The Old Willis Place

by Mary Downing Hahn

  The vision was so real I almost ran outside, the way I used to. But tonight the staircase was empty. No one was there. Not Miss Lilian. Not Mother.

  As fearful as if the old woman still barred my way, I ran up the steps, staying so close to the wall I brushed against the family pictures hanging there, dusty, fly specked, faded to pale shades of brown.

  Miss Lilian's bedroom was at the end of the hall, the biggest and brightest, with a view of fields and woods and the road beyond. I walked toward the closed door, wincing every time a board creaked under my feet. She wasn't in her room, I told myself. She'd died downstairs with her cats as witnesses. If she'd lingered—and I was sure she had—she'd be in the front parlor, behind its closed door. I knew the rules.

  But I also knew the exceptions.

  Taking a deep breath, I turned the knob slowly and pushed the bedroom door open.

  Again I saw Miss Lilian as I remembered her, sitting in her big bed, watching my mother set down the breakfast tray, waiting while she poured the tea, finally spying me in the doorway. "Go away, thief. You're after my jewelry, but you won't get it. Not while there's breath in my body!"

  The bed was as empty as the stairs, its sheets frayed by mice. The jewelry had disappeared years ago, but the closets still held Miss Lilian's clothing—skirts, blouses, and dresses long out of style but of fine quality except for moth holes.

  I grabbed some clothes and stuffed them into a pillowcase, too scared to think about what would look best. No time to be choosy. Anything was better than the filthy rags I was wearing.

  Half expecting Miss Lilian to stop me, I ran to the bathroom. Although the water had been turned off, Miss Lilian's soaps and shampoos, her combs and brushes and towels, lay where she'd left them, dusty and cob webbed but still usable.

  As I dumped toiletries into the pillowcase, a movement caught my eye. Miss Lilian stood a few inches away, watching me. She was wilder and stranger than ever, her hair long and tangled, her clothes in rags. I gasped and stepped backward and so did she, her face twisted in fear. I thrust out my hands to keep her away and she did the same. Close to fainting, I leaned against the wall and stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. No wonder Lissa had been scared when I stepped out of the woods.

  Lugging the bulging pillowcase, I hurried to the steps. It didn't matter how much noise I made now. I had to get out. The next time, it might really be Miss Lilian I saw.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I stole a quick look at the parlor's closed door. Behind it, I heard barely audible movements and a low sigh.

  Clutching my bundle, I fled down the hall to the cellar, tripping over newspapers and boxes in my haste. At any moment, I expected Miss Lilian to scream, "Stop, thief! Do you hear me? Stop!"

  I shoved the pillowcase through the cellar window and scrambled out after it. Dropping small things as I ran, I fled into the woods. It was almost dawn. The trees were swathed in morning mist and the fallen leaves were damp and slippery underfoot. A rabbit leapt across my path, and I caught a glimpse of the albino deer in the field. His antlered head turned in my direction.

  Before I reached the shed, Georgie came rushing to meet me. "Where have you been, Diana? I had a bad dream. And you weren't here."

  I hid Miss Lilian's belongings behind my back and tried to edge past him. "I couldn't sleep," I said. "So I went for a walk."

  "What's that?" Georgie grabbed at the bundle. I thrust him away. "Nothing," I lied, "just some stuff from the trailer."

  "I thought we were never going there again."

  "Just this one last time."

  "But what is it?" Georgie lunged at me again. "I want to see!"

  This time he caught hold of the bundle and yanked hard. Out fell the brush, the comb, the soap, the shampoo, all rolling away in different directions.

  I scurried around, picking everything up. "I can't stand being dirty anymore, that's all."

  Georgie backed away from the soap as if it were poison. "I hope you don't expect me to use that junk!"

  "It wouldn't hurt you to take a bath."

  "Are you joking? I haven't taken a bath for ages, and neither have you."

  "Don't you remember how nice clean clothes feel?"

  "I like my clothes the way they are." He sniffed his shirt. "They smell like me."

  "Maybe you smell bad," I suggested.

  "So what if I do?"

  "Look at Nero." I pointed to the cat, sitting in a patch of sunlight, carefully licking his paws and rubbing his face. "He washes."

  Giving me a sly grin, Georgie licked the back of his hand and rubbed his face with it. "There, that's my bath."

  "I'm ashamed of you," I said. "You're absolutely filthy and you don't even care. What would Mother think?"

  Georgie's smile vanished. "Don't say that! Don't! Mother's gone, Diana. She doesn't care what happens to us anymore!"

  I glared at him, unable to think about what he'd just said. "Stay dirty, see if I care."

  Leaving Georgie to sulk, I ran across the field to the pond. Stripping off my clothes, I let them fall to the ground in a filthy heap. If I washed them, they'd fall to pieces. I waded into the pond, shivering as the cool water rose higher on my legs.

  By the time I was belly deep, my skin was a mass of goose bumps, but it didn't bother me the way it once would have. Georgie and I had gotten very tough in the years we'd lived on our own. In fact, nothing ever really hurt us. At least not for long.

  Taking a deep breath, I sank under the surface and then stood up, wet all over. I began to scrub. And scrub. And scrub.

  When my skin glowed pink and clean, I began working on my hair. At first I made no headway against its obstinate mats and tangles. I shampooed and brushed, shampooed and combed until my scalp throbbed. If I'd had a pair of scissors, I'd have cut it all off.

  At last, I managed to pull the comb through my hair from roots to ends. Satisfied I'd done all I could, I waded out of the pond and sat in the sun. As soon as my skin was dry, I pulled on a flowered skirt. It settled on my hips and trailed in the grass. Like the skirt, the blouse I'd taken was several sizes too big, but at least both things were clean and neither was torn or stained. Surely Lissa wouldn't be afraid of me now. Why, even without shoes, I felt almost civilized.

  My hair was still wet, so I sat and combed it, tugging at the last of the tangles till I was sure no sticks or leaves clung to it.

  Suddenly, Georgie stepped out of the woods and stopped, clearly astonished at the sight of me. "Diana," he whispered. "Is that you?"

  "Of course it's me, silly." I laughed and tossed my hair. With no tangles to weigh it down, it flew free around my face, as clean and sweet with shampoo as Lissa's.

  Georgie came closer and touched my hair. "I forgot it was so light."

  "Yours would be the same color, too, if you'd let me wash it."

  Georgie backed away fast. "You're not touching me!"

  I spread my hands. "Okay, okay. But if you change your mind—"

  "No chance of that." Georgie scrutinized me from a safe distance. "Where did you get those clothes?"

  I stood up and twirled so the long flowered skirt floated around me. "Isn't it pretty?"

  Georgie stared at me, his eyes fearful. "You didn't get that stuff from the trailer," he whispered. "Those are her things. Her clothes. Her soap. Her comb. Her brush. You went in her house, didn't you?"

  I shrugged. "We've gone in there before."

  "Not since she died," Georgie whispered. "What if you disturbed her?" Under the grime, his face looked pale. "Did you see her?" he persisted. "Or hear her?"

  "No." I fidgeted with my hair, unable to meet his eyes. Uneasily, I remembered the faint sounds behind the parlor's closed door and the terror I'd felt as I ran through the dark cellar.

  Forgetting his fear of a bath, Georgie came closer. "Something scared you. I can tell."

  I shook my head. "Mice," I said. "There was nothing there but mice." Near my foot a grasshopper clung to a tall weed, his antennae turned tow
ard me. I nudged the weed and watched him jump away.

  "What made you go inside?" Georgie's voice rose. "You never cared about being dirty before."

  I looked at him and wrinkled my nose, deliberately insulting him. "You smell bad, you know that?You stink!"

  Georgie drew in his breath sharply. "Its because of Lissa. You still want to be her friend, don't you?"

  "No," I lied. "I just don't want to be dirty like you!"

  "I hate Lissa." Georgie's eyes filled with tears, streaking his cheeks as they ran down his face. "Nothing's been the same since she came. We never used to fight. I hate her, I hate her!"

  Instantly sorry, I reached out for him, but he was already running toward the woods. In a moment, he'd vanished and I was alone in the sunny field.

  Maybe I should have run after him and apologized, but he'd made me angry talking like that. I'd gone into the house and taken only what I needed, just a few little things. No one had stopped me. Nothing had happened. At least not yet.

  So instead of following Georgie, I sat in the sunshine and braided my hair into a long single plait, as thick and heavy as rope, and tied it with string. When I was done, I felt calmer. Georgie would get over his anger. He'd see I hadn't done anything so terrible.

  Nero sat nearby, watching me, his tail flicking. I picked him up and burrowed my face in his soft black fur. "Now I'm as clean as you. And I smell good, too."

  The cat twisted out of my arms. In a flash he was gone, bounding through the weeds in pursuit of whatever small animal might cross his path. Maybe he preferred my old familiar smell. Well, let him play with Georgie, then. Persnickety old thing—what did I care? Soon I'd have a new friend, a real friend, a girl to talk to and laugh with.

  I squinted at the sun. It was past noon. Had Lissa found her diary? Read what I'd written? Did she plan to meet me at the terrace? Would she really and truly be my friend?

  I ran across the field and into the woods, eager to see what she was doing. Near the trailer, I heard Mr. Morrison's voice. I dropped to my knees and crawled noiselessly through the underbrush until I was close enough to see and hear. Lissa sat at the picnic table, surrounded by books, her diary among them. Her father sat across from her, drilling her with math problems. MacDuff lay at his feet, dozing peacefully in the sunlight.

  "Come on, Liss," Mr. Morrison said patiently. "You're not concentrating."

  Lissa frowned at the page in front of her. "I don't care whether car A or car B gets to Chicago first. Its a boring problem."

  Mr. Morrison sighed and pulled a pipe out of his shirt pocket. I watched him light it. The scent of tobacco drifted across the grass and I breathed it in, reminded of my father. He'd often smelled of the same sort of tobacco, aromatic, a little strong, but, unlike cigarette smoke, pleasant.

  I wished I could go closer, join Lissa and her father at the picnic table, sit between them as if I were part of a family again. Filled with longing, I wiped tears from my eyes with the back of my hand. Wish all you want, I told myself, it won't happen.

  "You'll never finish the problems at this rate," Mr. Morrison said. "And you've still got science, history, and French to go.

  Lissa grimaced and bent her head over the paper. Mr. Morrison leaned on his elbows and smoked, gazing at the fields and woods as if they were his own personal estate. For a moment, he looked right at me. I ducked lower, ready to run, but apparently he was too absorbed in his own thoughts to realize I was just a few feet away.

  After a while, Mr. Morrison stretched his long skinny arms and stood up. "Can I trust you to sit here and work on those problems while I go inside and write?"

  "Sure." Lissa watched him return to the trailer. The moment the door banged shut behind him, she opened her diary. She read what I'd written, I was certain of it, and then looked right at my hiding place.

  "You're there, aren't you?" she said. "Diana, that's your name, and you want to be my friend."

  I didn't answer. We were too close to the trailer. Her father might step outside for some reason and hear me.

  "I must be crazy, but I'll meet you on the terrace," she said. "I'll have MacDuff with me—for protection. You'd better be telling the truth and you'd better be alone. Don't try anything funny, either."

  At the sound of his name, MacDuff raised his head hopefully and watched Lissa run inside. In a few seconds she was back with his leash. While she fastened it to his collar, I took off through the woods, planning to get to the terrace before she did.

  I made a wide circle around the house, afraid now of the front windows. The plywood covering them was cracked. Perhaps Miss Lilian was peering out from the dark, watching me go by dressed in her clothes, loathing me even more than before.

  Cautiously I approached the terrace and climbed its broad steps. No sign of the old woman. No sound. Hoping she didn't know I was near, I perched on the edge of the lion bench. Intensely aware of the silent house behind me, I waited for Lissa.

  A breeze ruffled the weeds growing tall on the lawn, turning brown now, their seed pods emptying into the air. Above, the sky burned a deep pure October blue. The trees had turned red, gold, brown. Their leaves littered the terrace, blown into piles in the corners.

  Despite the sun's warmth, I shivered in the house's gloomy shadow. I pictured Miss Lilian creeping about in the dark rooms the way she used to, her mind racing with crazy thoughts, her heart full of hatred for Georgie and me.

  A trickle of sweat ran down my spine. "Please come soon, Lissa," I whispered. "Please like me, please be my friend."

  Chapter 7

  At last, Lissa and MacDuff walked around the side of the house. I didn't move. I didn't speak. I sat on the lion bench, my skirt spread around me, my hands clasped in my lap, my back straight, and waited for them to see me. To be honest, I was scared. I had no idea what I looked like now. No mirrors, no one to ask but Georgie, who couldn't be trusted to give an honest answer. What if Lissa turned and ran at the sight of me?

  MacDuff saw me before Lissa did. He tugged at his leash and barked. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to flee to the safety of the woods, but I swallowed my fear and rose uneasily to my feet, as if I were a hostess greeting a guest.

  With some effort, Lissa held MacDuff back. "Diana? Is that you?"

  I smiled, pleased she didn't quite recognize me. I hoped I no longer looked like the monster who'd frightened her, "I washed," I said. "I changed my clothes. Like I said I would."

  She came closer. When we were face to face, she smiled, and MacDuff sniffed the hand I held out to him. "Good dog," I whispered.

  He tilted his head to the side and regarded me in a friendly way. His tail thumped once, a bit hesitantly.

  "You look so different," Lissa blurted out. "Yesterday I thought—" She stopped and blushed. "You read my diary, so I guess you know what I thought."

  "I didn't mean to scare you." I laughed, and after a second so did she. We were both nervous, edgy, unsure what to say or do.

  When Lissa managed to stop laughing, she said, "You looked like a wild girl, a savage."

  We laughed again, even harder. "Wait till you see my brother," I said through my giggles. "He won't take a bath, he won't let me wash or comb his hair, he won't even change his clothes."

  "Your parents let him get away with that?" Lissa sounded surprised. "Don't they—"

  "Oh, no. They—" I cut myself off. I couldn't tell Lissa everything. Maybe I shouldn't even have mentioned Georgie. "They don't care," I finished, but Lissa seemed to have lost interest in my parents.

  She reached out to touch my braid. "Your hair is beautiful, so long and thick and blond—almost white."

  "It took forever to comb out the tangles." I winced at the memory. "My scalp's still sore."

  We sat down on the lion bench together. MacDuff lay down with his chin on Lissa's clean white tennis shoes.

  "I don't have any shoes," I told Lissa, suddenly conscious of my bare feet.

  She looked surprised. "What do you do in the winter?"
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  "My feet are really tough." I held up one foot so she could see the sole, as black and hard as if it were made of leather. "I don't need shoes."

  Lissa stretched out her feet. "These are new. Maybe I could give you my old ones." She put one foot next to mine. "We're about the same size."

  We smiled at each other. That's what friends did—shared with each other. My heart beat a little faster. Maybe Lissa liked me; maybe I could show her my favorite things—the spring that gushed out of a pile of mossy rocks and ferns, the heron's nest in a dead tree in the marsh, the foxes' den, the albino deer.

  Just as I was about to suggest a walk, she leaned toward me, the smile gone from her face.

  "Did you and your brother steal my bike and the other things?" she asked. "I won't be mad. I just want them back."

  Shame heated my face. Maybe Lissa didn't want to be my friend after all. Maybe she just wanted her bike and her book and her teddy bear.

  "We didn't steal your bike," I told her. "We borrowed it one night to take a ride, that's all, but Georgie crashed into a tree and wrecked it. We were scared to bring it back, so we hid it down in the woods."

  "It was brand-new," Lissa said. "Dad gave it to me for my birthday. He can't afford to buy another one."

  "I'm sorry." I twisted my braid, tugging till my sore scalp hurt.

  Lissa looked at me without smiling. "What about my book?" she asked. "And my bear?"

  "I'm reading Lassie to Georgie," I said. "He loves it. Can we keep it a little longer? We're halfway through already."

  Lissa considered this. "I've read it five times, so I guess I can wait." She looked at me, squinting in the sunlight. "It's my favorite book."

  "It's my favorite book, too. I've read it at least five myself." I smiled at her, happy we had something in common. "It wasn't stealing, you know. We borrowed it, like a library book. We were going to bring it back."

  Lissa gave me a half smile and said, "What about my bear?"

  I pictured Georgie, sleeping happily with Alfie. How could I take the bear away from him? He'd be heartbroken.

  "I know the bear's special to you," I said slowly, "but it's special to Georgie, too. He used to have one just like it, but Miss—" I stopped myself just in time. "You have so many toys. Couldn't Georgie keep it for a while?"