The Vandemark Mummy

by Cynthia Voigt

  Phineas carefully didn’t look up from his clipboard. If he had, he might have laughed. The two of them were so obvious about what they were up to—it was like “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood,” Phineas thought, like Lady Elaine talking with King Friday the Thirteenth, he thought—and laughed out loud.

  By the end of an hour, almost everyone had left. Phineas didn’t blame them. There wasn’t much to see: First, the movers had to learn how to get to room 015, then the driver maneuvered the truck into the right position, then they set up the ramp. Finally they pulled open the rear doors. Once people had peered inside the truck—just lots of boxes, some coffin-size, some crate-size—they went away. Only the reporter, who up close turned out to be a young woman, the bearded Dr. Simard, and the rich kid and his father remained to watch the first crate carried out of the truck.

  The two movers who were carrying it stopped in front of Phineas so that he could check off the sticker number. They protested when he looked at it from all sides to see if the box had any signs of damage. “Kid, this is heavy. Besides, it was all packed up when we got there. Packed sometime just after Noah’s Ark landed, if you want my opinion. Anything wrong with the packing has nothing to do with us.”

  “Just checking,” Phineas said, and proceeded to do so. He didn’t expect to find anything, no crushed ends or things falling out of holes. These were wooden crates, solidly built. “Do you know where to take them?”

  “Yes, sir.” The man was making fun of him.

  Phineas didn’t take offense.

  It took another hour to unload the truck. Dr. Simard hung around, trying to look, Phineas thought, like he mattered. Phineas stayed put with his clipboard and pen, methodically checking each box and at the same time eavesdropping on the reporter’s attempt to interview the rich man, who turned out to be Felix K. C. Vandemark IV. “So you’ve never actually seen the collection?” she asked. She had short dark hair, in a chunky cut.

  “None of the family has, except my grandfather, of course. There are inventory sheets, which I will turn over to Professor Hall, but one can’t tell from an inventory sheet what condition the individual object may be in.”

  “Can I have a copy of the inventory?”

  “You’ll have to ask Professor Hall about that. He’s the curator.”

  “So, what was your grandfather doing in Egypt, in . . . nineteen sixteen to nineteen eighteen?”

  “The war,” Mr. Vandemark answered.

  “Huh?” the reporter asked.

  “The Great War. The First World War.”

  “Oh, was that on then?”

  Behind him, Phineas heard Althea snort. Mr. Vandemark looked at the reporter as if she were some kind of insect, some kind of unpleasant, unwelcome insect. But his good manners kept him stuffy. “Yes,” he said.

  “What was he, an officer?”

  “He wasn’t in any army. I was always told that he was an admirer of Lawrence. I have always assumed he was working with Lawrence.”

  She chewed on the end of her pen. “You mean Lawrence of Arabia? I saw that movie. Peter O’Toole. Did your grandfather know him?”

  “I can’t think that’s relevant,” Mr. Vandemark said. He had a square jaw and unfriendly eyes. Phineas would have stopped asking him questions with those eyes looking at him, but the reporter stood her ground.

  “So, was your grandfather an Egypt fan all his life?” the reporter asked. “What would that be, an Egyptologist?”

  “He was a collector, to put it most accurately. This is just one of many collections.”

  “What were the others?”

  “China figurines, Roman coins, Duncan Pfyffe furniture, eighteenth-century watercolors. He had quite a library of first editions, from the twenties and thirties, prose, fiction, and poetry, some inscribed. Have I forgotten anything, Casey?”

  “Japanese ceremonial robes,” the boy contributed.

  “Yes, Japanese ceremonial robes,” he repeated.

  The reporter was writing like crazy. “And all of this is coming to Vandemark College?” She sounded impressed.

  “Mayan pottery,” the boy said.

  “That’s right,” his father said, “Mayan pottery.”

  “And all of this—” the reporter said.

  “Edward Lear memorabilia,” the boy said.

  “I think she has enough,” his father said.

  “And all of this is coming to Vandemark?” the reporter asked.

  The man sighed. “Only the Egyptian Collection has been left to Vandemark. The others are going to other universities.”

  “Like where?” She was so busy writing, she didn’t see the expression on his face.

  “Harvard. Yale. Stanford.” He marched the names out.

  “Why not Vandemark?” she wondered.

  “My grandfather may have thought that when his father gave the land and buildings to found the college, the family had done enough.” Clearly, Mr. Vandemark thought his family had done enough, and maybe even more than enough.

  “So, is there really a mummy?”

  “Yes,” he said, cautious, and also bored.

  “And what about the curse? What’s the mummy’s curse for this one? Like, is your whole family dead?”

  Althea guffawed. The reporter turned around, as if surprised to see them. Luckily, Mr. Hall and Dr. Simard emerged from the library cellar in time to hear this, and see Mr. Vandemark’s face.

  “Miss—” Mr. Hall said.

  “O’Meara. No Miss, just O’Meara. From the Post.”

  “And a Vandemark graduate,” Professor Simard said. Something about what he said, or the way he said it, made her scuff her feet, as if she’d suddenly lost about ten years. “You’re doing well for yourself if you’re working for the Post.”

  “I guess I am.”

  “The situation is, O’Meara, I can’t give you any information right now,” Mr. Hall said. “We haven’t uncrated the collection. If you call me in, say a week? I can give you a better idea of what there is, so you can do a story. But—none of this mummy’s curse stuff, okay? Nobody takes that kind of thing seriously. If there were such things”—his eyes twinkled—“do you know how many mummies there are? Imagine all of them, lying in museums and cursing away.”

  She let this information sink in. “How many mummies are there?” she asked.

  Even Phineas choked on that one.

  “Call me next week. I’ll have more to tell you then,” Mr. Hall said. She had to know that he was giving her a hint.

  “And keep up the good work,” Dr. Simard said.

  He didn’t sound sarcastic. He didn’t look sarcastic either; there was no hint of mockery on what you could see of his face beyond the beard. Maybe he was sincere, Phineas thought.

  CHAPTER 4

  Their work done, the movers folded up packing quilts, replaced ramps, bolted the van doors shut, accepted their check from Mr. Vandemark, and then climbed into the cab. As the truck pulled out of the parking lot, O’Meara looked around.

  Nobody said anything to her.

  “So, what happens next?” she finally asked.

  “I have a class this afternoon,” Mr. Hall answered, “and I expect there are some papers Mr. Vandemark would like me to read and sign before he leaves.” Hint, hint, Phineas thought.

  “Can I get a picture of the boxes in their room?”

  “No, the room is locked.”

  She pounced. “You’re keeping it locked? Do you expect trouble?”

  Mr. Vandemark rumbled, impatiently. Dr. Simard stepped in. “Give it up, Miss O’Meara. Why don’t you go home now, like a good girl?”

  He only made her more stubborn. “What kind of locks, Mr. Hall?”

  “Tell you what. We could make an appointment for an interview next week. Would that satisfy you?”

  “When next week?”

  “Call me Tuesday. Is that fair enough?”

  There was more she wanted to ask, but she gave it up. “Okay, thanks,” she said, folding her notebook closed, dro
pping her ballpoint pen into a lumpy cloth purse and jamming the notebook in after it. “I’ll call you Tuesday.”

  They watched her walk away, purse banging against one hip, camera banging against the other. They watched her halt and turn abruptly around again. “Morning,” she called. “Tuesday morning. Early.”

  “How can I be jealous of someone like that?” Althea muttered. Phineas answered her just as quietly.

  “You’re not, are you? Why should you be?”

  “She’s thin. She stands up for herself.”

  “You’re not fat.”

  “Ha,” Althea said.

  “No, I mean it. Fat people jiggle.”

  “And I have terrible legs.”

  “Your legs aren’t great, but they’re not bad,” Phineas said.

  “What do you know about it?” she demanded.

  “I’m a boy,” he pointed out.

  “That’s just what I mean.”

  Phineas couldn’t figure out what to say. Sometimes, he felt guilty about the way their gene pool had gotten distributed. Althea should have been the one to look like their mother. It didn’t matter what guys looked like, not nearly as much as what girls looked like.

  For that matter, Phineas should have been the one to get his father’s brains. It didn’t matter as much if girls were smart, he thought. Then he clamped his hand over his mouth, as if he’d actually said the words out loud. What his mother would say if she could hear him thinking that—imagining it made him grin. She’d have a lot to say. Besides, his mother was smart, really sharp. She just wasn’t intelligent in the same way his father was. They were pretty different, in that way as well as in looks, and he guessed he could understand if they didn’t live together.

  “What’s wrong with your mouth?” Phineas jammed his hand in his pocket. “Dad wants us,” Althea went on. “Coming?”

  Mr. Hall stood between Phineas and Althea to introduce them. “My children,” he said.

  Mr. Vandemark dipped his head at them, so they couldn’t say he didn’t know they existed, Phineas figured. Up close, Mr. Vandemark looked just like Phineas expected him to, like a prize dog ready for the big show, a prize bulldog because of his heavy jaw, all gleaming with food and grooming. The kid silent at his side looked about the same, only short, and his hair didn’t have any gray in it.

  “I guess I’m extraneous too,” Dr. Simard said. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Vandemark, and say in person how grateful I am, how much the bequest will add to the college. I appreciate—we appreciate—but you’re a busy man. And Sam, you know where to find me if you need me.”

  “Yes, thanks, although I’ve got these two to help out.”

  “I know hieroglyphs, and a fair amount of the history, some demotic Greek—but I imagine you know Greek better than I do. I’d be pleased to be of service. You’re a lucky man, Sam. I’d envy you more if you weren’t qualified for the job.”

  “Thanks again,” Mr. Hall answered. “A vote of confidence is more than welcome.”

  Dr. Simard smiled, a flash of teeth in his beard. “Don’t let Lucille worry you—I expect she’s jealous.” He was as big, both tall and broad, and as hairy, as a Viking, but his eyes weren’t right for the part. They were mild blue eyes, wimp eyes. “Tell you what I do envy,” he said, still smiling. “People with children, families.” He waved a hand and strode off.

  “I assume he has no children,” Mr. Vandemark said. “Well, I’ve got six, and I agree with him. That, however, is entirely beside the point. All that is left me to do is explain the details of the bequest to you, and what your responsibilities to the executors will be. I understand you have one of the former servants’ houses? We have our picnic hamper with us.”

  Althea pulled on Phineas’s arm, to pull him away.

  “There’s plenty for all of us,” the boy said, speaking for the first time. “You know the kind of lunch Mrs. Willis packs, Dad, as if we were going to feed the king of England.”

  “There is no king of England,” Mr. Vandemark said.

  The boy flushed.

  * * *

  The picnic came in two wicker baskets that looked like suitcases and were almost as big. It came with its own dishes, utensils, and glasses. The Halls didn’t even have to supply napkins, which was lucky, because Mr. Vandemark didn’t look like the kind of man to tolerate a paper napkin. Chicken salad, in a covered bowl, a dozen hard rolls with a stick of unsalted butter, three different cheeses, four kinds of fruit, a chocolate cake cut into pieces, a bottle of wine, and a bottle of Perrier water—the picnic filled the dining room table.

  Phineas wanted milk and so did the boy, Casey, which gave Althea a chance at the Perrier. Once all of their plates were filled with food, Mr. Vandemark had a speech to make. “I won’t attempt to hide it from you, Mr. Hall. The family will not be unhappy if the college fails to meet the terms of the bequest. The family had hoped that Grandfather would donate his Egyptian Collection to the MFA—the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. It seems a suitable recipient for such a bequest.”

  Mr. Vandemark was the kind of man who thinks only he should ever be talking. Phineas looked curiously at Casey: No surprise, the kid was eating quietly, the kind of kid who thinks he’s better off not having anything to say.

  “Of course, it didn’t come entirely as a surprise. Grandfather was a difficult man—self-indulgent, impulsive, just what you’d expect of the first generation after a self-made man. Most of the time the family could control him but a will is between a man and his lawyer. The family feels very strongly that the MFA should have the collection,” he said again.

  This family was beginning to sound like the SEC and the IRS with a little IRA mixed in. Phineas was already pretty tired of this family. He looked at Casey. Casey lifted his fork to his mouth, his face as expressionless as if he were deaf.

  “How unfortunate for you that your grandfather didn’t agree,” Mr. Hall said.

  Mr. Vandemark nodded his head. “I’m glad you understand. He was a trial to his father, a trial to his sister, and a trial to his own children.”

  “Ummnnmn,” Mr. Hall said, his mouth full.

  “The proposed addition to the library is of course little more than an attempt to get even with his sister. Olivia—that’s your great-great-aunt, Casey—had been left life tenancy in what is now McPhail House, but she donated it to the college, which irritated Grandfather.”

  “You mean she gave the president his house?”

  Mr. Vandemark looked at Phineas for a few seconds before he answered, making Phineas wish he’d kept his trap shut. Phineas bet he could tell what the man was thinking: Children should be seen but not heard. “She gave her house to the college, and the college houses its president there,” Mr. Vandemark said, when he was through waiting to speak. “As well as its alumni offices.”

  Phineas nodded and tried to look alert, as if this was important information he was glad to have.

  “The family can only assume that Grandfather intended to catch up with her. In the kind and value of his gift.”

  Phineas nodded, as if now it was all clear to him.

  “It’s my father who is the most upset about this. This was the only chance to place a Vandemark gift in the halls of the MFA.”

  “I can understand your frustration,” Mr. Hall said, distracting Mr. Vandemark’s attention.

  “It’s not the money,” Mr. Vandemark said. “Nobody would have minded a building, nobody minds. In fact, we rather expected that.”

  “Should I apologize?” Mr. Hall asked.

  “I don’t see what good that would do,” Mr. Vandemark said. “No, we have to grin and bear it, even you. Because I’m sure you agree that you don’t have the qualifications—”

  “Well,” Mr. Hall said, his eyes bright, “I’ll do my best. If that’s not good enough, your problems will be solved.”

  “Although even this particular building project we have our doubts about. We feel the money would be better used in some forward-looking field. T
he sciences perhaps. Something with its eye to the future. I can promise you, however, that even if the terms Grandfather set up aren’t met, no member of the family would attempt to take the money away from the college.”

  Mr. Hall didn’t say anything.

  Mr. Vandemark didn’t say anything.

  None of the kids said anything.

  After a while, Mr. Vandemark spoke again. “You’ll want to see the provenance files, and I have your contract here, financial statements, a copy of the will. . . . Why don’t you three go outside and play?” he asked, as if he had just noticed the children at the table.

  * * *

  Althea, Phineas, and Casey sat down in a row on the front steps, with Phineas in the middle. Casey studied his tasseled loafers, for a long time. Althea picked at the soles of her sneakers. Phineas didn’t have anything to talk to anybody about. The sky was blue. The leaves rustled. You couldn’t hear anything—no voices, no cars, nothing.

  Finally Casey asked, “Are you two twins?”

  “What?” Phineas asked. “Us?” he laughed.

  “Well you look about the same age.” Casey brushed his hair back, as if it were allowed to grow long enough to fall over his forehead.

  “Identical twins, right?” Phineas turned to grin at his sister.

  Casey pulled at the tail of his tie. “Then how old are you?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Althea?”

  “Fifteen next month.”

  “Oh,” Casey said. He studied his loafers some more. His nose had an interesting bump about halfway down it. Phineas had enough friends to know that you couldn’t judge a kid by his parents. “I’m never good guessing ages,” Casey said. “All of my brothers and sisters are a lot older than I am. I’m thirteen,” he said, although nobody had asked him. “My next oldest sister is going to graduate from college next year. Princeton. I’m an afterthought. Where’s your mother?”

  “In Portland,” Althea answered, before Phineas could say anything.

  “Mine stays in Boston, except for some weekends. We come up to Kennebunk for the summer. We always come up for the summer, even before Bush.”

  Nobody said anything.