The Woman in the Wall (9 page)

"Hello?" said a voice, shockingly close at hand.

I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand straight up and my body temperature plummet by five degrees.

"Hello?" said the voice behind the light. "Is that you, A?"

I froze. I did not move a muscle. If I simply lay perfectly still, the person would never see me.

"Well," the voice said impatiently, "answer the question, can't you? Don't just lie there with your jaw hanging open. It's not particularly attractive, you know."

It was true, I did have my mouth open. He saw me!

"Are you A or not?" the voice persisted.

I found my voice. "Not," I whispered.

"What?" it said irritably. "Speak up."

"N-not," I repeated, louder this time.

This did not pacify the voice.

"Don't give me that 'not' stuff," it said. "Sure you are. You must be A. Who else? I mean, there isn't anybody else living in here, is there?"

I shook my head no. What a fool! I should have said that there was a whole colony of us living inside the wall and all of us, to a woman, armed to the teeth.

"Were you the one having the temper tantrum?"

I sat up abruptly. "What do you mean, 'temper tantrum'?" I asked, offended. Kirsty used to have temper tantrums for years, up until she was about seven years old. I had always found them deeply embarrassing to witness.

"The usual, I guess," said the voice, sounding perplexed. "You know, a temper tantrum, where you throw yourself on the floor and kick and scream."

I was silent for a moment, considering what to do. I had never in my life been in a situation remotely like this, and I didn't have a clue as to what my next move ought to be. A panic-stricken voice in my head was shrieking
Hidehidehide!
But where? While I lay sleeping and unaware, the enemy had broken through my defenses, breached my walls, penetrated to the secret center of my citadel. He was
in
my hiding place. So now what?

"Could you stop shining that light in my eyes?" I said finally.

"Oh. Sorry." The light swung away from me and then vanished with the flick of a switch.

The pupils of my eyes slowly began to readjust, and I could see a little better. He (for it was definitely a male who had invaded my world) loomed enormous in the narrow space. He must have simply put his head down and bulled his way through the passage. I wondered uneasily if he would be able to retreat or whether he was now a permanent fixture in my front hall.

A thought struck me.

"Are you ... are you F?" I asked.

"Sure. How else would I know about A?"

"A?" I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Who is A? Do you mean Andrea? I believe there is a girl of that name who lives here in the house. On the other side of the wall, of course. Very pretty," I added, vainly hoping that he would be tempted to go find her and leave me alone.

"No, not Andrea," he said scornfully. "I've known A wasn't Andrea for ages. And stop being so dumb, A. If you're not A, then how do you know about F?"

I was silent, stumped. He had me there, I had to admit.

He was silent too, except for some scuffling, creaking sounds as he tried to settle into a slightly more comfortable position. When he spoke again, his voice sounded a little less confident, almost defensive.

"I suppose you've been sitting here in your lair, laughing your head off about those letters?"

Surprised, I said, "Laughing? I'm sorry, did you mean them to be funny?"

To my amazement, he was immediately furious. "Is that supposed to be a joke or something?" he demanded, his face swelling ominously.

At this attack, every ounce of courage deserted me. "No! I'm s-sorry. Please don't be angry with me." A tear trickled down my cheek, and I quickly wiped it away.

"Hey," he said uncomfortably, "don't cry. C'mon, cut it out. I'm not mad at you. I didn't mean..." His voice trailed off. "This is so weird," he said at last. "This has got to be the strangest conversation—" He broke off and looked around himself and then back at me. "Does A stand for Anna? Is your name Anna?"

I simply stared at him, stricken, my tongue frozen in my throat.

"It is, isn't it? This is absolutely the most incredible thing I've ever heard. Kirsty wasn't lying? You're the youngest Newland daughter?"

"I am not!" I cried out, stung. "I'm almost two whole years older than Kirsty! And remarkably mature for my age."

F gaped at me. Then he burst out laughing. He threw his head back and roared with laughter. I clapped my hands to my ears, shocked at the dreadful clamor. Laughter like that did not belong here inside the wall.

"Oh, you are, are you? I can certainly tell." He hohohoed some more and then sobered. "Well, what are you
doing
here, crawling around inside the walls like a cockroach?"

"There are no cockroaches here!" I retorted hotly. "None! No mice or rats or termites or carpenter ants! I am
very
fussy about vermin."

"Well,
excuse
me," he said, grinning. He had a wide mouth in a round, plump face. He looked slightly familiar. "So you're kind of like the caretaker of this place, huh? And you make things for people, Kirsty said."

"Kirsty
told,
" I murmured to myself, struck by this disloyalty for the first time.

"She didn't have much choice," F said. "I twisted her arm."

"You—you hurt my sister?" I said, terror and love warring in my breast.

"I didn't really," he said, sounding embarrassed. "I just said I would if she didn't tell me."

"You're nothing but a bully," I said stoutly, astounded at my own daring. I could feel adrenaline being released by the bucket load into my blood stream. Even a worm will turn, I discovered, if you come badgering and blustering into the very heart of its home.

"Aw, come off it. I didn't touch her, I only yelled some. It's just—I was sure she was the one. I thought Kirsty was writing those letters and then laughing at me. But she didn't seem like she knew what I was talking about, so finally I showed one to her and she guessed it was you."

I looked at him warily. Perhaps it was true that he hadn't actually raised a hand to Kirsty. Aware that I was venturing onto unknown terrain, I observed cautiously, "It seems to worry you that people will find your letters amusing."

"Not funny on purpose, dummy. Funny-stupid. Like, how could a guy like me have any feelings at all about a girl like Andrea?"

"Why shouldn't you?" I asked carefully, afraid he would be angry again. "I don't see anything wrong with you." And I didn't. Now that I could see him properly, I realized that he was the young man who played the piano in the front parlor. In spite of his rather volatile temperament, I thought there was something sweet about his smile.

"Then you must be blind!" he exploded. "Everything's wrong with me! I'm fat, I'm clumsy, I'm stupid! I'm not even her age. I'm only fourteen."

As I had feared, he was angry again. However, having survived several blasts of ill-temper, I began to feel a bit more confident. I cringed, but only momentarily. I found that I was too interested in finding out what he would say next to stay frightened for long.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't know."

He laughed, his bitterness vanishing in a moment. "Oh, stop being so humble. I like you better when you're being bossy and calling me a bully."

"Me, bossy?" I said, shocked to the core. "I'm
never
bossy."

"Oh, of course not, Ma'am," he said, smirking and clutching at himself in pretended fear. "I wouldn't dream of contradicting you, Ma'am!"

"You—are you
teasing
me?" I asked uncertainly.

"Well, sure I'm teasing you. Can't you tell? You don't exactly accumulate a lot of social sophistication stuck here inside the boot closet, do you? And what are you up to back here, anyway? You never told me. Why doesn't anybody ever see you or talk about you? Hey," he said, shooting an apprehensive look at me, "there's not anything peculiar wrong with you, is there? I mean, you're not like the crazy wife in
Jane Eyre?
They kept her shut up because she liked to set fire to people in their beds."

"Of course not," I said with dignity. I had read
Jane Eyre
too. We had it in the library and it was a particular favorite of mine. "I'm perfectly normal in every way. Except that—"

"Except—?" he prompted, obviously poised for a hasty retreat, or at least as hasty a retreat as the width of my passageway and his bulk would allow. It almost made me laugh to see the expression on his face. He seemed actually frightened. Of me!

"Well," I said hesitantly, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks. "It's—I'm shy," I confessed.

He sat staring at me for several seconds and then he laughed. He laughed harder than he had when I'd told him that I was remarkably mature for my age. He held his stomach and gasped for breath. The walls creaked alarmingly as he rocked back and forth with laughter. "Ow! Ow, stop it, you're killing me!"

I looked at him helplessly. "I'm not doing anything," I said.

"You're shy. I'll say you're shy! You're an Olympic class wallflower, that's for sure!" And he burst out into roars of laughter again.

"Shhh!" I whispered. "Someone will hear you."

"Well, so what?" he said, and then, as he saw the expression on my face, "Sorry. I guess that would kind of spoil things for you, wouldn't it?"

When he had composed himself again, he said, "Wow. Shy isn't the word for you. How long have you been shut up in this little room?"

"Seven years. And it isn't only this little room, you know," I said, anxious to have my achievement admired. "It goes on forever, practically. I can go anywhere in the house I want. There are passageways and rooms all through the house."

But it was the first part of my response that seemed to impress him. "
Seven years?
"

"Almost seven and a half," I said, rather proud that he seemed to think it so remarkable.

"Seven and a half
years?
"

"Well, of course, I do come out at night sometimes when everyone's asleep."

"Oh, you do, do you?" He sounded a bit dazed. "Sorry. This is a little hard to accept. I mean, I knew something weird must be going on when Kirsty said that there was another Newland daughter no one had ever seen. Especially since—" he gestured at the house, "this place isn't exactly cut off from all outside human contact." As he spoke, what sounded like a drove of cattle came thundering down the stairs over our heads. He winced.

"I guess I just didn't believe it before. I figured Kirsty was spinning me tales to get rid of me, maybe to see how gullible I am. I
am
gullible, too," he said gloomily. "I have too much imagination. I'll believe anything. Especially if somebody like Kirsty says it. I always kind of liked her, even if she is a brat."

"Did she criticize you for being a carnivore?" I asked, worried.

"You bet she did. You'd think I was slaughtering a pig on the best furniture, the way she yelled. It was just a cold slice of pepperoni pizza left over from my lunch at school. To hear Kirsty tell it, the vast herds of pepperoni that once roamed our great land have all fallen to the butcher's knife because of people like me."

This, I decided, was a joke. I was almost certain there was no pepperoni animal. "Oh, Kirsty," I said, shaking my head. Nevertheless, I reflected, it didn't seem to have chased him away permanently.

"How did you know I wasn't Andrea? I was sure I had you fooled," I said wistfully.

"I saw one of my letters disappear inside the wall, for one thing. And then there was this big hullabaloo" (here I blushed) "coming apparently from inside the hall closet, only nobody was in there, and it had a false back. So I did some investigating—nobody notices what you do or where you go in this house. It took a couple of hours" (so I had slept for quite some time, it appeared) "before I found your entrance down in the basement." He looked smug at his own cleverness.

"And anyway," he went on, "are you kidding? I had some serious doubts right from your first letter. Andrea? Needlepoint?"

"I see what you mean," I said thoughtfully.

"I doubt Andrea can even thread a needle, let alone do French knots," he said cheerfully. He didn't sound as though he thought it was a serious flaw in her education.

I sighed.

"And the style never sounded like Andrea. She's more—" he glanced at me and hesitated.

"Sophisticated?" I suggested sadly.

"Well, yeah, kind of. What do you expect," he said, inexplicably angry again, "if you go and shut yourself up like this?"

"I don't know, F," I said meekly.

His frown softened and he laughed. "It's funny to hear you call me that," he said, smiling in a friendly way. "I don't mean to say that you're not a pretty original personality yourself. But of course I never thought you were
Andrea.
"

"No, of course not."

"Well, don't be so quick to agree with me," he said, annoyed all over again. I gave it up. There seemed to be no pleasing him.

"Anyway," he said, looking away from me and blushing furiously. "You've read my letters. So I guess you know how I am about her. What's it like," he asked, "being her sister?"

I thought this over. It seemed a difficult question to answer offhand.

"I don't know. You probably know her better than I do. I haven't spoken to her in years. But you—you're one of her friends."

"Who, me? I most certainly am not."

"But then—you mean you're Kirsty's friend?"

"No. Don't you know what I'm doing in your house?"

I shook my head.

"My father's name is Frank Albright, and if I know anything about anything, you and I are about to become brother and sister, A."

I stared at him open-mouthed.

"Which means," he went on, "that I'm about to become Andrea's brother too. And if you think my chances with Andrea are hopeless now, picture the setup after our parents get married. Ask your stepsister out for a date and the cops'll throw you in the slammer for a thousand years. Seriously," he said dejectedly, "it's probably a felony or something."