Closed for the Season

by Mary Downing Hahn

  Feeling stupid, I stared at Arthur. "To get ... a map?"

  Arthur nodded. "There were at least two more in the folder. We should've taken them all to keep him from getting one."

  By the time we got to the library, our clothes were soaked through with sweat, and I was beginning to hate my bike helmet. It made my head feel as if I'd stuck it in an oven.

  Mrs. Bailey looked up and smiled when we passed her desk. "Back again so soon? Did you forget something?"

  Arthur nodded and kept going, with me practically stepping on his heels. We squatted down by the file cabinet, yanked open the bottom drawer, and took out the Magic Forest folder.

  "Here's another map," I said, rooting one out.

  Arthur grabbed a third one out of the folder and deftly slipped both of them into the deep pockets of his cargo shorts.

  As I grabbed another one, I heard a familiar voice. "I'm looking for stuff about the Magic Forest. You got any old maps or anything like that?"

  From the floor, I peeked around a bookcase. Silas stood at the adult-services desk. Mrs. Jones, the reference librarian, was getting up to show him the filing cabinets.

  On all fours, Arthur and I crawled to the men's room as fast as we could go. Crowding into the only stall, we locked the door. My heart pounded, and Arthur's face was dead white. His fingers trembled when he shot the bolt into place.

  "Did he see us?" he asked.

  "I don't think so, but a lot of other people did." I remembered two or three adults scowling at us. One woman had muttered something about kids horsing around in the library. Apparently, I'd crawled right over her foot in my haste to reach the men's room.

  We waited in the stall for a few long minutes. After a while, Arthur said, "Look out the door and see if he's still there." When I hesitated, he gave me a little shove. "Go on, Logan. It's boring in here."

  I left him in the stall and opened the men's room door—just wide enough to look out. The file cabinets were in plain view. Mrs. Jones was going through the contents of the folder we d left on the floor.

  "That's funny," she said. "There should be several maps in here."

  "Did somebody check them out?" Silas asked.

  "No, they're clearly stamped 'reference only,'" she said.

  "I saw some boys looking at that folder," a woman said, the very one whose foot I'd crawled across. "They were making a mess of everything in it."

  "Do you know where they went?" Silas asked.

  She pointed at the men's room. "They're probably wrecking the plumbing in there or writing dirty words on the walls."

  Like a dog who's just caught the scent of something interesting, Silas looked toward the men's room. I shut the door and ran back into the stall, bolting it with fumbly fingers.

  "He knows we're in here."

  As I spoke, the men s room door opened. Arthur and I cowered in the stall, sure we were about to be drowned in the toilet or something equally horrible.

  Instead of Silas, Mrs. Jones said, "Arthur, you come out of there right now!"

  Without consulting me, Arthur opened the stall door. "We weren't doing anything," he said in his most innocent voice. "Honest."

  "Come here, Arthur." Mrs. Jones looked at me. "You, too."

  I followed Arthur out of the men's room. Silas watched us go to Mrs. Jones's side. His face was unreadable, but his eyes scared me. If looks could kill, we d be on our way to the funeral home.

  "That's the boy." The irate woman pointed at me. "He was crawling on the floor. He went right over my foot. I have bunions, you know. It was very painful."

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't know you had bunions." I meant every word. Even though she hadn't planned to, the crabby old lady had probably saved Arthur's and my lives.

  Unfortunately, Arthur giggled. "Bunions" is a funny word when you think about it, but at that moment nothing could have made me laugh—not with Silas staring at me with those eyes of his.

  "And what do you find so amusing?" the woman asked Arthur.

  "Um ... nothing," he muttered, choking back laughter.

  Mrs. Jones took us each by an arm. "Marie, I'm so sorry these boys were rude to you," she said. "It must be the heat. They're usually nice, well-mannered kids."

  "If I were you, I'd suspend their library privileges." Mrs. Bunions started to walk away but turned back to add, "I'd also have your maintenance man check the men's room. There's no telling what they might have done in there."

  "Come along, boys," Mrs. Jones said. "I have some chores for you in the work room." Taking us through the STAFF ONLY door, she sat us down at a long table and handed us each a stack of blank cards and a rubber stamp.

  "I don't know what s gotten into you, Arthur. Crawling on the floor like a child. Annoying people." Mrs. Jones glanced at me as if I were somehow to blame for Arthur's unusual behavior. "But I might as well get some use out of you and your new friend. Stamp due dates on these cards, and all will be forgiven." She winked at Arthur as she spoke. "Just between us, Marie Pertle is a pain in the neck—but her husband's on the library board."

  With that, Mrs. Jones returned to the reference desk. Before she closed the door, I saw Silas slumped in a chair, facing us. Although he had a magazine in his lap, he wasn't reading. He was waiting for us to come out.

  "What do we do now?" I asked Arthur.

  Arthur raised his head. He d already managed to smear ink all over his fingers and chin. He'd also stamped "9/3/09" on his arm like a tattoo. "That's the date school starts," he said. "It's a good way to remember, don't you think?"

  "If we're still alive by then." I grabbed the stamp before he could put a date on my arm. "How can you goof around at a time like this? Didn't you see Silas sitting in that chair by the door? He'll wait there all day for us."

  Arthur shrugged. "Let him."

  "Are you nuts?" I could feel the adrenaline racing through my veins, preparing me for danger, flight, self-defense, whatever it took to stay alive. "The library closes at six. What happens then?"

  Ignoring me, Arthur got to his feet and walked calmly toward the back of the workroom. He might have been on his way to church or out for an evening stroll.

  "Where are you going?"

  He didn't answer, so I followed him. He was standing by a pair of double metal doors, painted industrial gray. "This is the delivery entrance," he said. "Coming?"

  Looking both ways, we darted across the loading dock. Behind us the door swung shut. And locked with a click.

  We were at the end of an alley. Around the corner, I could see our bikes in the library rack.

  With my adrenaline at an all-time high, I ran after Arthur, wrested my bike free, and flung myself into the saddle. Pedaling with all our might, we zoomed past the Rite Aid drugstore just as Nina stepped off the curb. Trying to avoid her, I lost control of my bike and plowed into Arthur. We both hit the road with a clash of metal.

  Nina stared down at us, clutching a plastic bag from the drugstore. "Are you all right?"

  The two of us scrambled to our feet, desperately trying to untangle ourselves from our bikes.

  "Your knee's bleeding." Nina took my arm. "Come into the drugstore. The pharmacist will wash that out and bandage it."

  "No." I pulled away. "It's just a scrape. My mom will take care of it."

  "But, Logan—" she began.

  "We have to go!" Despite my injury, I jumped on my bike and sped away, just behind Arthur. I hated to be rude to Nina, but not far off I could hear a motorcycle revving up.

  "It's Silas!" Arthur yelled.

  Dead ahead was the cemetery, its fancy iron gates open and welcoming. Arthur pedaled straight toward them as fast as he could go, and I raced after him.

  13

  Half blinded by sweat dripping in my eyes, I followed Arthur through the gate and down a shady side road. Suddenly, he veered across a patch of grass and vanished into a grove of trees. I was right behind him. Dragging our bikes with us, we crawled under a willow's long, drooping branches. From our hiding pla
ce in the dark green shade, we watched for Silas. A woman walked by pushing a stroller. Three joggers passed her. A kid walking a dog stopped to talk to the woman.

  "I don't think he's coming," I whispered.

  "It could be a trick," Arthur said. "We'd better sit tight for a while, just in case he's waiting for us to come out."

  The ground was bare and damp under the trees. Their roots spread out, humping above the earth into a network of comfortable sitting places. Mourning doves sobbed and cicadas thrummed, getting louder and softer, louder and softer as if nothing else mattered.

  "How did you ever find this place?" I asked.

  "Danny and his gang chased me into the cemetery once. This is where I hid," he said. "I come here a lot now. It's a good place to read and think about stuff."

  "But it's a cemetery," I reminded him. "Doesn't that bother you?"

  "I'm more scared of living people than dead people," Arthur said.

  Considering our present circumstances, he definitely had a point. Cautiously, I parted the willow's long branches and peered out. "I don't see Silas."

  "We'd better stay here a while longer, just in case."

  "Yeah." I turned my attention to my knee. It had stopped bleeding, but it was pretty dirty. I hoped I was right about it just being a little scrape. Otherwise, it could get infected and I could get septicemia and die. At least that would save Silas the trouble of killing me.

  Arthur reached into his shorts pocket, pulled out one of the library's maps, and spread it on the ground between us. Along the Magic Forest's winding paths, an illustrator had drawn and labeled all the park's attractions—rides, buildings, nursery rhyme figures, statues.

  He pointed at the picture of Old Mother Hubbard's Cupboard. "That was the refreshment stand. They had the best frozen custard in the whole world. Boy, would I love to have some right now."

  I studied the map, trying not to think how a double dip of frozen custard would cool my mouth and slide down my throat and fill my lunchless stomach. "It's weird thinking all that stuff is hidden under kudzu now. The paths, the buildings, the statues. Even with a map, I don't see how we'll find anything."

  "Not everything's covered up. You saw those statues sticking out of the kudzu—Alice in Wonderland, the Dish running away with the Spoon, Humpty-Dumpty. And Willie the Big Blue Whale." Arthur ran his finger along a path on the map. "Look—there's a fence made of gingerbread men leading to the Witch's Hut. I'd forgotten all about that."

  "They look just like the little plastic men."

  Arthur turned to me. "Do you think Mrs. Donaldson was trying to tell Violet that the briefcase is hidden near the hut?"

  "Maybe." I studied the drawing of the little hut. "Is it still there?"

  "I haven't been to that part of the park since it closed," Arthur said. "There's no way to know what's there unless we go and look."

  Unless we go and look. He made it sound as if the Magic Forest was our fate, our destiny. Go there and find the money—or die trying.

  Arthur continued to study the map as if he intended to stay in the cemetery for hours, but I was getting restless. The root was starting to feel hard under my butt. I was hungry. And thirsty. And hot. I didn't want to think about the Magic Forest or the evidence or the murder anymore. "Can we go home now?"

  Arthur parted the willow's branches, and we gazed out at the cemetery. The late-afternoon sunlight cast long shadows across the grass. An old couple ambled past, walking a dog as ancient as they were. Otherwise, the place seemed to be deserted.

  We dragged our bikes from our hiding place, but before we rode away, Arthur paused to point out a statue of a woman and her little boy. The woman had an open book in her lap, and the boy stood beside her, looking up into her calm marble face.

  "That's Eleanor Beale and her son, Arthur," he told me. "Arthur, just like me."

  He touched Arthur Beale s marble shoe reverently. "Eleanor was married to Robert Bradley Beale, the guy the town was named for. There's a statue of him in the park downtown."

  I sat on the seat of my bike, one foot on the pedal, ready to go, but Arthur went on talking in a quiet voice. "I used to pretend Eleanor Beale was my mother, and I was her little boy, and we were reading that book together. Sometimes if no one was around, I'd even climb into her lap. Dumb, huh?"

  "What happened to your real mother?" I asked. "You never talk about her."

  Arthur leaned on his bike s handlebars, his eyes on the statue s face. "There's nothing to say. I've been living with Grandma since I was a baby."

  "Is your mother dead?" I asked softly.

  He shrugged. "What difference does it make whether she's dead or alive? I never see her. She never calls, she never writes. Not to me or Grandma. She's probably a drug addict. Or worse."

  I'd never heard anyone say such things about his mother. "You don't care about her at all?"

  Arthur gripped his handlebars so tightly his knuckles whitened. "She doesn't care about me. Why should I care about her?" He glanced at me, and I saw the glint of tears behind his glasses.

  Sad and embarrassed, I looked down at the gravel path. A line of black ants paraded by as if they were engaged in important business. "How about your dad?"

  "My mother showed up one day at Grandma's house," Arthur went on, as if he hadn't heard me. "She had me with her. The infant. No explanations. A couple of weeks later she left." Arthur bent his head over his handlebars and fiddled with his bike gears. "Without me. And that was that."

  I tried to think of something to say, but nothing came to mind except stupid remarks like "That's awful." I patted his back silently, hoping he'd understand how bad I felt for him.

  "It's okay," he muttered. "Like I said, I don't care anymore." Without another word, he began pedaling away, leaving Mrs. Beale and her son to gaze forever at the same page in their stone book.

  Just to be safe, we rode home the back way, zipping down alleys and cutting across back yards. To our relief, we didn't meet Silas or anyone else.

  Mom was sitting on the porch, reading a mystery novel as usual. When she saw me, she frowned. "It's about time you got here, Logan. You missed lunch, and now it's almost time for dinner."

  Arthur poked his elbow in my side and gestured toward his yard. Violet s old car was parked out front. May sat on the grass, making a clover chain, and Danny was tossing a ball for Bear to catch. He looked happier than usual.

  From the porch steps, Mrs. Jenkins called, "Come on over here, Arthur. Bring Logan with you."

  I glanced at Mom, sure she'd order me inside, but she was lost in her book again.

  Reluctantly, Arthur and I headed toward his house.

  Danny stopped tossing the ball and stared at us. "Just because I'm staying here doesn't mean I'm your friend or nothing." He kept his voice low, too low for Mrs. Jenkins to hear.

  "I assure you the feeling is mutual," Arthur said, affecting an English accent for reasons known only to him.

  Danny scowled. "You're weird. You know that? Nuts. Crazy."

  Arthur shoved his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. "At least I'm not stupid."

  By now Mrs. Jenkins was crossing the lawn, a big smile on her face. "Logan, have you met Danny?"

  Before I could answer, Arthur said, "Logan had the dubious pleasure of meeting Danny at the Toot 'n' Tote."

  "They say two's company and three's a crowd, but I'm sure you boys will get along just fine." Mrs. Jenkins smiled again, clearly determined to see things in the most optimistic light. "Come inside and cool off with some soda."

  May slipped her clover chain over her head and followed us to the kitchen. Violet was sitting at the table, her chin propped on her hand, her eyes sad and distant. The little girl pulled the clover chain off and gave it to Violet. "I made this for you, cause you're pretty and I love you."

  "Thank you, May." Violet hugged her daughter. "That's very sweet of you." For some reason, she looked as if she was about to cry.

  Mrs. Jenkins patted her shoulder. "You're lucky
to have such a sweet child."

  Violet nodded, looking even more tearful.

  Danny came inside with Bear. "When we go home," he told Arthur and me, "this dog's coming with us."

  "Oh, no, he's not," Arthur said. "We've been taking care of him ever since your..."Catching a warning look from Mrs. Jenkins, Arthur left his sentence hanging.

  "Bear's my dog." Danny turned to his mother. "Isn't he?"

  Violet shook her head. "We can't afford a dog. You know that."

  Danny slumped at the table, his legs stuck out, his face ugly. "I never get nothing I want," he muttered.

  Violet reached out to pat his arm, but he jerked away from her.

  In the silence, Mrs. Jenkins busied herself handing out sodas. Pointing to an open bag of cookies, she said, "Help yourselves."

  The whole time we ate and drank, no one said anything except May. Climbing onto her mother's lap, she whispered, "Don't be sad, Mommy."

  "I'm not sad." Violet blew her nose on the tissue Mrs. Jenkins handed her.

  Nobody was fooled. Not even May, who sat there quietly and stroked Violet s arm, her face almost as unhappy as her mother's.

  Violet turned to me suddenly and forced herself to smile. "Mom's house looks much better now. More like it did when I was little." She sighed. "I hated seeing it so tumbledown."

  "I'll tell Dad you like it," I said. "He's been doing a lot of work."

  Violet blew her nose again, and I stole a glance at Danny. He sat there eating his cookies as if they were enemies, biting into them fiercely, chewing hard, and swallowing noisily. He didn't look at anyone. And he didn't say a word.

  Finally, I heard Mom calling me to come home. Glad to escape, I excused myself and headed for the back door. Arthur followed me outside.

  "There's only one extra room," he muttered. "Violet and May must be sleeping there. You know what that means?"

  "You get a roommate?"

  "It's not funny!" Arthur glared at me. "How would you like to sleep in the same bed as Danny Phelps?"

  "Just be glad it's not Silas." With that, I took a flying leap from the porch and darted through the gap in the hedge. "See you tomorrow!" I shouted at Arthur, but he just looked at me, his face glum.