Family of the Fox

by F. M. Isaacs

  “Nice day for a walk, Felicia,” Grandpa Brian pointed out. He tapped at the window pane, admiring the clouds.

  “No History Channel today, Brian?” Grandpa Ron smiled. Watching the streaming history specials was one of Grandpa Brian's favorite pastimes. He still called them the “History Channel”, even though actual television channels hadn't existed for years. Mom said that Dad was the one who had gotten him into history, which was ironic because Dad and Grandpa Brian always seemed to enjoy squabbling with each other more than anything else.

  “There's time for history later. Right now it's a good day to be out in nature,” was his response.

  “Sure is!” Grandma Felicia rose and approached him. She always appeared so pale up against Grandpa Brian's swarthy complexion. “I guess we'll get going.”

  Standing up and placing her hand on Grandma Felicia's shoulder, Mom pleaded, “Stay a bit. I'll get us all a nice dinner.”

  And she would. At the drop of a hat. She was an amazing cook.

  “Thanks, Patricia, but we're going to leave too. It's getting late,” Grandma Robin said, encouraging her husband to rise.

  For a moment, Grandpa Ron remained in his seat. His eyes traveled from Daniel, to me, and then back to Daniel. “Speak to him, Patricia. You too, Julian. And Daniel, listen to them. They know what they're talking about.”

  Daniel muttered something and fled into the living room. As Mom and Dad led their parents out, I followed my brother to where he now sat, splayed out on the black leather couch. He regarded the ceiling vacantly, and my entrance didn’t break his stare.

  I cleared my throat to get his attention. “I didn't know you were coming home. You never tell me when you're coming here anymore.”

  “I have to go back tomorrow.”

  I plopped down beside him. “You came for one day? That's a long trip.” As I bent down to tie my dangling shoelace, another thought occurred to me. “Where's your car?” I asked, straightening up.

  Finally he took his eyes from the ceiling and focused them on me. I saw a curious longing in them, and then he shook his head in impatience. “A friend dropped me off.”

  “Who?”

  “You don't know him. Hey, when did Mom get new curtains?”

  I fingered the black and gold curtain cascading down beside the couch. “Uh, they're like...five years old, I think.”

  “Oh.”

  I rolled my eyes. He'd never been very observant. “Daniel, you didn't say. Why'd you come home for only one day?”

  Inhaling deeply, he began, “Well, I just needed to. I'm not really over my grandparents’ dying, and then my dad getting sick... I don't know how Matthew doesn't come home more often.”

  “You're a little closer by than he is. It's a bit easier for you.”

  He clicked his tongue. “It sure is.”

  He grew quiet, which was very unlike my older brother. I scrutinized him, curious as to what else was happening in his life. He was still Daniel, whom I had idolized as a child, but he looked more disheveled than usual. His dark hair was uncombed, and I wondered when the last time was that he had washed the faded blue shirt he wore. Every recent memory I had of my older brother was in that shirt.

  “What did you do, Daniel?” I queried, watching carefully for his reaction.

  His tired face did not reveal much information, however. “Oh, stuff. Talking to people I shouldn't, getting involved in things I shouldn't.”

  “Like?”

  Flapping his hand as if to brush me off, he mumbled, “Oh, Corinne, it's enough. Doesn't matter. It's done anyway. They want me to stop it. Just let me alone, okay?”

  I knew Daniel well enough to realize I wouldn't get anything further from him for now, so I trudged upstairs. But my parents went into the living room to confront him yet again. “Come into the office so we can talk,” I heard Mom say.

  “And use your car next time!” Dad yelled before the door shut behind them.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mom hovered over a guest list that lay on the granite kitchen counter. She had written it on a notepad that read “Greene Travel Agency” at the top of each page. Long ago, someone had printed up the booklet for my parents as a joke. No, I didn't see the humor in it whatsoever.

  “So it sounds like all of your friends will be at your birthday-plus-graduation party. The regular relatives will be coming – my parents, Julian's parents. Uncle Jonas is coming with Andrew and Hannah. It's been a while since we've seen them. Bella and Josh are coming with their kids – William is already ten, and Anna is seven! Time flies, doesn't it? Also some family friends – remember Lenny and Jade? They're coming, and maybe we'll get Rollo and Eliza.”

  “Rollo, the English guy?” I vaguely remembered him showing up at important events. He was a doctor or pharmacist. I wasn't sure which. His accent was awesome.

  “Yes, Rollo the English guy.”

  “Yeah, I liked him.”

  Mom rattled off the rest of her “friends and colleagues” list, and it always amazed me how my parents had such a diverse group of acquaintances. And many of these people were so nice, so grateful to be with us, and so happy to see me, that it seemed a bit strange.

  “Anyone else you want to invite?”

  It was Thursday night, and I had seen Allen a few more times in passing, but he hadn't observed any other of my classes, so we hadn't had much time to talk. Maybe we could do that at my party, if he were willing to come.

  “I think I'll invite this guy I met.” Yes, that was just vague enough to make my mother suspicious.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Guy?”

  “His name is Allen.”

  “What's his last name? Do I know him?”

  “I don't think so.” I paused. I actually had no idea what his last name was.

  Mom pursed her lips together. I had a feeling she was having a hard time not quizzing me further. But she'd always been good with not butting into my business too much. She didn't need to; I always told her everything.

  THE NEXT MORNING, I watched in excitement as Allen entered my English class. He walked straight and tall, portraying the image of someone far beyond his years. When he reached my desk, he raised his hand to greet me, and my stomach flip-flopped. Oh, no. I could not be in love. This couldn't be it. I hardly knew this guy, and he was older than me!

  “Want to come to my party?” I blurted out, and then clapped my hand over my mouth, ashamed. That was totally unlike me to do. Normally I was more of an introvert.

  Seating himself behind me, he chuckled. “I'd like that. When?”

  Even his laugh intrigued me. It was melodic like my mother's, but also deep and proud. While secretly relishing the tone of his voice, I took out my phone and pulled up my contact list.

  “The party's Sunday. What's your e-mail address?”

  “Just give me the details. I don't need a formal invitation. That's why you need my address?”

  “Yes,” I replied, a bit flustered by his question.

  I told him the particulars. Maybe they did parties differently in Hungary. I had to have some patience for the man.

  I WASN'T SURE WHEN Allen would pop up next. He didn't come to gym, probably because they wouldn’t let a guy “observe” a bunch of sweaty girls. Or maybe because principals didn't need to see kids participating in gym. Not that I really participated much. I did the very minimum I could. I was no athlete, and I never would be.

  Then I went off to band, and I didn't see him there either. And I was most definitely looking for him. Somehow I imagined him as being a musical type of person – although any real musician probably didn't want to listen to our high school band. It wasn't that great.

  As I put together my clarinet, my friend Marnie came over to me, holding her French horn at her side and tapping the mouthpiece against her leg. “So, what's up with that observer-guy you keep talking to?” she asked, her eyebrows arching into a near-sneer.

  I tightened my reed. “He's really nice, actually.”

  “
He's gorgeous.”

  Yes, he was, and that's what scared me. The too-good-to-be true thing. Gorgeous guys didn't usually go for me. I was more of the plain band-kid type, and I wasn't running around chasing boys. My parents insisted I was very good looking, but then how come none of the boys ever came after me? Well, there was that cello player...

  Marnie was probably scheming to get Allen for her own, knowing her. “How old is he? He looks pretty young.”

  “I think he's a year or two older than us. Not sure.”

  “And he already knows he wants to be a principal? Doesn't he have to do like...regular college and teacher stuff before he can be a principal?”

  Marnie was my friend, yet at the same time, Marnie was out for herself, and I knew it. But Allen had expressed interest in me, not her. Although I wasn't dating Allen, I still bristled at the thought of Marnie's sudden preoccupation with him.

  “He's probably in a special program or something,” was all I could think to say.

  “Special program?” Marnie looked deep in thought. I could only imagine what plans were forming in that brain of hers. But the tap of the conductor’s stick indicated that we were about to begin.

  “Oh, Mr. Kohn is starting!” she exclaimed. “Talk to ya later!”

  Marnie ran off to the French horn section, and Mr. Kohn asked me to “play a 'C'” to tune up the band. As always, the players in the lower brass section snickered and made comments under their breath. “Play a 'C', Corinne!” someone mocked.

  “'C' for Corinne!” another band member taunted.

  I loved band. I loved music. Unfortunately, and my mom said this is a “high school thing”, if you're good at something, you often get made fun of. She said it was due to jealousy, and the kids were just like that to her when she was in band. Makes you wonder what Mozart went through.

  We pushed our way through the songs for our final concert, which was to take place the following week. As I played along, I experienced a sudden, immense sense of pride. It was almost overwhelming, like the heavens were smiling down at my progress. I played a solo, and the feeling became so intense that I had to stop to catch my breath.

  Mr. Kohn waited patiently for me to continue. He cleared his throat. “Are you alright, Corinne?”

  “Yes, sorry.” After a few more jeers and titters from the trombone players, we started to play again. But the pride remained, and I considered that perhaps the strange sensation was due to something bad I'd eaten at lunch. When a fly landed on the barrel of my clarinet and I nearly chipped my mouthpiece swatting it away, I knew I'd had enough band for a while.

  AT THE END OF THE DAY, I walked out of the school building to find Allen striding several yards ahead of me. Swinging my clarinet case in one hand and my backpack in the other, I called out to him.

  He turned around, waving. “Which way are you headed?”

  “Home.”

  “Can I walk you?” He approached, still holding his hand up.

  “Usually I take the bus. The walk's a bit far.”

  “I don't mind if you don't mind. I'm going the same way anyway. Here, let me take this for you.” He removed the clarinet case from my grasp, and, embarrassed, I simply let him. He wasn't carrying anything himself, anyway. My backpack, however, was so heavy, I wished he’d grabbed that instead.

  Wait – how did he know which way I was going?

  But I didn't ask. Instead, I merely stuttered, “Where do you live?” as he ambled alongside of me.

  “Oh, the building on the dirt road back there.” He pointed farther down the block, and I shook my head. The only thing on that path was a shack so dilapidated that I'd be afraid to step foot inside it at this point. We had often played there as kids until the owner, Owen Ritborn, would scream and chase us away while brandishing a hoe.

  “You're saying you live in the shack in the back of Owen's property, Allen? That place is a mess. He'd never let anyone stay there if they even could.”

  “Oh, I'm fine, and so's the place. It's like new.”

  “No it's not.” What was he talking about? Last time I'd seen the shack, the roof had recently collapsed in and most of the walls were buckling threateningly.

  By now we stood in front of the Ritborn house, where the older man lived by himself. An unopened package sat beside his door. It had water stains on it, appearing as if it had been there for days.

  “Come around back and see,” Allen beckoned.

  I followed him into the backyard. Considering the parcel left on the porch, I assumed that Owen wasn't home anyway. “How did you manage to get Owen to help you? He didn't yell at you?”

  Circling a log at the edge of the woods, Allen stopped. “Oh, Owen's no bother,” he said. He kicked at the log, then sat down on it, twisting around so he was facing the trees. He pointed into the woods. “Observe.”

  Looking where he indicated, I gasped. The small shack had been restored to be an attractive, livable house. The roof had been reconstructed with new shingles, siding now covered the walls, and the windows even had shutters around them.

  “Wow! Owen did that? Why? When?”

  “I did that,” he said, sounding slightly offended.

  “Nice. You're good with your hands, huh?”

  His lips creased into a small grin. “Would you like to come in?”

  Okay, this was where I had to stop. As nice as Allen seemed, I grew wary. A college student was inviting me into his house when I knew him only for days. I'd heard all kinds of horror stories that started this way. I wasn't stupid.

  “Maybe some other time...” I stuttered.

  “Oh, oh, I'm sorry. That's so forward of me. Please, accept my apologies.”

  I nodded, once again puzzled by the infrequent but noticeable oddities of his speech. He mostly sounded like us, but occasionally he'd come out with a word or phrase that made it sound as if he had learned to speak English by reading century-old prose. Of course, it was very possible that he had.

  “Will you at least sit here with me some more? I'd love to get better acquainted with you.”

  “Just a bit. I have to get home soon.” With some misgiving, I sat down beside him on the log, placing my clarinet and backpack at our feet.

  “So,” he began, picking some moss off the log.

  “So?” I echoed him, not sure what to say next.

  But my phone went off, and I welcomed the interruption. Daniel had texted me, inviting me over to my uncle’s house later. My brother was home again for the weekend, and he wanted to see Uncle Jonas for some pressing reason.

  Jonas was actually Grandpa Brian's uncle. We all loved him. He had been a physics professor at Cornell, and stories of his travels had always kept me in awe. I never passed up the opportunity to visit him. Pressing the “record” button, I uttered, “I'll see you there” and placed my phone back in my pocket. I probably shouldn't have bothered to reply. Daniel never checked his messages.

  Allen had been regarding me closely during the phone exchange. He gestured toward my clarinet case. “What a nice horn you play.”

  “Oh, that's a clarinet.” Didn't they have clarinets in Hungary? I guess it had a different name in Hungarian.

  “You excel at it. Your playing was lovely.”

  “Thanks.”

  Then I paused. He had not been present for my rehearsal. Maybe he was listening outside the door? Perhaps I was so loud that he could hear me above the other instruments, or maybe he had heard my solo...?

  Why was I even staying here with this stranger who was becoming more and more inscrutable with every passing moment?

  I stood up. “I need to go home,” I stammered.

  With a pained expression, he rose. “Oh, so soon? There's so much to say to you, Corinne.”

  How long had I known this man? Did he really have that much to discuss with me? I didn't know whether to be flattered or leery at his words, but my nervousness got the better of me. “My family's waiting for me. I really have to go.” As I walked off, I could feel those blue
eyes on me again, searching for something...

  “I'll take you home.”

  Now he was beginning to scare me. “No, no. You're already home. No sense in going out of your way.”

  “It's no problem.” Yet he could obviously see that I meant what I said, and, softening, he retreated a few steps into the woods. “Okay, I understand. I don't want you to think I'm a danger to you. I'll see you soon. Good-bye.”

  “Bye,” I called over my shoulder, and hastened my step.

  THE JUNE AIR WAS WARM and inviting, and going inside my house only made me yearn for the outdoors again. Mom had all the windows open, and the early summer beckoned to me. After dashing off my homework, I strolled around the yard as I often did, observing the flowers, making sure the bird feeder was full, and taking in nature in general.

  Lately, Mom had been fighting a particularly busy vole in her flower garden. Every so often she would come out to find the roots of her plants eaten away and the plant crowns lying on the ground half-devoured. Today, the infernal rodent had gotten to one of her bleeding heart plants.

  Sadly, I picked up what amounted to little more than a pile of leaves and stems that used to be the bleeding heart. The flowers had been so beautiful the year before! Although it seemed pointless, I dug a new hole and stuck the remnant of the plant back in, imagining its long sprays of flowers and hoping it might survive.

  As I did, a crow alighted in a tree over me and cawed a few times. Ignoring it, I continued to pat down the soil until the bird began to make a real racket.

  “What's going on out there?” Mom called from the kitchen. She opened the door and came out, eyeing the animal in amusement. “Oh, you made a new friend,” she smiled.

  The bird squawked and flew off as Mom approached me. On seeing what I was up to, she pointed out, “You can't replant that. It has no roots.”