The Hook (1991)

by Terry Brooks

  A new burst of activity rose from behind him, and Jack and Maggie came tearing down the hall with Nana in pursuit. Charging past their father, the children raced into Wendy's room, leaped from the bed to the love seat and back again. Nana, too large to gain the bed, raced around the carved wooden posts, barking.

  Maggie caught sight of her father and called out, "Daddy, Daddy, come play with us!"

  Peter smiled and began fumbling with his tie. "Later, sweetheart." He took a step into the room and caught Moira's eye. "Slippery shoes." He motioned down to them, scuffing at the floor. "You haven't seen my gold cuff link, have you?"

  Moira gave him a look. "In here?"

  "I think I might have dropped it earlier."

  He moved into the room, searching, then bent down on his hands and knees to have a look underneath the bed. Instantly Maggie vaulted onto his back, yelling, "Giddyup, horsey! Ride, ride!"

  Peter glanced up stoically. "Maggie, be of some help, please?"

  Maggie leaped down and rushed away. Peter went back to looking, finding nothing beneath the trailing edges of the bed's quilted comforter, not even a dust bunny. He backed off and worked his way around the end of the bed and over to an easy chair.

  As he peered around the chair he found himself face-to-face with Tootles, also down on his hands and knees, searching. They both drew up just in time to keep from bumping heads.

  Tootles stared at Peter. His eyes were glassy pools. "Lost my marbles," he mumbled.

  Peter nodded. "Lost a cuff link. I'm not dressed without my cufflinks."

  They stared at each other a moment longer, then separated and moved on, continuing to search.

  After a minute Peter rose, feeling suddenly foolish. He brushed off his pants and departed the room. The pearl cuff links would have to do. Dratted nuisance, not being able to find the other. Kind of day it had turned out to be.

  He worked his way down the corridor toward his own room. Through the windows he passed he could see the snow continuing to fall-huge, damp flakes, as still as midnight.

  Midway along, he approached the children's nursery. Jack and Maggie had been given this room. He slowed. The door was cracked open, and he peeked inside. A small fire in the stone fireplace gave what light there was to the room, casting ghostly shadows in all directions. Jack and Maggie's luggage rested on two of the three small, ornate Victorian beds. Peter stared at the luggage for a moment, then glanced around at the room, peering to see into the shadows. Undecided, he hung on the door frame, drawn and repelled at the same time.

  What was it about this room that affected him so?

  From a darkened corner a cuckoo clock popped out and called six times. Peter released his grip on the door and stepped inside. One step, two, three.

  And abruptly froze.

  The room was just as it had once been, sometime long ago in a past it seemed he could almost remember, just as Wendy's mother, Mrs. Darling, had left it, the result of "a loving heart and the scraping of her purse.'' The three beds, thick-quilted and comforting, sat two on the left (John's and Michael's) and one on the right (Wendy's). Coverlets made of white satin shimmered in the faint light. Above each bed on tiny shelves were china houses the size of bird's nests containing night-lights. The fireplace burned low and quiet, a faint hissing of sap buried in the wood echoing in the stillness. The mantel sheltering the hearth was supported by two straight-backed wooden soldiers, homemade, rough-hewn, begun once upon a time by Mr. Darling, subsequently finished by Mrs. Darling, and eventually repainted (rather unfortunately) by Mr. Darling.

  The memories flashed in Peter's mind and disappeared. One moment he recognized it all; in the next the recognition was gone. He moved deeper into the room, touching this and that, pausing in foreign country that nevertheless was somehow quite familiar.

  A ragged teddy bear sat with its back against a battered top hat on the mantel. Peter stepped up to the bear and brushed its fuzzy, worn nose with his fingers.

  He saw Wendy's dollhouse then and peered down inside to see if anyone was living there. The bureau sat alone against one wall, and he moved to stand before it. His hands fastened on its smooth knobs and he jiggled it gently, trying to think what might be inside.

  At last he found his way to the latticed French windows, latched now against the dark, their curtains drawn. He stepped onto the threshold, reached out tentatively, brushed back the curtains, undid the latch, and pulled the windows open. Thick snowflakes landed on his nose and mouth, and he licked them away. Carefully he stepped out on the tiny balcony to the wrought-iron railing and looked about, up first at the white-speckled skies, down then to the streets and rooftops below. His hands gripped the railing as he felt the earth fall away in a spin. Closing his eyes against the unsettling sensation, he ducked back inside.

  The lace of the curtains brushed against his cheek, blown by me night wind, and he opened his eyes once more. There were scenes of some sort sewn into the lace, woven into patterns that backed up against one another like pictures hung on a wall. He bent closer, reaching out to hold the curtains still.

  He saw a boy flying in a night sky with stars all about, the same boy standing with his hands on his hips and his head thrust back as he prepared to crow, and the boy again, engaged in battle with a pirate captain whose missing hand had been replaced by a hook.

  Peter Pan.

  Moira appeared suddenly in the doorway, flicking on the light. "Peter, Brad's on the line. He says it's urgent."

  Peter turned abruptly and hurried from the room.

  The room sat empty and silent men. But the windows had been left open, and the wind picked up suddenly, rustling the curtains. Moonlight broke through the clouds overhead momentarily and flooded die room. Its light was a strange, eerie color, and it cast new shadows that wavered and shimmered like ghosts.

  Then the light crept along the floor and settled in the twin mirrored doors of a massive old armoire that rested far back in a corner, a dark wooden closet that might hold either dreams or nightmares.

  * * *

  Peter raced down the hall, already anticipating the worst. He'd brought the holster phone with him for emergencies. English phones were just too unreliable.

  Granny Wendy walked past, twirling girlishly. "Like my dress, Peter?"

  Peter went past without slowing, nodding perfunctorily. He charged into the guest bedroom where he and Moira had been settled and snatched up the phone from where it lay on the bed.

  "Yeah? Brad? What do you mean, the Sierra Club report? I thought that was settled? A what? A Cozy Blue Owl?" His face had gone beet red. "Well, if they're endangered, maybe there's a good reason for it!"

  Maggie appeared with Jack in pursuit. They rushed past him to the far side of the bed and disappeared. After a moment Maggie reappeared, shouting, laughing, "Daddy, save me! Save me!"

  From behind the bed, Jack was making monster sounds. Peter ignored them, putting a finger in his ear to block out their noise.

  "Since the dawn of time there have been all sorts of casualties in the evolutionary process!" he snapped. "Does anybody miss the Tyrannosaurus rex?"

  "I do!" yelled Jack, and began to growl fiercely.

  Peter whirled about. "Damn it, Jack, grow up! Maggie, get away! Moira!" He returned to the phone. "Ten inches high and has a mating radius of fifty miles? Well, why doesn't somebody just shoot me in the head?"

  Maggie raced back around the bed, screaming with delight, and tried to climb up her father's back. Jack was in pursuit, growling and waving his arms.

  "Everybody, just shut up!" snarled Peter, shaking them off. "All of you, shut up for one miserable moment! Moira, for God's sake, get them out of here^-I'm on the phone call of my life!"

  Moira appeared finally, took Jack and Maggie gently but firmly by the hand, called softly to Nana, and ushered them all out into the hall. Granny Wendy stood waiting, her hands outstretched to gather the children in, her bright eyes looking past them to the bedroom and Peter.

  "You know, "
she said softly, "when your father was a little boy, we used to stand by the window and blow out the stars."

  Jack snorted. "Uh-huh."

  Peter was off the phone by the time Moira reentered the bedroom, sitting disconsolately on the bed, his eyes vacant and staring.

  "The deal is on fire." He ran his hands through his mop of brown hair. "I never should have left."

  Moira stood there, not speaking. After a moment he lifted his eyes to find hers. He saw anger and disappointment reflected there. She was swallowing hard to keep from crying. They stared at each other in silence. Then he rose, started toward her, thought better of it, and stopped. He gestured futilely with his hands, tried to speak and couldn't.

  He shook his head. "Moira, I'm sorry, I just, I just can't…" The explanation he groped for wouldn't come. "1 lost perspective, I guess, I don't know why."

  Moira's voice was low and soft, but her eyes were suddenly hard. "You haven't been to Kensington Gardens for ten years, even though Granny asks you to come every year. I mean, Peter, how many broken promises…" She trailed off, fighting to stay calm. "You promised the kids real time here, and you haven't looked at them once except to examine them or yell at them…"

  The phone on the bed rang sharply, piercingly. Peter hesitated, then reached to pick it up.

  "Give me that," his wife ordered.

  Peter stared. "Come on, Moira, no."

  "Just give me the phone, Peter."

  "Please, Moira…"

  Moira reached out and snatched the phone away. Striding deliberately to the open window, she tossed it through. Peter watched her in stunned silence.

  Moira turned back again to face him. "I'm sorry about your deal."

  "You hated the deal," mumbled Peter.

  Moira nodded, brushing back her dark hair. "I hated the deal, but I'm sorry you feel so badly. Peter, your kids love you, they want to play with you. How long do you think that lasts? A lifetime? In three years Jack isn't even going to want you to come into his room. We have only a few special years with our children, when they're the ones who want us around. After that, you're going to be chasing them for a little attention. Listen to me, Peter. I'm home with them. I see them, I play with them. I know what you're missing, but I can't describe to you what that is because you have got to get down on the floor and play with them yourself in order to understand. Do you know how many times they say, 'Where's Daddy? When's Daddy coming home?' "

  She took a deep breath. "Damn it, I'm just saying have fun, Peter! Enjoy them before it's too late!"

  She tightened her lips and stared at him, waiting for his response. He stood there, staring back, unable to speak. Finally, she walked to the window and looked out, her face stricken, her eyes wet. She felt so sad for him.

  "I didn't mean to throw your phone out the window," she said.

  Peter's voice sounded hopeful. "You didn't?"

  She turned back into the room, and their eyes met.

  "Yes, I did," she whispered.

  Nana pushed through the weather flap cut into the backdoor, the garbage bag held firmly in her mouth. The big sheepdog padded through the snow to the alley fence and dropped the bag into the can. She was coming back along the same path when she caught sight of Peter's holster phone. She stopped momentarily to sniff at it, then picked it up, carried it carefully to the flower garden, set it down momentarily, and began to dig. Snow and earth flew. In seconds, she had produced a sizable hole. She picked up the phone again and dropped it in.

  Then she began to bury it.

  The children's nursery was bathed in shadows. In the fireplace, the wood had burned itself down to red-hot coals that cast light the color of blood. Jack stood at the open windows, elbows resting on the balcony railing as he leaned out into the night, one hand fiddling with the dials and switches of his Walkman. The snow had stopped, and the air was crisp and clear. Jack wore his baseball nightshirt and had a bored look on his face.

  "All children, except one, grow up."

  Wendy's voice was low and compelling. She huddled with Maggie on the floor beneath a sheet that was serving as a tent, reading by flashlight from a ragged copy of Peter and Wendy. If Wendy remembered that she was dressed in her evening gown, she seemed not to care. Maggie listened intently, busily sewing ribbons along the hem of the sheet.

  "You know where faeries come from, don't you, Margaret?" Wendy read. Then Maggie's voice joined in. "When the first baby laughed for the first time, the laugh broke into a thousand pieces and they all went skipping about-that was the beginning of faeries."

  Wendy moved the beam of the flashlight to an illustration of the girl Wendy in her nightgown framed at the nursery window. "There," she whispered, "that was me, a long time ago."

  Maggie looked at the drawing, then up at Wendy. "But Jack says you're not the really real Wendy."

  Wendy snorted and pulled back the edges of the sheet. Together they peeked out at Jack, who pretended not to see.

  A twinkle came into Wendy's eye. "And see where Jack is standing? That is the same window." She exchanged a meaningful look with Maggie. Neither saw Peter come through the door, resplendent in his tux, shuffling his speech notes nervously in his hands. "And this is the very room where we told stories about Peter Pan and Neverland and scary, old Captain Hook. Mr. Barrie, Sir James, our neighbor, took a fancy to the stories, so he wrote them down-dear me-over eighty years ago."

  The rustle of Peter's notes caught their attention in the silence that followed. Maggie saw her dad and jumped up immediately. Grabbing the sheet off Wendy, she rushed over to present it.

  "Daddy!" she cried. I made something for you. It's a para… a parachu… a hug! Next time you fly, you don't have to be scared!"

  Peter patted Maggie's head, accepted the makeshift parachute, and carried it over and hung it on her bedpost. Returning, he reached down and helped Granny Wendy to her feet. Wendy smiled. She gave Maggie a hug, blew a kiss toward Jack, and walked over to turn on the night-lights.

  As she was leaving she said softly, "Dear night-lights that protect my sleeping babes, burn clear and steadfast tonight and forever."

  She paused momentarily at the door to look back, then disappeared into the hall.

  For the first time Peter caught sight of Jack standing outside the bedroom windows. Striding over, he grabbed his son anxiously and drew him back inside. Pushing the windows shut behind, he slipped the latch in place.

  In his haste, he had left his notes on the dresser near the window.

  "Jack, what are you doing out there?" he asked. "Get away from there. We don't play near open windows. Do we have open windows at home?"

  Jack pulled away. "No-our windows have bars on them."

  He slouched his way over to the kiddie bed and threw himself down, clearly displeased. Reaching beneath his pillow, he pulled out his baseball glove. He slipped it on, thumped it, then groped under the pillow again. He frowned, lifted the pillow, and looked about.

  "Hey-where's my ball? It was right here!"

  Maggie's solemn eyes stole toward the windows. Her gaze was distant and fixed and her voice certain. "That scary man stole it," she said quietly.

  Peter moved over to sit next to her. "There is no scary man. Now I want those windows locked for the rest of the visit."

  Maggie looked at him doubtfully, then fumbled among her things and produced the paper flower. She handed it to Peter, who in turn tucked it into her hair.

  "Tootles made it for me," she said. "It smells nice."

  Peter smiled. "It's paper, honey." His face softened, and a strange calm settled through him. "Now slip yourself in the envelope of your sheets and mail yourself off to sleep."

  Maggie squirmed down, pulling the sheets up to her chin. "Stamp me, mailman."

  Peter bent and kissed her twice. "Special delivery."

  He rose then and walked over to Jack. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his pocketwatch and held it out.

  "Be in charge for me, Jack?" he asked. "We'll be home-two,
three hours max, 1 promise."

  Jack took the watch without replying. Moira appeared in the doorway. Her eyes met Peter's briefly and slipped away.

  "Mommy," called Maggie softly. "Don't go out. Please?"

  Moira moved over to sit on the edge of her daughter's bed and began stroking her hair. She glanced up at Peter, a pleading look in her dark eyes. "Why can't they just remain like this forever?" she asked-as if the answer might somehow settle all the questions that ever were.

  Then she began a lullaby. Jack and Maggie lay back, and their eyes closed.

  The Past Comes Back to Haunt

  From atop the dais, the polished wooden floor of Royal Hall was submerged beneath a sea of white tablecloths. It seemed as if no inch of space remained within its walls, the whole of it given over to table after table of well-wishers, more than a few of whom were direct recipients of the hard work and unceasing efforts of the woman they had come to honor. Crowded shoulder to shoulder, they sat turned in their seats toward the front of the room and the dais on which Peter Banning stood, speaking.

  "And the confused traveler said, 'Where am I going to find one?' "

  The joke's punch line brought an eruption of laughter from the audience that rolled across the length and breadth of the great hall and echoed off its walls. Peter grinned and glanced to his right momentarily, where Moira sat with Granny Wendy. The table on the dais seated more than two dozen people, all of whom he had been introduced to, almost none of whom he could remember. Lord something-or-other. Lady so-and-so. Most were members of the Great Ormond Street Hospital board. Peter's eyes shifted away. Crystal chandeliers hung from the hall's scalloped ceiling like great prehistoric birds, the light dancing off their facets, bathing the upturned faces below in a wash of gold. Jewels glittered next to glassware and silver. Furs and tuxedos kissed shoulders. Suits and ties and gowns of all descriptions provided a backdrop of color and brightness.

  Across the far end of the hall hung a banner that proclaimed: sir james m. Barrie foundation and the GREAT ORMOND STREET HOSPITAL FOR CHILDREN HONOR WENDY.