Out on a Limb (19 page)

“Spaghetti with ketchup and creamed corn,” I answered. “Tilley wanted it.”

“And canned beets,” Mom said. “I thought you hated beets.”

“Tilley likes them,” I said.

A few days later after school, Tilley “speficied” that I play Barbies with her. “Okay, pretend my Barbie is visiting your Barbie in Paris,” she said. “Pretend my Barbie’s Canadian and your Barbie’s French. Pretend the table leg is the Eiffel Tower. Okay, go.”

I bobbed my blonde Barbie along the treehouse floor toward Tilley’s blonde Barbie. “Excusez moi, Barbie,” I said, “but my ’uge bozoms, zey is making me fall over my tres petite little feet. I zink you must alzo have zee zame problem? Vous et moi, we are zo zimilar. C’est incroyable!”

“You’re not playing right,” Tilley frowned. “I speficy, play properly. You say, ‘Welcome to Paris, Barbie, I hope you enjoy your trip.’”

I rolled my eyes and said it.

“Do it with the accent.”

I did the accent in a monotone. After that I used a monotone for all the Barbie lines that Tilley dictated. I was trying to make the game as boring for her as it was for me. Tilley wanted to keep on playing anyway, probably just to prove that she could make me.

“Playing Barbies, Rosie?” Dad asked when he came in from chopping firewood.

“Tilley wanted to play,” I said.

One Saturday morning, Tilley put down her Cheerios spoon and looked across the folding table at me. “Remember that time you and me took the bus to the mall? Wasn’t that fun,” she asked. It was not her usual blackmail voice.

“You and me? Fun? Yeah, right. If you say so,” I said. It had been fun though, and I started feeling sad.

“I want to do that again,” Tilley said.

“What, are you
specifying
for me to take you to the mall?” I didn’t think that this was what Tilley meant, but I needed her to say so. My voice sounded kind of mad, from habit.

Tilley looked up at me and opened her mouth. “I guess,” she said finally.

“What, with Eveline?” I waited for Tilley to say no, just the two of us.

Tilley searched my face and shrugged.

“So you
do
want to go with Eveline.”

Tilley shrugged again. She didn’t say no.

“Why,” I said, “have you been recruited into her shoplifting ring?”

Tilley jumped out of her chair and backed away from her Cheerios. “Eveline does not shoplift! Eveline would never—she would never—”

“Steal? Except from family victims?”

“Shut up! Stop acting like Eveline’s a criminal!” “Okay, Tilley. I will. As soon as Eveline stops acting like Eveline’s a criminal.”

“You’re stupid!” Tilley yelled, charging up the ladder to her bunk.

“Lame comeback. But never mind, Tilley, your brain will continue to develop as you mature.”

“I hate you,” Tilley yelled, snatching up her Beanie Babies. Zip and Twigs, normally so gentle and plush, attacked each other viciously. “You know what,” Tilley said a few minutes later, hanging over the side of her bunk at me. “I like the
top
bunk. I like it better than the middle.”

“What are you talking about?” I said. “You hate the top.

You’re scared to sleep that far from Mom and Dad. Remember?”

“That was when I was little,” Tilley said. “I like the top better now. That’s what I specify.” And she was serious. I spent that Saturday morning moving my clothes and stuff down the bunk ladder. When my parents got home they found me in the middle bunk. Tilley was on top.

“Girls!” Mom said. “What’s happened to your bunks?”

“Tilley wanted to switch,” I said.

“Oh, Rosie,” Mom said. She kissed the top of my head, and straightened up all dewy-eyed. “That is so sweet. You know, Dad and I have really noticed how considerate you’ve been to Tilley lately. I’m proud of how well you treat your little sister.” It was weird to hear this just as I was thinking, for the first time in my life, that I really couldn’t stand her. I just did not want to be around Tilley anymore. Every time she liked anything, it turned into a demand to give it to her, or buy it for her, or do it for her. I twitched whenever she opened her mouth, wondering what I’d have to do next.

I spent as little time as I could with Tilley, and as much time as I could with Bridget. It was February by then, and the days had gotten longer. At five p.m. the sky was still blue behind the bare silhouette branches. I could stay later.

Bridget and I were still working on Great-great-aunt Lydia’s coded letter. We’d decided that it wasn’t written in ancient English after all, since most of the words weren’t in the dictionary. We started checking other languages. We thought ‘LE TUSESCA PE’ and ‘LE TUSELO PE’ might be Italian or Spanish or Latin, but they weren’t. Paige was getting interested too. “Could this be Finnish?” she’d say. “Could this be Turkish?”

I was very comfortable with Paige, except when she asked how the renovations were coming. “Slowly,” I would always say.

Paige would nod sympathetically. “Yup,” she’d say. “That’s how renovations are all right.”

Sometimes I’d give Paige details, to make my reno alibi more realistic. The details were from a library book called
Avoiding Renovation Hazards
. “The contractors have just started the hazardous process of removing the urea formaldehyde foam insulation,” I said once. Another time I said, “The workmen are about to apply the highly toxic floor finish.” I didn’t sound normal to myself when I said these things. I reminded myself of those books we have at school, where the kids say things like, “Oh Father, what a splendid day for a seaside picnic!” Paige did not seem to notice though.

“Well, I’m sure your renovation will be fabulous once it’s all finished,” she said one February afternoon. “All us Windward mothers are desperate for a peek. We’re just dying for Panther-Lamp Day.”

“Panther-Lamp Day?” I asked. “What’s that?”

“Panther-Lamp Day?” Paige looked at me with disbelief. “Hasn’t anybody told you about Panther-Lamp Day? Bridget, I can’t believe you haven’t told Rosie about Panther-Lamp Day!”

“I must have told you about Panther-Lamp Day!” Bridget said. “Panther-Lamp Day is fantastic. It rates right up there with, like,
Halloween
.”

“Well, what is it?” I asked.

“It’s Windward’s big fundraiser,” Paige said. “It’s this huge rotating rummage sale. I think somebody sold a lamp in the shape of a panther at the first one. It’s the second Saturday in May every year.”

“What’s a rotating rummage sale?” I asked.“

Every family with kids at Windward has a rummage sale at their house,” Paige said. “Somebody has to stay home to host their own sale, but the rest of the family shops at everybody else’s. Actually, not everybody else’s. Too many houses for that. Everybody picks maybe a dozen that they really want to go to.”

“And I know which houses sell the good stuff,” Bridget said. “You would
not
believe what some people get rid of! For cheap too! And I hate to say it, but Devo’s is definitely the best for that. Some houses hold bake sales instead. Like theWongs. Their strawberries dipped in fudge are amazing.”

“Now me, I’m into household things,” Paige said. “Devon’s is a great house for that, because the Radcliffes redecorate a lot. And I always pick a few houses just to snoop around in. Panther-Lamp Day is definitely part home tour. I can tell you that your house is going to be a very popular stop, Rosie.”

“It is?” I asked. “Oh sure,” Paige said.

“But,” I said. “I don’t know if we’re participating. I don’t know if the renovations will be finished by then.”

“Oh
everyone
participates,” Paige said. “And your reno will
definitely
be finished by then. I know renos are slow, but they don’t go on forever. And if you’ve reached the floor finishing stage, you’re almost done. Grand Oak Manor will be all back in order by Panther-Lamp Day, don’t you worry.”

Needless to say, I did worry. How could I not? I had no stuff to sell. I had no house to sell it from. Least of all did I have the mansion that all the Windward mothers were dying to see. I was doomed to be exposed, on Panther-Lamp Day, for the liar that I was. Kendra and Devo would never let me forget it. But it was Bridget finding out that I really feared. It scared me so much that it was all I could think of around her.

I was so zoned out with dread that I was hardly any help in trying to solve Great-great-aunt Lydia’s coded letter. Then one afternoon as we lay on Bridget’s family room carpet eating peanut butter cookies, she reared up. “Omigosh!” she said. “Rosie, I get it! I can’t believe it took us so long to see it! These are English words, and they’re in the proper order too. They’re just broken up in different places! ‘ID ID NO TE’ is ‘I did not’. And ‘E’ starts a new word.” Bridget grabbed a pencil and started putting brackets around words. In twenty minutes we had the note solved.

(I)(D ID) (NOT)(EVER)(THIN K)(A)(PA IR)(OF)(SCIS SORS)(CO ULD)(DO) (SO)(MU CH)(HARM). (I)(HAVE)(TO)(LEAVE)(TH IS)(BLO ODY)(HO USE). (A)(BAD)(DESTINY)(AWA ITS) (ME)(HERE).

(A)(LI FE)(IS)(SO)(E ASI LY)(L OST).

(LET)(US)(ESCA PE). (LET)(US)(ELO PE).

(I SOB EL)(ME ET)(ME): (THE)(TRE EHO US E)(AT)(TEN).

X

“The letter is to someone called Isobel,” Bridget said. “That was my Great-grandmother’s name,” I said. “She married my Great-grampa Tavish.”

“And this is him asking her to elope,” Bridget said. “Wow!
He
was the one who wrote the letter,
not
your Great-great-aunt Lydia.”

“So the ‘X’ where the signature goes, that’s a kiss.”

“But why is his letter on your Great-great-aunt Lydia’s stationery?”

“Maybe it was handy and he was in a hurry? He sounds urgent.”

“No kidding. Huge drama. The having to leave and the blood and all. What’s that all about?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know what I think?”

“What?”

“Well I hate to say it, but it sounds like your great-grandfather stabbed somebody. With scissors.”

“You think?”

“I do. Is that possible? Did you know him?”

“Well I met him, but he died when I was four.”“

So you were too young to analyze his true character.”

“Like, yeah. I still thought Ronald McDonald was a real person.”

“Well, sounds to me like he’s stabbed somebody with scissors, and is about to flee the law with his beloved. To avoid the bad destiny of the penitentiary. Wow. Weird weapon, huh? Scissors?

”“Yeah,” I said. It felt very bad, to utter that dry, dull ‘yeah’ instead of my rushing stream of thought. My beautiful bird scissors had been my Great-grampa’s weapon! He’d fled with them to the treehouse, and disposed of them in my drawer when he’d met my great-grandmother there to run away with her. This was information that Bridget was entitled to. I felt suddenly lonely, wishing that Bridget and I knew all the same things.

“So who was his victim?” Bridget wondered. “‘A life is so easily lost.’ It sounds like he killed somebody. Were any of your ancestors murdered?”

“No. Not as far as I know,” I said. “Maybe he stabbed somebody and just
thought
they were going to die. He’s fleeing, right, so he might not stick around to find out.”

“But who was it? Who did he stab?”

“Well, somebody in the Manor,” I guessed. “Because he says the house is all bloody.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down much. ’Cause the Manor was full of people, that book said, when your Great-great-grandfather Magnus, had all his big showy parties.”

“Maybe my Great-grandfather got drunk and stabbed a guest.”

“Or a relative. Could it have been your Great-great-grandfather Magnus? Or your Great-great-aunt Lydia?”

“I guess it could. That would explain why Magnus....” I was about to say it would explain why Magnus cut his son out of the will, but the will was part of what Bridget didn’t know. I swallowed my thoughts again.

“It explains....” Bridget prompted.

“It explains the split in the McGrady family,” I said. “It explains why Great-great-aunt Lydia wants nothing to do with us.”

“Yeah,” Bridget agreed. “Because you’re the offspring of a violent criminal. No offence.”

“You don’t think she’s scared of us, do you?” I asked. “Yeah,” said Bridget. “I do. Maybe not like real posttraumatic scared. But she probably thinks it’s wiser to have nothing to do with you.”

I nodded at this new view of Great-great-aunt Lydia. I remembered that one of the words on the torn blue strip was ‘afraid’. It was strangely disappointing to think that Great-great-aunt Lydia wasn’t some nasty sorceress after all. She was just a nervous old lady.

NOTEBOOK: #25

NAME: Rosamund McGrady

SUBJECT: Visualization

Panther-Lamp Day took
over my entire mind. I felt sick to think about Panther-Lamp Day dawning, and the population of Windward Middle School knocking on Great-great-aunt Lydia’s door, expecting a tour of Grand Oak Manor.

I thought and thought and thought. In personal skills class, Miss Rankle taught that when you brainstorm for a solution, you write down every idea that occurs to you, no matter how ridiculous. That’s why, one desperate afternoon at the treehouse, I wrote “Hold rummage sale at Great-great-aunt Lydia’s—pretend it’s my house.” This idea was ridiculous. Great-great-aunt Lydia wanted nothing to do with me or my family. So why would she let me hold a rummage sale at Grand Oak Manor? And how could I convince her to pretend to all the Windward people that I actually lived there? Or if she wouldn’t pretend, how could I take every single Panther-Lamp-Day visitor aside, and explain that poor old Great-great-aunt Lydia had lost her mind and couldn’t remember anymore who she lived with? I couldn’t see how this idea could possibly work. However, as time went on, the severe shortage of better ideas made me keep thinking about it.

Yellow and purple crocuses began sprouting around the trunk of our oak tree. Birds began singing and hopping again in the morning. The bare branches got blurry with buds. These signs of passing time all scared me. The day of the rotating rummage sale was creeping toward me, like the panther on the lamp it was named after.