Walls within Walls (5 page)

The picture that Lukas held up was a photograph. It showed a woman and a man standing expressionlessly behind their daughter, who appeared to be about eight or nine. They stood in front of a massive two-story library, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. In the midst of the shelving was a large painting of a solemn woman with doleful eyes. One of those eyes appeared to be the same one that looked into CJ's bedroom. Logically, the other eye still lay behind the wall in fourteen south, the Williamsons' apartment. Brid wondered if that other eye contained skip-seven writing, too.

Halfway up the wall in the photograph was a very wide shelf, and propped against that shelf in the corner
was a wooden ladder—a means by which someone could retrieve a book from a high shelf. That shelf had to be the narrow ledge that held the copy of
Treasure Island
.

Lukas spoke first. “The Post family must have taken down all that shelving by the time our family bought our apartment and changed the upper floors from a library to bedrooms.”

Lukas continued, “This is the father and mother, and I believe their daughter's name was Eloise.” He pointed to the skinny girl who wore a coat buttoned to her chin and carried a muff. Brid and CJ gave each other a knowing glance. They knew her name was Eloise.

Looking closely at the photograph, Patrick asked, “Why is she the only one dressed to go outside while her parents are dressed to be inside?”

The Williamsons looked thoughtful. “She seems like she's about to go somewhere,” said Lily.

“She looks a little familiar,” said Brid, to change the subject and keep Pat from talking too much. “Did she become famous later in life?”

“That's the puzzle,” said Lukas. “I once had to write a biography for a homework assignment, and I chose to write about Mr. Post, her father. But their family history came to a halt when he died in 1937. The rest of the family seemed to have just disappeared.”

“What do you mean?” Brid asked, thinking that 1937
was the same year the copy of
Treasure Island
had been borrowed from the library.

“Well, they were wildly rich and social. They held magnificent parties, gave a lot of money to charity, and were always in the newspaper. One summer, the father died suddenly of a heart attack, and little was written about the family ever again, except as regards his fortune. He left the apartment to his wife and to his son and daughter, with the demand about keeping the walls intact. As we know, they did that, but then they seem to have vanished. There were newspaper stories wondering what happened to their fortune, but that was about it. Mrs. Post moved down to Washington, DC, and dropped from the party scene. The story simply ended for the Post family.”

“Wait,” said Patrick. “They had a son, too? He's not in the picture.”

“Yes, he's hardly in any pictures, and there's little mention of him anywhere. The rumor was that he died in an accident of some sort.”

“Sad,” Pat said simply.

Brid looked again at the thin, solemn girl. “She doesn't look very happy, and neither do her parents. So much for my mom's idea that our apartment has happy-family karma.”

Lily interjected, “People didn't smile in photographs in those days, so we cannot judge happiness by that fact. They
certainly didn't yell ‘cheese' the way you Americans do.”

Brid answered, “First of all, you're American, too, and maybe some of us like to say ‘cheese.' Second, maybe Eloise was just about to step outside, but something made them all stop and take a photo.”

“Maybe she was about to go on a trip without them,” said Patrick.

“Maybe boarding school,” Lukas said.

“No, she's too young to be going off to school alone,” said Brid.

“She looks as though she is about eight,” said Lily.

“Old enough,” said Lukas.

“That's old enough?” asked Brid.

“We left for boarding school when we were eight. But our school takes children as young as six.”

“Six-year-olds at boarding school?” said Patrick, imagining himself heading overseas alone. “No way.”

“But Mr. Post loved Eloise,” said Brid. “Why would he ever send her away?”

“Children at boarding school are loved very much,” said Lukas. “It's just that our parents like the structure of our education.”

“The class of it,” added Lily.

“What do you mean by class?” said CJ, who was suddenly missing his Brooklyn school more than ever.

“In England, people of a certain rank in society mostly attend boarding school, and back when the Posts were
alive, Americans with English roots often did the same.”

The children were silent for a moment while CJ fingered the photo frame. “So why do you go?” he asked.

“Go?”

“To boarding school?” said CJ.

“As I told you, our parents travel so much. It's easier on everyone this way,” Lukas said.

Brid and CJ looked at each other. Maybe a nanny like Maricel wasn't so bad after all.

Before they parted ways, Lukas gave the key to the servants' quarters to Brid. “We leave in the morning for England. Why don't you use these in our absence? We'll see you again at winter holiday, right?”

Brid took the key and impulsively hugged Lily, who stood with her arms stoically at her sides.

 

That night, Pat lay on CJ's floor with thousands of Lego pieces spread around him. Nobody could tell what he was building. It was a flat structure, with giant spikes in the air.

CJ lay on his bed with Mr. Post's book of poetry. It contained only seven poems, and he had read and reread all of them and was starting to get some ideas about how Mr. Post's treasure hunt might work, but he didn't want to tell the others yet. He looked at the seven titles, some famous and some not.

“The Weary Blues” by Langston Hughes

“Ulysses” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

“Faint Heart in a Rail Way Train” by Thomas Hardy

“Recuerdo” by Edna St. Vincent Millay

“The New Colossus” by Emma Lazarus

“A Crowded Trolley Car” by Elinor Wylie

“Ota Benga” by anonymous

 

Meanwhile, Brid had taped poster board to the wall, where she was transcribing the skip-seven message from the eye behind the wall. CJ kept glancing over at it:

CJ broke the quiet hum in the room. “Guys, do you know how many poems are in this book?”

“No idea,” Brid remarked. “Too many?”

“Seven, probably,” said Pat without looking up.

CJ laughed. “Exactly. I'm seeing a pattern here with that number seven. In his letter, Mr. Post tells Eloise and Julian to visit some sites in New York City, sites they'd visited together in the past. Then he gives them a book that has seven poems in it. The message from the eye talks about seven structures, and the message was in skip-seven code. Wouldn't it make sense if there was one clue in each poem that points us to a specific place, like a building or structure? Maybe we just need to find seven
places or buildings here in New York City.”

“What do we do when we find them? Look through gigantic buildings for treasure?” Pat asked. “Won't that be hard?”

“Maybe. I have a feeling we won't know what we're looking for until we see each structure,” said CJ.

Brid looked up from her notes. “So, we go to a building that a poem reminds us of, then we get water from above to rupture?” she asked.

“That's what I'm not sure about,” said CJ. “But I think I'm getting closer. I don't know about the first poem, but the second one is ‘Ulysses.' It's a famous poem about not giving up, not surrendering.”

“What building could possibly be about not giving up?” Pat said, rummaging through his Legos. “A fort?”

“Close,” said CJ. “I think the answer is in the title of this poem.”

“Duh,” said Brid. “It's a one-word title, and there are no buildings or forts in New York called Ulysses. Right?”

“Actually,” said CJ, “there is one enormous structure in the city with that name on it. He was a general.”

“Like in the army?” Patrick said.

“Yes, and he became president of the United States: Ulysses S. Grant. Ever heard of Grant's Tomb? C'mon, it's one of the corniest jokes of all time. Pat, who is buried in Grant's Tomb?” asked CJ.

“Um, Grant?”

“Bingo. There must be something in Ulysses S. Grant's tomb. Mr. Post must have left something for his son and daughter there. Maybe we can find it.”

“Where exactly
is
Grant's Tomb?” Brid asked.

“Not sure, but it's in Manhattan,” CJ said.

“Wait,” Pat said. “So we have to get something from that structure, and the structure is a tomb? Maybe we have to get a dead body out?”

“I'm not taking any bodies anywhere,” Brid said matter-of-factly.

“Eeeew, it's too creepy,” Pat replied.

“Then what do we do with it?” Brid asked. “Assuming Grant's Tomb is the right answer.”

“Like I said, I have no idea. But maybe we'll know when we see it,” said CJ.

“No idea,” repeated Brid. “But we do need to start somewhere, so let's start at Grant's Tomb.”

The next afternoon, after CJ and Brid finally did buy their school uniforms, CJ plotted the trip to Grant's Tomb at 122nd Street and Riverside Drive. He printed out internet photographs of the mausoleum, thinking they could go tomorrow or the next day.

The kids were hanging out in CJ's room. Sprawled out on CJ's bed, Brid was reading Mr. Post's book of poems, taking methodical notes as she looked for clues.

“Hey, shoes off my bed!” CJ said with an English accent.

“What are you, a member of the Williamson family?” Brid joked.

Patrick was building quietly with his Legos, trying his hardest to be silent. He'd noticed the older kids let him
hang around more as long as he didn't interrupt much. He liked his new life of being included; he felt like a big kid.

He was trying to build a model of Grant's Tomb with his Lego pieces. It was hard to get the rounded roof done with the square blocks, and he was getting frustrated. Patrick glanced up at Brid. He had looked at the book of Mr. Post's poems earlier when he was alone, but the words made no sense to him. They confused him and made him feel like he couldn't help solve the mystery, that he was still a little kid after all.

Now his eyes strayed to the back cover, which was brown leather with a strange inky blob smeared across the middle. The more he stared at it, the more he saw something. Finally, he just couldn't stay quiet. “Is that book about, um…?”

“What?” Brid said flatly.

“I think his poem book is about dying, 'cause his book says ‘death' on the back,” Pat said.

“Patrick, what are you babbling about?”

“Pat,” said CJ, “can we stay on topic here? We're talking about Grant's Tomb.”

“Oh,” said Patrick, deflated. He tried again. “That inky blob. It says something about death.”

Brid lowered the book. “Why are you being so annoying right now?”

“Look at the back of the book,” Patrick insisted. Brid
turned the book over. “This thing?” she asked Pat. “It's a blob of ink.”

“No. You're not holding it the right way now,” Pat said. He climbed onto the bed and adjusted the book, holding it at arm's length. Brid and CJ saw one long, stretched word, only recognizable to someone looking carefully at exactly the right level.

“Holy mother of a llama,” CJ said softly.

“What is that word?” said Brid.

Patrick ignored them. “It's talking about death.”

“No,” said CJ kindly, remembering how his little brother twisted letters sometimes. “Well, almost. It doesn't say D-E-A-T-H; it says H-E-A-R-T-H.”

“Hearth,” Patrick said. “What does
hearth
mean?”

Brid recorded this new development in her notebook.

“In a fireplace,” said CJ. “It's the open spot in a wall at the base of the chimney.”

“This apartment is full of chimneys!” said Brid, getting excited. “We have three of them. I bet something is hidden in the hearths!” she shrieked.

CJ snatched the book from Brid, ignoring the little dance she and Patrick were doing. He recited the first two lines of “Ulysses”:

“I get it!” shouted Brid. “It's the second time Post is leading us to a hearth! But which one?” She slammed CJ's door open and took off down the hallway.

CJ and Patrick followed her into the living room, where Brid ducked inside the enormous limestone fireplace and stood upright. “They all have tile around them, but this one has the most.” Brid's voice was muffled under the massive fireplace frame.

“What's going on here?” came Maricel's shrill voice, surprising everyone. Their nanny came into the room with Carron toddling after her.

“We were looking at tiles,” CJ said quickly.

“Oh, are your parents going to change the tiles?”
Maricel asked as she reached down to pick up Carron.

“No, we're just interested in, um, the tiling,” CJ said. “I mean, the hearth is really nice, and we're just admiring it.”

At that moment, they were mercifully interrupted by the sound of the elevator. In sauntered Bruce Smithfork, much earlier than expected. For Carron and Patrick, all else was forgotten as they attacked their father with ferocious bear hugs. It was still light outside, not a time they were used to seeing him anymore.

“What are you up to?” Bruce Smithfork asked, glancing around quizzically. “Looking for Santa?”

None of the children knew how to answer.