Second Star to the Right

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “They are?” She twisted around toward her brother, gripping the ladder tighter so as not to fall. “Tom,” she ordered. “Go pick through those leaves and pull out the worms and throw ’em in the dirt.”

  Tom scowled and shook his head.

  She rubbed her forehead. “Oh yeah. He hates bugs.”

  “Worms are our friends,” Jack said amiably, strolling across the garden to pluck out a few choice earthworms and toss them into the dirt. Wiping his hands nonchalantly on his pants, he thought again how charming the old circular brick wall was. Here and there, bright yellow and purple crocus defied the weeds to sit cheerily in the sun, remnants of a great garden gone by.

  “I’ve always meant to fix this place up, but I’ve just never found the time. I always seem to be too busy. It’s great that you’re taking it on. So, what do you plan to plant? Some tomatoes I hope?”

  “Nope. Flowers. Lots of flowers.”

  “I should’ve guessed,” he groaned. “I was hankering for a good, juicy Midwestern Big Boy tomato. Well, I suppose flowers will look pretty beside this fountain. I wonder,” he added, reaching out to touch the elaborately carved basin of the fountain, then stooping over to inspect the hardware. “Maybe I could get this thing working again. I’m pretty good with my hands.”

  The cloud of doubt passed from the girl’s eyes, replaced by a sunny smile. “Really? You could do that? That would be so great. Wouldn’t that be great, Tom?”

  Tom, in contrast, narrowed his eyes into tiny, doubtful slits, then scuttled behind an overgrown boxwood shrub. Only a pair of muddy tennis shoes and bony knees were visible under the glossy leaves.

  “I don’t think he likes me,” Jack said with a shrug.

  “Oh don’t mind him. He doesn’t talk to strangers.”

  “Well, we’ll have to find a way to fix that, won’t we?” He placed his hands on his hips and thought a moment. “What does it take for me not to be a stranger anymore? After all, we’ll be running into each other quite a bit I imagine, sharing the garden. Summer’s just around the corner.”

  The girl chewed her lip. “My mom has to say it’s okay. She doesn’t want us talking to anyone she doesn’t know.”

  “Ah, I see. She’s the careful type.”

  “Yeah. But she has to be.”

  “Has to?”

  The girl shut her mouth tightly.

  Jack didn’t press. “How about I meet your mother?”

  She nodded, then threw back her head and, holding tight to the ladder, yelled at the top of her lungs, “Mooooom!”

  “That ought’a do it,” Jack muttered. He glanced at Tom, who was peeking out from the shrubs. The minute he made eye contact, however, Tom darted back behind the shrubs. It might have been annoying if it wasn’t so comical.

  Within a minute, a woman came running out the back door, her face white with panic and soapy bubbles dripping down her forearm from a sponge. She was small, like her children, and with her pale blond hair pulled back into a lopsided ponytail and her jeans rolled up above her ankles, didn’t look much older than her daughter. Though she seemed pretty ferocious for such a mousy-looking little thing, he thought.

  Mrs. O’Neill was small, but lithe. Her straight nose was lightly freckled and her delicate nostrils flared like a beautiful, graceful lioness defending her cubs. Energy crackled around her. No, he decided, there was nothing mousy about this woman.

  “What is it Maddie?” she asked, her blue eyes bright as she searched the garden. “Where’s Tom?”

  The boy stepped out from behind the boxwood with his eyes lowered.

  “We... we wanted you to meet our new neighbor,” the girl explained sheepishly. It was obvious she hadn’t meant to scare her mother this way.

  The woman’s relief was palpable. She almost smiled with it as her gaze gobbled up the sight of her children. Then she spotted Jack standing by the shed, and her guard shot right back up. From the lethal way she was sizing him up, Jack felt he either looked like an ax murderer or his curly hair was sticking out at odd angles again. He raked his hand through it, just to make sure.

  “And you are...?” Her voice was like a deadly purr, velvety but dangerous. She wasn’t unfriendly, but then again, she wasn’t exactly neighborly either. He thought of the girl’s words. She has to be careful.

  Reaching out his hand in a friendly gesture, he said, “I’m your neighbor. Jack Graham. I live in the garden flat.”

  “Ah, yes, Dr. Graham,” she replied slowly. He could almost hear her mind rifling through the files, finding his and scanning it. He must have passed some first barrier because the wariness dissipated, replaced by cautious curiosity. “The scientist living downstairs.”

  He was well aware that Mrs. O’Neill was busily summing up his athletic physique under the baggy, gray sweatpants and torn sweatshirt and wondering to herself, this bloke’s a scientist?

  Not that he could blame her. Most people expected a research scientist to be old, bent over, and pale. To wear heavy framed eyeglasses and a pocket protector, and not to know a baseball from a football. It was a stereotype that didn’t fit today’s young breed of mavericks. Jack knew that his own tall, lanky build, his soulful brown eyes, his deep- dimpled smile and his head full of unruly chocolate-colored curls, made most folks he met think he was a good-looking, if rumpled, student-teacher on campus. Not a renowned theoretical physicist.

  Anyone who paused to look beyond the facade, however, would see that his face was more somber than sweet, his dark eyes were edged with lines that reflected the depth of his thoughts, and his mouth worked with a thousand yet unanswered questions.

  An awkward smile escaped Faye’s lips as she slipped the sponge into her other hand, dried her palm quickly on her apron, then, after a second’s hesitation, accepted his outstretched hand.

  “Nice to meet you. My name is Faye O’Neill, and these are my children, Madeline and Tom. Children, this is Dr. Graham.”

  “Nice to meet you, Miss O’Neill. Or may I call you Maddie?” His demeanor was far too formal for seriousness. He was rewarded with a half smile from Maddie.

  “Sure.”

  “You can call me Jack,” he added with a smile that revealed deep dimples.

  Maddie’s smile broadened. “Tom, say hi to Jack.”

  Tom lowered his eyes and turned his shoulder. He didn’t say boo.

  “Give him time,” Faye said, walking to her son’s side and wrapping a protective arm around his shoulders. Tom immediately scooted closer to her and buried his face in her belly.

  Seeing the interaction, Jack felt a twinge in his own belly. He was left to wonder about, to envy, to covet, that kind of love.

  “He’s shy, and he doesn’t talk much,” she said, stroking her boy’s hair.

  “That’s okay, buddy. But remember, we’re not strangers anymore.” Turning to Faye, he added, “You’ll be pleased to know that neither one of them divulged name, rank, or serial number.”

  “Yes, well...” Her crisp demeanor returned. “I teach my children to be cautious. One can’t be too careful these days.”

  Jack squinted, noting her wan face, her fine blond hair escaping pins and poking out all awry, and that dripping sponge in her small, tightly clenched hand. Faye O’Neill had the strained, hunted look of someone under too much stress. She had a nice smile, though, when she didn’t have her back up and deigned to show it. It lit up her eyes, like Maddie’s. A brightness so breathtaking yet so elusive it encouraged one to do whatever it took just to see it one more time.

  It would take a lot, however. The three of them were as locked and guarded as a chain gang.

  “What did you say his name was?” Maddie called out from the ladder. She was once again busily polishing the face of the bronze boy.

  “Peter Pan,” Jack said, drawing near.

  “Oh yeah. I’ve heard of him. A movie, right?”

  “Right. But first it was a book. A wonderful book all about this clever boy, Peter Pan, his magical island called the Neve
rland, and three children, Wendy, Michael, and John. Have you read it?”

  “Nope.”

  Tom moved one step closer, pretending not to listen.

  Jack noticed, however, and added spice to his story. “Well you’re in luck. The all- time best storyteller in the world lives upstairs from you. Wendy Forrester. And her favorite story is about Peter Pan. She knows more about that character than even Sir James Barrie.”

  “Who’s he?” asked Maddie.

  “The man who wrote the book.”

  Maddie and Tom turned their heads in unison and cast curious glances up toward the third-floor windows.

  “Mrs. Lloyd made it clear that we shouldn’t bother her mother,” said Faye.

  “Ah yes, dear Mrs. Lloyd. Don’t pay any mind to that old battle-ax. If she was my daughter, I’d hide upstairs, too,” he replied with a sorry shake of his head.

  “Is she okay?” asked Faye. “I mean, normal?”

  “Mrs. Lloyd? Frighteningly normal, I’m afraid.”

  “No,” Faye replied, wondering at that remark. “Mrs. Forrester, on the third floor.”

  “You mean Crazy Wendy?” he said with affection.

  Maddie quickly turned her head away from her scrubbing to stare at Jack. “Crazy Wendy?” she asked, curiosity sparking in her eyes.

  Faye, however, paled. “Please tell me she’s not crazy...”

  “Not like lunatic crazy. But she’s, well, how can I put it?”

  “Eccentric,” said Faye deadpan.

  “Bingo. There’s nothing better when you’re old than to be eccentric. I plan to be certifiable by the time I’m Wendy’s age.”

  “Great.” Faye walked over and sat on an overturned clay pot and wearily wagged the sponge between her knees. “Okay ... So what do you mean by eccentric? Sit in the park all day and feed the birds kind of eccentric? Or run naked down the streets with a butcher knife kind of eccentric?”

  “Hard to say,” Jack replied, stroking his jaw. He was enjoying himself, knowing full well it was shameless to tease a cautious type like Faye O’Neill. He could hear his adoptive mother now, standing broad-shouldered and upright, shaking her head and saying with a stem frown, “Naughty!” He put his hands in his pockets and leaned back on his heels, as he had as a boy.

  “There are a lot of rumors about the old girl,” he said in all earnestness. “You’ll find people in the neighborhood love to speculate. She doesn’t come out during the day, you see. Only at night, when she sits at her window. Some say she talks to the stars. Others say she runs a drug ring.”

  Faye smirked, and they shared a look of amusement before he turned more serious. “Actually, stargazing is my hobby, too. I guess you could say it’s my job, too. I go up to check on her from time to time. At first I did it out of concern; she’s alone so much of the time. Now I go because I enjoy my visits. She’s quite knowledgeable about stars, and we’ve had some illuminating conversations.”

  “That’s a nice enough hobby for an old woman,” Faye replied with an easy shrug. “It’s peaceful and nonstressful. There’s nothing unusual about that.”

  “Oh, to be sure. A nice normal hobby...only it isn’t Wendy’s hobby. The stars are her friends. She converses with them.”

  Faye blinked heavily, several times. “You mean...she talks with stars?”

  “Mmm hmm,” he replied, nodding. His eyes were twinkling like the stars they were discussing.

  “Maybe she’s just lonely. Lots of old people are.”

  “Probably. She has family nearby. Her daughter, of course, Jane Lloyd. Grandchildren, great-grandchildren even. Problem is, they steer clear. Only her daughter comes from time to time to check on her. And on the building. I think she has more interest in the latter, frankly.”

  “I get the feeling our Mrs. Lloyd doesn’t enjoy her visits.”

  “Who knows why? Family problems often run deep. At any rate”—he shrugged and gazed up at the third floor—“Mrs. Forrester sits alone and looks longingly at the sky.”

  “That’s it?” Faye said with relief on her face. “She just sits at her window at night talking to herself? Well, half the women in Chicago would be called crazy if that was all it took.”

  “And,” he added after a moment’s pause, “she talks about this boy all the time.” He indicated the bronze statue.

  “Who?” asked Maddie, bobbing her head. “You mean Peter Pan?”

  “None other. She knows every detail about his life in the Neverland. It’s her reason for living. Her world, I guess.”

  “What’s crazy about that?” Maddie shrugged and looked again toward the third-floor window.

  “She believes the stories,” he said, holding back a grin. At Faye’s astonished face, he added, “Yes. Poor old Mrs. Forrester thinks she’s Peter Pan’s Wendy.”

  Faye dropped her forehead into her palm and nodded in agreement. “Yessiree,” she replied with sarcasm. “That’s crazy all right.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Maddie, leaning over the ladder.

  “In the book, Peter Pan, Wendy Darling is the little girl who flies to a marvelous island in the sky called the Neverland with Peter. At the end of the adventure she returns to the nursery and grows up. Our upstairs neighbor believes she is that same Wendy and sits by the window every night, waiting for Peter Pan to return. She’s convinced that he will.”

  “That’s neat,” chimed in Maddie. It was like electricity was flowing from her head to her toes. “What if she is?”

  “Don’t be silly, Madeline,” her mother replied a tad too sharply. Maddie squinted back at Faye. “There is no such thing as Peter Pan. He’s just a character in a story.”

  “How do you know?” Jack asked her.

  “What?” she asked sharply, turning her head toward him. Then, shaking her head, “Oh, I get it. Please, don’t tease about such things. I want my children to know the difference between reality and fantasy.”

  “I’m not teasing. I’m serious. I deal with this kind of thing every day. How do you know Peter Pan doesn’t exist? Or UFOs? Adult assumptions are based on two things: the physical world and logic. Yet every day in my work I discover that what we considered law is not.”

  “Look, Jack. I’m well aware of the strange mysteries going on in science today. And I want my children to be aware of them. Yet I respect Maddie and Tom enough not to force-feed them childish notions such as Santa Claus.”

  “I see. Then I take it they...” Jack paused and cast a cautious glance at the children. Seeing that their eyes were fastened on him, he raised his hand, and mouthed to Faye, “They don’t believe in Santa.”

  Faye laughed lightly. “No, they don’t believe in Santa Claus,” she said loudly. “Or the Easter Bunny, or—for that matter—Peter Pan. Those are false beliefs designed by the media to manipulate the emotions of the weak. I work in advertising and know full well the power of the media. I’m raising my children not to be taken in by advertisements or propaganda—or anything or anyone else for that matter. We try to base all of our decisions firmly in reality.”

  Jack straightened with the scent of a challenge. ‘‘What would you say if I told you I could prove to you the existence of an alternate reality? Perhaps even of Peter Pan himself?”

  Faye rolled her eyes. “I’d say my luck was holding out. Not only do I have a crazy old lady living upstairs, but I have a wacky scientist living downstairs.”

  Faye turned to the children and scooted low to meet them face-to-face. Then taking their hands, she spoke in a serious tone. “Children, try to understand. I’m not being critical of Mrs. Forrester. Sometimes, when people get very old, they get a little confused. They mix up what’s real with what’s in their imaginations.” She glanced up at Jack with an arched brow. “Sometimes not only old people.”

  “Careful of your words. You’ll only have to eat them.”

  She turned to her children again, shaking their hands to get their attention back from Jack, whose eyes were dancing as brightly as Maddie’s. “Som
etimes, they forget what’s happening today and live in the past. That’s what happened to Mrs. Forrester. If that poor woman upstairs believes her stories about Peter Pan are real, well, then you just be nice to her. But keep your distance.”

  Tom leaned forward, burying his face in her neck and maneuvering so that Jack could not see his face. “I like stories,” he whispered fervently.

  “I like stories, too,” snapped Maddie.

  “I’ll bet she’d love to tell you some, pal,” said Jack. Faye shot Jack a warning glance. He was standing with his arms crossed and a mutinous expression on his face not unlike Tom’s. “Mrs. Lloyd said that children upset her.”

  “Bull. She loves children. And it might be nice for the old woman to have some company.”

  “I said no.” Her tone was sharp and decisive. She stood up and squared her shoulders in front of him. He might be her neighbor but to her mind, he’d crossed the line. “Dr. Graham, this has gone far enough. When it comes to my children, I don’t play games.” Then lowering her gaze, she said more softly, but still with an undercurrent of iron, “Children, you are not to bother Mrs. Forrester. Is that clear?”

  Maddie and Tom nodded to their mother solemnly.

  Jack could feel his temper rising as he viewed the disappointment etched across the children’s faces. He loved kids—their optimism and their imagination. It killed him to see it cut off. If ever children needed saving, these two did. It wouldn’t hurt to loosen up their mother a little, too, he decided. She made the Statue of Liberty appear relaxed. Yes, he thought, warming to the task. He might have had a brutal childhood, but he might brighten these two children’s a bit. The notion eased the nagging in his heart to call a detective. He chuckled to himself. This might even be fun.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said, lifting his hand in a quick wave. “Nice to meet you, Faye. And you, too, Maddie...Tom.”