by Andre Norton
But where was Chris, and what had he come here for?
No one seemed to be paying any attention to her. Nan sidled by the women at the dress counter, moving toward the back of the store where Chris must have gone.
There were counters here like in a real shop—cases with transistors, and toasters, a couple of boxes with jewelry lying on dark cloth in them, while on the tops of the cases balanced some handbags, beyond them some cups and saucers, each with a different flower pattern, a number of belts. Then she caught sight of him and stopped by the belts.
Chris was busy at a big table where there were piles of old books and magazines. Some of those were tied up in bundles with price tags stuck under the twine which held them together. Those he pushed aside to look at the books.
He thumbed down the line of volumes. There were some how-to-do-it books, but just about gardening and stuff like that. Nothing really useful. Old story books with the lettering on their backs so dim you had to look really close to read the titles—nothing but Hardy Boys and things he had already read, like Tarzan and Huckleberry Finn. Somehow Chris felt a strong disappointment. It had been so easy getting here, as if he were meant to find something really good. He pushed another pile of National Geographies to one side. There was only a battered Tom Swift—kid stuff.
As he worked his way around the table, Chris's frustration grew. But he would find something; he was determined on that. Now he moved to the next big table. Toys—there was part of a railroad set. Not much good unless you had more pieces; anyway he did not care for trains. Two Panda bears, and a whole row of dolls. A pile of jigsaw-puzzle boxes caught his eye, and he glanced at the cover pictures. No good. Not when he had no place he could start a puzzle and just leave it out. Turn up with one of those, and Aunt Elizabeth might ask questions.
Impatiently he pushed past the toy table and reached the glass-fronted case at the very back of the store. Guns—old guns—and a sword! Again he realized there was no hope of ever keeping such a secret in the apartment.
There were some plates, cups—Oh, these were the antiques, the old things people collected. He lingered before a set of dull-surfaced coins laid out carefully on a strip of threadbare velvet. But he did not know anything about coins. There was a box of stamps all thrown together—
Chris knew what he longed to find, a buy so different that it would make this stay with Aunt Elizabeth worthwhile. He had to find it!
“Looking for something, son?”
Startled, Chris glanced up at the man standing behind the case. He was smiling but watchful. Maybe they watched all kids in here, thought they might grab something.
“Got any model kits?” He asked to prove that he was a prospective customer and not a shoplifter.
“Model kits? Let me see.” The man went to the wall shelves where there were boxes piled. Chris moved farther along the case. Beyond the box of stamps were three daggers laid out, one with a silver hilt. Chris regarded them longingly but knew he had no chance of getting one of those. That man was not going to sell him a knife, not even if he could afford it.
Beyond the daggers was something else. At first glance Chris thought it a dollhouse, but a very small one. He would have passed over it, except there was something about it— He had never seen a house just like it, except in a book once. And that picture flashed into his mind. It was not a doll-house. It was the model of an inn! There was the high arch of an entrance, flanking the smaller door; that was where the old coaches drove through to an inner courtyard. The upper part of the building was a cream yellow with broad dark beams across it in an angled pattern. The tiny windows had threadlike markings on them, dividing their glass into bits of panes, diamond in shape.
“Here you are, Columbus's flagship, and a World War II bomber—”
Chris hardly heard what the man said as he slid two boxes onto the top of the case.
“That"—he pointed at the inn—"What's that? A doll-house?”
“That? Oh, you mean the peep show.”
Chris did not take his eyes from the inn as he asked, “What's a peep show?”
“You look in the windows, see?” The man slid open the back of the case after he had unlocked it. He lifted out the inn and put it down before Chris. “It's old, that. A real unusual piece.”
Chris fumbled for his money. “How much?” he demanded without taking his eyes from it. He knew he had found what he had come for, something which would be his, transform this stay with Aunt Elizabeth into a period of time he could get through.
“It's not a toy.” The man sounded impatient. “Not now anyway. It's an antique.”
“How much?” Chris repeated doggedly. If Dad's gift was not enough, he would get the rest somehow. He had to have that! It was different from any model he had ever fooled around with, and he wanted to take it up in his hands, look through those tiny windows, just feel it.
‘Ten dollars.” The man's hand had already closed upon the inn. He was going to put it away again as if he were very sure that Chris did not have ten dollars.
“I'll take it.” Chris brought out his bill, smoothed it flat. “See, I have the money, more than enough. It's mine,” he added, guessing what the expression on the man's face meant now. “I had a birthday,” he improvised—no use going into the facts of why Dad might have given it to him—"It's a present, and I can spend it on anything I like.”
For a moment the man looked from Chris to the crumpled bill and then back again. Chris must have sounded convincing, for at last he nodded. Then he reached for a box and carefully slid the inn into it.
“Come up to the cash register, son.” He did not give the box to Chris; rather, he carried both it and the money as if he expected some difficulty over the sale might still arise.
Nan had just time to dodge behind a rack of suits as Chris turned. He had bought something. But what? And he seemed different somehow, as he passed without seeing her, as if he had found something exciting. She wanted to know what made him look like that, so different from the sullen boy who had ignored her and made his dislike so plain.
She squeezed along behind the racks and by the counters on the other side of the store. Luckily Chris never looked in her direction, and she was able to reach the door and get out before he moved away from the cash register.
Surely now he would return to the theater, and she did not want him to know that she had followed him. She trotted back to the lobby but did not pass the ticket-taker. If Chris did not come, she would not go in alone.
But he did come. Only when he saw her sitting on the bench, he scowled. “What're you doing here?”
“Waiting for you.” She hoped her voice sounded just as snappy as his. “I'm not going in by myself.”
“All right, I won't make you.”
He had the box under his arm, hugging it close to him. Now he marched straight past her, holding his ticket in one hand and heading toward the inner door.
Nan got up quickly and got out her own ticket. She wanted to tell him she knew where he had gone and to demand to know what he had in the box, but better judgment suggested that she keep her mouth shut. She was sure Chris was not going to answer any questions now.
He did not even wait for her, though she was certain he knew she was following him, but walked firmly on into the dark of the theater where the sound track was loud with rolling thunder. Nan trailed behind, her irritation growing with every step.
Surely when Aunt Elizabeth came, she would notice the box and ask questions. But later, as they emerged blinking into the lobby, Nan did not see the box. There was, she decided after a critical survey, a bulge in the front of Chris's jacket. What did he have to hide from Aunt Elizabeth?
Chris himself was faced with just that problem. He had wrapped the box in his scarf and left it under the seat, positive during all his efforts to disguise it that Nan was going to ask him what in the world he was doing. He had had the words, “Mind your own business,” on his lips all the time he worked to conceal his purchase. But Nan, cau
ght in spite of herself by the story on the screen at that moment, had apparently not been aware of what he was doing.
He could not quite understand why he felt he must keep the inn a secret. There was nothing wrong in spending the money Dad had given him for something he wanted. Aunt Elizabeth might try to make something of his leaving Nan and going into the Salvation Army place. But he had not been told not to go, and after all, he was old enough to do something like that. Yet from the first the inn had seemed a secret which he did not want to share with anyone else. Peep show, the man had called it. Chris had had no chance to peep into the windows—What was inside? He was hot with impatience to get home and see.
Aunt Elizabeth was late, of course. Nan sat at one end of the lobby bench, and he at the other. And Chris was so filled with his need for secrecy he did not even notice she kept watching him.
Chris had that thing, whatever it was he had bought in the store, stuck under his jacket. Nan tried to guess from the lump what it might be. There had been a million things, maybe even more, for sale in that store. So what had Chris bought from that counter ‘way at the back? Not a book, because he had looked all over the book table and then gone on.
She had seen the toys on the other table, but he had not stayed there either. The case at the back—She was sure there had been guns there. A gun! Had Chris bought a gun? He would not dare, and she was sure that the man would not have sold him one either. So—
“I am late!” Aunt Elizabeth's voice caught Nan's attention. “I'm sorry! But Cousin Philip wanted me to make some phone calls for him, business matters. Come on—there's a taxi waiting. I stopped at Fung-How's and got us a Chinese dinner. That will be fun, won't it? And how was the show?”
She rattled on, urging them before her into the taxi. Aunt Elizabeth's life, Nan decided, was made up of waiting taxis. There were some big boxes on the seat giving out smells which Nan found queer; probably these contained the Chinese dinner. She shoved them aside and settled into the far corner. Chris sat down carefully, one arm up near his chest. He was holding that thing. Would Aunt Elizabeth notice?
“How did you like the Disney pictures?” Aunt Elizabeth repeated her question in a new way.
“All right,” Chris returned without enthusiasm. He wanted nothing but to get back to the apartment as quickly as possible. If he had any luck at all, he could then reach his room and hide the inn (he would have to find somewhere good for that) before Aunt Elizabeth spotted that he carried something.
“It was fine.” Chris was surprised when Nan spoke up.
“The second picture was better—” She had seen all of that, while the first one had been something of a muddle because they had missed part. Now she remembered her manners; too belatedly, she knew. Grandma would not have been pleased.
“Thank you for the tickets, Aunt Elizabeth.” She rather stumbled over the “Aunt Elizabeth” part. “It was good of you to let us go.”
“I am glad you enjoyed it, child.” Aunt Elizabeth smiled. She might be waiting for some answer from Chris, too. But he was staring straight ahead and said nothing. After a glance at him, Aunt Elizabeth's smile narrowed a little. “Watch out for that carton, Nan. We don't want Egg Foo Yong all over the floor, now do we?”
Nan obently stead the carton, sniffing at the odor from it. She could not yet make up her mind whether she wanted to try Egg Foo Yong—whatever that was—or not. Mostly she and Grandma always had things one knew, vegetables and fruit from their own garden, meat from the butcher's. Grandma didn't like what she called “fancied-up” food.
A drizzle began just before they reached the apartment-house door. Aunt Elizabeth spoke sharply when Chris did not reach for his share of the boxes. And for some reason she could not understand, Nan herself took two, leaving him only one. He ought to be able to manage that, even holding on to whatever he had inside his jacket. Aunt Elizabeth lingered to pay the taximan, but Haines held the door open for them to hurry through.
There was the ordeal of the elevator; then Aunt Elizabeth used her key, and they were back in the apartment, carrying the cartons through to the kitchen. Chris set his down with a thump on the table and was gone before Nan could turn around.
She went to her own room to shed her coat and head scarf. Only this was not her room—its tidiness made it Aunt Elizabeth's, not Nan's. All which really belonged to her was the picture frame—the double one—on the dressing table. One half of that was Grandma, taken last summer out by the big white rosebush. The other was the picture of Mother from the Cleaver Award Dinner—Mother who never was at home in Nan's room the way Grandma fitted in.
Nan looked at Grandma now. A feeling of loss came over her. She blinked twice hastily. If she was silly enough to cry, Aunt Elizabeth would want to know why. Think of something else—quick! Think of Chris. What had he brought back and mean to keep a secret?
Chris pulled his suitcase out from the closet. He had set the inn carefully on the bedside table. Luck had been with him all right. He had fully expected Nan to blurt out about his leaving her alone. But she had not. Only briefly, he wondered why. A good hiding place—this suitcase—was all he could think of right now. He tucked the inn into one corner, using his old hiking shirt as a cover. Aunt Elizabeth had already told him there was no wearing that around here. He did not even have time to peek into the windows. But there was one thing; when he picked up the inn to put it away, he heard a rattle inside. So he was extra-careful covering it up and returning the suitcase to the closet. Maybe part of the inn was broken. He would have to wait until he had a chance to really examine it. If it was broken, he might be able to fix it.
“Chris—Nan—”
Supper! Chris gave a last push to the suitcase, sending it up against the back wall of the closet. He would have to watch that Clara did not move it around too much when she was cleaning. Clara was pretty energetic when she dusted and swept. Aunt Elizabeth did the good china and things herself; he noticed that last week. It was one reason why he had not started in on the model. Let Clara move one of these once or twice and probably nothing would be left.
Nan was already in the kitchen when Chris slouched in, wearing his usual indifferent expression. She did not glance at him as she set out plates and silverware. Aunt Elizabeth told him to get the milk and fill their glasses. He had discovered that Aunt Elizabeth believed a boy should make himself useful in ways Chris did not think at all suitable. But there was no use fighting over it. He banged shut the fridge door, and went to get the glasses from the cupboard while Aunt Elizabeth dished out a mixture of stuff from the cartons.
“Just home in time,” she observed as a gust of wind and sleet beat against the window of the small kitchen. “This is going to be a bad night. All right, we're ready now—”
Gingerly Nan tasted the small pancake-looking things Aunt Elizabeth called Egg Foo Yong. She decided that they were not bad, just strange, and she was hungry. There was a sauce to dabble over them—salty—then a brown rice with what looked like little bits of ham cut up fine, as well as a portion of what Aunt Elizabeth called “Chicken Chow Mein.” Nan ate steadily. Chris was cleaning up his plate, too. Though he never raised his eyes from that. It was as if eating was a business, a job one had to finish as quickly as possible. Only he need not think he was going to slide out and leave her with all the dishes. Aunt Elizabeth had said this morning they must take turns washing and wiping when Clara was not here. Nan watched narrowly for any sign Chris meant to get out of the job.
Aunt Elizabeth was talking, talking. Mostly about this Cousin Philip who meant nothing to Nan—though, of course, he was Chris's kin. It seemed, however, that Chris did not care about him either, even whether he was in the hospital or not.
The flow of words only stopped when they had fortune cookies. Nan smoothed out her strip of paper to read it: “What the eyes see not, the heart craves—” She repeated the words aloud.
“Hm"—there was an odd difference in Aunt Elizabeth's smile—"What is yours, Chris?”
&n
bsp; “Silly stuff! ‘Clear conscience never fears midnight knocking,’” he half-mumbled.
“Good sound advice,” Aunt Elizabeth said. “Now I have to make a long-distance call. You can go ahead with the dishes. And, Chris, see the rubbish all gets down the hall to the incinerator tonight.”
“Yes, Aunt Elizabeth,” he replied, crumpling his fortune and throwing it into the emptied carton that had held the Egg Foo Yong. But Nan wanted to keep hers and think about it, even though she did not quite understand what it meant.
3
The Red Hart
Sunday at Aunt Elizabeth's was different, too. They went to church in the morning, Aunt Elizabeth seeing that they were both dressed as she said “suitably.” This church was a large one where people did not seem to know even those who shared the pew with them. Nan missed the friendliness of Grandma's church. Chris sat stolidly, as if all were an ordeal to be endured.
But the afternoon was even worse. They had dinner in another big restaurant, and then Aunt Elizabeth summoned one of her ever-helpful taxis and carried them off to the park, where there was a zoo, a lake, and other supposedly interesting things. Chris dragged along so far behind that Aunt Elizabeth was plainly annoyed when she turned for about the tenth time to see where he was.
Nan watched a black leopard. She felt sorry for it because the animal was never still, pacing back and forth in its cage as if it wanted to be free. She did not like the big apes at all; one of them made faces and spit at people who had stopped by the cage to watch. But the birds were beautiful with their many colors and plumed tails; and there were two lion cubs, who were rolled up together on a blanket, asleep like kittens.
