Then There Were Five (15 page)

“I guess so.”

“We'll be home in a jiffy. Better get right to bed, and take a hot-water bag with you.”

“Listen to Grandmother Sloper,” jeered Rush.

“I wish Cuffy was here,” Randy said, with a gulp which she turned into a queer sounding sneeze.

“You and me both,” agreed Willy unhappily.

Rush and Mark reached the driveway first. They walked with their heads bowed down against the rain and the bicycle between them.

“Do you think Oren was—at that place?”

“The still? Must've been. Sometimes he don't come home at all.” Mark plowed on silently. Then Rush could see his pale face turned toward him. “What gets me is that he didn't hear the racket even up where he was.”

“The wind was in the wrong direction, wasn't it?”

“Yes, that's right. Yes, it was. But even so—”

“Oh, well, don't worry about it. He'll know soon enough. Probably knows now.”

That night Mark got his wish. He slept in the cupola. The rain beat on the little metal roof. It spattered against the four windows, and ran down in a long stream from the spout. The gutters tinkled and hummed. The thunder sounded as if it had been cut up in squares. It tumbled down the sky like giant blocks tumbling downstairs. Mark snarled himself into his favorite sleeping position and felt as if he had come home at last. The fire, the violence of the last few hours, the probable reactions of Oren, were thoughts too dreadful to contemplate now. A safety door in his brain locked itself against them, and soon he was asleep.

Mona couldn't understand why nobody but Oliver woke up the next morning. She had already started breakfast when Willy came in and told her what had happened.

“I think it's mean,” complained Mona bitterly. “Somebody might have wakened me and Oliver. We like excitement too. And here the very
first
exciting thing all summer happens in the middle of the night and we sleep through it like—like hibernating bears!”

She was really very cross, and offered Willy a cup of cocoa as if she were offering him poison. He did look battered and smoke smudged and worn out, she noticed.

“Don't wake the kids up,” Willy advised. “They had a hard night. I hope Mark sleeps all day. The poor kid's in for a shock, I'm afraid.”

“Why?” said Mona, saucepan in mid-air. “Willy?”

“Oren never did come home.”

“What do you mean?”

“They think maybe he was in the house.”

“
In
the house! Oh, Willy!”

“Yep. I went back there soon's I brought 'em all home. Been there ever since; Herb Joyner and me milked. Ain't never milked before and it's quite a chore. Real tricky.”

“Willy, you deserve some sort of medal. Have you had any sleep at all?”

“Nope, but I'll get it tonight. I ain't sleepy now. Anyways, like I said, Oren ain't showed up yet. I figure I ought to stick around over to Meeker's. Herb and me'll do what's necessary about the farm. Tell Mark that if he wakes up. Hope he don't wake up all day.”

“I'll look after him, Willy,” Mona said, her crossness forgotten.

It was two days before they found out for certain that Oren had been in the house all the time. The origin of the fire remained a mystery that was only guessed at. It was guessed at a great deal. Some people thought the fire had been set by one of Oren's enemies, for he had many. A few illogical ones insisted that the house had been struck by lightning, but nobody paid any attention to them. Until they found that he had carried no insurance, some others believed that Oren had set the fire himself and then been trapped.

There was no one to tell them the answer.

Who but the dogs had seen him, the night of the fire, coming unsteadily down the hill from the woods; fumbling at the catch of the rusty screen door, and once inside groping for the lamp and muttering? In all that dark storm-clouded valley, who was there to see the windows flower into light, and Oren sitting at the kitchen table, his drowsy head between his hands?

And hours later not even the dogs (since they were shut outside) were there to see the lamp flame burning too high in its cracked glass flue, or to smell the scorching pages of the kitchen calendar hung above it, or to hear the wild, ever-strengthening crackle of fire set free.

Nobody saw, nobody heard. Not even Oren, who, head on the table, and jug upset beside his hand, was sleeping the deepest sleep of his life.

CHAPTER IX

Mark

It was Willy who told Mark.

Afterward he came into the kitchen where the Melendy children were sitting. They looked at him with scared, solemn faces.

“Now you stop lookin' like that,” Willy commanded. “The end of the world ain't come. These things sometimes happen and you might's well know about 'em. It's Mark you gotta think about now. Oren was a rascal, and a villain, and a meanhearted sneak; but remember he was all the folks the poor kid had; I s'pose he got used to him the way a person gets used to chronic appendicitis, or boils, or any other hardship. He feels pretty lost right now, I guess.”

“Where is he? Mark?” Rush asked.

“Leave him alone for a while. He's out back somewheres.”

“Where will he go now? He hasn't anybody to live with,” Mona said.

“Why can't he live with us?” cried Randy. “He could have the cupola, and he could teach us all to walk on our hands!”

“I'd take him fishing a lot,” contributed Oliver, like an uncle. “It would help him take his mind off things.” Mona couldn't help giving him a hug, which he instantly ducked out of.

“I know what I'm going to do,” Rush decided. “I'm going to call Father long-distance, right now.”

“To Washington, D. C.?” said Oliver incredulously.

“Well, I'm glad you thought of it,” Willy said. “I was gointa suggest that myself; only wouldn't it be better to wait till tonight? You'd be more likely to catch him then.”

“No, we'll do it now,” decided Mona. “We'll take a chance.”

They all went into the living room followed by Isaac and John Doe.

Rush lifted the receiver of the telephone.

“Hello, Miss Lederer. [Miss Lederer was the Carthage day operator.] This is Rush Melendy. I'd like to speak to my father in Washington, D. C.”

They could all hear Miss Lederer's crisp, clicking little voice in the telephone. “Washington, D. C.! Do you know how much that costs?”

“Money is no object,” replied Rush, like a prince of the blood.

“Does your papa know you're calling long-distance, Rush?”

“It's my father I'm trying to reach, Miss Lederer. Martin Melendy, Hotel Beauregard, Washington.”

“We-e-ll.” The little machine-voice sounded reluctant. “But the night rates are cheaper.”

“This is urgent, Miss Lederer,” Rush said.

By a miracle Father was at the hotel! Rush poured out his story from beginning to end. Father and Miss Lederer listened attentively.

“Keep him there, by all means! Keep him till I get up there next week. Then we'll see.”

“Oh, you're swell, Father! I knew you'd say that—”

“I don't like to think of you being there alone. I'm so tied up here I can't possibly get away before next week. I'd better wire Cuffy to come home.”

“Oh,
no,
Father!
Please
don't bother her. Willy's here, and we're pretty old now. Mona and I are anyway. We've got more sense than we used to have.”

“We're getting old, too,” said Oliver, and looked at Randy. “Aren't we?”

“Well, all right, Rush,” Father said, at last. “I suppose you are growing up. I suppose you ought to be able to handle this situation. And you've got Willy, of course. Be good to the boy Mark; I know you will. Keep him company, don't let him worry. Tell him I'll look out for him when I come up. Now let me speak to Willy.”

Willy took hold of the receiver as if it were a stick of dynamite. He had to clear his throat twice before he could speak.

“H'lo, Mr. Melendy,” he croaked. “H'are you?”

The children listened to Willy tell the story of the fire all over again. They listened while he explained that he and Herb Joyner were looking after Oren's livestock for the present. They listened while he reported on their own behavior and state of health.

“Randy has a kind of little cold, Mr. Melendy. And Oliver don't go to bed early the way he oughta. He stalls, Mr. Melendy, something awful.”

Oliver looked startled and guilty.

“Rush has been real good, and so have Mona and Randy. They're gettin' so they cook fine. Mark don't eat nothin', though, but I guess it's the shock. Lorna Doone's pretty good, though she got inta the corn last week and ate enough to bloat her. I mended the fence up back by the woods, and I'm buildin' a real good chicken house. Garden's okay: lotsa fresh vegetables and the corn's commencin'. Better come home soon, sir, we all miss you. All right, Mr. Melendy. You bet. Just a minute—”

Willy turned toward them and whispered (why no one knew), “He wants to say hello to each of you.”

Mona was first. She gave him a list of all the things she had learned how to cook, told him about the play she was writing and the book she was reading, and the way the Scarlett O'Hara morning-glories were beginning to bloom.

Randy was next. She spent her time begging Father to come soon and telling him how they missed him. At the end she said, “Could you please bring me a pair of ballet shoes, size two? Pink satin?”

“Silly,” said Rush, “there aren't any ballet dancers in Washington that I ever heard of. Just senators and congressmen, and they all wear congress gaiters, and very few of them wear size two.”

Oliver shouted into the telephone, “
HELLO, FATHER
!
THIS IS OLIVER. WHAT
?
YES. WHAT
?
OH. WELL, G'BYE
.”

Oliver hadn't talked on the telephone very often.

Rush finished the call, said good-bye again. Just as he said good-bye Miss Lederer chimed in, “Shall I send the bill to your home, Mr. Melendy? Or do you wish the charges reversed?”

Rush hung up. Father's voice without Father made him homesick for him. He looked at the others.

“Tough not having any folks at all,” he said. “Come on, let's go find Mark.”

They went outdoors. It was a beautiful day, sunny, with a wind blowing; but instead of bursting out with leaps and shouts, the Melendys came slowly, quietly. When they saw Mark standing beside the pool, with his back turned, instead of hailing him raucously and galloping across the grass, they approached deliberately, almost reluctantly. They were uncomfortable and full of pity and strange feelings. They didn't know what to say.

Mark said it for them. He turned around suddenly and smiled.

“I bet none of you can make a pebble skip five times across the pool.”

Of course none of them could. In the first place, the pool was too small; in the second place, they couldn't make a stone skip five times even on an ocean. But they fell to trying eagerly; relieved, comfortable, noisy once more.

They had their own ways of showing him their good will. They made him take the first turn. They applauded passionately when he skipped a stone three times; and Oliver collected flat pebbles for his ammunition.

“What's your favorite thing to eat in the whole world?” Mona asked him suddenly.

“I dunno. Strawberry shortcake, I guess. I had some once when we were over to Carthage getting the reaper mended.”

Mona's face fell. The time for strawberries was long over. Then she thought of something. “Did you ever taste
blackberry
shortcake? [Mona had never tasted it, either.] It's even better.”

Randy said, “What's your favorite color, Mark?”

“Green is.”

“Well, you know what? I'm going to knit you a green sweater. A good warm one.”

“Gee, that would be wonderful. But I don't want you to bother.”

“Yes,” said Randy. “Green. With a neck and everything.”

This was no mean contribution. Randy hated to knit and did it badly. She had never knitted anything except staggering, uncertain scarves, and the prospect of a whole sweater, with a front and a back and a neck, seemed as tortuous and difficult an undertaking as a journey through the labyrinth of the Minotaur.

“By Christmas it ought to be ready,” Randy said, and couldn't help sighing. “Anyway, sometime before spring.”

“Gee, that would be wonderful.”

“Wait till you see it first,” cautioned Rush. “It'll probably have three sleeves.”

At lunchtime Oliver pressed upon Mark a seventeen-foot catfish line that Mr. Titus had given him: the pride of his heart. After lunch Mona went off in the direction of the blackberries with a basket in her hand, and Randy went to Carthage on her bike, allowance in her pocket, to buy green knitting yarn.

“Let's go for a hike,” Rush said to Mark. “Someplace we've never been before. Someplace stiff like Powder Hill. Or let's take a long ride. Mona'd lend you her bike.”

“I oughta go over t' the farm and see about things. He'd be awful mad if he knew I was loafing this way.”

“Oh, come on. Willy's gone over to do your chores for you. Said he'd be glad to do 'em for the next few days. And Herb Joyner's going to milk.”

“Well.” Mark looked at Rush. “Gee, I never did ride a bicycle.”

“I'll teach you then! Come on, we'll have a lesson now. You'll find out that it's like milking; not as easy as it looks!”

Riding a bicycle was not the only thing that Mark was interested in learning. He drank up new experiences like a thirsty weed. He was intoxicated by the Melendys' books, and sat hour after hour on the floor of the Office, surrounded with crooked columns of books that he had taken from the cases. Bowed over a volume, cheek in his hand, there was no sound from him except the frequent, dry turning of a page.