by Linda Bailey
When he arrived home, drugstore bag in hand, he was surprised to find his father waiting at the door.
“Oh, Lewis! Thank goodness you’re home.” Mr. Dearborn jerked his son inside and slammed the door behind him.
“What’s the matter, Dad?”
“I don’t want to scare you.” His father was scaring him, as he double-locked the door and secured the chain. “Do you remember that strange fellow I saw the other day? I was going out a few hours ago to pick up some shrimp—and suddenly there was another fellow, just as odd, coming up the driveway! Could have been his brother. But this one was angry!”
Lewis’s skin tingled. “What … what did he look like?”
“Furious!” Mr. Dearborn’s breath came faster at the memory. “In a rage! He charged at the house, shouting and shaking his fists. He was about to attack me! I slammed the door, of course, and called the police. Thank goodness Mrs. Binchy was at her sister’s. Her day off today. But then I started to worry about you and whether—”
“You called the police?”
“Of course! The man was deranged! Children were coming home from school. Why, you yourself could have—”
“I’m fine, Dad. Honest! What did this guy look like? How do you know he wasn’t the same one as before?”
“This fellow was older,” said Mr. Dearborn, “and much more aggressive! He had a black patch over his eye, like the one Abbie brought that time. She’s such a nice girl, Lewis, I hate to ask … but do you think this fellow has anything to do with her? Didn’t she say that eye patch was for her uncle?”
“No,” said Lewis, feeling increasingly desperate. “No, not her uncle. It was—oh, gosh, Dad, listen—I have to go!”
He ran for the back stairs.
The pirates were in the tower when he got there—visible, as they generally were these days. But the usual chatter and jostling were missing. All eyes were fastened on Crawley.
The captain sat hunched in the wicker chair, as still and as silent as a coiled snake. His face was flushed and mottled, his right eye glazed.
Lewis approached him warily.
“Captain Crawley?”
He had to say it twice.
“Ah … laddie …”
“What’s going on? My father saw you outside today. Where did you go?”
Crawley turned a rheumy eye his way. “Some busyness of my own,” he muttered in a low, pained voice. “A matter of … private concern.”
Lewis blinked in confusion. What possible business could Crawley have out in the world?
“But what—” he began.
“Private!” snarled Crawley, half-rising from the chair. “Does ye not understand PRIVATE?”
Lewis stepped backward. “Yes, sure. Fine. It’s not my business.”
The captain coiled himself up again and stared morosely at the floor. Lewis turned to the others, a questioning look on his face.
“Best leave the captain be,” whispered Moyle.
“Lost in the doldrums,” added Jonas.
“I see,” said Lewis, who didn’t see at all. “Does anyone know … what’s wrong?”
The pirates shook their heads so quickly, he knew they were telling the truth.
“Maggoty meat,” muttered Crawley. “Monstrous rot, putrid flesh, festering swill …”
“He’ll be right as rain in the morning,” whispered Skittles.
Lewis didn’t know what to think. “Will he be all right?” he asked. “Will he? Tomorrow morning, we leave for the museum. Everyone has to be ready.”
He turned to stare directly at the captain. “EVERYONE,” he repeated, louder than he’d intended.
Slowly, the captain raised his head. He stared at Lewis for a long, tense moment. Then he let out a hollow laugh.
“Ah, yes, young master with the plan. Don’t you fret now, I’ll be ready. Ready with golden bells on. There ain’t nothing in this whole wicked world could stop James Crawley from boarding the Maria Louisa tomorrow. NOTHING! Not even—”
He stopped, his face tight, his lips curled back in a snarl. Like a wolf’s, thought Lewis.
Crawley gazed around the room, staring at the pirates one by one. Then he rose to his feet and thrust his left fist into the air.
“Am I right, boys? Are we ready? We’ve waited two hunnert years for this day—and that’s two hunnert years too long! We wants our ship!”
The others, hearing this, burst out in chorus. “We—wants—our—ship! We—wants—our—ship! We—wants—our—ship!”
They were on their feet now, all of them—marching, shaking their fists, yelling. Jack and Jonas were pulling out tankards to drink grog that wasn’t even there. Bellows was stomping so hard, it was amazing the floorboards didn’t crack.
Crawley stood quietly at the edge and watched.
What did it all mean? Was Crawley okay? Was this just a case of last-minute nerves?
There was no way to tell. And no use asking.
Lewis left Libertalia feeling uneasy.
Mr. Dearborn was in the kitchen, talking on the phone.
Lewis smacked his forehead. His father! He’d forgotten all about his dad’s panic at seeing Crawley outside. Was he phoning the police again?
Lewis tiptoed closer.
Not the police. Lewis heard the words “funding” and “heritage” and “Shornoway.” He crept up to the door.
“I appreciate you looking into this, Ms. Forsley,” said his father. “It’s very kind. Please thank the other members of your society, as well. But I … well, I don’t see how it’s possible.” There was a pause. “Yes, I understand. I agree, it’s a shame. But, well … heh, heh.”
A pause, then, “Thank you.” He hung up.
“Was that my teacher?” Lewis blurted it from the doorway.
His father jumped. “For goodness sake, Lewis, don’t sneak up on me.”
“It was Ms. Forsley, right? What did she want?”
Mr. Dearborn ran his fingers slowly across his scalp. “Well, she’s a member of the local history society, it seems, and she’s … I suppose she’s concerned about Shornoway being torn down.”
“SO AM I!” said Lewis. As in the tower, his words came out louder than he’d planned. He seemed to be having trouble with his volume button.
Mr. Dearborn frowned. “What’s gotten into you? Come have some dinner. Just you and me tonight. Your mother’s at a meeting.”
The table was set in the dining room. Mr. Dearborn removed the cover from a casserole. Steam rose in a cloud of savory smells.
“Braised lamb with roasted vegetables. Garlic and shallots—”
But Lewis would not be distracted. “What did Ms. Forsley say?”
Mr. Dearborn sighed and began to serve. “It was about that idea she had of turning Shornoway into an inn. I told her we didn’t have the money. But she went off and talked to some people anyway, and she found a … well, some sort of foundation that lends money for heritage projects. Converting historical buildings.”
“Really?” said Lewis. “So can we do it? Can we turn Shornoway into an inn?”
His father smiled. Lewis wondered how his father’s mouth could curve up that way when the rest of his face was doing such a droop. “It’s a huge undertaking, Lewis. An enormous risk. Who’s to say we’d be any good at running an inn?”
“Maybe we’d be really good at it,” said Lewis. “All the kids loved the school visit and your speech and … and look how well you cook. Look at this!” He poked his fork into the slice of lamb on his plate. “And this.” He poked a potato slice. “And this, and this, and this.” He poked at a carrot, an artichoke, a giant mushroom. “You’d have Mrs. Binchy to help you—and me, too. I’d help.”
“It’s not that easy,” said his father.
“Easy?” said Lewis. “Nothing’s easy.” He thought about his struggle to speak at school. He thought about all the years with no friends. He thought about the dead pirates upstairs, and the probably impossible task he faced the next day. “Nothing�
��s ever easy, Dad. Nothing I do, anyway.”
There was a silence as father and son stared at their plates.
“At least we’re not dead yet.” Lewis was still thinking about the pirates.
“Dead?” Mr. Dearborn let out a bleat of laughter. “Sorry, Lewis. It was just such a strange thing to say. But you’re right. You’re quite right. We’re not dead yet.”
As if to prove it, they both took a bite of food.
“How’s school?” asked his father.
But Lewis was on a mission. “I don’t understand, Dad. You love history, right? Shornoway is history. Everyone in Tandy Bay knows that. And Mom’s family built it!”
Hearing himself, he paused. “My family, actually. My family built Shornoway. Back in the 1800s, like you said.”
Which was true, of course. His family. His history. But he’d never really felt it till that moment.
“It’s our home now,” Lewis added, not sure his father would understand. “Our real home. We should keep it.”
Mr. Dearborn put down his fork and knife and gazed at his son quizzically. A smile of genuine pleasure crept across his mouth. “You know what, Lewis? You are really something! You remind me of your great-granddad.”
“Good,” said Lewis. “That’s good.”
They continued to eat in silence. Then Mr. Dearborn cleared his throat loudly.
“I’m going to tell you something, Lewis, that may surprise you. Your mother, as you know, is a practical woman. Not given to flights of fancy. But something happened to her on the day of your class visit. I don’t know what it was … but it had a strange effect. She told me that she felt there was ‘something magical’ about Shornoway. Something she had felt as a child when she visited here … and then forgot. Can you believe that, Lewis? Your mother believing in magic?”
Without waiting for an answer, he continued. “And do you know what? I think I understand what she meant. The fact is, I have felt it myself! It may even have led to this cooking adventure of mine. I don’t know how to explain it to you—and I don’t suppose you’ve experienced anything like it yourself, being so young and so busy with your schoolwork—but, honestly, there really is something special about this house!”
Lewis tried not to smile. “I think I know what you mean, Dad.”
He waited.
His father picked up his fork. He shuffled his vegetables around. Then he stood and paced the room a couple of times. He rubbed his chin. Lewis watched, holding his breath.
Finally, Mr. Dearborn said, “I’m not promising anything.”
“I know,” said Lewis.
“I don’t know whether Charlotte’s recent experience will sway her feelings about selling. Your mother can be a tough nut to crack!”
Lewis couldn’t help it—he burst out laughing. After a moment, his father joined in.
“Well, it’s true,” said Mr. Dearborn.
“I know, Dad.”
“But, perhaps, since you and I both feel so strongly—”
“Do you feel strongly?” asked Lewis.
“Of course I do! And your mother cares a great deal about us. You and me. Perhaps … perhaps she could be talked around.”
Lewis nodded. “We’ll do it together.” He held up his hand for a high five, which he had done several times now at school after kickball games. Mr. Dearborn stared at the hand in confusion, then patted his son’s shoulder.
“An inn would be a lot of work,” he said.
“I know.”
“And we couldn’t just jump into it.”
“I know.”
“We’d have to do a lot of research. Find out what sort of menus other inns offer. Ms. Forsley’s probably right about the English tea. It would go over well. My scones are magnificent! And Sunday brunch, of course. I don’t know why, but Sunday brunches always seem popular. My eggs Benedict—”
“I know, Dad. Magnificent.”
“Well, they are!”
His father laughed again. A big laugh this time, not a “heh, heh.”
When the dishes were done, Lewis headed upstairs.
The pirates were nowhere to be seen. But judging by the fish smell, they were nearby.
On the floor were seven thrift store outfits. They were laid out neatly in a row and seemed to wait expectantly, like stockings at Christmas.
And that’s when he realized, truly and deeply, for the first time … this was actually going to happen.
Eating his scrambled eggs the next morning, Lewis pondered his first obstacle—getting the pirates out of Shornoway.
They’d been waiting beside his bed when he woke up, clutching their outfits and looking jittery. Skittles and Jonas, more excited than the others, were glowing quite brightly. Lewis had left them to put on their costumes, promising to return when it was time.
And now, as he chewed on his toast, he saw that there were three obstacles to getting the pirates out—and they were right there in front of him in the kitchen. Mrs. Binchy was elbow-deep in suds at the kitchen sink, while his parents sat talking at the table, having only just figured out that it was Halloween.
“I can take Lewis trick-or-treating tonight,” said Mr. Dearborn to his wife. “Have you got a costume, Lewis? My goodness, Halloween already.”
“I’m not going this year,” said Lewis. “Sixth grade is too old.”
This was, strictly speaking, not true. Some of his classmates were still trick-or-treating. But not with their fathers!
His mother glanced at her watch. “I’d better be off. Enjoy your field trip, Lewis.”
Excellent, thought Lewis. Mrs. Dearborn had accepted the “field trip” story he had made up to avoid having to go to school. Staying as close to the truth as possible, he said he was meeting his class at the Maritime Museum at ten.
“Bye, Mom.”
Mr. Dearborn stood up. “Must make a few phone calls,” he said. “I’ll be in my study.”
“Take your time!” said Lewis.
He headed for the bathroom to put on his Frankenstein costume. It was simple. Just a tattered black shirt and pants and a rubber headpiece that made his head look tall and square, and (bonus!) covered his red hair. A wire around the back of his neck attached a large metal bolt to each side of his neck.
The makeup took longer. The color was a sickly combination of gray, green and yellow, and as Lewis smeared it on, he was pleased to see how close a match it was to the pirates’ skin. Borrowing his mother’s eyebrow pencil, he drew a stitched-up wound on his forehead and another on his cheek. Then he used the pencil to darken the areas around his eyes.
He stood back to check the results. Not a perfect Frankenstein—he could have done better with more time—but it would do.
He returned to the kitchen, where his father was chatting to Mrs. Binchy as he put on his coat. He seemed to be having a lot of trouble getting his arms through the holes.
“Lewis! Good! You’re still here! You’ll be happy to hear the news.”
Not even noticing the Frankenstein costume, Mr. Dearborn launched in. “I phoned that foundation that Ms. Forsley mentioned—the one that has money to help with historic buildings. She had already spoken to them, wasn’t that kind? And they sounded quite positive, Lewis. Yes, yes, encouraging. I’m going there now to pick up their information.” He nodded eagerly as Mrs. Binchy helped him with the coat. “And your mother … well, I did speak to her last night. Now, she hasn’t exactly said yes. Not exactly. But she did feel it was worth exploring. So what do you think about that? I must say, Lewis, I have rather a good feeling about this.”
Lewis grinned back, partly in pleasure and partly in amazement. “Me, too, Dad. Good feeling.”
Mr. Dearborn gave his body a great shake, and the coat settled onto his shoulders. Making an awkward fist, he gave Lewis a light punch on the arm. “Must go, son. Time waits for no man! Have a good day at the museum.”
Lewis was left with Mrs. Binchy.
“Well now,” she said, shaking her head. “A foundation.
Isn’t that a lovely turn of events? By the way, Lewis, nice costume!”
“Thank you,” he said.
But he wasn’t thinking about his costume.
He was thinking about how to get the pirates past Mrs. Binchy. They were so excited. Glowing with excitement, in fact. And the housekeeper was so nosy.
“Uh, Mrs. Binchy … are you … going out this morning?” He crossed his fingers.
“Out?” she said. “Now where would I be going?”
He shrugged. “Shopping?”
“Is there something you need at the store, Lewis?”
“No … I just … nothing.”
She frowned. “What is it? Are you—”
Abruptly, she stopped. She gave him a long, penetrating stare. “It’s about them, isn’t it?”
A long pause followed.
“Them!” she repeated. “You know! The pirates in the tower.”
Lewis swallowed hard. He forced himself to speak. “You … know about them?”
“Well now, how would I not know? Living and working here all these years with your great-granddad. I’d have to be some kind of idiot.”
Lewis could only stand there, swaying. He felt as if he’d been hit by a brick. Mrs. Binchy knew about the pirates?
“Not that I’ve ever seen them,” she said. “But I’ve heard them often enough, and felt them pass by. Back in your great-granddad’s day, they wandered all over the house. They’ve gotten shyer since you lot moved in.”
Knees wobbly, Lewis had to sit at the kitchen table.
“Well now,” said Mrs. Binchy, softly.
He heard her walk over, felt her hand patting his head. “It’s all a bit much, isn’t it?”
He gazed up into a round, red face that suddenly looked less silly than it always had.
“Why didn’t you say something?” he asked her. All that chattering she did, day after day, and not a word about the pirates.
“Your great-granddad wanted you to get to know them on your own. He said I wasn’t to interfere. Of course, I would have stepped in if I thought you were in trouble. But you seemed to be doing fine.”
“Fine?” The word surprised him.
