The Secret Window

by Betty R. Wright

  “I wouldn’t eat lunch with a snitch if you paid me,” Gracie continued. “You’d better be careful. If anybody says one little ‘damn,’ she’ll run off and tell a teacher.” Jean put out a protesting hand, but Gracie stepped away from her.

  “Oh, for pete’s sake.” Chris wiped chocolate crumbs from her chin as she spoke. “If you’re going to talk like that, go somewhere else, Gracie. We don’t want to hear it.”

  Gracie whirled to attack. “Don’t tell me what to do, Chris Svenson,” she stormed. “You can be friends with a sneak if you want to, but just wait until she gets you into trouble. Then you’ll be sorry.”

  When Meg opened her mouth to defend herself, no sound came out. The other girls looked down, embarrassed, or pretended to be busy packing up the remains of the lunch.

  “Anybody want to go for a walk?” Rhoda asked. “I have to work off all those terrific peanut butter and bologna sandwiches.”

  Gracie made a strangled sound. Her face was white with patches of red, and the cords in her throat were taut. Meg thought, She’s almost hysterical.

  “You may know how to bat a ball, but you don’t know how to pick your friends,” Gracie screamed at Rhoda. “Unless you like finky little tattletales!”

  Jean grabbed Gracie’s arm and tried to pull her away. “Come on, that’s enough,” she pleaded. “What’s the use of calling names? It’s not true, anyway. Meg didn’t snitch about that party.”

  “She did!” Gracie looked betrayed. “She called the police.”

  “No, she didn’t. Or if she did, she wasn’t the only one. The Bells’ neighbors called the police because the noise was keeping them awake. They thought the police would tell you to pipe down and that would be the end of it, but some of the kids were smoking grass. Linda’s looking for someone to blame, but the whole thing’s her own fault for having marijuana and liquor at the party. So why don’t you just forget it?”

  “You’re lying!” Gracie shrieked. “You don’t know anything about it!”

  Jean looked frightened but determined. “I know because Mrs. Bell is in my mother’s bridge club, and she told my mother last night that it was the neighbors who called the police. They knew Mr. and Mrs. Bell were away, and they were pretty sure Linda wasn’t supposed to be having a party when they weren’t home.”

  Gracie began to cry—breathless, childlike sobs that made Meg feel sorry for her in spite of the ugly things she’d said.

  “I don’t believe you,” she wept. “Anyway, Meg Korshak, if you’re not a snitch, you are crazy. Why else would you run away from a party a few seconds after you got there? If you didn’t leave to call the police, then you left because you’re crazy. And don’t say that isn’t true!”

  Meg sat very still. Her ex-best friend was calling her crazy, and the word thundered in her ears. But Meg wasn’t just listening; she was thinking about why Gracie was so terribly angry. She pictured the shabby little flat where Gracie lived. She thought of the father Gracie hadn’t seen for years, and the mother who was irritable and suspicious during the few hours each day that she was at home. Linda’s friendship must have meant something very special to Gracie—perhaps the beginning of a new life, much more interesting and exciting than the one she had. Now the friendship was over, and she felt cheated. She didn’t care whose fault it was. She had to blame someone.

  “I hate all of you!” Gracie spat out the words and turned to run.

  “Wait!” Meg was on her feet and running, too. Someone else was right behind her, but she kept her eyes on Gracie, who had darted across the lawn toward the little woods that ringed the picnic area.

  Mrs. Cobbell bobbed up in front of Meg, her red hat askew. “You girls mustn’t play over there!” she exclaimed. “The river is out of bounds for the picnic—polluted—no place to swim!” She shouted the last words after Meg, who had ducked around her and kept on running.

  “Gracie, please wait!”

  “She won’t stop.” Rhoda caught up to Meg and ran beside her. “She’s too upset to hear you. Talk to her later, Meg.”

  “No!” Meg raced on. A row of forsythia bushes stretched in a golden wall ahead of her. She circled the hedge and found herself standing on the bank of the wide river. Below her, Gracie scrambled down over the steep cliff.

  “What’s she doing?” Rhoda puffed. “There’s no place for her to go down there.”

  But Gracie had seen something they’d missed. A rowboat was pulled up on the shore, half in and half out of the water. As the girls watched, Gracie put one foot in the boat and pushed out with the other. The little boat floated free of the weeds.

  It was an old boat, weatherbeaten, painted red.

  “Oh, Gracie, don’t!” Meg’s head whirled. The water, the boat were exactly as she had seen them in her dream. But it was the Milwaukee River, not Lake Superior, that was carrying the little red boat away from the shore. It was Gracie, not Meg’s father, who was in danger.

  “I’m going for help!”

  Rhoda glanced at Meg, surprised. “Why do that? She doesn’t need help. Let her row for a while—maybe she’ll calm down.”

  Meg was already running back the way she’d come.

  “Mrs. Cobbell,” she screamed. “Somebody! Come quick!”

  But what could Mrs. Cobbell do, if Gracie was in danger of drowning? Meg rounded the row of forsythia bushes and cut diagonally through the woods. There was an entrance gate at the end of the road, with a small office beside it. Meg ran faster than she’d ever run in her life, ignoring the startled looks and shouts of her classmates as she tore past them. There had to be someone in the office who could help. There had to be!

  “What’s the matter, kid?” The boy in the office looked up as she burst through the door.

  “A girl—in the river—needs help.” Meg’s teeth were chattering. “Please—hurry!”

  The boy reached under the counter and picked up a telephone. He dialed swiftly and repeated the information that Meg gave him, his face grave. “You kids weren’t supposed to go near the river,” he said when he hung up. “Didn’t your teachers tell you that? The police launch is on its way, but if your friend’s okay she’ll get a real bawling out when they pick her up.”

  What would he say if he knew Meg hadn’t seen Gracie fall out of the boat but had only dreamed it? And what would Gracie say if she didn’t fall out, and the police arrived to rescue her? It wasn’t hard to guess the answer to that. Meg would have earned the name of tattletale forever.

  But it was too late to worry. Meg thanked the boy and raced back toward the river. The picnic area was empty now, and when she passed the row of forsythia bushes she saw why. Her classmates and teachers were lined up on the edge of the bank. Far out in the middle of the river, the little red boat floated—empty. As Meg joined the crowd, one of the men teachers was wading into the river. He began to swim toward the boat.

  “Oh, Meg.” Rhoda’s face was white under its sprinkling of freckles. “She fell in right after you left. One of the oars slipped and she reached for it and went over the side. It was awful!”

  A cloud slid over the sun, and the river darkened as it had in Meg’s dream. She looked down toward the bridge at the south end of the park and saw a police launch coming around the curve in the river. Her legs gave out, and she sat down hard.

  There wasn’t a sound from the watchers on the cliff as the launch drew close and cut its motor. One of the policemen leaned over the far side of the little red boat.

  Meg closed her eyes. Please let her be hanging on somehow, she prayed. Please, please, please. She looked again as the policeman pulled Gracie’s limp body from the water, then helped the teacher into the launch.

  “Is she—?” Meg couldn’t say the word. She pulled her knees up to her chin and put her head down.

  Relieved laughter burst around her. Rhoda dragged Meg to her feet. “It’s okay,” Rhoda gasped. “Look, Meggie, it’s okay! Gracie just sat up and hugged the man who pulled her out of the water. That’s a pretty good si
gn, I’d say.”

  CHAPTER 15

  “What’s Your Secret?”

  “Well, how was it?” Rhoda was sprawled on the front steps when Meg came home the next to the last day of school.

  “I guess about fifty people told me I saved Gracie’s life,” Meg replied. “Isn’t that wild? Even Mrs. Cobbell said it. She said no one else thought of going to the park office for help. And Mr. Nelson—he’s the teacher who swam out to the boat—he said he isn’t a very strong swimmer himself, and he doubted he could have helped Gracie if she was really drowning. He had to try, but he was scared. He said he could have hugged that policeman himself.”

  “How about Gracie? Did she tell you ‘Thank you very much’?”

  Meg sat down on a step and leaned back. “She didn’t speak to me all day. But she looked a lot more cheerful. The kids were all making a fuss over her and teasing her about the policeman.”

  “I bet she loved every minute of it.” Rhoda nodded wisely. “You did save her, you know. If you hadn’t run when you did—” She looked at Meg. “I couldn’t understand why you were so excited when she took off in that boat. I still wonder why you—”

  Meg came suddenly to life. She scooped up the paper bag containing the notebooks, sneakers, and two sweaters from her cleaned-out locker. “I’d better check in,” she said. “Wednesday is my mother’s day off, and we usually eat early. I’ll come down later, if you’re going to be home.”

  “I’ll be around,” Rhoda said, looking a little puzzled. “My father’s working late, so we probably won’t eat for hours. If I’m not out here when you come back, knock on our door.”

  What a narrow escape! Meg thought as she climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. No one but Rhoda knew she had run for help before Gracie fell into the river. Meg had hoped her friend would have forgotten about it in the excitement of the rescue.

  The apartment smelled of lemon oil and floor wax. Meg’s mother was washing windows in the living room. She looked tired, but when she saw Meg she dropped her sponge into the pail beside her and stood with her hands clasped.

  “Mrs. Wriston just telephoned,” she said. “She wanted to thank you for saving Gracie’s life yesterday. Your homeroom teacher—Mrs. What’s-her-name—called and told her,” she added dryly. “I don’t know what’s happened between you and Gracie, but I gather she isn’t spreading the word herself that you did her quite a favor.”

  “Mrs. Cobbell.” Meg felt a glow of pleasure. Her mother was looking at her the way she usually looked at Bill.

  But the moment of closeness slipped away. “Well, work goes on, even with a heroine in the house,” her mother said. She turned back to the windows. “Maybe we’ll go out for hamburgers after I finish this,” she said. “Bill should be home by then.”

  “Do you want some help?”

  Her mother waved her off impatiently. “I just may do every window in the place while I’m at it,” she said. The flat note of depression was back in her voice. “Then maybe I’ll be tired enough to sleep tonight.”

  Meg went out to the kitchen and scooped the last of Grandma Korshak’s home-baked cookies from the cookie jar.

  “I’m going downstairs to talk to Rhoda,” she said from the doorway. “We’ll be out on the steps.”

  Her mother nodded without turning. “Ask her if she wants to have a hamburger with us, if you want to,” she said. “I guess we can afford one more.”

  Rhoda accepted a couple of cookies gratefully and said she’d be glad to have supper with the Korshaks. “I’ll leave my dad a note,” she said. “He probably won’t be home till after we get back, anyway.” She pointed down the block. “Bill just came out of the store.”

  Bill’s head was down and his shoulders were hunched in his usual slouch, but there was a jauntiness in his walk that had been missing for a few days. He must be thinking about college. The application was in the mail; commencement was next week. He was on his way.

  “I’m going to miss him when he goes to Madison,” Meg said.

  Rhoda bit into a cookie. “I think having a big brother would be the best thing in the world,” she said. “You’re lucky, Meg.”

  They sat silently till Bill joined them on the steps. “Well, well,” he said. “The fastest sprinter and the best hitter in town. Some reception committee we have here.” Meg had told him all about the picnic the night before.

  “Mrs. Wriston called Mama,” she said shyly. “And Mama’s taking us out to eat tonight. Rhoda, too.”

  “To celebrate your good deed?” Bill looked pleased.

  “I think she’s just tired. But she was glad Mrs. Wriston called. I could tell.”

  Rhoda leaned forward. “I still want to know about yesterday, Meggie,” she said. “Remember, I asked you before? Why did you think Gracie was in danger in that boat? Why did you start running before she fell into the water?”

  Meg looked away from her friend and met Bill’s startled gaze.

  “Before she fell in?” he repeated. “You ran for help before she fell in?”

  “Yes, she did,” Rhoda said firmly. “Meg was already out of sight, and I kept calling to her to come back. Then I turned around, and there was Gracie reaching for the oar and losing her balance. So what’s your secret, Meggie?”

  “Yeah, speak up,” Bill said. “What’s your secret?”

  Meg remembered her talk with Grandma Korshak. My secret is a window, she thought. It sounded so uncomplicated put that way, like the title of a song. But it wasn’t simple at all. Maybe if she could accept the window as Grandma did, then she could explain it to Bill and Rhoda and believe they would still love her.

  “Wait here,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Minutes later, when she came back downstairs, the sun had slipped behind the buildings across the street. Brookfield Avenue had assumed its twilight calm.

  “You can look at this, if you want to,” Meg said. She sat down and opened the dream notebook across her knees. Slowly, she turned the pages, pointing to the dates at the top, giving Bill and Rhoda time to notice the changes in handwriting over the years, from childish scrawl to neat script. In a sometimes shaky voice, she explained what the book was and why she had written it.

  “It was sort of like telling the dreams to someone. And afterward, if they came true, I could go back and see if I had everything right.”

  While Rhoda leaned close, Bill took the book from Meg and turned back to the first page. He read, looking up from time to time. When he had examined every page, he went back to the dream about his receiving the scholarship and read it again.

  “A big tan envelope with blue lettering,” he said. “I always wondered about that—even after you said you just imagined it.”

  “Well”—Meg was defensive—“I did, in a way.”

  “In a way.”

  “Grandma Korshak has real dreams, too,” Meg told them. “She talked about them last time she was here. I guess I inherited—whatever it is—from her. But she said Mama wouldn’t like to hear about dreams that come true. It would make her angry. Dad told me that, too—a long time ago. So I just kept writing in the notebook.” She squirmed under her brother’s unspoken question. “I couldn’t tell you, either. I was afraid you’d think I was crazy. I know Gracie would have said I was crazy if I’d told her.”

  “You could have told me.” Bill turned abruptly to Rhoda. “Well, what do you say, kiddo? What about our dream girl? Is she crazy?”

  “Oh, no!” Rhoda looked up and down the street with shining eyes. “You know,” she added, “when my dad said we were going to move again, I was so mad I cried. I liked living in New York—it was exciting. And when we got here, I thought, sure enough, it’s just another old apartment building on another old street. Pure Dullsville.” She shook her head in wonder. “And now, all of a sudden, there’s something marvelous going on. Right here on Brookfield Avenue.”

  “It isn’t marvelous,” Meg protested. “I don’t like it at all.”

  Rhoda paid n
o attention. “Meg, you are lucky,” she said. “How could you keep quiet about such a great thing?”

  Meg felt like a Frisbee, flying right up into the evening sky. She’d told her secret, had brought the notebook out of its hiding place at last, and no one was laughing. No one thought she was crazy. Something marvelous, Rhoda had said. Right here on Brookfield Avenue.

  Maybe, just maybe, Rhoda was right. Meg tried to sort out her feelings. Grandma Korshak thought it was good to have a secret window. Perhaps it really was, or perhaps it was just something to get used to—like straight hair and long, narrow feet. Like having a mother who would have preferred a daughter more like herself and having a father who said writing was his life.

  “Hey, we got a letter.” Bill took an envelope from his shirt pocket and dropped it in Meg’s lap. “It came to the store, in care of me. He’s writing to Ma separately.”

  Meg knew without looking who “he” was. It was too soon to expect an answer to her letter, but he’d written anyway. She slipped the sheet of lined paper from the envelope.

  “‘Dear kids,’” she read aloud. “‘I’m going to write to your mother tomorrow, but this is just for you. I keep wishing I hadn’t left without saying good-by to you both. It was cowardly, I guess, but I was feeling bruised and sorry for myself, and I didn’t feel up to any more discussions. I believe I’m doing the right thing. Will write a long letter later. Remember, I love you and I miss you. Dad.’”

  In the silence that followed, Meg and Bill looked at each other and shrugged. Then Meg read the letter again, to herself. It was short, kind of stiff, and it didn’t mention coming home. Nothing had changed—except she no longer hated the person who had written it. He’s lonesome, too, she thought. But he’s all by himself, and we’re together.

  Rhoda cleared her throat. “Don’t hold your breath waiting for that long letter,” she warned. “My mother always says she’s going to write more later, but she doesn’t. It takes a lot of time, I guess—doing your thing.”

  A window opened over their heads, and Meg looked up.