The Lost Boy's Gift

by Kimberly Willis Holt

  Little Tilda dreaded her visits to Aunt Phoebe’s, where she was ordered to sit with her back as straight as an ironing board, walk around the house with books atop her head, and use her napkin after every bite. Aunt Phoebe seemed to be grooming Tilda for something, but Tilda wasn’t sure what that something was. She never told Aunt Sippy, but she was always ready to leave Aunt Phoebe’s house and return to While-a-Way Lane.

  Even now, Tilda had a backache every time she thought about Aunt Phoebe’s worn-out, musty-smelly chair. She’d hoped Aunt Phoebe would leave her the shiny red wheelbarrow she never used instead. Aunt Phoebe didn’t know Tilda at all.

  After Aunt Phoebe’s funeral, Tilda bought her own red wheelbarrow and hired a mover to relocate the chair to the attic. That way she didn’t have to look at it every day.

  Why not just give it away? you ask. What is in your attic? This and that and whatnots from dead ancestors, I suppose? Things you’ll never use. What are attics for, anyway?

  Zip and Zap loved Aunt Phoebe’s chair. They chased each other around and under it. They bounced on the cushion like it was a trampoline. They played hide-and-seek, disappearing inside the holes. Yes indeed, the brothers thought Aunt Phoebe’s chair was a very fine piece of furniture.

  Tilda should have known something was up, but she’d been busy measuring her hosta, dusting its leaves, and trying to decide the exact moment to dig it up. She’d been shopping for a pot that would perfectly complement the large green leaves.

  She’d been so tired from her busy morning she decided to take a little nap. She’d fallen fast asleep and slept so soundly (snoring a bit, too) that she didn’t hear Zip and Zap racing over her head.

  The brothers had discovered all kinds of treasures in the attic. They loved pretending Tilda’s grandfather’s fireman helmet was a boat, and they rocked inside, rapidly back and forth.

  “We’re pirates,” said Zip.

  “No, no,” said Zap. “We’re sailors.” Zap always liked being a good guy.

  “Pirates!” said Zip.

  “Sailors!” said Zap.

  The hat rocked and rocked.

  Zip, the pirate, slid down to Zap’s side, and Zap, the sailor, fell overboard and landed in an ocean of teacups and saucers.

  The loud clatter caused Tilda to awake with a gasp.

  She sat up. She got out of bed and shoved her feet into her fuzzy bunny slippers with the floppy ears. If only the shovel wasn’t outside in the potting shed. Frantic, she glanced around the room for a weapon and settled on Aunt Sippy’s book called Every Plant in the World. Since there are a lot of plants in this world, the book was very thick and very heavy. Tilda believed it was guaranteed to make a big bump on someone’s head.

  With the book in her hands, she headed toward the stairs. When she stepped on the first one, the squeak traveled up to the attic.

  Zip and Zap froze. “Uh-oh!” said the pirate and the sailor.

  They hid under a white tablecloth, staying as quiet as two squirrels possibly could.

  Zip began to jibber. Zap began to jabber. When they heard another squeak, they stopped.

  Tilda took one more step. Then she stopped. She’d lived in this house all her life, but she’d visited the attic only once. And that was enough. She had been a curious little girl, and that curiosity had led her there. But up there every creak seemed like someone was out to get you.

  Ghosts perhaps?

  Young Tilda hadn’t stayed to find out. She’d left in a hurry and never returned.

  Now Zip and Zap were waiting, under the tablecloth, to see what happened next.

  On the third step, Tilda thought about turning around, but when she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror, she reminded herself that she was not a scared little girl anymore.

  She took a fourth step, then a fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth. She took every step until she faced the attic door. Then she put her hand on the knob, took a deep breath, and turned it slowly.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE ROOF

  FRED WAS JUST the sort of dog that would be the perfect Nana. Daniel was 100 percent sure of this. He thought about it all the way home from rehearsal. That dog had star quality. He was big, furry, and didn’t bark too much. Yes sir, he was the right choice for the role. Mrs. Garcia would realize that as soon as she saw him, just like she did when she met those twins. Maybe Daniel wouldn’t be Curly, but he would be the one responsible for finding the best Nana. His dad would be proud. Daniel decided right then and there, he’d invite him.

  Now all he had to do was ask Tilda Butter if he could borrow Fred. He was surprised to see his mom home early. She told him she got off half a day because she had to work on Saturday. After he ate his snack, he stepped out of his house and headed toward Tilda Butter’s home. Halfway there, he stopped. Not just because he suddenly realized it might be hard to convince her to lend him her dog, but because he saw a vine clinging to Tilda Butter’s home.

  The vine was as thick as a tree branch and it had green leaves and purple flowers dripping from it. The flowers smelled sweet too, like grape jelly. That was nice, but Daniel’s gaze followed the vine all the way up to the roof, where it stopped. Now, that was a vine worth climbing. For a minute, he wasn’t Daniel with divorced parents, living on a boring street. He was Jack from “Jack and the Beanstalk.” He was going to see what was at the top of this vine. Maybe a golden goose?

  He grabbed hold of the woody vine and slipped his foot into a sturdy loop. Then he tugged with all of his might. To his relief, the vine didn’t fall. He stretched his arms high, and his hands choked the vine so hard he caused some of the petals to fall to the ground, but the vine still clung to the house. Up he went, until his chin was even with the roof. A moment later he was on top, standing tall, looking down on While-a-Way Lane. He could see everything—some boys playing kickball in a backyard, the Lemonade Girl stacking cups at her stand, and at the very end—the pond. The pond where he would soon be sailing his boat with his dad.

  He looked over at his own backyard, where his mom was sweeping the porch. Ever since they moved, she seemed to love sweeping the porch. Whenever his dad called him, she’d go out there and sweep until long after Daniel had hung up the phone. Now he watched her move the broom across the concrete. It didn’t look that dirty. How could it be, with all that sweeping? And then he looked closer. Still holding the broom, his mother pulled a wadded tissue out of her apron pocket, smoothed it open, and wiped her eyes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  HEROES

  A DISAGREEMENT was taking place in the attic under the tablecloth. Zap thought they should stay hidden. A sailor waits.

  But Zip was a pirate. A pirate attacks. He grabbed a corner of the cloth and headed across the floor and up the arm of Aunt Phoebe’s chair. Zap, being the fine sailor, held strong, keeping his end anchored to the floor.

  Meanwhile Tilda’s firm grasp slowly moved the doorknob clockwise. When Tilda finally eased open the door, the white cloth appeared to be standing straight up. At that exact moment, a breeze blew in from the roof hole and the tablecloth flapped. And there was her grandfather’s fireman helmet at her feet.

  The book flew from her hands into the air, and Tilda hit the floor hard, landing flat on her back, nose pointing straight up. Aunt Sippy’s garden book followed, smacking her in the forehead.

  It is a very good thing that there are nosy people in the world. Especially when one of those nosy people comes in the form of a boy named Daniel. When Tilda awoke, it was to a voice asking, “Hey, what are you doing on the floor?”

  Tilda opened her eyes. An eyeball stared down from the hole in the ceiling. Then it moved farther away and disappeared. The eyeball was replaced by a mouth. “I said, what are you doing down there?”

  Now Tilda knew whom the eyeball and mouth belonged to. “How did you get on my roof?” she asked Daniel.

  “Easy,” he said. “I climbed that vine.”

  “My wisteria?”

  Tilda’s wi
steria vine only bloomed a couple of weeks out of the year. She imagined the purple petals scattered on the grass, blowing in the wind, away from her cottage. She tried to rise up, but she felt woozy.

  “Whoa,” she said, quickly returning to the floor.

  “Can’t you get up?” Daniel asked.

  Tilda felt the bump. “I think something must have hit my forehead.”

  “I can get you up,” Daniel said. “I’m strong.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m real strong,” he said.

  “I’m sure you’re strong, but not enough for me.”

  A bark came from downstairs, followed by some whining. Fred!

  “Oh dear,” Tilda said. Fred had not been out since that morning, and she had no idea how much time had passed since she’d fainted. “Fred needs to go out. Can you do that?”

  “You bet!” Daniel said.

  “Thank you!” Tilda called out. “There’s a key under the welcome mat. If you unlock the door, you can let Fred out. Be careful!”

  A moment later, she heard Daniel land on the ground with a thump.

  Soon she heard the front door open and shut.

  “Hello, Fred!” Daniel said. “Ready to go out?”

  Then she remembered.

  “Out back!” Tilda yelled. “Put Fred in the backyard!” The backyard had a fence that would keep Fred from roaming down While-a-Way Lane.

  She heard a door open. “Out back,” she said softly to no one.

  “There you go, boy.” The door slammed. Maybe it was the back door.

  “How do you get up to the attic?” Daniel said.

  “The stairs at the back of the kitchen!” Tilda’s throat started to feel sore from the straining.

  But then she heard him on the stairs. The squeaks came quickly and didn’t sound scary.

  Daniel was in front of her now, but he was looking around the attic, taking in all the dusty items that had been placed there from generations past.

  “I need some help.” Tilda stretched her arm toward him.

  His focus lingered elsewhere. Tilda’s attic was fascinating.

  “Please!” Tilda waved her hand.

  Daniel flexed his grape-sized biceps. Then he grabbed hold and gave Tilda a strong yank.

  “Ow!” she said, trying to sit. “Careful, now. My muscles aren’t as young as yours.”

  Daniel grunted and pulled once more. Then he let go of Tilda’s hand, and she was flat again.

  “I’m strong, but I think you ate too much chocolate pudding or something.”

  Daniel moved toward the fireman’s helmet across the room. When he reached it, he put it on. The helmet slid down over his eyes, and he raised it above his brows.

  Suddenly Zip and Zap appeared from under the cloth.

  “Hey, I know you guys!” Daniel said.

  The brothers didn’t stay. They scampered up the back of Aunt Phoebe’s chair, skittered across a tennis racket, leapt on top of an armoire, made their way over to a high shelf, then jumped, escaping through the roof hole.

  Tilda frowned after the squirrels’ tails. “I should have suspected mischief.”

  She rubbed her forehead. Her back was starting to hurt, too. She wondered how long she’d been on the floor. “You did let Fred out in the backyard, right?”

  “Nope,” Daniel said, tilting the helmet back on his head, admiring himself in the armoire’s mirror. “I might be a fireman when I grow up.”

  “You let Fred out front?” Tilda asked weakly.

  “Yep.” Daniel pretended he was holding a fire hose. Then he dropped his arms to his sides like a soldier. “Or a police officer. I might be both. My dad said I could be anything I wanted when I grew up.”

  Tilda remembered the time she left the front door ajar while she positioned the soaker hose. Fred slipped out and romped around the neighborhood. He stayed away for hours. She had worried herself sick about him. When he returned later, she’d not even scolded him for getting out.

  The boy looked up at the ceiling. “Why don’t you fix that hole?”

  “If I’d known there was a hole, I would have had it fixed.”

  “It might rain.”

  “It might,” Tilda muttered, still flat on her back, thinking of Fred roaming the streets, dodging cars, getting lost. She could do nothing about it. How does one get out of these situations? She was about to ask Daniel to get his mother when she heard a knock and a bark.

  Could it be?

  Then another bark.

  Yes, it was!

  “Fred!” Tilda yelled.

  “Yoo-hoo!” a voice came from downstairs. “Tilda Butter?”

  “I’m up here!” she called out to … who on earth? She had no idea.

  She heard eight squeaks. A second later a figure stood in shadows, a short figure with a perfectly round head. When he stepped forward, sunlight beamed down through the hole in Tilda’s ceiling, shining on Dewey Wonder.

  Dewey rushed over to her and knelt. “Oh, dear Tilda, are you hurt?” he asked without one stammer.

  “She can’t get up,” Daniel said. He’d found an old microscope and was busy peering through its lenses.

  Tilda touched the spot on her forehead. “I have a big bump on my noggin.”

  Then Dewey Wonder, who did not seem the strong type at all, took hold of Tilda’s hands and pulled with all his might. Beads of sweat broke out on his face. He pulled again until Tilda was on her feet.

  She took a wobbly step.

  “Steady.” Dewey was still holding her hand.

  “Can you help me, young sir?” he asked Daniel, who was still staring through the microscope.

  “Young sir?” Dewey repeated.

  Daniel finally looked up. “Who, me?”

  “Yes,” Dewey said.

  Daniel left the microscope and took hold of Tilda’s other arm. “Why are you calling me sir?”

  “What’s your name?” Dewey asked.

  Tilda beat Daniel to it. “He can’t say. He’s not allowed to tell strangers.”

  Dewey’s eyebrows knitted, and Tilda knew what he was thinking. The boy was not allowed to share his name, but he could dig around in a stranger’s attic. It was then that she noticed Daniel was wearing her grandfather’s Purple Heart medal.

  “Now, move slowly, Tilda,” Dewey said. “We can’t have you fainting.”

  “Yes,” Tilda said, “that’s how I bumped my head.”

  “Take small steps.” Dewey guided her. Then he told Daniel to go downstairs and watch them climb down. “Make sure Miss Butter’s feet land safely on each step. I’ll be right behind her.”

  Daniel took off and said, “Okay, I’ll catch her if she falls.”

  “Goodness pudding,” Tilda muttered. She sure hoped that wouldn’t happen.

  Dewey led Tilda to the stairwell, and only when he knew she had a good grasp of the rail did he let go.

  Tilda felt helpless and well taken care of at the same time. It was an unusual feeling for her. She rather liked it.

  She took each step down the stairs to where Daniel and Fred waited.

  Fred whimpered and wagged his tail. At first Tilda thought he was happy to see her and to know that she was okay. Then she realized Fred was waiting for his bowl to be filled.

  Once all the way downstairs, she fed him. Then she made hot cocoa for Dewey and Daniel. They sat quietly around the kitchen table. Tilda watched Daniel running his tongue around the upper edge of the mug. He is just a harmless boy, she thought.

  Then she asked Dewey, “How did you know I needed help?”

  “I saw Fred wandering a few doors down. Thank goodness I had some Woof Woof Wafers in my jeep.”

  “That’s very smart of you, Dewey Wonder,” she said. “Very smart indeed.”

  Dewey gazed at the little bump on Tilda’s forehead like it was a beautiful pearl.

  Tilda felt her cheeks prickle when she suddenly realized how very handsome Dewey Wonder looked in his uniform.

  Daniel gazed up from his
now empty mug. “Or I might be a mailman. Then I could rescue ladies in their attics who can’t get up after they eat too much chocolate pudding.”

  It didn’t matter what Daniel said. Tilda was not listening to him, and neither, did it seem, was Dewey.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  DOG WALK

  SATURDAY AFTERNOON Daniel knocked on Tilda Butter’s door.

  When she opened it, he asked, “Can I walk Fred?”

  A bandage with ladybugs on it covered the bump on her forehead.

  “Can I?” he asked again.

  She looked back at Fred. “Well…”

  Even at the front door, Daniel could see Fred staring at the terrarium.

  “I’ll hold on to his leash,” Daniel said. “I promise I won’t let go of it.”

  A moment later, she snapped the leash to Fred’s collar and handed it to Daniel. “Watch him carefully. Don’t go too far. And don’t stay away long.”

  Daniel took hold and pulled.

  Fred sat.

  “Come on, Fred!” Daniel kept pulling.

  Fred sprawled out on the floor. He looked like a shaggy rug.

  Tilda Butter fixed her hands on her hips. “Fred, be a good fellow and get up. Go for a walk. Fresh air and sunshine will be good for you.”

  Daniel yanked at the leash, but Fred yanked back, dragging Daniel toward the terrarium. Then he saw what was capturing Fred’s attention.

  “Hey, there’s a snail in there!”

  “Yes,” said Tilda Butter, “that’s Snail. Such a little thing, but she can put away an entire head of lettuce. Always saying, ‘More, more, more, please.’”

  “Really? The snail talks?”

  Tilda Butter didn’t answer.

  Daniel moved in closer. He sure wished he hadn’t thrown Snappy into the donation box. He tapped on the glass. “Snail, say, ‘More, more, please.’”

  “She’s not a parrot,” Tilda Butter said, and walked away.