The Recluse Storyteller (6 page)

Mrs. Trumble recoiled her hand back into her chest and started gently rubbing her badly bruised fingers.

“Oh, she’s a monster. She tried to cut my hand off.”

Mrs. Johnson peeked inside the apartment and saw Margaret calmly standing in the same spot reading the Full Brands ad.

“Margaret, what’s going on? Is everything okay?”

“Two for one on soup,” Margaret replied calmly, as she kept her head down in the circular.

Mrs. Johnson closed the door and turned back to Mrs. Trumble.

“Oh, that doesn’t look so good. Come over to my apartment, Mrs. Trumble, so I can take a look at it.”

“She’s a devil. I was just trying to be neighborly, and she deliberately attacked me. I will not stand for this.”

“Come on, Mrs. Trumble. Watch the chocolate drops. Oh, look at this mess. I got chocolate all over the place.”

She shut the door.

Margaret heard the silence.

“She was afraid. Very afraid.”

She leaned her back up against the door and reached over to her left to latch the three locks. She heard the voice this time, not audible, but hearable none the less. It reminded her: “Be brave.”

* * *

“Janice stood in visceral fear, nearly hunched over from the knot in her stomach. She completely shut her eyelids with great intensity, yet she felt as if she stood wide-eyed on a summer afternoon at the beach, trying to shield herself from the most brilliant reflection coming from the powder-white sand. She became convinced the brightness would swallow her, obliterating all traces of herself into a non-entity. Perhaps that’s what she was hoping for, complete disintegration. Record of life expunged. No good times. No bad times. No record of wrongs. No pain. No memories. She felt ready.”

* * *

Mrs. Johnson decided it would be best for Mrs. Trumble to see the doctor at the clinic around the corner. She prepared the twins to stay at home by themselves and quickly scurried away with Mrs. Trumble, who was moaning on and on about her vain attempt to find relief. As soon as the ladies began descending the steps, Margaret opened the door and looked over at the Johnsons’ apartment at the end of the hallway. Pam and Sam both had their heads outside the door frame, watching their mother go out of sight. They saw Margaret staring at them.

“Hello, Ms. Pritcher,” said Sam.

“Hello, Ms. Pritcher,” said Pam.

Margaret nodded back at them. Sam walked into the hallway and came over near Margaret’s door.

“Sam, where are you going? Remember, Mom said to stay in the apartment,” asked Pam, who was the shier of the two.

“I just want to ask Ms. Pritcher a question. Ms. Pritcher, did you slam Mrs. Trumble’s hand in the door on purpose?”

“No,” said Margaret. “Do you want to come in?”

“No,” said Sam. “I’ve never been in your apartment.”

“Sam, come back here. Now.”

“Did you know my Daddy’s a policeman? He catches bad guys all the time. Did you see the robbery on the news last month? My Daddy chased the robber all over town until he finally caught him by the yoghurt stand down near the park. He caused three accidents, but he caught his man. He always catches his man. He’s away on business right now. I miss him, though.”

Pam had walked over to Sam, trying to pull her back to the apartment.

“Pam, just leave me alone. I’m talking. Have you ever been to afternoon tea? My grandmother takes us to the English House every time she visits. She always buys us new dresses. Last time, we had matching yellow dresses with puffy sleeves and light purple bonnets. I felt like I was on TV on one of those shows before they had cars and things like that.”

By this time, Margaret had completely opened her door and stood there admiring the beautiful, young girls.

“Sam, we shouldn’t be here.”

“Ms. Pritcher doesn’t mind, do you?”

Margaret shook her head.

“We were served this three-tiered tray of cakes and scones, and we each had a large cup of tea with lots of real cream. It made it so smooth and delicious.”

“Do you like ice cream?” Margaret asked, exerting a great amount of energy.

“Why sure, we love ice cream, don’t we?” Sam said as she nudged Pam in the stomach.

With that, Margaret left and walked over to the kitchen, leaving the door completely wide-open.

“Pam, I think she’s getting us some ice cream.”

“Well, we can’t eat it. Mom wouldn’t want us here. Let’s go back. She already hurt Mrs. Trumble today. Nobody knows what she is like.”

“She told me she didn’t mean to do anything to Mrs. Trumble. Besides, she’s always nice to us.”

Margaret came back into view carrying a tray with two half-pints of unopened chocolate-cherry-swirl. She set down the tray on the coffee table in front of the couch, and she sat in the arm chair across from it. Without even looking at the girls, she gestured for them to help themselves.

“Come on, Pam. I love chocolate-cherry-swirl.”

“Sam, no.”

“You can stand out here in the hallway if you like, but my taste buds are about to be happy.”

She walked into the room and sat on the couch, picked up one of the half-pints, and tore open the top.

“Ms. Pritcher, this is one of my favorite kinds of ice cream. Come on, Pam. Ms. Pritcher doesn’t bite.”

Margaret muffled a laugh. She thought that was very funny.
Of course I don’t bite
, she thought.
Only dogs bite
.

“Oh, this is fabulous. I bet they use full cream in this. Yes, look at the ingredients. Milk, cream, sugar. My Daddy says you can tell a good ice cream if those are the first three ingredients. Pam, stay there. I want to eat yours, too. Ms. Pritcher, don’t you want some?”

“No.”

“Okay. It’s all for me.”

“I’m coming,” said Pam reluctantly, as she came into the apartment, sat down beside her sister, and began tearing into the carton.

“So what do you like to do, Ms. Pritcher?”

“Stories.”

“Oh, I love stories, too. What type of stories do you like to read?”

“Tell.”

“Tell? You like to tell stories? I’m rather surprised, Mrs. Pritcher. I didn’t think you liked to talk very much, so I never thought you would be a storyteller.”

“Would you tell us one of your stories?” asked Pam, finally warming up to the situation.

Margaret smiled at the twins she admired so much. She sat back in her chair, closed her eyes, and let her mind drift off to another set of twins she hadn’t thought of in a couple days.

“I guess she wants to take a nap,” whispered Sam. “That’s okay by me. Me and my ice cream are doing just fine.”

Margaret began.

* * *

“Georgia chattered all morning about how they should be standing on Harper’s Hill, serving as lookouts for father, but Gwen wouldn’t listen. She knew her duty was to her baby brother, who had just begun to walk.

“‘You know, I didn’t just make up the sign in the sky. It was there. It had to mean something about Papa,’ said Georgia, once again making her plea.

“‘Georgia, no. We cannot go up there—not with Benjamin. He’s too small.’

“‘I’ll carry him.’

“‘No, because we are not going.’

“‘Well, what are you going to tell Papa when he comes? There was nobody waiting for him? Nobody believing in him?’

“‘Georgia, he’s not coming, so stop your foolish nonsense about seeing signs in the sky.’

“Georgia’s heart now seared with anger. She walked right over to Gwen, who had been sitting on a wooden bench outside the house. Benjamin napped happily on a blanket beside her.

“‘Why do you have no faith in your father?’ Georgia asked, pushing Gwen right off the bench onto the ground.

“Gwen knew how to give as well as get once Georgia ruffled her feathers enough. The bird prepared herself for a counter-offensive and lunged from the ground, bringing down Georgia hard and fast.

“‘You can’t boss me around,’ yelled Gwen.”

* * *

Sam and Pam sat wide-eyed, mesmerized at the storyteller weaving her tale, as the chocolate-cherry-swirl continued to melt all their thoughts away.

* * *

“Buster, the dog, could never resist a good romp on the ground. He jumped right on top of Gwen and began barking and licking his way all over the two resolute faces, each trying to put the other in her place.”

* * *

“Pam, what does ‘resolute’ mean?” asked Sam.

“But no matter how much they …”

“I don’t know. Ms. Pritcher, what does ‘resolute’ mean? You said they had ‘resolute faces’. What does that mean?”

Margaret had never been interrupted before. She stopped talking and slowly lifted her head to look at the ice cream eating twins.

“Resolute. Strong-willed. Determined. Bold. Adamant.”

“Oh, I see,” said Pam.

“But what does adamant mean?” asked Sam.

“Adamant. Resolute. Strong-willed. Determined.”

“Oh, I see,” said Sam. “And by the way, I very much like your story so far. I can picture Buster jumping up and down on the two girls as they are fighting. Sisters sure know how to fight.”

“How to fight,” repeated Margaret.

“Oh, please continue with the story,” said Pam. “We still have a lot of ice cream left.”

Margaret put her head back in the chair.

* * *

“Before long, the sister-against-sister civil war turned into nothing more than a rollicking play-time with Buster.

“‘Buster, stop! Buster …’ yelled Georgia.

“‘Ahhh! He licked my nose,’ said Gwen sitting on top of her sister, swatting away dog tongue and tail like a swarm of mosquitoes on a summer night. They laughed and laughed as Buster couldn’t get enough of either of them. He played the role of peace negotiator with the gusto of a general and the courage of a child. After another minute, they were both sitting up and petting their common ally.

“‘Good, Buster. Good, boy.’

“‘Georgia, I’m sorry I pulled you down to the ground.’

“‘And I’m sorry I pushed you off the bench.’

“‘Perhaps a little walk would do us all some good. I’m sure I can carry Benjamin a little ways,’ Gwen said looking at her brother, who was sprawled out on a blanket.

“‘Excellent. Let me go pack us a few items, and we’ll make a picnic out of it. A picnic to Harper’s Hill,’ Georgia said, standing up like a marching soldier and high-stepping into the house as Gwen attended to the cooing Benjamin.”

* * *

Someone began ascending the apartment block steps at the same time as Mr. Cheevers from the first apartment closed his door and began descending.

“Hello, Mr. Cheevers,” said Mrs. Johnson.

“Hello, Mrs. Johnson.”

Pam and Sam dropped their half-pints in a hurry.

“We have to go,” they said in complete unison and quickly scooted to the door, peeking back towards the stairwell.

The two neighbors continued chatting in the hallway. Pam looked back at Margaret and gave a quick wave and then followed Sam, who with head-down, made a fast break for their apartment. They made it without incident. In the meantime, Margaret had made her way to the door, shutting and bolting it tightly, but not before she saw Mr. Cheevers in his red cap talking with Mrs. Johnson. Margaret went to the window overlooking the street and waited for his appearance.

“Red Hat leaving the building.”

She looked on eagerly until she decided to get an even better view from her small, intimate balcony that was big enough for two people and a smattering of clay potted plants, which always looked half-dead. She peered over the railing just in time to see Cheevers exit the building. Her hand suddenly slipped from the railing, knocking one of the flower pots off the ledge on a collision course for the red hatter. As Cheevers stepped off the bottom doorstep, the pot bristled his clothes and smashed loudly on the pavement directly behind him. Shards of clay and clumps of dirt flew all over the back of his pants, and he jumped wildly out of the way, not knowing what had nearly hit him.

He twirled around to see the plant wreckage, then scoured the apartment building, looking where it came from. Margaret quickly pulled her head back from the balcony railing, so that Cheevers only caught a glimpse of movement, but no firm sighting. He did, however, determine where it came from. As he started wiping off his pant leg, Margaret scurried back into the house, sat on the couch, put her head back, and allowed her story to take an unexpected turn.

* * *

“Red Hat had not walked two feet out of Quinn’s apartment building when a flower pot hit him squarely on the head. He stood frozen in the sympathetic realm of time that gives accident victims a split second to allow the brain to understand that pain is coming quickly and that he is about to lose control. Then he fell, face first onto the pavement—unconscious.