Time for Andrew (3 page)

"Are we talking about ghosts?"

"Do you believe in them?"

Unlike some adults, Aunt Blythe took my question seriously. Leaning her head back, she stared into the fire and thought about her answer. "In an old house, the past is all around you," she said slowly. "You hear sounds sometimes, even smell things."

"Like roast chicken?"

She nodded. "Superstitious people might call it the work of ghosts, but I think of them as echoes, little traces of the folks who once called this house home. Nothing to be scared of."

A gust of wind spattered raindrops against the window. Binky twitched and whimpered in his sleep. Suddenly raising his head, he stared at the doorway as if he saw something in the dark hall.

At the same moment, the clock whirred and began to chime. Startled by the sound, I jumped.

"Goodness," Aunt Blythe said, "why are we talking about things like this at bedtime? Don't listen to me, Drew. I'm just being fanciful. I've never seen a ghost in this house. Or anywhere else for that matter."

Shaking her head at her own silliness, my aunt shifted the quilt and began to outline the next block with small, neat stitches. "Run along, Drew. I'll be up in a few minutes."

At the foot of the steps, I hesitated. The second floor was dark. Above it and even darker was the attic. While I hesitated, a draft fluttered the curtains at the window on the landing. They moved as silently as ghosts, I thought, pale and filmy, almost transparent.

Aunt Blythe pressed a switch and flooded the stairs with light. Giving me a little swat on the rear end, she said, "Sleep tight, Drew."

I used the bathroom as quickly as I could and raced down the hall past one, two, three closed doors. Pulling my quilt over my head, I curled up with a flashlight and read until I heard Aunt Blythe coming up the steps.

Hours later, something woke me—a faint sound above my head. The attic door opened a crack, and cold air swirled through the room. The house moved and creaked and groaned like an old person stirring in his sleep.

Almost too scared to breathe, I watched the door. Minutes passed. When I was sure nothing was hiding behind it, I eased out of bed, closed the door, and shoved the rocking chair in front of it.

Still frightened, I tiptoed into the hall and leaned over the bannister. "Binky," I whispered, "Binky, come here."

In a few seconds, the dog trotted up the steps, grinning lopsidedly at me.

"Good boy." Holding him tight, I got into bed and patted the quilt beside me. "Stay," I begged, "stay."

Binky licked my nose, wagged his tail, turned around a couple of times, and made himself comfortable. Hoping I was safe, I closed my eyes and willed myself to sleep.

The next morning, it was still raining, the gray, steady kind that can last for days, maybe even weeks. To give us something to do, Aunt Blythe offered to take me on a tour of the house. Since I'd already seen most of it, the first floor didn't take long—living room, dining room, sewing room, kitchen, pantry, and Great-grandfather's bedroom.

Tiptoeing past his closed door, Aunt Blythe said, "No sense disturbing Father. He woke early, I gave him breakfast, now he's napping."

Upstairs, there were five bedrooms—mine, Aunt Blythe's, and three others, all empty. Dust lay thick on the bare floors, and cobwebs filmed the windows. The furniture was gone, sold long ago to an antique dealer in St. Louis.

When Aunt Blythe saw the rocker in front of the attic door, I said, "The wind kept rattling it. I couldn't sleep, so I..." Too embarrassed to continue, I shoved the rocker back to its corner.

Aunt Blythe opened the door. "Goodness, I haven't been in the attic for years." Shoving a pile of
National Geographies
out of her way, she scrambled up the steps.

At the top, she paused and looked down at me. "Come
on, Drew. Junk, trash, treasure—you name it, it's here."

I hesitated. Even in the daytime the attic was spooky. I didn't like its musty smell or the sound of the wind and rain on the roof. Spiders, mice—who knew what was hiding up there?

Binky whimpered to get my attention, then backed away and wagged his tail. His big brown eyes seemed to say, "Don't go. You'll be sorry if you do."

"Silly old dog," Aunt Blythe said. "For some reason, the attic spooks him. Whenever I open the door, he runs in the opposite direction."

Ashamed to admit I was every bit as scared as Binky, I forced myself to climb the stairs. The attic was cold and damp, as silent as an undisturbed tomb and just as unwelcoming. Furniture draped in sheets rose up like ghosts. A glimpse of my reflection in a huge gilt mirror startled me. A headless dressmaker's dummy lurked in the shadows. It was hard to move without stumbling over something—boxes, stacks of books and records, moldy heaps of magazines and newspapers, broken appliances, ice skates, shoes, toys.

"Be careful," Aunt Blythe said. "The floor's riddled with dry rot."

Forgetting her own warning, she plunged ahead, opening trunks and boxes, poking and pawing through things, reminiscing. She'd worn this dress to her first dance, she'd knitted that scarf. The sled in the corner had belonged to her brother, the bicycle beside it was hers. There was her doll-house. Here was her high-school diploma.

Cobwebs stuck to my face, spiders scurried across my feet. In the walls, something rustled. The wind made a moaning sound and I shivered. "It's cold up here."

Aunt Blythe was too busy rummaging through the contents of an old trunk to listen to me. "I've been looking for these." She held up a handful of old photographs. "I can't imagine what they're doing here. They belong in the family album."

Curious in spite of myself, I watched my aunt fan the pictures out like a pack of playing cards. Studying the old-fashioned, fading faces, I picked one to ask about. "Who is she?"

Aunt Blythe stared at the picture. Head tilted to one side, a girl smiled into the camera lens. She wore a lace-trimmed dress and her dark hair was piled loosely on top of her head. Her eyes sparkled as if the photographer had said something funny.

"That's Hannah," Aunt Blythe said, "my first cousin once removed."

Pleased to have such a beautiful relative, I watched my aunt touch the girl's face lovingly. "I adored her when I was a child, Drew, but she and Father never got along. Every time they saw each other, they quarreled about something. Politics usually."

"Is she still alive?"

Aunt Blythe thought a moment. "I really don't know," she said slowly. "Goodness, Hannah would be well over ninety by now, but she had ten times the energy of the average person. It's hard to imagine her slowing down long enough to die."

Bending her head over the photograph, she smiled at Hannah. "I wouldn't be a bit surprised to hear she's still alive and just as feisty as ever."

Shuffling the pictures, Aunt Blythe found another one of Hannah sitting in a porch swing beside a younger boy. A
man and woman stood behind them. All four looked solemn.

"Theo," Aunt Blythe said. "According to Father, he was a no-good rascal, but just look at that angelic little face. He couldn't have been all bad."

"I guess Great-grandfather didn't like him either."

"No, indeed." Aunt Blythe laughed. "If anything, Father disliked Theo even more than Hannah. The feeling was mutual, I'm afraid. I haven't seen either one of them since their mother died. Lord, that was more than fifty years ago."

I looked closely at the swing in the picture. "Was this taken on your porch?"

Aunt Blythe nodded. "Hannah used to live here. Father bought the house after her mother died." She pointed to the sweet-faced woman and the stern man beside her. "Great-aunt Mildred and Great-uncle Henry."

I leaned against my aunt's shoulder. "Let me guess," I said. "Great-grandfather didn't like them either."

"What a perceptive boy you are." Aunt Blythe sighed. "Poor Father. Sometimes I think he hates the whole world, including himself."

We looked at the rest of the pictures. Hannah and Theo grew older, and so did their parents. The last one had been taken on Hannah's wedding day.

Aunt Blythe tapped the groom's face. "John Larkin," she said. "If I'd met a man like him, I might have gotten married myself."

Laughing at her foolishness, she stacked the photographs in a neat pile. "I have half a mind to put these back in the album where they belong," she said. "Father must have taken them out and stashed them up here. He doesn't like to be reminded this was once his uncle's house."

While Aunt Blythe was talking, I noticed a photograph
lying on the floor. I bent to pick it up and found I was staring at a faded likeness of my own face—my eyes, my nose, my mouth, my hair, even my glum expression. Only the boy's clothes were different. He wore a white shirt with a stiff collar, a tie, knee-length trousers, dark stockings, and ankle-high lace-up shoes, brand new from the stiff, shiny look of them. With his hands in his pockets, my twin stared at me across the years that separated us. My double, my other self. Looking at him gave me goose bumps.

I thrust the picture at my aunt. "Who's this?" I whispered. "Do you know?"

Aunt Blythe drew in her breath. "My goodness, Drew, he looks exactly like you." Turning the photograph over, she examined the back. No name, no date, only the address of a photographer in St. Louis and the assurance that the negative was on file and more prints could be ordered.

Staring at my double, she said slowly, "I think Hannah had two brothers. Yes, I'm sure she did. Theo and, and—this boy."

I shook my head. "If he's Hannah's brother, why isn't he in any of the other pictures?"

Aunt Blythe didn't answer right away. In the silence, rain pattered against the windows and dripped through holes in the roof. The wind crept in through cracks and stirred the folds of a long white dress hanging from the rafters.

Finally, my aunt raised her eyes from the photograph. "I think his name was Andrew. Isn't that strange? You share a face and a name with a boy who died years before you were born."

My throat tightened. "He died? Andrew died?"

Aunt Blythe looked at me. "Oh, dear," she said, "I didn't mean to frighten you."

"I'm not scared!" My voice came out as high and squeaky as a girl's. Furious at myself for being such a baby, I leapt to my feet and headed for the stairs.

"Slow down, Drew," my aunt called. "You'll go through the floor!"

Before the words were out of her mouth, a board split under my weight, and I fell flat on my face.

In seconds my aunt was beside me. "Are you all right?" she asked. "Did you hurt yourself?"

"I'm fine." Too embarrassed to meet her eyes, I peered into the hole I'd made. Something was hidden in the dark space under the floor. Forgetting Andrew, I lifted out an old wooden cigar box grimy with layers of dust and cobwebs.

Maybe I'd found a treasure. Setting the box down, I slowly raised the lid. Inside was a candle, a piece of chalk, a few wooden matches, and a bulging leather bag that clinked when I shook it.

I looked at my aunt. "What do you think is inside? Gold coins? Jewels?"

"I can't guess," she admitted. "Open it, Drew."

Holding my breath, I untied the knot and tipped the pouch. A stream of marbles poured out, nudging and bumping one another, overflowing my hands, spinning across the floor in all directions.

I watched them roll away, too disappointed to care where they went, but Aunt Blythe went after them on her hands and knees. Pressing one into my hand, she said, "This is a genuine aggie, Drew, a perfect bull's-eye, the finest I've ever seen."

The marble was about an inch in diameter, ruby red with a swirl at the top like the white of an eye. Smooth and warm, it had a lucky feel.

Gathering the others, Aunt Blythe named them: immies, moonstones, carnelians, cat's-eyes, rainbows, peppermint stripes. Some were made of glass, some of semiprecious stones, some of clay. They were old, she said, in good condition and probably very valuable.

"How do you know so much about marbles?" I asked.

"You may not believe this, but I was the playground champion in grade school. I won so many marbles, they filled three coffee cans. By sixth grade, the boys refused to play with me. They said it was because I was a girl, but I knew the real reason—they couldn't beat me."

Sitting back on her heels, Aunt Blythe studied the marbles silently. After a while, she said, "These meant a lot to somebody once. I wonder who hid them here—and why."

I'd already found the answer. At the bottom of the pouch was a piece of folded paper. The ink was faded, the handwriting old-fashioned and full of curlicues, but the message was clear:

WARNING
These marbles belong to
ANDREW JOSEPH TYLER
If you take them you will be sorry.
7 June 1910

At the bottom, Andrew had drawn a fierce skull and crossbones.

After she'd read the message, Aunt Blythe picked up the picture of my double and studied it. "The poor child must have hidden them up here before he died."

Without looking at my aunt, I dropped Andrew's aggie into the pouch, then the immies, the moonstones, the cat's-eyes—click, click, clickety click. The sound was loud in the silent attic.

"What are you doing, Drew?"

"We have to put everything back the way we found it."

"Don't be silly. We can't leave those marbles in that dirty hole. A collector would pay a small fortune for them."

I glanced at the piece of paper lying on the floor near her shoe. "You saw the note."

Despite my protests, Aunt Blythe dropped the pouch into her pocket. "Please try to understand. The house needs a new roof, new wiring, new plumbing. A good painting. Andrew lived here once, this was his home, I'm sure he'd approve."

"No," I cried, surprising myself with the strength of my feelings. "No, you mustn't take them. They belong here, Aunt Blythe."

She refused to listen. At the top of the steps, she turned to me and said, "If Andrew comes looking for his marbles, I promise to take full responsibility for him."

Her words made me shiver. It was wrong to joke about the dead, wrong to steal from them. Dropping the cigar box into the hole, I fled downstairs behind my aunt.