Behind the Curtain

by Peter Abrahams

“Huh?” said Ty.

  “Smelling as sweet by any other name?” Mom said.

  “Yeah,” said Ingrid. “Like what if it was called a skunk instead of a rose?”

  “Are you making fun of your mother?” said Dad.

  “Mark,” said Mom, “of course she isn’t. She’s raising an interesting point.”

  “What’s interesting about it?” said Ty.

  “This whole question of names,” said Mom. “Would you be any different if we’d called you something else?”

  “Brucie, for example,” said Ingrid.

  “Like that dork on your bus?” said Ty. “You’re saying I’d be a dork?”

  Ingrid tried the wild rice. Not bad at all.

  “’Cause you’re the dork,” Ty said.

  “Kids,” said Mom. “This is a nice family dinner.”

  “So knock it off right now,” said Dad, with a quick glare for each of them.

  Ty rose. “I’m done anyway.”

  “But we haven’t discussed the weekend yet,” said Mom.

  “What about it?” said Ty.

  “Please sit down,” said Mom.

  “I’ve got homework,” said Ty. Ingrid almost laughed out loud. Then she remembered the note she needed for Mr. Porterhouse. She could a) make up some lie to tell Mom, b) forge a note, c) accept getting bumped up to level two. C was actually the easiest. At that moment she knew for sure she wasn’t cut out to be a criminal.

  “I said sit,” said Dad.

  Ty sat—on the edge of his chair, feet gathered beneath him for a quick escape, but sitting.

  “Tell them, Mark.”

  “About the getaway plan?” Dad sat back, dabbed his lips with a napkin. Still the handsomest dad in Echo Falls, although he was so dark around the eyes lately. Now Ingrid was glad to see them light up a little. “Everyone needs a break from time to time,” he said, “and this deal happened to fall into my hands.”

  “What deal?” said Ingrid.

  Mom slid a brochure across the table. Elbow Beach Club, Bermuda.

  “We’re going to Bermuda?” Ty said.

  “Saturday afternoon, right after Ingrid’s soccer game,” Dad said.

  “The flight only takes a couple hours,” said Mom. “We’ll be there in time for a swim.”

  “And coming back when?” said Ingrid.

  “Sunday night,” said Mom. “Monday’s a school day.”

  “A weekend getaway,” said Dad. “Well, let’s have some reaction.”

  “What about Nigel?” Ingrid said.

  They all glanced at Nigel, dozing by his water bowl as he so often did, like a drought might happen at any moment.

  “We’ve already booked the kennel,” said Mom.

  Nigel stretched his front legs, got a little more comfortable.

  “We can swim?” said Ty.

  “Pool and ocean,” said Dad, “plus golf and tennis and maybe we can check out parasailing too.”

  “Parasailing,” said Ty. “Wow.”

  Ingrid said nothing. Monster trucks and now Bermuda: why, of all Sundays, this one?

  Saturday, eleven sharp, field one: Mid-State League U13 semifinals, Echo Falls versus Glastonbury. Glastonbury, first-place finishers in the regular schedule, had some dynamite players, especially that big red-haired fullback, already being scouted by a few colleges, according to Coach Ringer.

  Coach Ringer, out of the hospital but not allowed to come to any games because of the excitement, doctor’s orders, had faxed a message to Julia. She read it just before game time, as the team gathered around.

  “‘Four dimensions. Tell the kids to use ’em all.’”

  “That’s it?” said Stacy. “The whole message?”

  The girls muttered to themselves. “Four dimensions? Like width and stuff?”

  “He’s back to his normal self,” Ingrid said.

  The referee blew his whistle. A few of Ingrid’s teammates were still laughing as they ran onto the field.

  Biggest game of the year, and Ingrid started well, zipping up and down her wing, taking a long looping pass from Stacy and driving one wide by only inches in the very first minute. But not long after that, she caught sight of Mom, Dad, and Ty in the stands. Ty never came to her games, was there only because they were driving to the airport right after. But how could she go? The sting was all set up for Sunday at noon.

  Ingrid lost her focus after that. The red-haired sweeper dribbled past her three times, and Ingrid muffed a point-blank scoring chance. Then, just before the half, her corner kick landed on the back of the net, never even reaching the field of play.

  Score at the half: 0–0. The girls sat on the bench and sucked on orange slices supplied by Mr. Rubino. Julia stood before them in her fur jacket and cool shades.

  “Everybody understands the importance of the first goal in a game like this?” she said.

  The girls nodded.

  “We’ve had more chances,” she said, as the referee got out of his car where he’d been sitting with the heat on and headed for midfield. “Now we’ve got to close the deal.” Julia licked her lips. “So close the deal. Whatever it takes. On three.”

  “One two three—Echo Falls!”

  The girls ran out. Julia put her hand, a surprisingly strong hand, on Ingrid’s shoulder, holding her back.

  “Something on your mind today, Ingrid?”

  Ingrid saw her face reflected in Julia’s sunglasses, a pinched, worried-looking face. “Nope.”

  “No new developments in what we were talking about at Moo Cow?”

  “Everything’s fine.”

  Julia peered down at her for a moment or two longer. “Their goalie jammed her right thumb just before the whistle,” she said.

  “She did?” said Ingrid.

  “Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  “Not exactly.” The face in the sunglasses got a little more worried.

  “I’m giving you a tip, Ingrid. Shoot high and to the left.”

  “Oh,” said Ingrid. “Thanks.”

  High left. Sounded good, but first you had to control the ball, and all of a sudden Ingrid couldn’t. It kept taking funny bounces, squibbing off the side of her foot, developing a mind of its own. Down at the Echo Falls end, Glastonbury had two good scoring chances—a penalty shot by the red-haired girl that grazed the crossbar, and a dangerous curving corner kick that Stacy headed away at the last instant. The ball went out of bounds off Glastonbury.

  “Ref,” said Stacy, taking the throw in, “how much time?”

  The ref glanced at his watch, held up one finger.

  “We have to play overtime if it’s tied?”

  He nodded.

  “Overtime sucks,” said Stacy.

  “Language,” said the ref.

  Stacy shot Ingrid a quick glance, then threw the ball in to her. Ingrid kicked it right back to Stacy, then took off down the sideline with all the speed she had left, maybe not much. She didn’t even glance back. This was a play she and Stacy had practiced for years, until Coach Ringer broke them up. Stacy’s job was to boom one down into the corner. Ingrid’s was to catch up before it crossed the end line, then send a pass in front of the net or take it in herself.

  The ball came curving down into Ingrid’s line of vision, landed ten or fifteen yards away, bounced a few times, then rolled. From the corner of her eye she saw the red-haired sweeper angling across the field, real fast for a girl her size. Ingrid chased the ball down in the corner, looked toward the net. No one to pass to. And then the red-haired girl was on her. Ingrid tried that little left-footed fake Dad had taught her and that had worked so well against this girl earlier in the season. But this time she was ready, went right to the ball and stole it away. She cocked her leg for one of those tremendous kicks upfield. Just in time, Ingrid stuck her toe in, stole the ball back, took off for the net.

  The goalie inched out to meet her, cutting off the angle, already sharp. The red-haired girl came up from the side, gave Ingrid an elbow. The stupid b
all got away, rolled toward the goalie. The goalie came running to snatch it up. But Ingrid was running too, and so was the red-haired girl. Three girls and the ball all came smacking together and Ingrid, the smallest, went flying.

  The ground rose up fast and hit her hard—boom—knocking the wind right out of her. But Ingrid’s eyes were open, and she saw the red-haired girl and the goalie going down too. And the ball, all by itself now, was still rolling, slower and slower, but rolling. Rolling, rolling toward the far post. Too wide? Not quite. It bumped off the post and wobbled into the net.

  The ref blew his whistle. Game over. The Echo Falls girls came racing over. Ingrid got her breath back and was about to jump up when—

  Bzzz. She had an idea.

  Ingrid stayed where she was.

  Everyone was standing over her—ref, players, and soon Mom and Dad.

  “Ingrid? Are you all right?”

  She groaned, then tried a little fluttering thing with her eyelids.

  Mom knelt beside her.

  “Hey,” said the ref. “Everybody back off.”

  Everyone but Mom and Dad withdrew a step or two. Ingrid caught a glimpse of Julia, her head cocked at a slight angle, the sun glaring off her sunglasses.

  “Ingrid?” Mom said. “Say something.”

  She made her voice small and weak. “I don’t feel so good,” she said.

  “Where?” said Mom. “Where don’t you feel good?”

  “All over,” said Ingrid. “Not too good.” Then came a guilt pang, worrying Mom like this. “Not too bad, but not too good either,” she added.

  “Huh?” said Dad.

  “Anything broken?” said the ref.

  Ingrid moved her limbs around experimentally.

  “Can you get up?”

  Ingrid made a heroic effort to rise, adding a subtle little stagger at the end. Dad reached out to catch her.

  She walked slowly off the field, Dad on one side, Mom on the other.

  “Should we take her to the hospital?” Mom said.

  “Oh, no,” said Ingrid. “I’m fine.”

  “Attaway,” said Dad.

  “Not too fine, Dad,” Ingrid said.

  They got to the parking lot. Ty had the side door of the MPV open, suitcases inside. “In fact,” Ingrid said, “I just want to lie down.”

  “You can lie down all the way to the airport,” Dad said.

  Ingrid tried a light-headed weavy precollapse type of move.

  “Oh my God, Ingrid,” said Mom, grabbing her shoulder.

  “Clock’s ticking,” said Ty.

  Ingrid faced her parents. “I don’t think I can go,” she said. The watering up of her eyes just then? Somehow that happened for real. “I’m just too…shaken up.”

  “What’s her problem?” said Ty.

  Mom gazed down at Ingrid; not really down anymore—they were almost the same height. “I guess we’ll have to cancel,” she said.

  “Cancel the trip?” said Dad. His golf clubs lay on the backseat.

  “No, no,” said Ingrid. “You guys go. I’ll stay home.”

  “By yourself?” Mom said. “What are you talking about?”

  “Ingrid can stay with us,” said Stacy, standing by the Rubino Electric truck.

  “Sure thing,” said Mr. Rubino, coming into view, Tupperware container of orange peels under his arm.

  Mom and Dad exchanged a look.

  “She’ll be fine with us,” said Mr. Rubino. “And Ellie’s a nurse, don’t forget.”

  “True,” said Dad.

  “I don’t—” said Mom.

  “Have a blast,” said Mr. Rubino. “Bon voyage.”

  twenty-five

  SUNDAY MORNING, breakfast at the Rubinos’. Sausages, ham, eggs, pancakes under lakes of butter: piles and piles of food, Mr. and Mrs. Rubino both wearing aprons.

  “Don’t care for sausages, Ingrid?” said Mr. Rubino.

  “I do, but—”

  “Here’s a couple more,” he said. “Make it three. How about you, son?”

  Sean grunted something, stayed hunched over his plate at the far end of the table. He had a little cut over one eye. So did Mr. Rubino.

  Mr. and Mrs. Rubino exchanged a look. “We’ve got a surprise for everybody,” Mrs. Rubino said.

  “Like what?” said Stacy, dipping a forkful of ham in an egg-yolky pool.

  “Monster trucks,” said Mrs. Rubino.

  Mr. Rubino reached into his apron pocket, fanned five tickets on the table. “A customer laid these on me,” he said. “Don’t forget your earplugs.”

  “Hey,” said Stacy, picking up a ticket. “Front row.”

  Oh, God, Ingrid thought. The monster trucks—they wouldn’t go away, kind of like real monsters. “Thanks,” she said. “But I don’t know if I’m really feeling…up to it.”

  “I thought you were all better,” said Mrs. Rubino.

  “I was,” said Ingrid. “I mean, I am. Just a slight little headache, that’s all. But monster trucks…”

  Mrs. Rubino nodded. One of those total lies that lucked into making sense.

  “We can see them another time,” said Mr. Rubino.

  “Oh, no,” said Ingrid. “You guys go. I’ll be fine by myself.”

  “I’m not sure—” said Mrs. Rubino.

  “Really I will,” said Ingrid. “I’ll just watch movies, lie around, relax. That’s what I feel like doing.”

  Mrs. Rubino thought it over. “I guess it’s all right,” she said.

  Sean looked up. “I’ll give it a pass too,” he said.

  “No way,” said Mrs. Rubino.

  “Why not?” said Sean.

  “You know the arrangement,” said Mrs. Rubino. “About being alone in the house.”

  “I wouldn’t be alone,” Sean said. He pointed his chin at Ingrid. “I’d be with her.”

  “She has a name,” said Stacy.

  Sean glared at his sister.

  “Kids,” said Mr. Rubino. “Let’s not spoil it. This is going to be a real fun day.”

  The Rubinos left at ten thirty. Stacy said good-bye to Ingrid down in the entertainment center, Ingrid lying under a blanket, Pretty in Pink on the big screen.

  “Sure you’re all right?” said Stacy.

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ve really got a headache?”

  Ingrid hated lying to Stacy. “Just a little one. Tiny.”

  Stacy gave her a long look. “Okey-doke.”

  The Rubinos drove off, on their way to Hartford and the monster trucks. Five minutes later, Ingrid was on Stacy’s bike, heading home.

  She turned into the driveway at 99 Maple Lane. The house looked different in some way. Ingrid ran her gaze over it, saw no changes, but that didn’t keep it from having a strange effect on her. Was it because this had never happened before—by herself, house empty, her whole family thousands of miles away, or hundreds at least, and Nigel in the kennel? Was this the feeling you got revisiting a place you’d lived in long ago? Then she glanced over at the spot in the front yard where St. Joseph stood buried right side up, making sure that 99 Maple Lane couldn’t be sold. When she looked at the house again, everything was back to normal.

  Ingrid unlocked the front door and went inside. The house was cold. Thermostat check: Dad had it all the way down to fifty. She went to her room and got the digital recorder. Time: 11:06.

  What else would she need? Money, of course, key part of every sting, and in this one for sure, what with Carl Junior counting a big wad of the stuff, and the $1,649 in Sean’s desk drawer. In her own desk drawer she had $102, combined birthday money and Booster Club tips. She took it all. Time: 11:09.

  At that moment, Ingrid remembered another police term: not sting this time, but backup. Then came a crazy thought: How about calling Grampy? She went back and forth on that for a while. Cop-show cops always called for backup, but Holmes never seemed concerned about it. Cop shows came and went. Holmes was forever.

  Time: 11:11. Early, but didn’t that make tactical sense,
the way brilliant generals like George Washington used the element of surprise? She half recalled a packet about the Battle of Trenton, or possibly Tenafly.

  Ingrid left by the back door and walked into the woods.

  She followed the path, around a bend and up a little rise. There, on the left, stood the thick double-trunked oak with the tree house about twenty feet up. Ingrid went closer, her feet silent on damp leaves. She peered up through the round hole in the tree house’s plywood floor, saw nothing but her red stool and the crude roof above. This was where she and Ty had played Dark Forest Spies, where he’d fought off the Meany Cat with Ping-Pong ball grenades. Now she had a real prop, the digital recorder, in her pocket. Ingrid got hold of the wooden rungs nailed to the trunk and started climbing up.

  She stuck her head through the hole, boosted herself into the tree house. The first thing she saw was the old sign. THE TREEHOUS. OWNR TY. ASISTENT INGRID. Then she rose and swung around.

  And there was a man, his back to her, gazing out the window.

  Ingrid’s heart went wild, a terrified little creature in her chest. On the inside, she was losing it completely, on the outside, she was frozen in place—except for some remote automatic part of her that remembered about the digital recorder in her pocket and sent the signal to switch it on.

  The man turned, in no hurry, and faced her. An old man, bent and creaky, with beaky broken nose, pointy chin, big flat ears with lots of sprouting hairs: Carl Kraken Senior. He held out a piece of paper. Ingrid recognized it: the desktop calendar page from Carl Junior’s basement office in the high school. Echo Falls athlete looking to get stronger.

  “This your handiwork?” he said. His tiny old eyes, sunk way back in his head, looked into hers.

  At that moment, Ingrid felt one of those inspiration buzzes. She could just say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m here to play in my tree house.” Situation resolved, easy as that. But then where would she be? Square one. For the first time in her life, Ingrid overrode that buzz.

  “Yeah,” she said. “My handiwork.”

  Her heart calmed down a little. What was there to be afraid of? This was a creaky old guy, not strong like Grampy. Then she remembered two things. One: The story of the noose, when Carl Senior and Grampy were little boys. Two: He was still strong enough to climb up to the tree house.