SHAKESPEARE’ SECRET (2 page)

“Yeah,” Beatrice said. “Even the women have beards. It's perfect for him.”

It was amazing to think of a place that was perfect for their father. He was so weird, and not just in the way all parents were weird. He used words like “Fie” and “tetchy,” and he could quote long passages from Shakespeare by heart. He never did the things that other dads did, like play golf or watch football on TV. He had no idea how to grill a steak. But Beatrice was right: Compared to the rest of the staff at the Maxwell, he seemed normal.

“Do you think that's how it is for everybody?” Hero asked. “Do you think even the weirdest people seem normal if you put them in the right place?”

Beatrice thought for a minute. “Are you talking about Dad or yourself?”

Hero grabbed the pillow and hurled it at her, almost knocking over the nail polish.

“Hey!” Beatrice said. “I was just kidding. Relax, school will go fine tomorrow. You worry too much.”

Hero shook her head. “No, I don't. When you're me, it's not possible to worry too much.”

At that moment, their mother appeared in the doorway. She was holding a large pair of pruning shears, and her cheeks were streaked with sweat. From the expression on her face, they could tell she'd been listening.

“Well,” she said to Hero, “I suppose if you worry too much, you'll always be pleasantly surprised.”

Hero's mother was the kind of steady cheerful person who was determined to find hidden advantages in the most unlikely situations. She did graphic design work, mostly freelance because they moved so often, and she knew all the differences between typefaces with funny names like Garamond and Desdemona. Even in her work, she never seemed to have a bad day. Sometimes Hero longed for her to be bored and depressed just so they'd have something in common.

“Please, Hero,” her mother said. “Don't spend the whole day feeling sorry for yourself. It's beautiful outside. Do me a favor and run these clippers back to Mrs. Roth.”

“Aw, Mom,” Hero protested. Mrs. Roth was the old woman who lived next door. Hero had seen her outside in her overgrown garden, but she'd never spoken to her. “I don't even know her. Make Triss do it.”

“No, I want you to do it. This will be a chance for you to get to know her.” Her mother leaned the shears against the doorjamb and disappeared down the hallway.

For a minute longer, Hero lay staring at the ceiling, at the cracks and water stains, and at the old glass light fixture with its pattern of vines and flowers. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Beatrice was now painting her fingernails, brushing shimmering layers of pink over each one.

“What color is that?” she asked indifferently “'Ballet Slipper.' Do you like it?”

“I guess.”

“Want to try it?” Beatrice brightened. “I could give you a makeover.”

Hero rolled her eyes. Beatrice had a book called
The Sum of Your Parts
that was full of advice on how to highlight your best features. According to Beatrice, Hero's best features were her dark eyes and her long brown hair. They were just begging to be accentuated in a makeover.

“No way,” Hero said, sliding to her feet. “Then I'll look totally different tomorrow, and the next day when I look like myself, everyone will go, 'Ew! What happened to her?'” She picked up the pruning shears. “Besides, it's the last day of summer vacation and apparently Mom wants me to spend it with a total stranger.”

Sighing, she tripped lightly down the stairs, flung open the screen door, and stepped into the blaze and trill of the summer day.

Mrs. Roth's house was a yellow cottage with peeling paint, a wide porch, and a dense, colorful front garden. There were flowers everywhere, clusters of roses, bright pockets of marigolds, petunias, geraniums, snapdragons. But the flowers tumbled out of a mound of weeds and thistles. Hero picked her way gingerly along the flagstone walk, the hard metal pruning shears banging her leg. She hesitated in front of the porch steps, eyeing the thick shrubbery on either side. It almost blocked her path. Why, she wondered, had her mother even thought to ask Mrs. Roth for pruning shears? It didn't look like they'd ever been used in this yard.

“Mrs. Roth?” Hero called out, hoping to avoid actually knocking on the door. Maybe she could just leave the clippers on the porch. She didn't particularly
want to be drawn into a conversation, or, worse yet, invited inside. She never felt comfortable around old people. She didn't like their papery skin, or the way they always launched into long, pointless anecdotes.

To her dismay, Hero heard footsteps approaching the door.

“I brought back your pruning shears,” she called, dropping the clippers on the porch. “Thanks a lot.”

She turned and started to jog back over the flagstones, but the door swung open and a voice called out, “You're very welcome. Tell your mother she may borrow them anytime.”

Hero answered over her shoulder, “Okay thanks, I will.”

She was almost to the gate when she realized unhappily that the old woman was coming down the front steps into the garden.

“Now, let's see . . . are you the younger daughter?” Mrs. Roth asked.

Defeated, Hero turned around. She walked back a few paces and awkwardly held out her hand.

“Yes,” she said. “I'm Hero.”

Mrs. Roth stood in the middle of her unkempt garden, thin and strangely elegant looking. Hero noticed that she wore a long-sleeved blouse and trousers despite the sticky heat. Her hand was cool and she
shook Hero's firmly. She had short silver hair cropped closely around her face, and her blue eyes were full of friendly interest.

“Hero. Yes, of course. Your sister is Beatrice, isn't she?
Much Ado About Nothing.
Hero's a lovely name. 'Who can blot that name with any just reproach?'”

She's as weird as Dad, Hero realized.

Mrs. Roth smiled. “It's from the play. You've read it, haven't you?”

Hero shook her head. “Uh, no.”

Of course that's what people always assumed, since she was the daughter of a Shakespeare expert. But she'd never read any of the plays herself. Never wanted to. That was her father's specialty As far as Hero was concerned, it belonged to him completely. In families, things seemed to get sorted out that way. It was like choosing tokens in a board game. Her father got Shakespeare. Beatrice got popularity. Her mother got good humor. You could never have two people share the same token. That would be too confusing.

But Mrs. Roth looked disappointed. “Oh, you must read it, it's wonderful. Of course, Beatrice is the stronger character, witty and resourceful. Hero's just a pretty fluff. But she is honorable. That's the point. And it's an excellent name to live up to.”

“I guess.” Hero looked away uncertainly. “Well, I'd better get going.”

“Why don't you take some flowers with you? I have so many. They could stand to be cut back a bit.”

“Oh, that's okay.” Hero could see that Mrs. Roth was already walking purposefully toward the house.

“I'll just fetch a pair of scissors. You'll have to cut them yourself, if you don't mind. My arthritis keeps me from doing much gardening, I'm afraid.”

Hero shifted from one foot to the other, trying to think of some excuse that would justify a speedy exit.

But a minute later, Mrs. Roth returned with the scissors. She directed Hero toward the roses. “I'm Miriam, by the way.”

Hero couldn't imagine ever calling her that, but she tried to smile politely. She drew back the prickly stems and began clipping the rosebushes, tossing the heavy blossoms on the walkway. Mrs. Roth hovered behind her and gathered the flowers into a loose bouquet.

“Has school started yet?” she asked.

“No,” Hero said. “Tomorrow.”

“And what grade are you entering?”

“Sixth. Beatrice is in eighth.”

“It must be difficult for you, adjusting to a new school.”

Hero snorted at the understatement before she caught herself. “Yeah, it is, sometimes. But I guess I'll find out tomorrow.”

She passed a last handful of roses to Mrs. Roth and straightened. “That's enough, isn't it?” She was beginning to think she'd be stuck here until the school bus came tomorrow morning.

Mrs. Roth lowered her face into the armful of petals and inhaled. “Yes, that's plenty. You'll have trouble finding a vase large enough to hold them.”

She gave the roses to Hero, studying her thoughtfully. “Good luck tomorrow at school. It's been such a pleasure to meet your family. Arthur Murphy, the man who used to live in your house, told me he'd found the perfect new owners for it. I can see exactly what he meant. He wouldn't sell to just anyone, you know. That house was very special to him.”

Hero glanced over her shoulder at the gate. “My mom and dad said he was really nice to them.”

“Oh, he was very impressed with your father. A Shakespeare scholar! Arthur's wife was English, and they were both quite literary.”

Hero nodded. “Well, I should go.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Roth said. “With school starting, you probably have lots to do. Let me open the gate for you.” She swung it wide and seemed about to step out of the way but then she paused. “You know, Hero, when you meet your classmates tomorrow, if you need something to break the ice, you might tell them that you're living in the Murphy diamond house. That will make you something of a celebrity.”

Hero lowered the thorny stems to look at her. “What do you mean?”

“Your house,” Mrs. Roth repeated. “Your parents know the story, don't they? I thought the Realtor would have told them. Most people around here believe that the house has a diamond hidden in it. A seventeen-carat one, somewhere on the property.”

“A diamond? You're kidding.”

“No, not at all. It was quite a scandal last year. The police, the insurance company—everyone got involved.”

Hero shook her head. “I don't get it. Why would anyone hide something so valuable?”

“Well—” Mrs. Roth began, but at that moment they heard Beatrice's voice from the Netherfields' back porch.

“Hero! Hero, Mom needs you.”

Hero frowned. “Okay, coming,” she called. She looked at Mrs. Roth. “Maybe you could tell me the rest of the story some other time.”

“Of course. Stop by after school tomorrow if you like. I'd be happy to tell you about it.”

Hero nodded. Holding the roses gingerly, she negotiated her way through the gate and started toward home. “Bye, Mrs. Roth,” she called. “Thanks for the flowers.”

“Goodbye, Hero. I'll see you soon.”

Hero glanced over her shoulder. She could see Mrs. Roth moving through the wild tangle of garden, tenderly lifting the blossoms.

As the school bus pulled into the long drive, Hero craned for a closer look at the blank, brick side of Ogden Elementary. It was only eight thirty in the morning, but the air was so soupy and hot that her thighs stuck to the vinyl seat. She felt vaguely sick to her stomach, just as she had all morning, too worried even to think about eating breakfast. At the kitchen table earlier, her mother's encouraging glances and her father's hearty enthusiasm had only made her feel worse.

Beatrice had left an hour ago for junior high, gotten a ride, of course, with a girl who lived three blocks away. Hero felt a pang of pure envy. This wouldn't be nearly so bad if she had somebody, anybody, to walk in with her. But at the bus stop that morning, the neighborhood crowd had sized her up
sullenly and quickly sorted itself into small bunches of kids talking and comparing backpacks. Hero had been left to stand with a little boy who was starting first grade. To her chagrin, he seemed to take an immediate liking to her and chattered nonstop. His name was Aaron, he was losing his bottom tooth (“This one right here!“), he'd been to a Baltimore Orioles game on Saturday (“It was great!“), and his dad got him a hat, but hats weren't allowed in school so he was just going to wear it on the bus.