Everything in Between

by Hubbard, Crystal

  “Anybody could have walked by that car and just gotten sick,” Elton argued weakly. “Why does it have to be a conspiracy?”

  “Nice try,” said the dean. “Try again.”

  Furtive glances were thrown at Elton, and two of the boys looked near tears. The boy on Elton’s right opened and closed his fists and fidgeted in his chair.

  “Very well,” said the dean. “Until we get to the bottom of this matter, you four are suspended from classes and all extracurricular activities—”

  Elton’s right-hand man spoke out. “We’ve got a game Saturday!”

  “We’re playing Lincoln University, they’re our biggest rivals,” said another boy.

  “Then I suggest you resolve this as soon as possible,” the dean said.

  Gritting his teeth, Elton stared at his lap. “Guys, they’re just trying to scare us.”

  It’s working, too, Zae thought merrily. Little bastards…

  “We did it,” came the small voice of the boy farthest on Elton’s left. “It was Elton’s idea. He was mad at Prof. Richardson after we saw her at a diner early Sunday morning. He said he wanted to teach her a lesson.”

  “Damn it, Jeff,” Elton whispered.

  “You’re the only one not on the football team,” Jeff countered. “My scholarship depends on my play. I can’t afford to miss a game.”

  “You should have thought of that before you befouled Prof. Richardson’s car,” the dean said. “You boys will, of course, apologize to Prof. Richardson.”

  Every boy nodded, except Elton.

  “You will also remain on disciplinary suspension for two weeks, barring you from participating in extracurricular activities on campus.”

  “But you said—” Jeff began.

  The dean spoke over him. “A formal censure will go into your permanent records, and all four of you are hereby removed from Prof. Richardson’s class. Unless another instructor is willing to take you into his or her class this far into the semester, you’ll have to repeat the class next semester.”

  Jeff’s chin trembled with the effort to hold back tears. Red-faced with anger or shame, the others shook their heads. Elton, his expression stony, sneered, “Will that be all?”

  “No, actually, there’s one more thing,” the dean said. “Stay away from Prof. Richardson.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “You decided to celebrate Halloween by buying Dr. Frank-N-Furter’s mansion? I’m telling you right now, I am not doing the Time Warp when Riff Raff opens that door.”

  Zae stood on the broken walkway in front of a three-story Victorian. The wraparound porch was missing part of its railing and a significant section of plank flooring. Large peels of paint that had been black at some point, curved away from the house in sun-bleached gray curls. A porch swing, its seat splintered, dangled from its remaining rusted chain. What looked to be a rope hammock lay in a pile, the scent of fresh mildew wafting from it with each rush of wind.

  “How much did you pay for this?” Zae asked bluntly.

  “For this area, it was a steal.” Chip smiled. “I’m five minutes from you and Gian and Cinder and only twenty minutes from school. Both interstates are close by, and I can walk to Sheng Li.”

  “How much did it cost?” Zae used the toe of her sneaker to poke at a dingy black coil on the lawn.

  “That’s the sprinkler system,” Chip explained. “I’ll install it in the spring.”

  “How much did this place cost you?”

  Chip took her hand and pulled her to the front door. The three wide stairs leading to the porch screamed in protest under their weight. Chip dug the house keys from the front pocket of his jeans and opened the door. With a hand at the small of Zae’s back, he ushered her into the foyer.

  “Good Lord,” Zae muttered.

  A Hollywood set designer couldn’t have done a better job making the place look haunted. Cobwebs heavy with dust draped the dull chandelier hanging high over the cracked marble floor tiles and joined the balusters in the wide staircase facing the front door. Zae cleared a spot of dirt from the nearest tile to reveal a lovely champagne color. Perhaps Chip had done with his eyes what she had done with her toe of her sneaker—seen past the horror of the place to envision its potential beauty.

  “This house was built in the late 1800s,” Chip said, excitement creeping into his voice, “but a lot of the materials came from back East with its original inhabitants. It has incredible architectural details.” He pointed to the molding. “That’s genuine cypress. All the carving was done by hand.”

  “It’s going to be a nightmare to refinish,” Zae said, imagining the poor soul who’d be on his hands and knees with a toothbrush, prying years of grit and grime from the fine feather detailing of the molding. “What’s that smell?”

  Chip sniffed. “Gian and I removed a dead raccoon from under the porch a couple of days ago. The smell hasn’t completely gone away.” In a blur of wool and denim, he darted into the room left of the corridor. “Come on, I want to show you the rest of the house.”

  Zae joined him in what he called the parlor. Chip pointed out the hand-carved, cypress medallion that once supported another chandelier, or perhaps a globe light fixture, and the storage bench—its cushioned lid torn and askew—at the mullioned bay windows. He seemed especially pleased to report that the purplish hue of the glass panes indicated the presence of lead, which dated the glass to the late 1700s.

  The living room was on the other side of the foyer. Bigger than the parlor, its most attractive feature was the triple-paned extra-tall windows that, once they’d been thoroughly cleaned, would allow the warmth of the southern sun to penetrate the room. Chip graciously caught Zae when she stumbled over an uneven section of flooring. “The floors are sturdy,” Chip told her, righting her. “They’re good ’ol yellow pine. Once I refinish them, you won’t believe how handsome they’ll be.”

  The living room gave way to a formal dining room and Zae’s grudging admiration. The dining room was wide and the high ceilings gave it a regal spaciousness. Zae easily pictured guests mingling comfortably before sitting for a meal at the big table that apparently came with the house.

  “It’s solid oak,” Chip stated proudly, knocking on its scuffed surface. “I might have to have someone come in to refinish it. I’m not sure I’d trust my skills to something like this.”

  The feather pattern on the wide edge of the table matched that of the molding throughout the rooms of the lower floor. A quartet of gryphons complemented the thick trunk of the table’s base, its claw feet a masculine yet artistic touch. Zae stroked the table top, seeing the potential of the piece.

  “Are there chairs to match?” she asked.

  “In the basement.” Chip smiled. “Wanna see them?”

  “Not right this minute.” Zae had no desire to burrow into the basement when the upper floor looked such a fright.

  The kitchen occupied the rear of the first floor, and the parlor and dining rooms opened into it. Zae tried to ignore a twitch of envy. The kitchen was huge with plenty of cabinet and shelf space, and the breakfast nook at the wide windows offered a lovely view of the heavily wooded backyard. “This will have to go, I think,” Chip said, opening the stately Westinghouse refrigerator standing near the rear staircase. “It still works, though.”

  Zae moved away from the cold air issuing from the empty refrigerator. “I kinda like it. My grandparents had a lime green Westinghouse like this one. That sucker could freeze a rump roast solid in about ten minutes.”

  “They don’t make ’em like this anymore, for sure,” Chip sighed. “Maybe I’ll keep it in the basement or the garage.”

  The wide staircase led them to the second floor. The warped floorboards protested their presence in an eerie voice of creaks and pops as Chip lead Zae through the four bedrooms of the second floor. A large bathroom with a double basin counter joined the two big bedrooms on the north side of the house. A slightly smaller bedroom on the east side of the house had its own bath, althoug
h it housed a shower and no bathtub. Unbidden, the thought occurred to Zae that the room would be perfect for a pre-teen boy.

  The master bedroom dominated the south side of the second floor. Each bedroom had its own fireplace, but the one in the master bedroom was exquisite. Tall, wide and deep, its mantel was a solid slab of cool black marble. The looking glass mounted above it was a lovely focal point, and the carving on the frame matched the molding on the closet doors.

  “This room has pretty good closet space,” Chip said, throwing open the double doors.

  Zae’s jaw fell.

  No mere walk-in, the closet was half the size of the smallest bedroom. Built-in shelving, drawers and adjustable clothing bars ensured that the lucky woman sharing the master bedroom would have a place for everything. Including belts and scarves, which would go on little hooks mounted on a sliding fixture near the door.

  “Do you like it?” Chip asked.

  “It’s okay,” Zae said blithely, although she stroked her lower lip to make sure she wasn’t drooling.

  A second, narrow staircase led to the attic, and there Zae could no longer suppress her enthusiasm for Chip’s find. The attic covered the length of the house. Windows situated between the odd angles of the roof provided ample natural light. The dusty floors were in near perfect condition, which showed Zae just how beautiful the other floors could be once they had been restored.

  The previous owners had left behind treasures that perhaps had no value but neither were junk. Wire dress forms covered in poplin ticking, trunks full of handmade quilts, bins of old wind-up toys, dolls, a toboggan and wooden skis—“There’s a year of Antiques Roadshow episodes up here,” Zae said.

  “I found a safe in the wall,” Chip said, walking her to an empty space near the floorboards. It was slightly larger than a shoebox. “There was nothing valuable in it. Just some old letters.”

  He handed one to her, and Zae carefully opened the square of yellowing paper. The ink had turned dark brown, but the hand was perfectly legible. Dated September 14, 1950, the letter was addressed to Ruby Montgomery. Zae read it, learning that the author was a soldier stationed in France. And that he loved Ruby very much.

  “This house belonged to a woman named Ruby Montgomery,” Chip explained as Zae read the letter. He moved among the boxes and furniture covered in cloth heavy and brown with years of dust. “She spent most of her life a widow. That letter you’ve got was written a few days before PFC Hiram Montgomery died from injuries he received during the Inchon invasion in the Korean War.” Carefully, so as not to send a suffocating cloud of dust into the air, he gently pulled the cover from a stand-up piano that had likely last seen the light of day around the same time Scott Joplin wrote the “Maple Leaf Rag.” “The first time I came by to see the house, Ruby’s daughter gave me a lot of the history of this place. She told me that Ruby raised four kids alone in this house, and she went to college after her youngest graduated high school. They both graduated from Washington University the same year. Ruby went on to medical school. She got her medical degree, and she practiced for twenty years.”

  Zae set the letter on top of the empty safe, then joined Chip at the piano. He sat on the stool, its rusty stem squealing, and ran his fingers over the ivory keys. The instrument was horribly out of tune, yet Chip managed to pick out a recognizable rendition of “East of the Sun.”

  “Ruby was active in her community and was well-known for her philanthropic endeavors,” Chip went on as he softly played with Zae’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, her chest pressed to his back. “She funded the town’s first library, and endowed a scholarship for any high school student who wanted to pursue medicine in college. She never remarried. She never fell in love again, as far as her children knew. She spent the last five years of her life, living with one of her daughters after suffering a stroke. None of the kids wanted the house, since it had fallen in such disrepair. When Ruby died last year, her kids just wanted to get rid of it.”

  Chip took Zae’s left hand and drew her onto his lap.

  “I suppose I’d have done the same thing,” Zae said. “They grew up in this house, but it’s probably no more than a physical reminder of their mother’s grief.”

  “Perhaps.” Chip laced his fingers together over Zae’s hip. “I don’t think of it that way. Ruby spent some good years here with the man she loved. She made babies with him and raised them here. I think the happiness she knew in this house outweighed the grief. This house is just waiting to live again. To give someone else the chance to fill it with love.”

  “I hate to admit it—I really hate admitting it—but I love this attic.” Zae sighed. She even liked the faint scents of stale cedar and mothballs permeating the air. “I didn’t realize how high above the rest of the town you are. I can see Shady Creek and miles beyond it, into Glendale. Maybe even Kirkwood.” She crossed her legs, nestling even closer to Chip. “I feel more a part of Webster Groves than I ever have before. Well, if not a part, then certainly its queen perched here at the highest point at the top of the biggest hill.”

  “I was hoping you’d feel that way. I was hoping you’d want to share this with me.”

  Zae leaned back to better study his face. “You want me to move in with you?”

  “I want all of you to move in. The Jack and Jill suite would be perfect for Dawn and Eve. They’d have their own rooms when they were home from school. CJ could have the third bedroom, or he could have a bedroom up here. There’s plenty of room for a desk and all of his gaming equipment, and this would be a great space for him to practice his music.”

  “I call dibs on the master suite. I love that closet! But if we Richardsons move in, where will you sleep?”

  Chip bit back a grin. “I was hoping to sleep with you, but I guess I could bunk with CJ.”

  Zae hugged him, cradling his head to her bosom. “You’ve given this a great deal of thought. I’m impressed.”

  “No, you aren’t.” He chuckled. He took her hands and kissed the backs of her fingers. “But you will be.”

  * * *

  “I’m not enjoying my literature class as much as I thought I would,” Chip said. “The reading material is great, but my teacher sucks all the life out of discussing it. He’s the only person I’ve ever known who can make a discussion about Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde boring. He seems to spiral around the point of a story before finally missing it altogether.”

  “How are you doing in the class?” Zae asked.

  “I’m carrying a high B right now, but that’s only because I write what he wants to see rather than what I really think.”

  “Every great story is a love story.” Zae wandered into an aisle mounted floor to eye-level with heavy coils of chains, cable and rope of various colors and weights. She grabbed the fraying end of a mid-weight red nylon rope. “That one emotion is the source of every conflict known to humanity.”

  “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is the furthest thing from a love story.” Chip chuckled. “Professor, I think you’re oversimplifying.”

  “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is the story of a man’s love of freedom, but not in a good way.” Zae moved on to a giant spool of stainless steel chain. The one-inch links gleamed in the fluorescent light. “Dr. Jekyll wanted to separate his good side from his evil side so he could gallivant through London free of a conscience from time to time. Can you imagine how much fun you could have without a conscience? You could do whatever you wanted without the burden of guilt. It backfired on him, though, didn’t it?”

  “That’s what you get from Cracker Jacks,” Chip said, borrowing one of Zae’s pet phrases. “You like that chain?”

  “Yes, I think I’ll take two and half feet of it.”

  “What for?”

  “None of your business. What are you reading next?”

  “Gone With the Wind.” Chip grimaced. He hoisted the spool of chain from its mount and set it in his shopping cart. “The book is huge. Now I know why the movie is nearly four hours long.”

 
Zae steered the cart out of the aisle and headed for the paint section, the reason they’d come to Lowe’s. “Gone With the Wind is the story of Scarlett O’Hara’s love for Scarlett O’Hara Hamilton Kennedy Butler. Scarlett is one of the most unlikeable heroines in all of American literature, yet the reader roots for her because to survive, she’s willing to stomp all over the restraints she’s expected to live under.”

  “We’re also reading Christine this year,” Chip said.

  “Stephen King’s Christine?”

  “Yep.”

  “The story of a car’s love for a man.” Zae snickered. “I’d have named the car Roberta. Every Roberta I ever knew was the jealous type.”

  “One of my Facebook friends is named Roberta. I only know her through playing Mafia Wars, but she’s definitely got a jealous streak,” Chip said. “Anytime a woman leaves a post on my profile, she comments on it as if she’s my wife or something.”

  “Facebook seems like a stalker’s paradise,” Zae said. “I don’t do Facebook. It’s the technological, modern equivalent to the ‘I’d Rather Be Sailing’ bumper stickers from the 1980s. I didn’t care what you’d rather be doing back then, and as for Facebook, I’d rather not be reading insipid reports of what boring people are doing now. Same goes for Twitter.”

  “My first experience with Facebook came through Sheng Li,” Chip said. “Gian created a page for us to keep our students up to date with new classes, the schedule, to introduce all the instructors. It’s been a good tool for us. I created my own personal account after I got hooked on Mafia Wars. Those Zynga games are addictive.”

  “I went through a Vampire Wars addiction myself,” Zae said absently as she studied paint swatches from a palette of earth tones.

  “I thought you don’t use Facebook.” Chip grinned.

  “Shut up.” She showed him a warm, soft ocher. “Could you see this in the master bedroom or the living room?”