Facing the Hunchback of Notre Dame (3 page)

“I saw you children loitering at the park today,” Ms. Pierce said, her thin lips turned down over a perfect chin.

Paris Park sits on the Bard River; it’s across the street and up a block.

“Hello, Ms. Pierce,” Ophelia said as she stepped forward. “How are you today?”

“How can I get my students to behave when you’re running around like ruffians?”

“But it’s summer, and I’d hardly call throwing a baseball—”

“Don’t contradict me!”

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Ophelia redirected the conversation.

“Why yes, thank you.”

Madrigal Pierce always came to criticize and ended up staying for tea. Ophelia just has that way about her, you see. The woman, who seems to be around fifty years of age, gathered her summer shawl around her shoulders and paraded on her high heels through the bookshop and up the stairs to the family’s living room. She kicked off her shoes and curled them beneath her on the couch.

It would be easy to describe her as unattractive to suit her personality; but, like Mr. Birdwistell and his name, Madrigal Pierce’s looks and demeanor constantly warred against each other. In other words, she’d been a looker in her youth, and she remained a looker
in her middle age. But believe me, I know to stay away from her. That’s my advice to you as well
.

“What are you reading?” She drilled Ophelia with questions like this every time she came by.

“
The Hunchback of Notre-Dame
. I just started reading it a few minutes ago.”

“Victor Hugo. Good.” She patted her hair. “Ah, the horrible Quasimodo. How different life would be for him today.”

Ophelia, however, wasn’t so sure about that. She’d been made fun of all her life because she loved to read and was a good student. She hated to think how Quasimodo would fare with the students at her old school.

“And while we’re at it, Ophelia, my darling, I want to tell you about one of our new students. His name is Walter, and he’s here all the way from London. So I thought, what with you and Linus being deserted by—pardon me—living away from your parents, perhaps you might help him adjust, give him a few pointers. He’s the only one, other than Clarice, who’s here for the summer, and I really don’t wish to be bothered with worrying about him all the time. Clarice, as you know, can take care of herself.”

Oh my, could she!

She really must be worried about him if she’s asking us for help, Ophelia surmised (guessing with some insight attached).

“Send him over, Ms. Pierce. We’ll show him around and help him feel at home in Kingscross.”

“And so you should if you are decent children—which, I must add, still remains to be seen.”

They finished their tea, and then Madrigal took her leave with a forceful, “I have to get back to raising funds for the school!” She obviously tried to make it sound positive, but Ophelia could tell she was only giving herself a pep talk.

Ophelia settled in her room for the evening with her book and a plate of cookies that Ronda, the neighborhood hair stylist, had brought by earlier in the day. You will adore Ronda! She can guess any song in three notes during a rousing game of Name That Tune.

Linus threw himself on Ophelia’s bed. “Reading tonight?”

“What else? What are you going to do?”
He sighed. “Design some stocks, I guess.”

“How exciting.” She offered him the plate.

He bit down into a cookie and instantly brightened up. Cookies do that to a person, even more so than a cake or pie or, heaven forbid, candy.

While they didn’t possess the proverbial nasty relatives, horrible food to eat, rags to wear, mysterious housekeepers, or windswept moors (wide open plains that go on and on), the twins were overcome by something else. Boredom. The ultimate enemy of children everywhere, if what they mutter to themselves while drifting about the house is to be believed.

“I might ask Clarice if she wants to take a walk,” Linus said while staring at Ophelia.

Already engrossed in her book, she waved him off.

But not even ten minutes later, she started. Take a walk with Clarice? She hurried over to the window overlooking the street and watched as Linus and Clarice disappeared into Paris Park.

At least they aren’t holding hands
, she thought.

Later that night, Linus sat in the attic lab with a large glass of milk and some cookies. Sitting just underneath the trefoil window (looks somewhat like a shamrock), the moon shone on his face as he thought about plans for the stocks and wished for an adventure. Clarice came to mind. He liked her, but she sure didn’t say much!

He opened his notebook and began sketching, scribbling down dimensions and making notes of how much wood and other materials he’d need for the project.

This is just what I need to get through the next few uneventful days
, he thought. His eyes drifted about the room until they landed on the shelf full of potions and powders. He pursed his lips. I wonder if any of this stuff is still good?

Never one to hesitate, Linus reached for the bottle of rainbow liquid and the glass container labeled One. When he opened it, he saw a bright red powder caked inside as if it hadn’t been touched in years. As he set a beaker on the table, Linus wondered if he should add the liquid to the powder or the powder to the liquid. He figured one was as good as the other when a guy knew absolutely nothing about what he was doing.
Linus grabbed a nearby letter opener, dug out a pinch of the mysterious red stuff, and then dropped it in the beaker. Best not to use too much at first, he thought. He pictured a purple, red, and gold column of fire rising through the roof and making a thunderous cloud over Kingscross.

Let’s hope these things have lost their potency.

He took a sip of milk, then reached for the bottle of rainbow solution.

Praying a short, fervent “Dear God, please don’t let me blow up the house” sort of prayer, he poured one drop of solution onto the powder and waited.

Three seconds. Four. Nothing.

Oh well. He tried two more drops. Still nothing. Then four more drops.

Suddenly the table shook, a green mist collected in the belly of the beaker, and then it disappeared in a snap.

And so did the glass of milk!

Interesting. Linus clearly needed to find out more about the works of one Cato Grubbs, the mad scientist of Rickshaw Street!

H
ad Linus realized that he’d have to wear a pair of colorful pantyhose to this party, he might have left the house for the evening under false pretenses. (In other words, he might have lied and said he had a more pressing engagement elsewhere. Please don’t judge him too harshly. Pantyhose will make certain fellows cast their principles down the river, and there’s not much one can do about it.)

Ophelia felt no better as she put on the most ridiculous hat she’d ever seen. She could have worn the typical coned-shape hat that one sees all the time in women’s medieval garb (fashion). But oh no! Hers had to have two cones.

“I look like an upholstered bull, thanks to Uncle Auggie,” Ophelia moaned.

Linus nodded.

“Where does he find this stuff?”

Linus shrugged and shook his head.

“Can you make it disappear like that glass of milk in the attic?” she asked with hope aglow in her eyes.

“I wouldn’t even try.”

“And you look like a fool, Linus.”

He adjusted the sleeves of his jester’s costume. “I’m supposed to.”

“Oh.” She gathered her skirts. “Well, it’s still silly looking.”

Tell me about it
, Linus thought. The mental image of their parents roughing it in bug-infested tents and eating those same bugs offered him only a bit of satisfaction.
A few minutes later, Linus and Ophelia entered the bookshop carrying trays of unrecognizable hors d’oeuvres made by Ronda from next door. She supplemented her income from the beauty shop with the occasional catering job. Medieval fare. Linus didn’t want to ask.

Ronda’s dark hair now glistened from the heat of the kitchen. An aside note: I mentioned previously that Headmistress Pierce of the Kingscross School for Young People is a looker. Well, Ronda might just stop your heart with her mahogany hair and aquamarine eyes.

As Ronda swiped the sweat from her brow with her forearm, she said to her reluctant servers, “If any of them dare ask what you’re serving, you tell them to look it up. Those professors deserve it!” She punctuated her joke with one robust, “Ha!” heard all the way down the steps.

Obeying Uncle Auggie’s instructions to be circumspect (proper, polite, and somewhat dull, really), they circulated amid the guests and offered them the disgusting bits. (No offense, dear Ronda.)

Ophelia leaned close to her brother’s ear as they picked up another set of trays holding equally disconcerting (confusing, perplexing) morsels of food. “Do you think we’ll have to do stuff like this the whole time we live here?” she asked.

“Yep,” he replied.

Gazing over the crowd, Ophelia appreciated the colorful display before her—and not just the costumes, but the people themselves. An odd lot for certain, they were mainly university professors she figured. But there were also a few local business owners and several musicians present.

Augustus Sandwich had played the violin in the Boston Philharmonic as a young man, and he made it a point to never let good friendships go. I suggest you do the same
.

Ophelia enjoyed eavesdropping on adults’ conversations with topics ranging anywhere from gardening to Plato’s
Republic
(a book which Ophelia hates, by the way; and I agree—give me Aristotle any day of the week). She enjoyed seeing their flushed faces and sparkling eyes as well, and she took some comfort in the fact that several of their costumes looked even more ridiculous than hers. Linus felt the same way.
The party spilled out onto the backyard where torches blazed and people posed in the stocks for a souvenir photo. (Linus had done a wonderful job building them.) Aunt Portia always insisted on providing souvenir photos at her parties — much to everyone’s open dismay and secret delight. The air burgeoned (was filled to bursting) with laughter and the smell of the kerosene torches. A breeze picked up and shook the brightly colored flags hanging from clotheslines strung between long poles jammed into the ground.

This sure beats having to live on Butterfly Island, Ophelia thought as she headed back toward the kitchen for a new tray filled with odd food. When she passed Mr. Birdwistell, she offered him the last hors d’oeuvre on her tray. But he simply turned his back on her and continued his discussion with another professor, this one dressed like a friar.

Ronda, however, was delighted to snap up the suspicious morsel as soon as Ophelia entered the kitchen. She popped it in her mouth, chewed quickly, and swallowed. “When will you let me get to those curls, Ophelia?” Ronda asked as she reached out and sectioned off a portion of Ophelia’s dark hair with her fingers.

“I like my hair, Ronda.”

“I do too. I just think we should have some fun with it.”

“Really?” Ophelia was intrigued.

“Let’s chat about it soon.”

Linus entered the kitchen and set his empty tray on the table. “Ready for more.”

Aunt Portia came through the door right behind him. She was dressed in a gown made of lime green gauze that fluttered in the breeze and a Juliet style cap with a trail of matching fabric. She sashayed (glided, walked smoothly) over to the tray-filled table and threaded her arm through Ronda’s. “I went to that marketing class, and you’ll never guess what I bought as a result!”

“I’m sure I can’t,” said Ronda.

“An LED message board! I can put funny sayings to go running across, tell people about sales and intriguing finds — right there in the front window of the store!”

“Well, let me have a look! I just arranged the dessert table, so I
have a few free minutes.” Ronda placed her hand over Portia’s, and they disappeared down the steps and into the shop.

Ophelia shook her head. Old books and LED signs. Some things just didn’t seem to mix. But if anybody could make it work, it was Aunt Portia.

Did I hear someone say dessert table?
thought Linus.

Q
uiet people get thorny about other people’s assumptions that they’d rather be left alone. Linus, although the quiet one of the twins, prefers company. While Ophelia, chatty and bossy as she is, could be alone all day long if she found the book engaging enough. Let’s just say that fictional characters were every bit as real to Ophelia as flesh-and-blood people and, as she put it, “A whole lot more predictable.”

Once they’d finished their serving duties, Aunt Portia released them back upstairs to their rooms and asked them to straighten things a bit, thanks.

Both twins got busy tossing books around their room. Ophelia shelved titles like
Jane Eyre
,
Fahrenheit 451
, or
The Federalist Papers
, while Linus’s books were about ancient building techniques, the mystery of the pyramids, aerodynamics, and how to make a combustible engine from the contents of your average junk drawer. (I fancied he would build a plane someday, just to see if he could.)

Their bedroom walls were covered in different shades of blue, which they both loved. Ophelia was drawn to deep midnight blues and indigos, while Linus preferred sky blue and … well, sky blue. While Ophelia pinned up posters of long-dead movie stars and baby animals, Linus tacked up nothing. Instead, he used his walls to figure out equations and draw his own pictures. He really is
quite the artist. And Ophelia fancies herself someday making yard sculptures out of bits of junk. But for now, a pile of junk sits in one corner of her room, much to the dismay of Aunt Portia who doesn’t understand the idiosyncrasies (quirks) of artistic creativity, probably owing to the fact that she cannot draw the simplest stick figure.