“That’s why we gotta keep digging,” said Ray, picking up a shovel. “We need money.”
“Sounds like they’re hitting each other with their guitars,” said Miri.
“They are,” said Ray, climbing over the short wall that separated the cement floor from the dirt part of the basement. “It’s Deathbag.” He glanced at her blank face. “You must’ve heard of them.” Miri shook her head. “They’re totally awesome. ’Kay, bro,” he called to his brother. “Hand me the shovel. You hold the flashlight.”
Miri turned away. Digging underneath a cement slab didn’t look like much fun. Why had she wanted so much to be part of it? And if they did succeed in digging under the floor, her dad was going to be pretty mad. But she wasn’t going to interfere. Live and let live. She peered into the dim corners of the basement. There were some old shelves on one wall. All empty. Was that a workbench? She took a few steps toward it. Yes, with an old pegboard above it, and below—she knelt and stuck her head underneath the high table, trying to catch a glimmer of light in the darkness. And there it was. A tool chest. Or at least a big dirty box. Miri reached through the cobwebs and dragged it into better light.
At the sound of the box scraping against the floor, Robbie and Ray looked up. “Hey!” Ray said. “What’d you find?”
“A tool chest,” she said, kneeling beside it.
“How come you found it and not us?” asked Ray, climbing back over the wall for a better look.
“ ’Cause you’re goons,” replied Miri, yanking on the latch that held the lid down. It was stuck. “Also, Mom told me it was here.”
“I got it,” said Robbie, squatting down next to her. He jabbed his shovel under the latch and slammed down with his fist.
The rusty metal abruptly gave way, and Miri pulled the lid up with eager hands. There was a hammer dark with age and a collection of bent nails. But maybe at the back—there could be a pair of glasses stuck in the back! Miri plunged her hand into the box, feeling against the darkness.
Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
Miri sat back on her heels and tried not to be miserable. The voice in her brain began its gloomy recitation: You are never going to find a pair of Molly’s glasses. Molly couldn’t even find her glasses. This is never going to work. Shut up, she told it. I’ve got to try. Seventy-five-year-old glasses. Sure. No problem. Her brain was sassing her. Shut up, she thought, and stood. “You want this hammer?” she asked Robbie.
“Huh?” said Robbie. “Oh. Sure. Thanks.”
“We could sort of scrape against the bottom of the cement,” Ray said.
“Yeah,” said Robbie.
“Except we can’t find the bottom of the cement,” Ray went on.
They went back to the other side of the basement and Miri went back up the creaking stairs. The bright sunlight in the kitchen made her blink. She moved through the house, trying to look at each room like she was seeing it for the first time. She was rewarded by noticing a worn wooden garland carved into the mantel over the fireplace. And the dots on the faded dining room wallpaper were actually grapes. Also, there were fourteen colored panes in each of the stained glass windows. I should have done this the day we moved in, she thought when she discovered that the window seat in the front hallway concealed a perfect hiding place. But she found no glasses. She found nothing but the same pieces of furniture she had been living with for eleven years and stacks of cardboard boxes filled with stuff that nobody had needed enough to unpack yet.
I will not accept defeat, she told herself sternly. Up the stairs she went to search the second floor. In the room that Nell and Nora shared she found nothing; in her father’s tiny office, nothing; in her parents’ bedroom, nothing. Miri cautiously opened the door to Ray and Robbie’s room. It wasn’t officially off-limits, but the door was usually closed. She tried to remember if they had ever invited her to come and hang out with them in their room. She didn’t think so. Not that it was such a lovely place to hang out, Miri thought, looking around. Robbie and Ray had not wasted much time unpacking. Their posters drooped, unrolling, in corners, and their books were still stacked next to the bookcase.
On Ray’s side of the room, clothes were scattered on the floor like fallen plums. Robbie’s side was neater. He had even decorated a little: his A+ ziggurat diagram hung over his bed, side by side with a small, blurry photograph of their cat, Icky, who had died two summers ago. Miri squinted, trying to see beyond all the familiar junk. It was impossible. She glanced from the half pickle floating in a jar to a brownish tank that (in theory) held a couple of lizards to a gutted Walkman lying on a piece of newspaper. There was a lot of stuff. But there was nothing that would contain seventy-year-old glasses. Miri was turning to go when her eyes fell on the closet.
The closet had no door. It had had a door, but the door was now leaning against the wall next to Ray’s bed. So Miri could see inside the closet. And what she saw, rising above the smelly rubble of shoes and shirts, was a ladder built against the back wall of the closet. It led up to a small door, set high in the wall.
The attic.
Of course. Miri had known, even before her adventure with Molly, that there was an attic, because her own room was right next to it. And she knew that the nailed-down flap in her own closet could not be the only way into it, because that would be stupid. But she hadn’t thought much about it. Now she did. The attic would obviously be the place for Flo, Horst, Sissy, and—Miri crossed her fingers—Molly to store old stuff and forget about it. She remembered the napping dressmaker’s dummy. There should be tons of stuff up there by now. She jumped through the mess on the closet floor and took hold of the ladder’s rungs.
At the top, the door opened with a squeak of protest, and Miri rapidly hoisted herself in, scraping her knees as she went. The attic was hot and dusty, just as it had been over seventy years before, and the same thin slats of light angled across the floor from the air vent. The first thing Miri saw as she climbed through the door were three pillows lined up on the floor, and her stomach jumped with illogical hope— Molly! She whirled around, ready to find her friend.
Nothing.
Beyond the pillows, the attic was empty. The floor that stretched away into dark corners was bare. It contained not one thing that Molly had ever touched. Hot tears filled Miri’s eyes and her throat grew thick. What if I never find her? she thought with an ache. What if I never know what happened? Two bright drops shimmered on the dusty floor, and she smeared them away. “Molly,” she called in a low voice. “C’mere.” She knew that there would be no answer, but she waited anyway. Nothing. “I’m not going to quit,” she said into the silent attic. She didn’t sound very convincing. “I’m not going to quit.” That was better.
Miri climbed down the ladder, too gloomy even to plug her nose against the socky stink. She thumped heavily down the stairs and out the back door. Her mother was weeding the little vegetable patch near the porch while Nell and Nora squabbled over the tire swing nearby.
Miri glared at the neat rows of tomato plants. “Rhododendrons would look better,” she snapped.
“You can’t eat rhododendrons.” Her mother didn’t even look up from her work.
Humph, thought Miri. She should be nicer to me if she doesn’t want me to run away again. The thought made her smile—she was starting to believe that running-away story herself.
Her mother smiled in return. “That’s better. Do you want to go to town now?”
“For new glasses?”
“And paint, too.”
“Mom?”
“Hmm?”
“Could I get wallpaper instead?”
Her mother made a face. “You want wallpaper? What kind?”
“I saw one with pink roses. I thought it was pretty.” Miri tried to keep her face blank.
“Pink roses?” Her mother stared at her. “That sounds kind of old-fashioned.”
“Remember? I like old-fashioned stuff,” said Miri.
“Well. Okay, honey. It might be kind of
a stretch for Paxton Hardware, but we’ll see if they have any wallpaper with pink roses.” Miri could see that her mother was trying to be positive. She smiled a secret smile. This guilt thing was great.
“Let’s go, then,” she said.
CHAPTER
10
“THESE ARE CUTE ,” said her mother, holding up a pair of emerald green frames.
Miri didn’t think anyone wore emerald green glasses in 1935. She didn’t want to stand out too much. “No thanks. I think I want these.” She selected a pair of brown tortoiseshell glasses.
“You’re sure?” her mother said. “They’re a little plain, aren’t they?”
“They’re fine.” Miri turned to the red-faced man behind the counter. “When can they be ready?”
“You name it,” he said and winked at her.
“Today?”
“Today? We’re fast, but we’re not that fast, little lady.” He chuckled, as though she was being childish.
Miri decided she didn’t like him. “I thought Speedi-Spec meant you could do them in a day,” she said in her most adult voice.
His face got redder. “A day means twenty-four hours. We’ll have them ready tomorrow.”
“What time?” she persisted.
He scowled at her. “Noon.”
“That will be great,” her mother interrupted, shooting Miri a look that said Stop Being a Pest.
I’m not being a pest, Miri thought back. I’m just standing up for myself. And Molly.
Miri and her mother walked up the street to Paxton Hardware. Waves of heat jiggled off the sidewalk, and Miri wiped the back of her neck with her hand. It was a lot cooler at home than it was in town.
“Where did those boys go?” her mother muttered, and her question was answered almost instantly, for Robbie and Ray appeared looking aggravated, with Nell and Nora trailing behind, happily eating long, sticky strands of red licorice.
“Sorry, Mom, but they wouldn’t stop whining,” Ray answered his mother’s outraged face.
“Boys! You know they’re not supposed to have candy!”
“It’s good, Mama!” said Nora enthusiastically. “You want some?”
“Yeah,” said Robbie, yanking the entire string of licorice out of her hands. “Here, Mom.” He handed it to his mother proudly, as though he had solved the problem.
Nora began to cry, and Nell, sensing trouble, quickly balled up her licorice and jammed the whole thing in her mouth. While her mother soothed Nora and persuaded Nell to spit the giant wad out, Miri leaned against a hot fire hydrant. No telling how long it would take to stop the crying.
She looked at the bright Astroturf in front of the fast-food place. Now that was totally weird. She imagined trying to explain Astroturf to Molly—it’s fake grass that doesn’t look like grass, and everybody knows it’s fake, but they put it on the ground and everyone pretends it’s real. Miri smiled, thinking of Molly’s face. Next to the fast-food place was Maydale’s Health and Nutrition One-Stop Shop, which smelled like pills. Next door to that was Bead-Quest. Miri liked that store; she liked the sound the beads made in their little boxes when she stirred them with her finger. She didn’t think they had bead shops in 1935. Molly would like BeadQuest.
She glanced behind her. Now Nell was crying. A tiny, bent man was hobbling across the street, bringing the slow traffic of Paxton to a halt. He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he was just so old he didn’t care. Now the curb was giving him trouble; Miri watched as he wiped his hands on his trousers and gripped his cane tightly. Slowly, slowly, he lifted one foot to the curb, and, bracing himself with the cane, hoisted the rest of his tiny body up. Miri was fascinated. He must be a hundred years old. He shuffled past her, across the sidewalk to a dingy storefront.
A crooked screen door squealed as he pulled it open and entered. What kind of store was it, she wondered, banging her feet against the fire hydrant. There were shelves in the window, but there wasn’t much on them. A few old teacups and a fish stuck on a piece of wood. Miri squinted at the chipped gold lettering on the dirty window: U AND I TRADING POST, it said, and down below: R. GUEST, PROP. Miri couldn’t imagine anyone wanting that fish, no matter what. The U and I Trading Post had probably been around for a hundred years, easy.
A hundred years.
What about seventy years? Miri stopped kicking the hydrant.
R. Guest, Prop.
Guest.
Wait.
She remembered: “He’s this old guy, like really old, who’s lived in the valley for like a million years.” Mr. Guest had told Robbie and Ray about the stolen stuff.
Miri stood up. That old man was Mr. Guest himself. She knew it. And she had to talk to him. He had probably known them: Horst, Flo, and Sissy. And maybe even—hope blazed up again like fire—Molly.
“Where are you going?” It was her mother’s voice. “Let’s get along to the hardware store and see about that wallpaper. Boys, I’m counting on you this time.” She turned to Miri.
And Miri, who could come up with no reasonable explanation for an urgent trip to the U and I Trading Post, trailed dismally after her mother in the direction of Paxton Hardware.
• • •
Twenty minutes later, Miri scuttled out of the hardware store like an escaped prisoner, looking over her shoulder. The pink rose wallpaper had been chosen, and as her mother began a long and boring conversation with the clerk about wallpaper paste, Miri quickly whispered, “Can I go to the library?”
Her mother nodded absently. “How long does it take to dry?” she said to the clerk.
Miri hurried down the street to the U and I Trading Post. She yanked open the dirty screen door and whisked in, her heart thumping.
Inside, the shop was silent, the cool air heavy with oldness. The shelves inside the store didn’t contain much more than the ones in the window—a few old trays and lampshades and things like that.
“Looking for something, missy?” quavered an ancient voice.
Miri couldn’t see him at first, because he was as old and dingy as the wall behind him. Mr. Guest was sitting on a stool behind a splintery counter, peering at a newspaper. He looked like a statue, Miri thought, like one of those weird gnomes people stick in their front yards.
“Actually, um, I’m . . . well, I’m looking—for you,” she blurted, her face hot.
He didn’t seem surprised. “That right, missy?” He laid down his newspaper with care.
“Yes. I need to ask you about some people who used to live here—well, not here exactly, but out on Pickering Lane.”
He nodded, his eyes bright. “Yes’m. You kin to those hooligans just moved out there?”
Miri giggled. “You mean those boys you met yesterday? They’re my brothers.”
Mr. Guest’s teeth were abnormally large and white. “Thought so. They don’t know much about fishing.”
Miri took a breath. “Mr. Guest, did you know Flo and—and Sissy and—and Horst?” Her voice trailed off; she couldn’t bring herself to say Molly’s name. “I don’t know their last name, but they lived in my house about seventy years ago.”
Mr. Guest responded with a wheezing sound that Miri hoped was a laugh. “Sure I knew Flo and Sissy. Still do. Sissy, leastways.”
“She’s alive?” gasped Miri. She had never thought of that.
“You could say so. Her kids moved her on out to O-hi-o,” he drew the word out like it was some sort of strange contraption. “Her girl has a place up at Marion, O-hi-o. They figured Sis was too old to take care of herself, even though she’s a spring chicken compared to me. I’m ninety-four last May.” He wheezed with pride.
Miri could tell she was supposed to say something about that. “Wow,” she replied, trying to sound enthusiastic. “That’s old.”
“Yessiree. Poor Sis was getting a little creaky, all by her lonesome in that big house.”
Miri couldn’t contain herself any longer. “Did you know a girl who lived there in 1935? Eleven years old? Her name is Molly Gardner. Do you know
anything about her?”
Now the old man peered at her. “’35? Who said anything about ’35? I didn’t get here till ’37. I was twenty-five years old in ’37, and I bought my first sixty acres out there by the Woodmill place.”
Miri didn’t want to hear about acres. She wanted to hear about Molly. “But did you ever hear of a girl? When you came here in ’37?”
“A girl? Out to Bains’s? Can’t say I did. There weren’t any little girls out there in ’37, far as I know.”
“Oh,” said Miri, shoulders slumping.
“All I heard was about Horst. Heard plenty about him.”
Miri swallowed. She didn’t know how to ask what she wanted to know. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to know it. “What did you hear about Horst?”
“That he was a thief,” said Mr. Guest bluntly. “That he stole everything that wasn’t nailed down, but just little things. Little jewelry from the local ladies. Little bit from the shops. Little cash from the till. Storekeepers hated to see him coming. That’s mostly what you heard about Horst—that he was a thief.” Mr. Guest sniffled a long sniffle. “But some said he was worse’n that.” He nodded solemnly.
Miri’s throat shriveled. “Worse how?” she croaked.
Mr. Guest bent toward her confidentially. “Effie Fletcher, she was school principal here for more’n forty years—she said a meaner fellow than Horst Bains never drew breath.”
Miri felt herself relax. No big deal. A school principal wasn’t very likely to think Horst was a great guy.
But Mr. Guest wasn’t finished. “And Effie Fletcher always vowed that Horst Bains was a killer.”
“No!” Miri shouted and then clapped her hand over her mouth.
Mr. Guest looked offended. “All right, all right. I ain’t saying it’s true.” He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and patted his neck with it. “I’m just telling you what Effie sa—”
“Why?” interrupted Miri. “Excuse me, but why did she think that—that—he—” she stuttered, unable to continue.
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