Is Anybody There? (3 page)

I stood in the silence of her bedroom. She has a Chinese jewel box, which locks with a brass key that she keeps in the drawer under her panty hose. I found the key, opened the
box, and went over her valuables, one by one. There aren’t that many and they were all there: the pin set in pearls that Grandma had given her; her garnet earrings—my dad had bought her those on their fifth anniversary; his gold watch.

I took it out and held it against my wrist. The watch will be mine when I’m sixteen. My dad wore it all his life, even when he was sick. You can still see the marks on the leather strap where he had to tighten it on his wrist when he got thinner and thinner. I ran my fingers along the grooves, thinking—one month, two months, three months—and then nothing. My throat hurt. I held the watch face to my cheek, the glass cool against my skin. Then I set it to the right time by Mom’s little bedside clock, wound it up, and put it back in the box. I could still hear it ticking when I closed and locked the lid. I was really, really glad nobody had taken the watch. And I was relieved too. Because if someone
had
been in our house, that watch would have been long gone. I could relax.

The doorbell rang, making me jump. No need to be nervous anymore, for Pete’s sake!
But I went in the living room and peeked through the window before I opened the door.

It was Miss Sarah. She gave me a paper plate of cookies covered with Saran wrap. “I baked these for you and your mom,” she said.

“Oh thanks.” I peeled off a corner and sampled one. It was still warm. “Good,” I said.

“And Marcus. Tell your mother she may share them with the young man upstairs.”

“He’s upstairs
outside,
Miss Sarah,” I said. “He’s just renting our apartment. He’s just our paying tenant.”

Miss Sarah sniffed. “I understand he was married, once.”

“That’s what he said.”

“He had a child, too.”

“I know.” Somehow I didn’t like talking about Nick with Miss Sarah. It seemed disloyal, although I couldn’t think why.

Miss Sarah sniffed again. “I expect he’ll be eating Christmas dinner with us.”

She means with Mom and me and her and Miss Coriander. Mom always invites them for Christmas dinner if we’re home and not at Grandma’s in Minnesota. Mom said we
couldn’t afford Minnesota this year. I try not to be suspicious that we could afford it OK but that she just wants to be here because of Nick.

“I expect she will ask him for dinner,” I said. “I mean, he’d be all on his own.” I tried to sound full of Christmas cheer. But thinking of Nick and Mom didn’t make it that easy.

I put the blackthorn stick back in the hall stand, peeled the Saran wrap off the cookies, and ate one shaped like a Christmas bell. Cookies help me think. So Miss Coriander and Miss Sarah think there is something serious between Mom and Nick. Well, they’re wrong, that’s all.

The jigsaw puzzle Mom and I are working on lay scattered on the big coffee table. When it’s finished it will be the San Clemente Mission with its low adobe buildings and the gardens where the pigeons strut, fat and sassy. Last night I’d sifted through the pieces forever, looking for the one that had the spread of a pigeon’s tail. I began looking again, but the photo of Mom kept pushing itself into the front of my brain.

The tree lights winked cheerfully on the ceiling, reflected in the dark blankness of the big window. I got up quickly and drew the drapes. There! Cozier. Safer. Usually I don’t even bother closing the drapes, but now was different.

It was time to go anyway and fix dinner, which I like to do. It’s interesting putting things together and coming up with something delicious.

It had taken some time for me to convince Mom that I’d be careful if she let me learn to cook, and then we’d had to go through all the possible dangers and what I’d do if they happened. Nothing had ever happened.

Tonight I made a meat loaf, and cheese muffins from a mix. I was just setting the timer when I heard Mom’s car, so I grabbed the cookie plate and met her at the door between the kitchen and the garage.

“Hi, honey,” she said.

“Hi. Miss Sarah sent you these.”

Mom looked exhausted. I stood aside, and she slipped off her shoes and padded past me to flop in the kitchen chair. “Here.” I put the biggest cookie on the plate into her hand.

Five years ago I’d heard my aunt Charlie say to Mom, “But how are you going to manage, Caroline? Going out to work every day? Having Marcus to take care of?”

I’d interrupted. “I’ll take care of myself. Nobody needs to worry about me.” I was eight years old at the time. They’d laughed, but I’d meant it. And I would take care of Mom, too.

Jarvis’, where Mom works, is the busiest department store in the mall and the mall is loony tunes at Christmas time. Last year our class went caroling there and instead of singing “jingle bells, jingle bells,” Robbie and I sang “malls of hell, malls of hell.” Nobody knew the difference. I think some people even joined in.

Mom groaned and put her feet up on an empty chair. “And to think tomorrow night I have to work till eight. Will you be OK, honey?”

“Eight? Sure I’ll be OK.” I hadn’t meant to say it so loudly, the way you do when you hope someone’s going to believe you.

Mom fluffed my hair. “Eight
is
kind of late. But Nick will be up in his place if you need
him.” She had her elbows on the table, holding her favorite mug.

“Yeah, sure. Nick! And if he’s not up there he’s down here,” I muttered.

Mom gave me one of her quick, questioning looks, but neither of us commented on my comment. Probably because we both knew it was true.

   Nick’s here tonight. Mom acted surprised when he came down, but I don’t think she was. Not very. She’d saved the last four of Miss Sarah’s cookies.

“You can take these two for your lunch tomorrow, Marcus,” she said. The other two she put on a plate. Nick got them.

He and Mom sat poring over the jigsaw puzzle.

“Come help us, Marcus,” Mom said, but I didn’t want to sit there with Nick.

“Naw. I’m watching
A Christmas Carol.
” I sort of watched it. But now and then I’d glance up, keeping an eye on them.

Nick’s hair gleamed yellow in the lamplight, the hair on his head, the hair on his arms. I must say Nick is the hairiest person I’ve ever
seen. He is like a big golden bear with his twinkly eyes and great, large hands, except that he doesn’t shamble along like a bear. He’s fast, like a tiger on its toes. I guess Nick is about the healthiest, fittest guy in the whole world. That’s probably why he teaches phys. ed.

I couldn’t help noticing the way Mom had perked up since he’d come down. She really enjoys doing her jigsaws.

“Sure you don’t want to help us with this?” she asked me again.

In a grumpy voice I said, “I told you already I don’t.”

“And Marcus Mullen is not a boy who changes his mind easily,” Nick said, smiling across at me.

I sat trying to figure out if there was some hidden meaning in that remark. I often look for hidden meanings in things Nick says. Sometimes he seems to know me pretty well for someone who’s just a paying tenant.

“I think I’ll skip the end of the movie and hit the sack,” I said, getting up and stretching. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

Later, I listened while Mom locked up. I heard her tiptoe past my door. I almost called her in right then to tell her I was worried about a couple of things, but I didn’t. No use upsetting her.

That’s what I said to Robbie the next afternoon. “What’s the point in upsetting her? It’s not as if the key’s missing,” I said. “I just goofed somehow, putting it back.”

“You’re sure?” Robbie asked.

“Sure I’m sure.”

We were on our way to Henry’s Bike Shop to see if my Campies had come in.

“Well OK, then,” Robbie said.

At Henry’s we headed straight through the front showroom, which was filled with parents and kids picking out bikes for Christmas. The back workroom says
EMPLOYEES ONLY,
but it’s OK for Robbie and me to go in. Henry knows us because we mess around here so much.

The back workroom is great, with tires hanging from the walls, chrome wheels like giant mobiles dangling from the ceiling, and taken-apart bikes waiting for help on the work stands. The place smells magical, like our garage at home, only more so.

Henry was there himself.

“Hi, Hot Shot,” he said to me without looking up from trueing a wheel. “They haven’t come in yet.”

“But Henry …” I began.

“I told you, Marcus. I can sell you other pedals. Cost you less than the Campagnolas, and your mom won’t know the difference.”

“I would know. The bike would know. Henry, that would be like having a racehorse with Clydesdale legs.”

Henry grinned. “Well, you have four days yet before Christmas. Keep checking.”

“I will, don’t worry.”

Robbie and I stopped again outside to poke around in Henry’s big, green trash can. It’s incredible the good stuff Henry junks. It was here that I’d found the Masi frame, all bent and buckled, the frame that was the start of Mom’s Christmas present.

“Are you sure this won’t fold on her, Henry?” I’d asked, squinting along the frame with one eye shut. “I don’t want this bike collapsing, not to mention my mom.”

“Is she planning on riding the marathon?” Henry asked.

I shook my head.

“Then it’s not going to fall to pieces,” he’d said.

Bit by bit I’d found everything I needed for the bike in Henry’s trash can. Everything except the Campies.

Today the only thing worth taking was a mucky old piece of chain that I thought I could use sometime. I dragged it along the sidewalk behind me. Then Robbie and I tied our legs together and pretended we were on the run from a chain gang.

We came to a clanking stop at my driveway.

“Hi, Patchin,” Robbie called across the street, but Patchin didn’t even wag his tail. “Deaf as a dish,” Robbie said, shaking his head.

I bent to unhook our chain, and when I straightened I saw that Robbie was staring at our house.

“Marcus?” he said. “You didn’t hang that key back under the tree, did you?”

“Why?” I began, feeling nervous again right away. “Do you see something, Robbie?”

“I don’t see a darned thing. I just wondered.”

I took a deep breath. “You scared the spit out of me there.” I hung the chain across my shoulders and patted the pocket of my jeans. “Don’t worry. The key’s safe in here. And the house is locked up tightly. No one could possibly get in.”

But I was wrong about that.

It’s not hard for me to pass the time. In fact, as Mom had told Nick, I like being home alone.

After Robbie left, I worked for a while on my stamp collection and then I went out to admire Mom’s bike, pedalless but still sleek and shining as a Lamborghini.

Inside the house the phone rang.

It was Robbie.

“Everything OK?” he asked.

“Sure everything’s OK.”

“Well it may not be for long. I just saw Anjelica Trotter and she was on her bike, heading in the direction of your house.”

“
My
house?”

“Your street, anyway. She was turning your corner.”

“You’re kidding!” I stared around the kitchen as if somehow Anjelica might have snuck in and hidden herself under the table. “But why?” I asked. “How long ago did you see her?”

“About two minutes. She ought to be just about riding up your front drive now.”

“Oh criminy!” The panic was back, full gale force. “She wouldn’t come here, would she, Robbie? I mean, I didn’t forget any of my books and school’s out and—”

“You should let her in if she comes,” Robbie said. “
I
would.”

“I bet you wouldn’t. What would you talk to her about?”

“I’d think of something. I’d ask how come her top grew so much.”

“Ha!” I said. “You’re such a liar. Anyway, it’s too late for her to come. It’s—”

“What do you mean late? It’s only twenty after four.”

“That’s all? Man! I thought …” Twenty after four was a long way from eight.

The doorbell rang.

I swear I could hear Robbie breathing.

“It’s her,” he said. “Let her in. Call me
back. Maybe she has the mistletoe.” He hung up the phone.

“Robbie?” I begged, but he was gone.

Now I could hear
me
breathing.

I tiptoed into the living room and pulled back a corner of the drape. If Anjelica was out there, I hoped she wouldn’t see the drape move, because I was just going to pretend there was no one home.

Nick stood on the porch in his khaki shorts and red Cougar sweatshirt. I was so glad to see him I even smiled and said, “Hi,” when I opened the door.

He looked surprised, but he smiled back right away.

“Where’s your key?” I asked, remembering quickly that he and I are definitely not close buddies.

“I knew you were here,” Nick said. “You don’t think I’d just walk in on you, do you? I mean, a guy needs his privacy.” His eyes still smiled at me, real friendly. “Anyway, I’ve ordered a pizza to be delivered for six o’clock, extra large, no anchovies. You want to come up and help me eat it?”

What was this? Be nice to Caroline’s boy?

“Thanks,” I said, “but I have leftovers that I have to use. Good leftovers,” I added. It really bugged me that he knew I hate anchovies. Mom must have told him that, along with everything else. Talk about a guy’s privacy! Or he just guessed. Maybe everybody in the world hates anchovies.

“Whatever.” Nick didn’t seem disappointed. “I’m going to cut the grass now, so it will look good for Christmas.”

“OK. I’ll open the garage door for you.”

I went back into the house and through to the garage, and pushed the wall button that lifts the heavy door. The center light came on automatically too, the way it does.

I watched while Nick wheeled out the mower, filled the tank with gas, and started the motor. I really couldn’t understand why I suddenly had the urge to grab a rake and go work with him. If he were my Dad that’s what I’d do. It would be nice, cutting the grass in neat little stripes, stopping to horse around a bit, throw grass at each other, stuff like that.