The Orphan of Awkward Falls (2 page)

The Cravitz family, who were peaceful vegetarians, not murderous cannibals, were at that moment driving into Awkward Falls for the first time. They had noticed the massive Asylum for the Dangerously Insane from the highway as they neared the exit for the town, but had mistaken it for a factory of some kind. After all, what kind of asylum had smokestacks?

Josephine Cravitz slouched unhappily in the backseat of the little family’s old Volvo. She was tired, cranky, and hungry after the long trip from Wisconsin. The wheatgrass-ginger smoothie and oat bran muffin she’d packed for lunch were long gone by now, and the dull throb of a headache was building in her temples. If she hadn’t been an only child, she probably would have chosen this moment to pick a fight with the nearest sibling.

Josephine had been sulking since her father, Howard, loaded the car the day before, huffing and puffing as he tried to pack as many of the family’s belongings as possible into and onto the car, including
his favorite sofa, which was strapped to the roof. Around and around the car he went, with his silly Packers hat on backward and a giant roll of duct tape in his hand. Josephine had looked anxiously at the houses nearby, hoping no one was peeking out the windows.

“Do we have to put the sofa on the roof again, Dad?” she asked. “Couldn’t we hire a moving van this time like other people?”

But she could see that her father could not have cared less how ridiculous the overloaded car looked. She knew that, for Howard, packing the car was a scientific challenge, a Rubik’s Cube to be solved, and he took the job very seriously.

“Nonsense, Jo!” He beamed proudly, tugging on ropes and adding extra duct tape here and there. “This is a 1978 Volvo station wagon. It’s a classic! This vehicle was made for moving a small family like ours. Everything fits perfectly if you know what you’re doing.”

Howard was a professor of microbiophysics and had just been transferred to Awkward Falls University. This meant that for the fourth time in three years, the family was moving again. Josephine did not want to move at all, and even if she had, a small town in northern Canada was the last place she would have picked. When she checked the atlas to see where they were going, she found that the town was so far north, it was almost off the top of the page. It gave her a queasy feeling to think of living so close to the edge of the map. Every time she turned around, it seemed, her parents were packing boxes, tying the sofa to the car, and dragging her off to some new so-called “home.”

This place took the cake. Now that they had arrived in Awkward Falls, Josephine was even more disappointed than she had expected. The town was old, drab, and smelled like sauerkraut. The people she saw on the sidewalks looked old and drab as well, and there wasn’t a bookstore or juice bar anywhere in sight. Unlike most other places they’d lived, she saw no cyclists or joggers, or even speed walkers on the sidewalks here. Had these people never heard of exercise?

According to banners draped in store windows and from streetlamps, the town was celebrating S.A.D., which stood for Sauerkraut Appreciation Days.

I’m dead
, she thought. With no friends within a thousand miles and two long weeks to go before the sauerkraut holiday ended and school started, Josephine was certain she was doomed to face excruciating new levels of boredom. She pulled her old purple knit cap, which she called Eggplant, down over her eyes and slid lower in her seat.

“What a quaint little village,” said Josephine’s mother, Barbara, scanning the shops as Howard drove slowly along the main street. “It’ll be fun exploring all the shops, Josey!” Barbara was a nurse, expert at giving painless shots, and loved antiquing on the weekends.

As a tyke, Josephine used to enjoy joining her mother on all-day bargain hunts. She didn’t even mind tagging along with Howard when he attended science lectures at the university. Josephine probably knew more about antique lamps and genetic biology than any kid on the planet. But she had turned twelve a week ago, and was
vastly more mature than the doting kid whose best friends were in fact her parents. Her needs were more complex now.

Crammed in between stacks of moving boxes in the backseat, Josephine rolled her eyes at her mom’s obvious attempt to make her feel better.

“Hmmph,” she grumbled. “Don’t try to cheer me up, Mom. I prefer being incredibly grumpy right now. And don’t call me Josey. It’s cute, and you know I hate that.”

The trend among some girls in Josephine’s class lately had been to give themselves cute nicknames, their real names no longer being stylish enough to go along with their snazzy new haircuts and sparkly accessories. A few of the more adventurous girls were even beginning to dabble in makeup, which Josephine found most puzzling of all.

Josephine was not one of the cute girls, and she worked hard to stay that way. She made it a point to wear clothes that were as unstylish as possible, Eggplant being her only nod to fashion. She and her small circle of friends dressed for comfort, not style.

She fished an organic carrot stick out of her backpack and bit it irritably. “And, Mom, this is not a ‘quaint village,’” she went on, griping freely now that she had admitted her crabbiness. “Villages have horses and carts and peasants and stuff. This is just a smelly old town in the middle of nowhere. I’ll bet they don’t even have a natural foods store here. We’ll probably all get liver disease or something.”

Her mother gave her an annoyingly understanding look. “I know you didn’t want to leave Madison, dear. We all liked it there. But your father’s research requires him to spend time at lots of different labs. We don’t get to choose where we go. Once we settle in here, I bet you’ll be fine.”

“That’s just it. I don’t want to be fine here,” Josephine said. “Every time I start to feel at home somewhere, we move again. We’re like nomads of the Sahara or something.”

“I suppose we are a bit itinerant, Jo,” Howard relented, with a glance in the rearview mirror. “But someday you’ll be glad to have lived in so many different places growing up. It gives you a greater worldview.”

“Dad…” Josephine vigorously rolled her eyes in a you-just-don’t-get-it way. “I’m sure a great ‘worldview’ will come in handy when I’m forty-seven or whatever, but right now I have other things to worry about, things that you and Mom don’t understand. I’m missing out on important stuff because we move so much. Do you realize I’m twelve years old and I’ve never even been invited to a slumber party?”

Barbara looked puzzled. “But Josephine, you’ve always said slumber parties were—”

“Lame. I know, and they probably are. But what if I’m wrong? What if slumber parties are great? I’ll never know for sure, because no one ever gets to know me well enough to invite me. I mean, doing things with you and Dad is okay, but sometimes I wonder how my
real life is ever going to get started if we’re always moving to these weird places. I never have time to find my people.”

Josephine was sure there were girls, and maybe even a boy or two, although that was a stretch, out there in the world who were a lot like her, just waiting for her to find them. She was willing to bet they weren’t in northern Manitoba, however.

Her father nodded sympathetically. “By golly, Jo, I think you’re absolutely right. It’s high time your mother and I stepped out of the way a bit and let you discover your own genetic tendencies. Test your chromosomes, so to speak.”

“I agree,” said Barbara. “In fact, I have an idea. When we get to the new house, you can have first choice of the rooms and fix it up any way you like!”

“Paint the walls orange if you want!” added Howard.

Josephine just shook her head and groaned. “That’s not what I mean,” she said, barely loud enough to hear. What was the use? The idea of yet another new house, another new room, another school where she was the new girl was depressing.

“Speaking of houses,” said Howard, “I wonder what sort of abode we’ll get this time.” Whenever Howard was transferred, the new school always provided a furnished house for the family.

“Something old, I hope,” said Barbara. “With lots of charm!”

“Say, where is that street, anyway?” asked Howard. “Shouldn’t we have come to it by now?”

Barbara scanned the map she had spread across her lap. “I think you’re right, dear. Let’s stop and ask someone.” Barbara spotted a man in a huge overcoat walking down the sidewalk and had Howard pull over. She rolled down her window and waved him over.

“Sir, could you help us please? We’re a bit lost. Are you familiar with the area?”

The man took a slug from a small brown bottle and hobbled over to the car. He stuck his craggy, unshaven face too far into the window, eyeing the Cravitzes as if they were some strange new species he’d never seen before. As politely as she could, Barbara slowly leaned away from him. Josephine’s nose twitched as the strong smell of alcohol and cigars wafted into the car. What kind of person still smoked? She pulled Eggplant down over her eyes and nose and tried not to breathe.

“Americans, are ye?” He squinted up at the conglomeration of goods on top of the car.

“Yes. We’re moving here from Wisconsin,” said Barbara proudly, if a bit nasally from trying not to inhale.

“Americans don’t get this far north too often.” He turned his head and spat. “Don’t like Americans m’self.”

“Yes, well, my husband has a new job here. We’re very excited about living in Canada.”

The man frowned. “You won’t like it. Awkward Falls ain’t like balmy Wisconsin, ya know. We have real winters up here. In a coupl’a months, the nights’ll be so long, you’ll think they’ll never end.”

“I’m sure we’ll get used to it,” Howard broke in. “But do you know where we might find Oleander Alley?”

The man’s forehead wrinkled up like a prune. “Aye, I know it. You’re not goin’ to live out that way, are ye?”

Barbara smiled politely. “Yes, of course we are. Why wouldn’t we?”

“I wouldn’t live there if ye paid me,” the man grunted. “Some bloody goings-on thereabouts years back. Used to be real high- society folk up that way, but not no more. Some say Death himself walks the woods out there. I’d turn around and go back where I came from, I was you.”

Josephine peeked out from under her cap at the mention of “bloody goings-on.”

“It’s easy to find, though, if you’re set on it,” the man said. “Turn left at the sauerkraut works at the top of the hill, go to the end of Birch Road, and there’ll be Oleander on your right.” From the alley a couple of boozy voices called to the man, and he began to shuffle away.

“Wait!” called Josephine. “What do you mean by bloody goings-on?” The man seemed not to hear her and disappeared into the alley. “What do you think he was talking about, Dad?” she asked Howard.

He chuckled. “Who knows? I wouldn’t worry about it, though. I think maybe he’d had a few too many.”

“I should’ve taken his photo,” said Barbara. “He was our first Manitoban!”

A wet fog began to drift in as the Cravitzes turned into Oleander Alley. It was one of the oldest streets in town, lined with dripping, black-trunked hemlock trees and old-fashioned street lamps that did not work anymore. Josephine gazed out at the houses sitting atop the large lawns that sloped up from the street. The houses had a dignified air about them. It was obvious they had once been grand, but they were now slumping and careless in their old age. The entire neighborhood had a dank, soggy look, as if the place had spent a century or two sitting on the bottom of the sea.

Howard leaned over the steering wheel, looking up at the houses. “Can you see the addresses, dear? We’re looking for twelve-twelve. It’s called Twittington House.”

“The house has a name?” Josephine asked. “Weird.”

“We just passed twelve-oh-eight,” said Barbara. “There’s twelve-ten…”

But there didn’t seem to be any more houses on Oleander Alley after the one at 1210, only dark forestland on either side of the potholed road. They drove farther down Oleander, a half mile or so, until they came around a curve and saw a lone house in the distance. As they got closer, Barbara leaned across Howard’s lap to read the address.

“Oh, here it is!” said Barbara excitedly.

The Cravitzes’ new home appeared to be the last house on the street. Beyond the shaggy shrubs that bordered the side lawn, the fog was an opaque wall of gray, obscuring all but the tops of the tallest hemlocks and black spruces. The fog was so thick that if there had been a forbidding old mansion next door—which there was—they wouldn’t have seen it—which they didn’t.

Howard pulled into the cobbled driveway and brought the car to a shuddering halt. They all flung the doors open and jumped out for a look.

Barbara hugged Howard enthusiastically. “Oh, it’s perfect, dear! It must be a hundred years old!”

“More like two hundred. George Washington’s grandma probably slept here.” Josephine was determined to remain sullen and bored, though secretly she found the house intriguing. The lacy, rotted trimmings around the windows and eaves made the place look like a gingerbread house for ghosts.

In its heyday, Twittington House had obviously been impressive. Even now, in its advancing years, the house was far grander than
any the Cravitzes had ever lived in. It was a Victorian-style structure, tall and many-gabled, making it hard to tell how many stories there were. Josephine guessed that there were at least two floors, possibly as many as four. And she loved “upstairs houses.”

A little wooden sign next to the front door read twittington house in gold lettering. The door key was unnecessary, as the lock was worn out from a hundred years of use. As Barbara led them in excitedly, Josephine noticed the sweet piney smell all the best old houses had. The interior of the house was a maze of rooms of all sizes and shapes, with unexpected alcoves and big bay windows. Some rooms were large and open, with ancient chandeliers dangling from the ceiling. Some were small and cramped with walls and ceilings at odd angles. There were doors everywhere. The house was full of dilapidated charm, a fixer-upper’s dream. Before they had even brought in the luggage, Barbara was already talking about paint colors for the kitchen.

Josephine found the house attractively creepy and liked it instantly, though she pretended not to. She immediately stomped up the stairs to the top floor, opening the old creaky doors and looking into each room to see which one she wanted for her bedroom. She settled on one of the smaller ones because it felt cozy and had a window seat that looked perfect for reading. Also, there was a small bookcase containing several dusty, identically bound editions of Edgar Allan Poe, an author she had recently taken a liking to. The room was furnished with a soft, lumpy old feather bed with carved
posts at each corner, a huge dresser with squeaky drawers, and an antique vanity with an oval mirror attached.

She sat down at the vanity and stuck her tongue out at her own reflection, disappointed that her bad mood had almost completely disappeared. She tried making really ugly faces at herself, something she considered herself expert at, but that made her feel even better. Then she noticed something wedged in the corner of the mirror. It was a scratchy old photograph of a man and a woman. Josephine picked the picture up for a closer look. They were a striking couple and reminded her of Hollywood stars she had seen in old black-and-white films. The woman, wearing an elegant evening gown and feathered hat, was very beautiful, while the man was dashingly handsome in spite of his wild mop of white hair. They both looked very excited, as if something wonderful was about to happen.

She turned the picture over and saw something scribbled on the back:
My dear Sally, can you ever forgive me? Forever yours, C.
The picture was dated 1936.

How sad, she thought. They look so happy in the picture, but something bad must have happened afterward.
She wondered who Sally and C were. The picture was so old, they were probably dead by now. She looked at the man’s face and tried to guess what the C stood for. Charles? Nah. He didn’t look like a Charles. Calvin? No. Cole? Cameron? With that hair, it was probably something too unusual to guess. As always when Josephine’s curiosity was piqued, she began to nibble on the nail of her pinkie finger. Since this was a common
occurrence, the poor nail was tiny. She decided to make it her mission to find out who the people in the picture were. She had two entire weeks to kill in this outpost before school started, and heaven knew she needed something to keep her busy.

“I call this room!” she yelled down to her parents. “I’m on the top floor.” She hurried back downstairs to get her suitcase and officially moved in.