As Rose Rita dressed, Mrs. Zimmermann stood there, stiff and still, behind the white glaring halo of the flashlight. Rose Rita couldn't see her face, and she wasn't sure that she wanted to. When she was dressed, Rose Rita grabbed her valise and followed Mrs. Zimmermann. They tiptoed to the door, opened it a crack, and peered down the long dark hall. At the far end a nurse sat dozing behind a desk. An electric clock buzzed on the wall over her head. The whole hospital seemed to be asleep.
"Good!" said Mrs. Zimmermann, and she led the way down the hall to a set of stairs.
The stairs led to the parking lot behind the hospital. There in the moonlight sat Bessie, the green Plymouth, staring patiently ahead as always. Rose Rita put the luggage in the trunk. Mrs. Zimmermann started the car, and they drove off.
It was a long hot dusty ride, all day, across the length of the Upper Peninsula. For Rose Rita, it was like a nightmare. Usually Mrs. Zimmermann was fun to travel with. She laughed and joked and sang songs, and talked a blue streak. When pestered, she even did little magic tricks, like snatching matches out of thin air, or throwing her voice into the weeds at the side of the road. But now, as they rode along, she was silent. She seemed to be brooding about something, but she wouldn't tell Rose Rita what it was. And Mrs. Zimmermann was nervous—very nervous. She glanced wildly from side to side, and sometimes got so jittery that she almost drove off the road. Rose Rita sat there rigid in her corner by the door, her sweaty hands at her sides. She didn't know what to do, or what to say.
The sun was going down over the Straits of Mackinac as Bessie chugged into the parking lot of the ferryboat landing at St. Ignace. A boat had just left, and Mrs. Zimmermann and Rose Rita had to wait a solid hour for the next one. They waited in silence, neither of them saying a word the whole time. Rose Rita went out and bought some sandwiches. It was her own idea—Mrs. Zimmermann had not stopped for lunch. Finally, though, the boat came in. It was called the Grand Traverse Bay. The sky was dark, and the moon was rising over the Straits, when Mrs. Zimmermann drove Bessie up the rattling gangplank and down into the black echoing hold of the ship.
When the car was parked, and the chocks had been placed under the wheels, Rose Rita started to get out, but then she discovered that Mrs. Zimmermann was just sitting there motionless behind the wheel.
"Mrs. Zimmermann?" Rose Rita called nervously. "Aren't you coming up?"
Mrs. Zimmermann gave a little start and shook her head. She stared at Rose Rita as if she had never seen her before. "Come up? Oh... yes. Yes, of course. Be right with you." She got out of the car and, like a sleepwalker, clumped up the steps to the deck.
It ought to have been a very beautiful crossing. The moon shone down, silvering the decks and the ripply water of the Straits. Rose Rita tried to get Mrs. Zimmermann to walk around with her on the deck, but she wouldn't do it. She sat rigid on a bench and stared at her shoes. Rose Rita was frightened. This wasn't an adventure anymore. She wished, wished with all her heart, that they had never come on this trip. She wished they were back home in New Zebedee. Maybe if they were home, Uncle Jonathan, or Doc Humphries, or somebody, could figure out what was wrong with Mrs. Zimmermann and make her act like her old self again. Rose Rita didn't feel as if she could do anything for Mrs. Zimmermann. She felt utterly helpless. All she could do was tag along. Tag along, and wait.
An hour or so later Mrs. Zimmermann and Rose Rita were driving down the gravel road that led to Oley Gunderson's farm. They passed Gert Bigger's store and saw that it was closed. A tiny night light burned on the porch.
Rose Rita couldn't stand it any longer. "Mrs. Zimmermann," she burst out. "Why are we going to the farm? What's this all about?"
At first Mrs. Zimmermann was silent. Then she said, in a slow dull voice, "I don't know why. There's something I have to do there, but I can't remember what it is."
They drove on. Gravel crackled and popped under the car's tires, and sometimes long leafy branches whipped across the doors or the roof. Now it began to rain. Big drops started to splat on the windshield, and Rose Rita heard the dull rolling of thunder. Flashes of lightning leaped out in front of the car. Now they were at the farm. As they drove into the yard, a bright flash lit up the front of the barn, showing the two staring window-eyes, and the yawning mouth of the door. It was like a monster mouth, opening to swallow them up.
Because it was raining outside, Rose Rita and Mrs. Zimmermann went into the house by way of the long covered walkway that ran from the house to the barn. But when they unlocked the door and tried to turn the lights on, nothing happened. Mrs. Zimmermann had forgotten to pay Oley's overdue electric bill, and the current had been shut off since their first visit. After digging around in a cupboard, Mrs. Zimmermann found a kerosene lamp. She lit it and put it on the kitchen table. Rose Rita opened up the picnic hamper, and they sat down to eat the sandwiches Rose Rita had bought. They ate in silence. In the smoky yellow light Mrs. Zimmermann's face looked haggard and worn. She also looked tense, very tense, as if she was waiting for something to happen. Rose Rita looked nervously over her shoulder. Beyond the circle of friendly lamplight the house lay in shadow. The staircase was a well of darkness. Rose Rita realized, with a sudden sick feeling, that she would have to go up those stairs to bed. She didn't want to go to bed. She didn't want to stay in Oley's house for another minute. She wanted to bundle Mrs. Zimmermann into the car and make her drive them back to New Zebedee, even if they had to drive all night. But Rose Rita didn't say anything. She made no move. Whatever the spell was that lay over Mrs. Zimmermann, it lay over Rose Rita too. She felt utterly totally powerless.
Outside it was pouring. There was a tin roof on the front porch, and the sound of the rain hitting it was a steady drumming roar. Finally, with an effort, Rose Rita pushed back her chair. She stood up.
"I think we... we oughta go to bed, Mrs. Zimmermann," she said hoarsely. Her voice was faint and seemed to be coming from deep down inside her.
"You go on, Rose Rita. I want to sit here and... and think a bit." Mrs. Zimmermann's voice was wooden and mechanical, and unbelievably weary. It almost sounded as if she were talking in her sleep.
Rose Rita backed away fearfully. She picked up her valise, took out her flashlight, and turned toward the stairs. As Rose Rita went up the steps, flashlight in hand, her shadow and the shadow of the railing danced weirdly on the wall next to her. Halfway up Rose Rita stopped and looked down. There sat Mrs. Zimmermann in the circle of yellow lamplight. Her hands were folded on the table, and she was staring straight ahead of her. Rose Rita had the feeling that, if she called to her, she wouldn't get any answer. She swallowed hard and went on up the stairs.
The bedroom with the black walnut bed was just as Rose Rita had left it. She began to peel back the spread, but halfway she stopped. She stopped because she had heard a noise from downstairs. A single small noise. Tap. The sound of Mrs. Zimmermann's ring. Now the sound was repeated, three times over. Tap... tap... tap. The sound was slow and mechanical, like the ticking of a big clock. Rose Rita stood there, flashlight in hand. She listened to the sound and wondered what it meant.
Suddenly a door slammed.
Rose Rita gave a little yelp and spun around. She dashed out of the room and down the stairs. On the landing she froze. There was the table, with the lamp burning on it. There was Mrs. Zimmermann's purse, and her cigar case. The front door was open. It banged gently in the wind. Mrs. Zimmermann was gone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rose Rita stood on the front porch of the farmhouse. Her flashlight dangled from one hand and made a pool of light at her feet. Slashes of rain cut across her shoes, and lightning lit up the wildly thrashing trees across the road. Thunder rolled. Rose Rita felt stunned. She felt as if she were walking in her sleep. Mrs. Zimmermann was gone. But where had she gone, and why? What had happened to her?
Cupping her hands to her mouth, Rose Rita called, "Mrs. Zimmermann! Mrs. Zimmermann!" but she got no answer. Slowly she picked her way down the steps, waving the flashlight in front
of her. At the bottom of the steps she stopped and looked around. If Mrs. Zimmermann had run out the front door and down the front steps, it ought to have been easy to tell which way she went after that. The front yard was full of long grass, and Rose Rita and Mrs. Zimmermann had not touched it on the night before, because they had come into the house by using the covered walkway. Now, as Rose Rita moved her flashlight around, she saw a little patch of grass trampled down at the bottom of the steps. But no path led away, in any direction. The grass grew all around, tall and shiny and untouched. It was as if Mrs. Zimmermann had evaporated.
Panic seized Rose Rita. Yelling "Mrs. Zimmermann!" at the top of her voice, she thrashed through the wet grass till she came to the road. She looked to the right. She looked to the left. Nothing but darkness and rain. Rose Rita fell to her knees in a puddle and started to cry. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed bitterly. The cold rain poured down on her and soaked her to the skin.
At long last she got up. Staggering like a drunken person, half blinded by tears, she made her way back to the farmhouse. But on the front porch she stopped. She did not want to go back into that house. Not now, in the dark. With a shudder Rose Rita turned away. But where could she go?
Bessie. She thought of Bessie sitting in the barn. The barn was a dark spooky place, like the house, but Bessie was a friendly creature. Rose Rita really thought of the car as a living breathing person now. She could go and sleep in the car. It wouldn't hurt her—it would protect her. Rose Rita took a deep shuddering breath, clenched her fists, and started walking toward the barn. Rain slashed across her as she went.
The sound of the big white door rolling back echoed in the high raftered ceiling of the barn. There was Bessie, waiting. Rose Rita patted her hood and climbed into the back seat. She locked all the doors. Then she lay down and tried to sleep, but it was no use. She was too tense. All night Rose Rita lay there, wet and frightened and tired and alone. Once or twice she sat up suddenly when she thought she saw a face at the window of the car. But it was all her imagination—there was no one there.
As she lay staring at the ceiling of the car and listening to the storm, Rose Rita thought. Mrs. Zimmermann had disappeared. Disappeared as if by magic. In fact, there was no "as if" about it. Mrs. Zimmermann's disappearance had been caused by magic.
Rose Rita went over the sequence of events in her mind: first there had been Oley's weird letter about a magic ring, and then the empty ring box. Then came the mutilated photograph, and the shadow Rose Rita had seen moving around in Mrs. Zimmermann's bedroom that night. Then those horrible pains, and the slip of paper, and the strange way Mrs. Zimmermann had behaved on the trip back to the farm. But what was the key to the whole thing? Was the ring the key? Did somebody have it, and had they used it to do things to Mrs. Zimmermann? That seemed like a reasonable explanation to Rose Rita. But a heck of a lot of good reasonable explanations were going to do her. Mrs. Zimmermann was gone, and Rose Rita didn't know where to go to find her. Maybe she was dead. And as for the magic ring, if there was such a thing... well, Rose Rita didn't know who had it, and she hadn't the faintest idea of what she would do if she did know. So there she was.
Rose Rita thought like this, in endless circles, all the night long, while thunder rolled overhead and lightning lit up, now and then, the high dusty windows of the barn. Finally morning came. Rose Rita stumbled out into the sunlight to find everything looking sparkling and fresh and green. Blackbirds were gorging themselves on the mulberries in a crooked old tree in the front yard. Rose Rita felt a sudden burst of cheerfulness, but then she remembered Mrs. Zimmermann, and she burst into tears again. No, she said firmly to herself, blinking back her tears and brushing hair out of her eyes. You're not going to cry. That's not any good, you dumb dope. You've got to do something!
But what was she going to do? Here she was, alone, three hundred miles from home. For one wild instant she thought that she might drive Bessie all the way back to New Zebedee. After all she had driven the car for a little way, on that back road near Ironwood. But Rose Rita was scared. Scared of getting picked up by a policeman, scared of having an accident. Besides, driving home wouldn't help find Mrs. Zimmermann. She had to think of something else.
Rose Rita sat down on the front steps, put her head in her hands, and thought some more. Should she call up her folks and have them come and get her? She could hear what her father would say: "You see, Louise, that's what happens when you let Rose Rita run around with screwballs! The old bat flew off on a broom and left Rose Rita there to rot. Well, maybe the next time you think of letting our daughter go tooting off with a screwball you'll..." Rose Rita winced. She didn't want to face her father, not without Mrs. Zimmermann. Rose Rita thought some more.
Rose Rita racked her brains. She crossed and recrossed her legs and bit her lip and fumed. She was a real fighter, and she wasn't going to abandon Mrs. Zimmermann. Not if there was something she could do.
Rose Rita jumped up and snapped her fingers. Of course! What a dope she had been! Why hadn't she thought of this before? There was that book, that Mallet of Something, or whatever it was called. The book that Mrs. Zimmermann had been going home to get when she changed her mind—or somebody changed it for her. But Rose Rita didn't have the book. She didn't even know where she could get a copy. She sat down again.
Rose Rita thought about magic books for a while.
Rows of them, standing on shelves, books with spotted vellum covers and curly writing on their spines. That was it! Jonathan had magic books. He had a whole big collection of them. And what was more, he had the key to Mrs. Zimmermann's house. If he couldn't find that old Mallet Whatchmacallit, he could just go next door and dig it out of Mrs. Zimmermann's bookcase. Also, Jonathan knew about magic, because he was a wizard himself. Rose Rita could tell him what had happened, and he wouldn't think she had gone off her rocker. Good old Jonathan! He would know what to do.
Rose Rita got up and went into the house. There was an old-fashioned crank phone on the wall in the kitchen. Rose Rita took the receiver off the hook and gave the crank a few twirls. The bell inside the box rang, but the line was dead. Mrs. Zimmermann had forgotten to pay Oley's electric bill, and she had also forgotten to pay the phone bill.
Rose Rita hung up the receiver and stood there, feeling depressed. But then she remembered Gert Bigger's store. There was probably a phone there she could use. Rose Rita didn't want to have anything more to do with the crabby old woman who had cheated Mrs. Zimmermann that night they ran out of gas, but she didn't see any way around it. Gert Bigger's store was only a couple of miles down the road. Rose Rita sighed. She would just have to walk there and get help.
Rose Rita started out. It was already a hot day, even though it was early in the morning, and the road was dusty. Steam rose from Rose Rita's clothing, which was still wet from the night before. She wondered if she would catch cold, but she didn't wonder very hard. Catching cold was the least of her worries right now.
It was farther to Gert Bigger's store than Rose Rita had thought it would be. Flies were buzzing around when Rose Rita rounded a bend and saw the store shimmering there in the heat. It looked pretty much the way it had when she saw it the first time. But as she got closer to the store, Rose Rita noticed one difference. There was a chicken in the chicken yard. Just one. A bedraggled-looking white hen. As soon as the chicken saw Rose Rita, it began to cluck excitedly and run back and forth. Rose Rita smiled. She had had a white hen for a pet once. It was called Henny Penny. This poor lonely chicken reminded her of it. Rose Rita wondered why the chicken was so excited, and then she noticed a stump in one corner of the yard. There was an ax leaning against it. It looked as if old Henry Penny was going into the pot before long. Poor thing, Rose Rita thought. It probably thinks I'm coming to chop off its head.
Rose Rita turned away and started up the steps to the store, but as she did so, she almost stepped on a small black dog. It was the same dog that had barked at her and Mrs. Zimmermann that other time. It must
have been hunched down on the steps in the shadow, because Rose Rita could have sworn that the steps were empty when she glanced at them a second before. Imitating Mrs. Zimmermann, Rose Rita pulled back her foot as if she were going to kick the dog, and, as before, the dog ran off into the shrubbery and disappeared.
Rose Rita walked up the steps. She opened the door and looked in. There was Gert Bigger, kneeling in the middle of the floor. She was unpacking cereal boxes and stacking them on a shelf.
"Well," she said, glaring at Rose Rita. "What do you want?"
"I... I have to make a phone call," said Rose Rita. Her voice was trembling as she spoke, and she was afraid she was going to burst into tears.
"You do, huh? Well, you better have some money handy. There's a pay phone over there on that wall." Gert Bigger pointed towards a scarred black phone at the end of the counter.
Rose Rita dug into her pocket and came up with a dime and a couple of pennies. She would have to make it a collect call.
As she walked down the aisle toward the phone, Rose Rita was aware that Gert Bigger was watching her. She wondered why. Oh, well, thought Rose Rita, she's just nosy. She dumped her coins on a little shelf in front of the phone and read the yellow sheet of instructions. For a collect call, she would have to dial O for the operator. Rose Rita put her finger in the O-hole and was just starting to dial, when she saw, out of the corner of her eye, that Gert Bigger was still staring at her. She had let her work go and was just kneeling there in the middle of the aisle, watching.
Rose Rita stopped in mid-dial. She took her finger out and let the little wheel click back into place. She had just had a very strange thought: What if Gert Bigger had done something to Mrs. Zimmermann? She had a grudge against Mrs. Zimmermann—Rose Rita knew that. And she lived close to Oley's farm. She might've broken in to steal that magic ring after he died. It was a crazy notion, and Rose Rita knew it was crazy. But she still wondered if she might be onto something.
The Letter, the Witch, and the Ring Page 6
