. From the sound of it, she’s just outside my doorway. I pull my head out of the space, gulping air. The sweet air of my closet. Of my room.

Of reality.

I keep an eye on the package as I grip the edge of the hidden door. Just as I’m about to pull it closed, I grab the bundle and slide the door closed, falling back onto my knees.

The blood from my splintered finger smears across the plastic wrap as I turn it in my hands. An ancient, plastic mummy. Inside, it looks like a bunch of envelopes and papers. Great. I probably just creeped myself out to unearth someone’s bank statements.

That musty sour smell wafts from the package as I pick at the edges. If I could just see what one of the envelopes is, I’d get a good idea what secrets are hidden in that tunnel. It’s gotta be something important, to be hidden that way.

“Lange?” She’s in my room.

“Hey Mom! Just looking for my boots.” I slide the package under a pile of shoes, where I notice Ginny’s picture still lies.

“Are you ready? We’re already running late.” Big sigh.

I grab the first pair of boots I see, a hideous purple leather pair. I don’t even know why I still have these things, but they’ll do.

“Sorry,” I say breathlessly when I slide back into my room. The air is delicious here. I try not to be obvious about taking it in like it’s the last breath I’ll take. With my back to her, I pull on my boots quickly and stand, running my hand through my still-damp hair.

“What happened to you?” She stomps over to me, brushing the front of my jeans with her hand. “You’re filthy.”

“Um, it’s dusty in there.”

“Is that blood?” She points to the floor in front of the closet and I cringe, hoping the hidden door or the path I cleared to it isn’t obvious. I follow her gaze and see a small spot of blood, no bigger than the size of an olive. But it’s bright red and starting to seep into the floorboards. My finger throbs from the deep splinter and I hold it up for her to see.
It’s okay
, the motion says.
Just a splinter
.

But I don’t say anything else because the blood does something to me. It twists my stomach and I gag, my mind flashing again like angry bulbs.

“All right, that’s enough,” she says. “We’re going to the doctor. Now.”

“S
O TELL ME
again what exactly has been going on?” Kelly lies on my bed surrounded by the reams of material and costume ideas she’s brought to show me. When I didn’t show up at school, she called to check on me. Since the doctor, some lame guy who just sat there while I talked about my artwork, told Mom I seemed fine and perfectly sane, she said it was okay for Kelly to come over.

So here we are, me balanced precariously on my desk chair, trying to come up with a decent excuse for a) spending time with Vaughn, b) pretty much retreating from her in terms of hanging out, phone calls and generally being involved, and c) trying not to think about the package I pulled out of the secret tunnel in my closet.

I lean back in my chair and stretch. As I’ve been doing since she got here an hour ago, I fight the urge to look at my clock and try keep my eyes off my slightly-open closet door. My drawing, Ginny’s photo, and the package all lie waiting for me and I’m practically crawling the walls to get to them.

“Nothing’s been going on. Working on the Motions project has eaten my week. And I’ve been totally sick with some stomach flu or something.”

She snorts and raises her eyebrows. “Totally sick
and
hanging out with Vaughn?”

“Come on, I already told you about that. It’s nothing, it’s just—”

“I know. The song, the picture. Got it.” She makes pouty lips and piles her stuff in the middle of my bed, stopping with her arms full of dark velvet. “I’m not gonna lie. It doesn’t sound too believable.” Her voice softens, but she doesn’t look at me.

When I don’t answer, she continues, “Listen. I like you. We’re friends. We’re all friends. But I’ve known Stace my entire life, and, well … ”

Ouch.

“I already told you, nothing’s going on with us … ”

Even I can hear how untrue the words sound. I try not to flinch at the narrowed-eyed expression she gives me.

“You never struck me as the type to hook up with someone’s boyfriend.”

“But I thought he wasn’t her boyfriend.”

Her eyes darken. “Please, Lange. Don’t make me choose between you. Stace is fragile, you know. She doesn’t seem like it, but she is. Don’t do this to her.”

Oh, Stace is fragile? What about me? Besides, nothing has happened between Vaughn and me. Not really, anyway.

Not yet
.

I ignore the voice in my head. It’s not like I can explain how complicated this really is.

Kelly looks at me and shakes her head sadly. “Whenever you’re ready to talk, I’m here, okay?”

I’m not sure what she sees on my face, but I fake a bright smile. “There’s nothing to talk about.” I gesture to the dresses draped across my bed. “Now show me again what you’re deciding between for the governess’s costume.”

A
FTER
K
ELLY FINALLY
leaves, and by the time I’ve eaten soup with Mom, sat through her endless dissection of our astrological charts as a means of explaining my behavior and heightened emotions, I’m nearly bursting with anticipation and I practically run to my room. As quiet as a cat creeping through a graveyard, I close my door and click the lock into place.

And then I barrel for the closet.

I grab all of it. The package, the photo, my drawing. I spread it out on my bed, tucking my feet under me and settling against my pillows.

After carefully unwrapping the package, I remove the bundle inside. At first, it’s a bit overwhelming. Various sizes of what looks like cards and letters and who knows what else, some folded, some flat, some in envelopes, even a few small notebooks that are stained with water damage. I try to open one of the books, but the pages are stuck together, so I grab a stack of letters instead.

I take a deep breath, unfold the first one, and start to read.

July 7, 1934

My dearest, dearest love
,

There’s this overwhelming sense of sadness around the place these days. You’ve only been gone a week, and I can’t believe I have to wait three more to see you. How dare your parents insist your visit be so long? I know, we’ve got forever ahead of us, but my dear, it’s a month apart, which hurts me so
.

How is your grandmother feeling? Please send her my love. Make sure to make her tea often and read to her. If you choose the newspaper, be sure you skip the worst stories. No one wants to hear those things, especially old ladies. I’d suggest a novel instead, or perhaps some poetry. I know how you feel about poetry. But believe me, it would make her health improve in no time. Words are powerful, my love
.

I must run now as Mother needs my help. We’ll be on the porch with the washing, but my thoughts will be with you in New York and with the last night we spent together on that same porch, with the stars. I want to hear your voice, want to hear you sing to me. Even if you’re off key, you’re mine, and that is worth more than all the gold in The Ten Story Gang, which I know not much of, other than Robert constantly burying his nose in them like they’re literature
.

Mother’s calling again. Take care, my love. And write soon
.

Forever, your Ginny

It’s unreal. In my mind, I’ve seen her. I’ve drawn her and I have her photo. But this letter is her, her voice. It’s like I’m hearing her now, too. A second page is folded behind Ginny’s letter. I open it and look down at the much messier handwriting.

July 12, 1934

My dear Gin –

You’ve missed me as much as I’ve you, and in such a short time? I thought for sure you and your sisters would be gallivanting around the lake by now, swimming with half the town and eating vanilla ice cream at Old Mack’s without me. If I’d known it was only my singing you’d miss, however, I would have tried a bit harder. And off key? Well, I resent that! I shall practice up here in the quietest place on Earth and be ready to serenade you when I return
.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said to me before I left. About September. And if you’re ready and I’m ready, you’re right, we should just go for it. Though I do worry about disappointing our families if we do it
without them and before they think we should. But, I’m sure you’re right. Besides, we’re no longer students, finally adults with the world at our fingertips. The future is ours, Ginny! I can feel the freedom in my bones, way down to my core. I can feel how lucky I am every night when I close my eyes and know that someday soon, I’ll see you every morning, noon and night
.

My grandmother is much better, thank you. It seems our coming here does serve a great purpose. Mother is tending to her while Father and I mend all that’s fallen apart in her old house. Today we nailed down some floorboards and tomorrow will be some window chains that have slipped. She sends best wishes to you as do my mother and father. We all miss you, Gin, but me especially. At night I look from the window here in grandmother’s guest room and I count the stars and try to sleep. I remember those nights on your porch, where we counted the stars together. Each one a year of our future, remember? This, I promise. I’m counting the days already, Ginny. Someday soon, we’ll count the years
.

My eternal love is yours, if you’ll have it
.

Your Beau

P.S. I’ve seen Ten Story Gang at the newsstand. Tell Robert to expand his horizons and read something useful
.

Wow. Mrs. McDermott was right, those two really were in love. What does it feel like to have someone so completely in love with you at my age? Promising a universe’s worth of years?

I refold the pages carefully, wondering as I continue to dig through the pile, how these letters ended up here, together. The next page is thin, like scrap paper, covered with crude drawings of cat faces. There are tons of these, each drawn with different versions of animals. Stick figure dogs and lions with balding manes. On the back of each, in tiny letters is the name Margie Chopain.

Who were you, Ginny Chopain? Who were you who saved your little sister’s artwork and wrote love letters to your dearest Beau? And why are you in my life now?

The phone rings, shattering the quiet.

“Hello?”

“Lange?” It’s Vaughn, his voice so clipped my heart skips.

“What’s wrong?”

“It looks like someone does
not
like us snooping around. Listen to what I got today.” Paper crinkles in the background. He clears his throat. “Perhaps losing your tires wasn’t enough to keep you from your destination. Next time I’ll try harder and perhaps you’ll lose more.”