The Boney Hand

by Karen Kane

  She threw up her hands in frustration and began to pace.

  “Charlie,” said Mr. Castle, “I never did get a chance to tell you about my other theatrical experiences I had when I was your age. This is a perfect time for you to hear more of my stories!”

  Mr. Castle switched to ASL. His story was a long one and took many detours. As Boris interpreted, Charlie could only think about what Mr. Willoughby was seeing on the camera right now.

  As Frog paced back and forth, her father told the story of auditioning for the school play. Mr. Castle was signing, “And then I said, ‘But I don’t want to be the White Rabbit—I want to be the Mad Hatter,’” when the graveyard door opened.

  Frog stopped pacing and grabbed Charlie’s hand.

  Grandpa Sol came out first. He saw Charlie and Frog, but his face remained expressionless.

  Mr. Willoughby came out next. He looked right at them. Charlie waited to be told, “I saw you on camera.” He waited to be told, “You will have to leave our school.”

  Frog clutched Charlie’s hand.

  But Mr. Willoughby’s eyes never focused on them.

  Instead, he seemed to be in a daze.

  “Do you know what this means?” Mr. Willoughby signed to Grandpa Sol as Boris interpreted. “This means I’m going to have to write a whole new script for our performance.”

  “Absolutely,” signed Grandpa Sol. “We have a new twist to our old legend. I have a feeling many people will want to attend the Legend of the Boney Hand just to see this unexpected ending.”

  “I’ll have to schedule more than just two performances,” signed Mr. Willoughby. “That means I’ll need more actors!”

  “So it would seem,” agreed Grandpa Sol.

  “And I really think,” Mr. Willoughby added as he and Grandpa Sol walked away, “we are going to want costumes for everyone, not just me—although I’ll certainly need a new one. And we need advertising! Perhaps we should hire a publicist?”

  Frog spun around to face Charlie and stared at him in disbelief.

  It had worked.

  It had really worked!

  Charlie wanted to sign, “Pah! We did it!”

  He could see Frog wanted to sign it, too, but they both caught themselves, remembering Boris and Mr. Castle were there.

  “Now, Charlie, where was I?” signed Mr. Castle before noticing Mrs. Castle was motioning for Charlie, Frog, and Boris to come into the graveyard. Charlie’s excited feeling fell away as they entered. Mrs. Castle signed something to her husband, who nodded and settled back on his stool with his book. Mrs. Castle shut the graveyard door.

  “So,” she signed as Boris interpreted, “the Boney Hand is back.”

  “It is?” signed Frog. She stared at her mother with wide eyes and an open mouth, appearing dumbfounded by this news. Frog should be an actor, not a detective. Frog made the sign “great” by placing her hands out in front of her—palms facing out, fingers pointing up—and pushing them forward and back. Then she lowered her hands and pushed them forward again.

  “That’s great!” signed Frog. “Well, I need to get back to the café—”

  “Apparently,” continued Mrs. Castle as if Frog hadn’t signed anything, “Mr. Willoughby mounted a camera inside the church without our knowledge.”

  Mrs. Castle paused and looked at Boris, who kept a poker face and waited for her to continue. “Mr. Willoughby believed whoever stole the Boney Hand was a student, and that the student would return it,” she signed. “But it seems the Boney Hand did not need someone to return it. It came back on its own. At first we weren’t sure what we were seeing. But it’s right there on the camera.”

  “It’s hard to believe!” signed Frog. “But I guess we HAVE to believe it! The legend is really true!”

  Mrs. Castle simply looked at Frog with a steady gaze.

  “Mom, I promise,” signed Frog. “I had nothing to do with stealing the Boney Hand.”

  Mrs. Castle’s gaze slid over to Charlie.

  “I promise,” signed Charlie, “that I had nothing to do with stealing the Boney Hand.”

  Mrs. Castle nodded. “I believe you,” she signed. “Both of you.”

  With a thumbs-up and a confident nod, Frog walked backward until she was pressed up against the graveyard door. “And now I better go finish serving breakfast! Come on, Charlie!” Frog opened the door and dashed out of the cemetery.

  Charlie started to leave, too, but he wasn’t quick enough.

  “Charlie,” signed Mrs. Castle as Boris spoke. “While the Boney Hand was missing, there was talk about you being an outsider.” Mrs. Castle looked straight into Charlie’s eyes. “You are not an outsider.”

  “But I’m hearing,” signed Charlie. “And I don’t sign very well.”

  “I don’t see you as a hearing child who doesn’t sign very well,” Mrs. Castle told him. “I see Charlie. I see you.”

  Relief flooded through Charlie.

  It didn’t matter to Mrs. Castle that he was hearing. That was all Charlie needed to know.

  “I just wish I knew more ASL,” he signed. “I’m learning as fast as I can.”

  “And you’ll keep learning,” signed Mrs. Castle. “But learning ASL doesn’t begin here.” She pointed to Charlie’s hands. “It begins here.” She pointed to Charlie’s heart. “I can’t teach that. A student must already have that inside—like you have.”

  Charlie didn’t fully understand what Mrs. Castle was saying—but he felt what Mrs. Castle was saying.

  And it felt good.

  “Who else,” signed Mrs. Castle, “should I check with? Just to make sure that everything is okay?”

  “Just make sure they’re okay?” asked Charlie. “That’s all?”

  “Just to make sure they are okay,” she repeated.

  “Check on Jasper Dill,” signed Charlie. “I think he needs someone to talk to.”

  Charlie thought of someone else.

  “And check on Rupert Miggs,” signed Charlie. “Rupert is not what he looks like,” Charlie told Mrs. Castle as Boris signed. “Grown-ups always see him as nice. He’s not nice.”

  Mrs. Castle nodded and gave Charlie one of her strong, solid hugs with the humming sound. Then she signed her “I’m-here-if-you-need-me” sign. Charlie knew that sign wasn’t just for him. Mrs. Castle was there for all of her students.

  Even Rupert Miggs.

  • • •

  “I have no idea what just happened,” said Boris as they headed toward the castle. “But I always knew you and Frog were a good team. You two are like Holmes and Watson! Dorrie and Jack!”

  “You’ve read the Dorrie McCann books?” asked Charlie, incredulous.

  “Hasn’t everyone?” said Boris.

  Charlie had made it through one book. That was enough.

  “It’s kind of cool,” Boris continued, “to watch this new story become part of the legend. Stories are powerful, dude. That’s why I love movies. And just for the record, I had no idea why Willoughby was grilling me about my time-lapse camera. You have to believe me.”

  “I believe you,” said Charlie.

  “Good,” said Boris. He took a long look around the castle grounds. “When I finish film school, I’m coming back to make a sequel to The Boney Hand—I’ll call it The Boney Hand Returns!”

  Charlie saw Obie and Max sitting outside the barn, their faces tilted toward the morning sun. He knew Obie would soon be collecting different perspectives on what happened. Charlie wanted to tell him his version. He was sure Frog would agree that Obie, as caretaker of the castle, should know the truth. Obie was a secret-keeper. He wouldn’t tell.

  “How long is film school?” Charlie asked.

  “A couple of years,” said Boris.

  “Then I’ll still be here when you come back,” said Charlie happily as he walked toward the barn.

  • • •

  During lunch outside, students were excitedly discussing this new development of the Legend of the Boney Hand. Charlie and Frog sat on a
blanket spread over the still-damp ground, and watched Millie play catch with Bear and Boris. Wendell sat with them, watching everyone talk about his favorite person, Boney Jack. Wendell seemed delighted to have helped create this new piece of the famous legend.

  Rupert ate lunch with Jasper, doing his usual joking and laughing. But for some reason, he left Charlie and Frog alone.

  Bear caught the ball. This time, instead of bringing it to Millie or Boris, he brought it over to Jasper and dropped it at his feet. Bear’s long pink tongue was hanging out of his mouth as he panted and waited for Jasper to throw the ball.

  Millie came over.

  “Do you want to play with us?” Millie signed to Jasper.

  Jasper quickly looked at Rupert, as if asking permission.

  Charlie had always thought Jasper was strong because his body was strong. Now he realized that being strong on the outside didn’t necessarily mean you were strong on the inside.

  Rupert didn’t sign anything, but his mocking smile said, “Why would you want to play ball with a little girl and her dog?”

  In that moment, something seemed to shift within Jasper. He shrugged as if to say, “I don’t care what you think.”

  Jasper picked up the ball. He almost smiled as he threw it. Bear galloped after it. Rupert turned to find someone to say something mean about Jasper. But for once, no one was interested. Rupert went back to eating his lunch. Alone.

  Charlie studied Rupert from across the lawn. Without Jasper at his side, Rupert seemed smaller. Deflated. Charlie wondered what the other pieces of Rupert’s puzzle were. He supposed he’d have to ask a lot of questions to find out.

  Something occurred to him: Someone who gave out that much meanness must have a lot of meanness inside him to give. And that meanness had to come from somewhere. Where did it come from?

  Chief Paley left the castle. She was heading toward the gondola landing when she spotted Charlie and Frog. She waved them over.

  “Sorry,” signed Chief Paley.

  “Sorry about what?” Charlie and Frog both asked.

  “Sorry,” the chief signed, “that you didn’t solve the case.”

  The chief took out her notepad and wrote: The missing Boney Hand case would have been great for you to solve. We’ll never know what really happened now that the hand is back, because Sol said the case is closed. But I always suspected that kid. She tipped her head toward Rupert. He’s a sycophant.

  “A what?” Charlie and Frog both signed, looking at that new word.

  A sycophant, wrote the chief. A lickspittle, a toady, a flatterer—someone who kisses up to adults so they think he’s a good kid when he’s not!

  Chief Paley had no problem seeing Rupert clearly. But Charlie knew that was only one piece of Rupert. It wasn’t the whole puzzle.

  “Well, I’d better get going,” signed Chief Paley. “I need to tell Bone—” Chief Paley stopped signing.

  “Tell Bone what?” asked Frog.

  “Nothing,” signed the chief.

  Frog gave Chief Paley her best Frog look, which not even Chief Paley could withstand.

  Okay, wrote the chief, I’ll tell you, but you can’t tell anyone else.

  Charlie and Frog both nodded.

  Bone is writing a history of the Boney Hand, wrote Chief Paley. He’s embarrassed to admit it because he has railed against the hand for so long. But it’s his passion. And now he has a phenomenal ending for his book.

  What were you and Miss Tweedy doing with Bone, asked Frog, the night the Boney Hand scared her?

  That’s our weekly writing group, wrote Chief Paley. Bone is writing his history book; I’m writing a mystery with a brilliant chief of police in a small, quirky village. And Miss Tweedy is writing, well, I’m not sure what Miss Tweedy is writing.

  The chief saw the gondola approaching the castle and waved good-bye. Charlie saw Mrs. Castle and the man with paint-splattered clothes. They were setting up paint easels overlooking the Hudson River. Mrs. Castle was smiling.

  Charlie pointed them out to Frog.

  “I know!” signed Frog. “I forgot to tell you!” She gestured to Charlie for his pen and notebook that he always had in his back pocket. That’s Mr. Cole! wrote Frog. Remember Miss Tweedy mentioned him? He just opened an art studio in the village. Mom has always wanted to paint.

  But why did your mom look so anxious, asked Charlie, when she saw him the morning of the Fall Extravaganza?

  Mr. Cole had come to the castle, Frog told him, to convince Mom she could paint. Mom thought she couldn’t paint because she wasn’t good at it. Mr. Cole told her if she loved painting then she just had to start. He said often you have to paint badly before you can paint well.

  Charlie thought about what Yvette had said to him, that it might take a long time to find what makes you happy.

  Mrs. Castle was finding that now.

  When Charlie arrived home from school, his grand-parents were asleep in their E-Z chair recliners. Charlie was glad—he needed a break. Grandparents were a lot of work.

  Yvette was upstairs vacuuming. Charlie got an apple from the refrigerator. There was a stack of books on the table with a receipt from Blythe and Bone Bookshop—the books his parents had ordered before they left. Mr. Simple must have delivered them.

  “Book” was an easy sign to remember: you put your palms together and then opened them up like a book.

  Charlie looked at the titles. He wondered if Matilda had helped his parents pick them. One book was called How to Have a Good Life Even If Your Parents Weren’t Good. Another was Parents Are Human Beings, Too. A third was Parenting Is Hard; Being a Child Is Harder.

  It suddenly occurred to Charlie that his parents were not only parents; they had also been children once, too. Charlie’s mom’s parents had died when she was a baby. But Charlie’s father’s parents were Grandma and Grandpa Tickler. What must it have been like to have them as parents?

  Charlie picked up the book Parents Are Human Beings, Too and turned to the first page.

  • • •

  Just before dinner, the phone rang. Charlie was still reading at the kitchen table while Yvette was mashing potatoes. Charlie went to the black phone on the wall and answered it.

  “Tickler residence, Charlie speaking.”

  “It’s me, your mother!” said Mrs. Tickler.

  “And me, your father!” added Mr. Tickler.

  “Guess what, Mom and Dad?” he said. “The Boney Hand is back!”

  “Oh, wonderful!” said Mrs. Tickler. “We’re so relieved!”

  “Indeed we are!” said Mr. Tickler.

  Charlie glanced at the book in his hand. It was hard to think of his parents as people and not just parents. As Charlie had been reading, he realized there were many things about his parents he didn’t know. He only saw the parent piece of his parents’ puzzle.

  So Charlie asked a question.

  “Mom and Dad, how are you able to go all over the world and help animals? Isn’t that expensive?”

  “It is,” said Mr. Tickler. “So we ask people for money to send us places.”

  “And they give us money,” said Mrs. Tickler, “because we’re very skilled at observing and understanding animals. We’re excellent at watching them and collecting information about them. The more information we have, the more we can help them.”

  Charlie had never thought about his parents being smart with animals or smart about asking people for money. He had never thought his parents were smart about anything.

  “But you can’t just learn about animals from a book,” said Charlie. “You have to watch them in their natural habitat. Right?”

  “Of course!” said Mr. Tickler. “That’s the only way to do it properly.”

  Mr. Tickler said this matter-of-factly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Charlie wondered why his mother and father couldn’t see other obvious things as clearly as they saw animals.

  Why couldn’t they see Charlie?

  A stab of anger burned insid
e him.

  He was only a kid.

  Why should Charlie have to tell his parents something they should already know?

  But he had to. So he would.

  “Mom and Dad,” said Charlie, “did you know kids are a lot like animals? We’re like blind salamanders or giant golden moles. We need to be observed in our natural habitat.”

  Yvette was mashing potatoes furiously while nodding her head furiously.

  “Alistair, did you hear what Charlie said?” asked his mother.

  “I certainly did, Myra,” said his father. There was a long pause. Then he softly said, “I have never thought about children that way before.”

  Charlie swallowed. It hurt to swallow because of the thick lump that filled his throat. “Well,” said Charlie, “that’s how you figure out the parenting stuff. That’s how you learn to be my mom and dad. But you can’t learn that from books,” he explained, his voice cracking just the tiniest bit.

  “You have to be here,” Charlie added, “to see me.”

  Charlie and Frog leaned against D. J. McKinnon’s headstone. Tapping the pen against her lips, Frog thought about what to write on her frog stationery. She wore a green-jeweled frog brooch that Wendell had given her from Junk and Stuff. Wendell had given Charlie an IOU for a triple ice cream cone from Nathan’s Ice Cream Emporium.

  Charlie and Frog both thought they received the better gift.

  Frog began writing her letter to Vince Vinelli. After a few minutes, she paused and looked up.

  “Did you ever think,” Frog asked Charlie, “that I wasn’t really a detective? That I was just cute?”

  Charlie looked at Frog in surprise.

  “Never,” he signed.

  Frog grinned.

  It was Charlie’s turn to ask the question he had wanted to ask since the Boney Hand went missing.

  “Did you ever think I stole the Boney Hand?” asked Charlie.

  Frog snorted.

  “You?” she signed. “Never.”

  Charlie grinned.

  Frog went back to writing her letter. Charlie let his head rest against the cool headstone. Today it felt peaceful in the graveyard. And, for once, not scary.

  One thing, though, still mystified Charlie.