Secret Brother (21 page)

She widened her smile. “You could be of great help, and you'll learn a lot, too.” When I didn't respond, she turned to Mrs. Camden. “I'll stop by late tomorrow morning. Get him up and about as soon as you can. The most important thing,” she added, now turning back to me, “is that we don't make him feel bad about his behavior.”

Mrs. Camden opened the door for her. Dr. Patrick smiled again at me and walked out. I turned away quickly, my arms folded, my head down, as if my thoughts were too heavy now.

“I don't think your coming along with us would have changed anything,” Mrs. Camden said. “You shouldn't feel bad about it.”

“I wasn't blaming myself, Mrs. Camden,” I snapped back at her.

“Call me Dorian,” she said. She walked past me and up the stairs. I watched her until she disappeared, and then I went into the living room and flopped onto the large settee. I was fuming, but mostly at myself. I wanted so to dislike her. I wanted to despise Dr. Patrick. I even wanted to dislike Myra and My Faith. Most of all, I wanted to hate my grandfather now, but suddenly, none of that was really happening, and I was blaming myself for having wanted to dislike everyone in the first place.

Who was more alone in this house at the moment, the poisoned boy or me?

Minutes later, I heard the front door open and close and looked up as my grandfather appeared. He looked upset, flustered. I had the feeling that he was blaming himself for what had happened. He stood in the hallway, pulling off his leather driving gloves and mumbling. Then he saw me sitting in the living room. He walked in.

“What did you find out about the Farmingham house?” I quickly demanded, before he could utter a complaint about my behavior.

“You heard about it?”

“Yes. So? What did you find out? Did you find his real family, or was he kept there by kidnappers?”

He considered whether he should talk to me and then sat in his favorite chair and unbuttoned his black leather jacket. His hair was a little wild, looking like he had been running his fingers through it madly. He pushed some strands back.

“There was no sign of anyone squatting in the old place now or ever. In fact, it's in remarkably good shape. Someone's looking after it regularly. Prime property, actually.”

“So he wasn't there? He didn't come from there?” I asked, disappointment practically dripping from my lips.

Grandpa shook his head. “No, but that house would probably frighten any child the first time he saw it. I remember it frightened you because we came upon it at twilight, and it looked like . . . you said a home for ghosts.”

“Apparently, it didn't frighten me like it frightened him. I didn't start screaming. Dr. Patrick called it a traumatic flashback.”

“Oh? Dr. Patrick is still here?”

“No, she left a little while ago.”

“How is he doing now?”

“She gave him something for sleep.”

“Good. I guess I'll go see Dorian and see what's what. It's terrible to see anyone that small that frightened.” He started to rise.

“I'm sorry about him,” I said quickly. “I don't want to see him suffer or anything.”

He nodded and remained frozen in place, expecting me to say more, maybe apologize for my behavior, but I wasn't ready to do that and maybe never would be.

“I miss my brother,” I said instead. “A lot. I'm sure he was very frightened after that truck ran into him and Myra.”

His face softened. “I know, Clara Sue. Believe me, not a day passes when I don't think about him or what I could have done to prevent it.”

I pressed my lips tightly together. I didn't try to swallow or breathe, and I didn't want to start crying again.

He sat back down. “I don't want to spend whatever I have left of my life in constant mourning, Clara Sue. I've had more than my fair share, but I'm not whining about myself. That gets you nowhere, and even friends, people who like you, get turned off by all the damn self-pity. It sounds cruel to think like that, but that's the way it is. I've got you, I've got
your uncle Bobby, I've got my business, and now I've got that boy upstairs to look after. Whoever did this to him should be burned at the stake. I think about that, and it gets me angry, and I want to do something about it. I believe I was meant to.”

He looked as enraged as ever. Then he paused and took a deep breath.

“You've heard me say some of this before. But that's all there is to it. I don't love you or Willie any less. I hope you can live with that,” he said, and stood up.

I watched him leave, his shoulders a bit more slumped than usual. Then I took a deep breath, wiped some tears away before they could reach the middle of my cheeks, and got up and went to see what My Faith was making for dinner.

I could tell she was very nervous in my presence, probably because of all the nasty things I had said, especially now when everyone was on edge about the boy.

“I'm sorry if I said anything mean to you, My Faith.”

She paused and looked at me. “You're not a mean and sassy girl, Clara Sue. I know that. Everyone has their times. And nothin' you could say or do would change my opinion of you, child. Don't you know that?”

I smiled and nodded at the stove. “That's your famous corn pone you're making, right?”

“It's not really anything special.”

“Yes, it is. You have a secret ingredient. Grandma Lucy told me so.”

She laughed. “Well, if it's a secret, I can't tell you, now, can I?”

I nodded. She held her arms out, and we hugged.

“I know you're hurting,” she said. “And you know we are, too.”

I nodded and looked at the stove again. I could smell what was being prepared for dinner. “Orange baked ham?”

“Your granddad asked for it yesterday,” she said. “It's his favorite.”

“Mine, too. I'll be hungry tonight,” I told her, and I hurried back upstairs. I was eager to call Aaron and fill him in on all that had happened.

“The Farmingham mansion,” he said as soon as I'd finished babbling at Superman speed. “That has to be a big clue.”

“I know, but they didn't get anything sensible out of him. I guess it was really terrible. My grandfather looked like he did when Willie died. Everyone did.”

“Except you. You're like the odd man out now.”

“We'll see,” I said. “Maybe I'll just bend that branch and not break it.”

He laughed. “You know you're in trouble if you start taking my advice.”

“I trust you,” I said. How close to “I love you” was that? Wasn't it a better thing to tell someone you were very fond of, anyway? There couldn't be love without trust, could there? That would be just sexual attraction.

Myra talked about putting guineas of affection into a bank account with the name of someone you cared
for on it. “Real friendships don't just happen, love,” she told me once when I was complaining about some of the girls in my class being snobby and unfriendly. “You can invest in people like you invest in stocks and bonds.”

“So you'll believe me when I tell you I'll respect you in the morning?” Aaron joked now. Or
was
he joking?

“Depends on how much you respect me at night,” I countered.

He laughed and was silent a moment, so long a moment that I thought we had been disconnected.

“Hello?”

“You know, I started to watch you when you were in ninth grade. There was something I saw that told me you were going to be special, and then you just bloomed like a rose overnight.”

“Are you reading from some book called
How to Win the Heart of a Girl
?”

“Honest. You can ask Skip or Brad or even Paulie.”

“If you were caught robbing a bank, they would testify that you were in their houses at the time.”

He laughed again. “Okay. I'll just have to find a way to prove it.”

“Do that. I gotta go. I want to help set the table tonight. See you tomorrow.”

“Ah, the coming out of the Lady of Shalott,” he said. “I'd better get prepared.”

I felt so excited and happy. It was like I was intoxicated on hope again. I practically bounced out of my room and then paused at Willie's door to look in. The
boy was awake. He was sitting up and slowly turning the pages of one of Willie's picture books of fables. The one he was reading was “How the Beggar Boy Turned into Count Piro.” I knew it well, having read it aloud to Willie from time to time. It was one of his favorites. It told the story of a clever fox that helped a poor boy marry a princess and become rich.

“Do you like that story?” I asked now. The boy was so engrossed in it that he hadn't heard me enter the room. He looked up quickly. “Do you think you're like the Beggar Boy?”

He looked down at the book and then at me again. He didn't answer, but there was no doubt in my mind that living here—with my grandfather laying on gifts and all the servants waiting on him—made him feel like a prince. I shouldn't blame him for it, I thought.

“It's better when you hear someone read it to you,” I said, and plucked it out of his hands. Then I sat on the bed and began. “Once upon a time, there lived a man who had only one son, a lazy, stupid boy, who would never do anything he was told . . .”

As I read, I kept an eye on him to see if anything I was reading was having a personal effect on him. He blinked a lot, but he didn't smile or look sad. He looked more like Willie had when I read it to him, his eyes widening with amazement at some of the magic in the story.

I was so into it myself that I didn't hear Dorian step up behind me at the foot of the bed. After a few moments, I sensed her presence and paused to look at her. She smiled, turned, and walked out. The boy
stared at me, anxious for me to continue. I read to the end of the story and closed the book.

“That was one of my brother's favorite fables,” I said. He nodded as if he had known. “Would you like me to read you another one sometime?”

This time, he smiled and nodded.

“Someone used to read to you, too, right?”

He blinked rapidly and then looked like he might cry or scream, so I got up quickly.

“I'm not going to call you William,” I said. “That's not your name, and you know it's not. It's my brother's name.” I looked at the fable I had just read to him. “I'm going to call you Count Piro.”

I thought he was smiling, although it wasn't easy to tell. He also looked like he was about to cry.

“I'm going down to help with dinner,” I said, rising. “Are you getting hungry?”

He nodded.

I had an idea. “When you get better, do you want to go back to where you were?” I asked him.

His eyes widened, and he shook his head.

I smiled to myself. If anyone else had asked him that, he hadn't replied. I was making a difference already.

At least I knew that he remembered where he'd been. And that he didn't want any part of it anymore.

Now, if I could just get him to tell me where.

15

Myra was overseeing one of the recently hired maids setting the table for dinner when I entered the dining room. She paused in her instructing as soon as I came in and looked at me with a broad smile on her face, her jackpot smile, as she called it, but she said nothing. She didn't have to. I knew that look well. It always came quickly when she was proud of me.

“I'll help bring things out,” I said, and went into the kitchen to get some of the condiments. I often tried to do something helpful in the house, even though it seemed like we had an army of servants. As soon as I was old enough, I always did something to help my mother at breakfast and especially at dinner. Doing things now that I used to do with her helped keep my memories of her vivid and alive.

My Faith looked up from the large salad bowl and flashed her special smile at me, too. I was ashamed of myself for having been angry at both of them. They were the best cheerleaders any girl my age could hope
to have. The condiments were already organized on a tray. I picked it up.

“This is like a Christmas dinner,” I said, seeing her elaborate preparations.

“My grandmother used to say, ‘Child, nothin' cheers up the troubled soul like a good meal.' And we have our share of troubled souls here,” she added.

I carried the tray to the dining room and set up the condiments on the table in exactly the places Myra wanted them to be. Under her scrutinizing gaze, it was like setting up a chessboard. I knew that even though she was instructing the new maid on how to set dishes and silverware on a table, she was watching me. Like a snapped rubber band, her full attention returned to the new maid. She had put the salad fork where the entrée fork was supposed to be. To Myra, that was a capital crime.

“No, no, no, can't you see the difference in the size?”

“Sorry,” the young woman said. She couldn't have been more than nineteen or twenty. Myra was also particular about how the napkins should be folded and placed in the Arnold monogram napkin rings. I watched the poor, flustered girl work at it until my grandfather entered.

He was smiling at me just the way Myra and My Faith had done. Obviously, Dorian had told everyone what I had been doing with the poisoned boy.

“I could eat a horse tonight,” he said, slapping his hands together and rubbing his palms.

“I believe it's more like a pig,” Myra said, and he
threw his head back and roared with laughter, an outburst I hadn't heard since Willie's death.

The new maid looked like she had come to work for the Mad Hatter in
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland
. Her head down, she quickly followed Myra into the kitchen. I went around and sat at my place. Grandpa took his seat and looked at me with those steely eyes he could bring out whenever he wanted to be stern.

“So where did you take your bike ride today?” he asked.

From the way he was waiting for my answer, I had the feeling that he already knew. Perhaps he had run into one of the women who had been with their children at the playground.

“I went to the children's playground on Jefferson Street,” I said.

He said nothing, obviously waiting for me to continue. If he knew I had been there, then he knew whom I had been there with. I was going to tell him anyway.

“Where I met Aaron Podwell. His father took away his driving privileges for a week after you called him, but his friend drove him there. You didn't say I couldn't see him,” I quickly added.

“And if I did, would you listen?”

“No.” I held my breath, expecting him to go into another rage, but instead, those steely eyes softened into not so much a pleasing look as a look of quiet resignation.

“No doubt whose daughter you are. Between your
grandmother and her, I was about as effective and in control as the driver of a twelve-wheeler dump truck without brakes going down Devil's Run.”

Before either of us could speak, Dorian entered. Grandpa turned to her, smiling in a way I hadn't seen him smile since Grandma Lucy passed away. There was a special look of appreciation in it, something much more than a man would give an employee.

“I'm going to prepare his dinner tray,” she said. “Better he eats upstairs tonight. I'll eat with him.”

Grandpa nodded, but I thought he looked disappointed. Dorian flashed a smile at me and went into the kitchen. Moments later, with Myra looking over her shoulder, the maid began to serve our dinner.

“Well,” Grandpa said, starting on his salad, “since I have little to say in the matter, when Mr. Podwell gets his privileges reinstated, maybe I'll have you bring him around for dinner one night.”

“Really?”

“Your grandmother used to tell me you can't fight city hall. City hall is a piece of cake compared with a woman who makes up her mind about something or someone.”

I smiled. He was being more like the grandfather I knew, loved, and trusted.

“But don't misunderstand me, Clara Sue,” he said, waving his salad fork at me. “I'm still your grandfather, in charge and responsible for your welfare. We follow rules here. No more of this gallivanting about without letting me know where you're going, who you're going with, and how long you intend to be away.”

“Okay, Grandpa,” I said. “It won't happen again. I promise.”

He grunted and ate for a moment. “His father cheats at golf, you know,” he said, as if that was worse than murder. “I hope he's made of better stuff,” he added, and then went into a speech about how he could understand a man's true character by playing golf with him.

As I listened to him elaborate on the true natures of different business associates and lessons he had learned in his life, I felt we were back to the days before Willie's death, even before Grandma Arnold had passed away. He could go on and on, and we'd always pretend we were glued to his every word, until Grandma finally would say, “Come up for air, William Arnold, before you wear out our ears.”

He came up for air tonight when his favorite baked ham was brought out on a platter. Everything was delicious. My Faith's grandmother was right about the power of a good dinner when it came to restoring troubled souls.

Just before our dishes were being cleared away, Dorian brought down hers and the boy's, pleased that he had eaten well.

“He's putting weight back on quickly,” she told us. Usually, she directed herself solely to my grandfather when she talked about my Count Piro, but tonight she was including me. She reminded us that Dr. Patrick would be coming in the morning, and I reminded them both that I'd be at school.

“We might think about getting him a tutor,” Dorian suggested. “I brought it up with him tonight.”

I thought it was interesting how quickly Dorian Camden had become part of everything in our home. She acted and spoke as if she was more like a family member than hired help, but Grandpa was obviously pleased about it.

“Yes, that would be smart now,” he said. “Did he say anything about school? What grade he was in, anything?”

I perked up to hear her answer.

“Nothing that makes sense, except maybe . . .”

“Go on,” Grandpa told her.

“It sounds like he was homeschooled.” She looked at me. “Someone was often reading to him. That was about all I could gather.”

“Interesting,” Grandpa said. He turned to me. “You read him some of that children's story?”

“I saw he was reading one of Willie's favorite fables, ‘How the Beggar Boy Turned into Count Piro.' ”

“Whatever. Could you tell if he could read well?”

“He could read. I don't know how well. Probably not as well as Willie could for his age,” I said. “My brother loved to read and be read to,” I told Dorian. She smiled.

We were all quiet for a moment. The miniature grandfather clock in the living room tapped out the hour. Was it my imagination, or was the house raising its head which had been bowed in sorrow and mourning? Would deep shadows retreat? Could this ever ­really be a home again?

“I'll look into a tutor tomorrow,” Grandpa told Dorian. “I'll speak with the grade-school principal.
His wife is a bookkeeper for Arnold Trucking.” Grandpa always referred to his business as Arnold Trucking instead of “my business.” It was as if he worked for some invisible owner besides himself.

“Great. The faster we get him doing regular things kids his age do, the faster he'll recuperate.”

“Will he ever walk again?” I asked, wondering just how much he could recuperate.

She looked to Grandpa Arnold to respond.

“They don't sound very hopeful about it,” he said.

“He's getting stronger. We'll see,” Dorian said. Maybe it was her job, but she seemed to like being more optimistic than most people. “I'll just take this into the kitchen and go back up. Have to give him a bath tonight.”

Then My Faith surprised us with a peach pie. She made her pies from scratch, as Grandma Arnold would say.

“This is like a Thanksgiving dinner tonight,” I said.

“Oh, she'll outdo this for Thanksgiving,” Grandpa assured me.

It was still difficult to get excited about that holiday, but it seemed wrong now to do anything that would darken the mood or block out the light that had come trickling into our world with the promise of a better tomorrow.

Later, feeling bad about how mean I had been to Lila, I called her and explained why I had been upset and how both Aaron and I had been punished. I didn't mention what I had done with Count Piro, and she seemed to know not to bring him up in our
conversation. We gossiped instead about the others at Audrey's party, and I finished by promising to do more with her during the week, especially since Aaron wouldn't have his car. I decided not to mention the possibility of my inviting him to dinner. She would wonder why I wasn't inviting her, too.

Aaron was waiting for me in the lobby at school the following morning. Probably before we had reached my homeroom, the story about our “unauthorized” Saturday all-day date had spread with hurricane speed to all our classmates. I hadn't sworn Lila to secrecy, and Aaron had told some of his friends, because he knew they'd be asking about his car and why he wasn't driving it. Before the day ended, we had become the “hot couple.” I saw it in the expressions and heard it in the voices of my girlfriends. Apparently, no one needed my confirmation or would believe any denial concerning how intimate Aaron and I had become. For most of my girlfriends, I seemed to have grown in stature. I enjoyed the way they were treating me and decided to let them embellish my romance.

The rest of the week wasn't going fast enough for either Aaron or me. We had to spend our time after school talking only on the phone, and a few times, I had to do it while Lila was visiting and doing homework or studying for a test. She pretended not to be listening closely, but I knew she was hanging on every word. Aaron was getting his car privileges back on Friday, and although Grandpa didn't mention inviting him to dinner again, I began to drop hints with him that Friday would be nice, since the following week
was Thanksgiving and we'd break for the holiday at midday on Tuesday. Grandpa didn't say yes or no.

I thought that might be because he seemed to be having a busier week than usual, and his mind was occupied with other things. On top of what was happening at the trucking company, he was apparently meeting regularly with Dr. Patrick and had, with Dorian, arranged for a tutor, a Mrs. Crystal, who was a retired grade-school teacher. She was gone before I got home after school every day, but I saw how Count Piro was diligently working on what she had given him to do. She had brought him workbooks for vocabulary and English grammar, math and science, and reading. Dorian would be helping him, too. By Wednesday, I saw how alert he had become because of all this new interaction. He was sitting at the table again for dinner.

At Dr. Patrick's request, no one pressured him with questions about his past or his identity. The first time I referred to him as Count Piro caught everyone's attention. Looking right at him across the table, I explained how much he had enjoyed the fable and how, just like Willie liked to be called Batman sometimes, he didn't mind being called Count Piro.

“Am I right, Count Piro?” I asked him.

He nodded. Grandpa looked at Dorian, and they both seemed pleased. I certainly was. I had found a way never to call him William.

I hadn't realized it, but Grandpa was waiting to discuss with Dr. Patrick whether it was wise yet to invite a stranger to dinner, especially a teenage boy. On
Thursday afternoon, as soon as I entered the house, Myra informed me that Dr. Patrick was waiting for me in the living room, the way she had been the first time we met.

“Hi,” she said immediately. I thought she looked more relaxed and friendlier.

“Hi.” I stood for a moment and then sat in Grandpa's chair. “Anything wrong?”

“Oh, no. Just the opposite. I'm so happy to hear you've embraced the situation more. To me, that shows real maturity, Clara Sue. There's so much in life that annoys us or disturbs us, and it's how we handle those things that makes the difference in the end and helps balance our emotions.”