“The leaky faucet. Your mama told me, a leaky faucet in the house.”
“Oh.” I could feel air rushing back into my lungs. Now I saw the toolbox in his hand.
“It’s in the bathroom,” Wilma said. “Want me to show you?”
“I know where the bathroom is.” He waved his hand at her and stumped off through the kitchen and down the hall.
I cut up tomatoes and served the hamburgers. “Sit down,” I said. My heart was still sort of thumping around. All the time we were eating, I was aware of Mr. Linaberry in the bathroom. I just hoped he didn’t look in the tub! The kids were supposed to wash it after they took their baths, but they always left a greasy ring.
Just when I was clearing away the plates, he started yelling. “Hello. Hey in there! You got a plastic bucket?”
“Tell him just a minute, Wilma.” I got the one under the sink and sent Chris with it. I looked at my watch. I was glad it was almost time for my mother to come home.
I was dishing out the Jell-O when Mr. Linaberry came back to the kitchen. “All done,” he said. “It’s fixed.”
“Oh. Good. Thank you.”
He stared at me, frowning. Was I supposed to pay him? I didn’t think so. It was his house. But I wasn’t certain.
“When’s your mama coming home?” He blinked and twisted his head around like he had a stiff neck. His eyes were little and bright blue under pale lashes.
“Pretty soon,” I said. I sat down and motioned the kids to wait until he left to start eating their dessert.
“What time?” He kept glancing into the corners of the kitchen, like he was checking to see if we were keeping it clean enough.
“In about twenty minutes.”
“Uh-huh. Okay.” He put down his toolbox with a thump. “She said she had some other things. A torn screen.”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” I said quickly. It was in my room. I didn’t want him there. I didn’t want him looking at my things. “It doesn’t matter, Mr. Linaberry.”
“What do you mean, it doesn’t matter? Never say that. She says it doesn’t matter,” he grumbled to a wall. “It always matters. Little thing like a torn screen, you get in bugs, dirt, and then you complain.”
“I wouldn’t complain.”
“Where’s the screen?”
“In Emily’s room,” Wilma said. “Want me to show you?”
“Wilma! You stay here. I’ll do it.” I stood up and my chair crashed to the floor. It sounded like a bomb going off. At least Mr. Linaberry was up here, not downstairs.
At my room, I opened the door and pointed to the window.
“I need the light, little girl,” he said.
Little girl! I flipped on the switch and snatched up some underwear I’d forgotten to throw into the laundry.
“Go back to supper,” he said. It was an order. It really made me mad, but I left.
He was only in my room a few minutes, then he came into the kitchen again. “Okay for now,” he said. “In the spring, I’ll replace it. So where’s the mama? She’s late tonight?”
“No.” He didn’t leave. He just stood there. Finally I thought I got it. “Would you like something to eat?”
“A glass of water.”
I brought him a glass of ice water. He drank it slowly, staring at the clock over the refrigerator and then every once in a while glancing at the kids.
“Would you like to sit down?” I said.
“Okay.” He sat down. Chris watched him. I could see the wheels turning in Chris’s head. I was afraid he was going to come out with something. But suddenly Mr. Linaberry put his hands behind his ears and wriggled them, as if Chris were a baby he was amusing. Chris smiled politely.
“So what grade in school?” Mr. Linaberry said to Wilma’s shoulder. He just couldn’t seem to look at anyone straight on.
“Me? Fourth grade,” Wilma said. They’d skipped her last year.
Mr. Linaberry tapped his fingers on the table. Wasn’t he ever going to leave? Now he was really making me nervous. I went to my room to check that everything was okay.
Wilma followed me a moment later. “I think Mr. Linaberry wants another glass of water.”
“Then give it to him! Did he ask for it?”
“No. But he’s looking at his empty glass.”
“Wilma, we can afford a glass of water.”
“I know that! Aren’t you coming into the kitchen?”
“I’ll be right there.” I sat down on my bed. I just didn’t like having him in the house. I put on my glasses. I don’t know why. Maybe I thought they made me look older and firmer.
Wilma went away, and then Chris appeared. “Emily,” he whispered, “you have to come back. Mr. Linaberry is company. You’re not supposed to leave company alone.”
“You can keep him company, Chris.”
“He’s too shy to talk to me, Emily. You have to come.”
I went back with Chris. Mr. Linaberry was slowly sipping his second glass of water. I tried to think of something to say. I pushed my glasses up on my nose. Now I was sorry I was wearing them. I could see practically every pore in his skin. “Did you get the yard all raked up?” I asked finally.
“Not yet.”
“Oh. I bet there are a lot of leaves.”
“Still falling,” he said.
At last I heard Mom coming up the stairs. Mr. Linaberry heard her, too. He put down the glass and brushed his hand over his bald head. He sat up straight. His face brightened. It almost started glowing.
I stared at him. Oh, no, I thought. Mr. Linaberry has a crush on my mother!
But there was worse to come.
When Mom walked in and saw Mr. Linaberry in our kitchen, her face lit up, too. Lit up like a neon sign. I couldn’t believe it. Later, I asked myself if I had imagined it. I thought I must have. Maybe Mom’s face got that bright color because she was embarrassed to have the landlord in our messy house. But, then, what about that big smile she’d given him? A really big smile! Mom could be sort of absentminded sometimes, but she wasn’t a hypocrite. She’d acted glad to see Mr. Linaberry. Very glad.
Chapter 6
Robertson Reo fell into step with me as I left school. “Emily! Hel-lo. Can I carry your books for you?”
“No, thanks,” I said.
“I happen to be going your way,” he said.
“Which way is that?”
“Whichever way you go.”
“Robertson, I think I’d like to be alone.”
“Why?”
“I have things to think about.”
“What kind of things?”
“Sort of personal,” I said. I wanted to think about Mom and Mr. Linaberry.
Every single day this week when Mom came home from work, Mr. Linaberry had come up the stairs with her. The excuse was he was helping her with her packages. But he must have been waiting for her! And each time, Mom had made coffee for him and put out slices of cake. One night she’d even broken out the frozen chocolate cream pie we’d been saving for a special occasion. As if all that weren’t enough, last night she had gone on a talking jag.
She’d told Mr. Linaberry about the sick kids on her ward and where she went to high school and college, and how much she loved our old house on Oak Street and how sad she was to leave it, but how she wouldn’t go back, anyway, for any amount of money, because she hadn’t been that happy there. I’d never heard her talk so much.
Mr. Linaberry had sipped his coffee and stared at Mom from those pale blue eyes of his. He kept his eyes right on her, not on the wall, not on her shoulder, but directly on Mom, as if he were afraid to miss a single word.
Later, after I was through with my homework and I’d showered and I was in bed, I could still hear them talking. I used to love to fall asleep to the sound of Mom and Dad talking in the kitchen. Now, I lay awake, trying to convince myself that Mr. Linaberry’s coming up to see Mom so much really didn’t mean anything.
Probably she was just being tactful and smart being so friend
ly to Mr. Linaberry. She was protecting our family. He was our landlord, which meant he was almost like a boss over our lives. If we did things wrong in his house, he could kick us out. We could end up homeless on the streets, like people you read about in the newspaper and never think will be you. I shuddered.
“You cold?” Robertson said. Sir Walter Raleigh Robertson Reo started to take off his sweater.
“No, no … I’m going straight home, Robertson. I really don’t need company.”
“Maybe you don’t need company, but the question is do you want company?”
“It means the same thing, doesn’t it?”
He pondered this for a moment. “Right,” he said. “Got it. So, is it okay if I walk a few blocks with you, anyway?”
“I really don’t feel like talking.”
“That’s okay. You don’t have to say a word. I talk enough for both of us,” he said. “I had my fortune told yesterday, Emily Beth. Are you thinking Gypsies, crystal balls, mysterious lights? Forget all that. It was a computerized character analysis. You might ask why I did it, since I know it’s not scientific science. It’s semi-science, or maybe it’s only quasi-science. What do you think?”
“I—” I opened my mouth. That was as far as I got.
“Why did I do it? Simple. Out of curiosity. I’m an extemely curious person. I like to be open to all possibilities. My curiosity is the reason I know you, Emily Beth. I saw you in the halls, and I was curious. I thought, Who is that really great-looking girl, and can I get to be a friend of hers? And look! I am! So I figure my curiosity pays off.”
In a way, listening to him talk and knowing I didn’t have to respond was very restful. I didn’t even really mind that he kept me from thinking about Mr. Linaberry and Mom, because when I thought about them, all I did was worry.
“So here’s the way this computerized character analysis works, Emily. They took my handprint on a computer and ran it through a machine. It’s the old reading-the-palm story, updated. The results?” He gripped my arm for a moment. “I’m going to be completely truthful about this and tell you my weak points as well as my strong points. I’m not going to cover up. The worst result was jealousy. A serious character flaw. Which means to me that if you get interested in another boy, it’s going to upset me a lot.”
“What?” I said, breaking my silence. I could hardly believe my ears.
“I know I have nothing to worry about right now. You don’t have a boyfriend.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’m an Emily watcher. And the only person I see you with much is Bunny Larrabee. So, I conclude, no boyfriend. The only thing I want to ask you is if you do get interested in someone, be sure and give me advance notice, so I have time to get used to the idea.”
Give him advance notice? What was I, a road show? “Robertson, who do you think you are in my life, anyway? I mean, what do you think is your position?”
“I don’t actually know,” he said. “But I’m hoping. You know. I’m more or less applying for the position of boyfriend myself.” He turned his big soft brown eyes on me.
I steeled myself not to feel like a murderer. “You have to stop hoping, Robertson. You’re very nice, but you’re only twelve.”
“What’s age got to do with it, Emily? Character is what counts.”
“Tell me more about your character analysis. Talk. Let’s change the subject.”
“Even though I’m on the jealous side, I’m above average in not having a suspicious character. Plus, I have superior sex appeal.”
“Wonderful what machines know these days.”
“Emily Beth, it was reading just what was written there to be read in my palm print. You want to hear more? I’m above average in speaking my mind. Plus, the analysis went off the chart when it came to me being romantic, loving, and happy about the opposite sex.” He beamed at me. “Pretty accurate so far, wouldn’t you say? But it did have a few flaws. It said I enjoyed ordering people around. No, I don’t! It said I was generous and thoughtful. I hope so. What do you think?”
“About what?”
“What it said.”
“Ask your mother. She’ll tell you better than I can.”
“It also said I was an attention seeker.”
“Nooo!”
“Ahh, you think I am.”
“No comment. What did this amazing character revelation cost?”
“A mere ten dollars.”
“Is it fun throwing ten dollars away? Is it just like tearing it up or setting fire to it?”
“Emily, I earn the money and I spend it. Want to hear the rest? My star sign is Taurus, I was born on a Wednesday, Queen Elizabeth and William Shakespeare are two famous people of my sign. Someday they’ll say Queen Elizabeth, William Shakespeare, and Robertson Reo. My birth-stone is emerald and my worst fault is being obstinate and stubborn. Plus, my lucky numbers are thirty-five, forty-five, forty-one, fifty-four, and forty-four. Do you get the significance of that?”
“No.”
“It’s symbolic of your name. Emily. Beth. Boots. Five, four, and five letters. Five, four, five adds up to fourteen. My lucky numbers all have fives and fours in them, except forty-one, and when you turn that around, it’s fourteen.”
Being in Robertson Reo’s company was slightly dazing. I could feel my brain going numb. I was starting to wonder—was it possible those numbers really did mean something?
Chapter 7
Mr. Linaberry came around the corner of the house with a grocery bag in his arms. “Hello, you.”
“Hello, Mr. Linaberry.” I unlocked the porch door that led upstairs to our apartment. He followed me up the stairs. “Did you want something?” I said, over my shoulder. I tried not to sound anxious. He’d never done this before! I searched my mind for anything the kids had done lately.
“The mama mentioned she needed some things,” he mumbled and, in the kitchen, he put the grocery bag down on the table. “Some groceries and things.”
Now he was doing our grocery shopping? I was so stunned, I didn’t even say thank you. “How much do we owe you?”
“Nothing now.”
I took out my wallet. I had twelve dollars. I held it out. “Is this enough?”
“Not now. Not now.” He flapped his hands, like pushing me away. “I’ll settle with the mama later.”
Every time he said the mama, my skin jumped. At least he didn’t hang around. When it was time to feed the kids supper, the bag was still on the table. I didn’t even want to touch it.
“Where’d all this stuff come from?” Chris said, peering in. I told him. “Mr. Linaberry gave this to us? Wow!”
“He didn’t give it to us, Chris, he just bought it for Mom. People don’t give us things.” I glanced at the clock. Mom usually got home from work around seven. Was she going to come in alone or with Mr. Linaberry?
“We launched a helium balloon at school today,” Wilma said. “It was a special day, wasn’t it, Chris?”
“Yeah,” Chris said. He had a bicycle painted on his cheek. Wilma had a heart on hers.
“Do you want to know why we launched a helium balloon, Emily?” Wilma said. “It was for books. We’ve been reading all month, and we put a big card on it with everybody’s name and favorite book and a note to whoever finds the balloon to send the card back to us. Are you listening, Emily?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Miss Perry says last year her class got the card back from Houston, Texas.”
“My teacher said once he got a card—” Chris began.
“I’m telling this, Chris,” Wilma said. “You eat, then you can talk. I wrote on my part of the card, ‘Wilma Boots. The Trouble with Thirteen, by Betty Miles.’ Did you ever read it, Emily?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Did you like it?”
“Wilma, I’m the one who told you it was a great book.”
“You did not. I found it myself. I found it in the library, and it’s my favorite book.”
“Uh-huh.”
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“Why do you keep saying uh-huh? Uh-huh is boring!”
I took my dish to the sink. “I’m trying to think, Wilma.”
“What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing …”
“Nothing means you don’t want to tell me.”
The breakfast dishes had been soaking all day. I pulled the plug and watched the greasy water gurgle down the drain. I wished I could wash away my thoughts as easily. I didn’t like Mr. Linaberry, and I didn’t like this Mr. Linaberry thing with Mom. But what could I do about it? Put frogs in his bed? Sure, Emily. How about putting on a sheet and haunting his house? Fab. Are there more stupid thoughts where those came from?
Maybe I could call my father and discuss it with him. That wasn’t juvenile, but it was just as ridiculous as the frog and ghost thoughts. Should I talk to Mom? But what could I say—that I didn’t like her choice of friends? Maybe the best thing would be to go to the source, right to Mr. Linaberry, and tell him to stay away from Mom. Great. And have him get mad at us and put us out on the street.
I sprinkled cleanser all around and scrubbed the sink. Around and around I scrubbed. Just like my thoughts about Mr. Linaberry and Mom … around and around … and around …
I thought I had made it clear to Chris about the groceries, but the moment Mom walked in, he greeted her with, “Mom! Mr. Linaberry gave us a whole bag of stuff. Wait ’til you see.”
“Chris, what did I tell you?” I yelled. “We’re going to pay Mr. Linaberry. Tell him, Mom.”
Mom started taking out the groceries. “Oh, wonderful.” She stacked cans of salmon in the cupboard. “What a help this … Emily? Is everything …”
“Everything’s fine. The kids ate their supper. I put the mail on the TV. The electric bill came. Nobody called. Mr. Linaberry brought the groceries up.” I stared at her. “Why did you ask him to do that? I could have done the shopping for you.”
“You do so much already, Em,” Mom said, “and he has the truck. Such a sturdy little truck,” she said in a fond voice, as if anything of Mr. Linaberry’s was wonderful. It was too much for me.
“Mom!” I drew in a breath and plunged in. “I don’t want to be mean about this, but I honestly don’t get what you see in Mr.—”
E, My Name Is Emily Page 3
