by Elly Swartz
“It’s not for me to say.” She takes my six and hands me three caramel candies. Then she rearranges her cards and says, “Gin.”
Over the next hour, I win one game off Mabel and consider it a victory, even though she wins seven and tells me absolutely nothing about Gram.
Afterward, I walk back to see if Gram is awake. It takes me a quick minute to process her newly applied coral lipstick. I hug her and we talk about Mabel and my card strategy, which is nothing but luck disguised as a plan.
Then there’s a knock on the door. It’s Mr. Caldwell. In a suit. And a red-and-navy-blue-striped tie.
He’s smiling.
“Sid, this is my granddaughter, Frankie.”
Sid? When did he stop being Mr. Caldwell?
He shakes my hand. He’s a solid six feet tall with absolutely no hair. “So nice to meet you,” he says. “Your gram’s told me so much about you.”
“Really?” She’s told me nothing about you.
“Sid and I have been spending a lot of time together,” Gram says.
Mr. Caldwell winks at Gram.
This is it. Gram’s secret. She hasn’t been working long hours on the paper and isn’t sick with some rare disease, she’s just been here with Sid.
Most of me is happy. But there’s a small speck of me that wonders if I just lost a piece of my gram to a (nice) old bald man.
“Your gram is quite a card player,” Sid says through a gooey grin.
“Not as good as me,” Mabel says as she walks into the room.
“That’s because I don’t cheat,” Gram says.
“Tell yourself whatever you want, Bea. But I’m the one with the winning record.” Mabel pops another caramel candy into her mouth, and they all laugh.
I look at Gram. She’s happy. Like birthday-morning kind of happy.
We sit like this for a while, and then Gram and I make our way back to the B&B. On the way home, we talk about Sid/Mr. Caldwell. Gram’s eyes smile when she tells me that he likes horror movies, green tomatoes, pastrami, and reading the last page of a book first. Then she says she needs to pick up a few things at the yard sale on Spaulding Lane. For Sid.
Gram’s old stuff I can defend. But being with Gram when she buys someone else’s old stuff somehow feels like I’m betraying Dad.
I wait in the car.
When I roll over, my clock’s flashing 9:00 a.m. I lay in bed for half a second until I realize that I’m late for school, I missed my pre-algebra quiz, and Lucy’s peed on my floor. I whip the covers off, toss on my pink fuzzy slippers, and run downstairs, trying hard not to knock over Mr. Hernandez on the landing.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” I demand as I burst into the kitchen, where Dad’s cleaning up breakfast.
“First, good morning. Second, you wake you. Third, you have a snow day.”
I run to the window. A solid twelve inches of fresh snow coats the lawn. A zip of happiness sprints through my body. I hug Dad, steal a piece of bacon, and run back upstairs. I sink just a bit when I remember the puddle on my floor. I’m about to yell at Lucy when I see her hiding behind my nightstand with her head hanging low and her tail tucked between her legs.
“Okay. You’re too cute to be mad at, but you’ve got to figure out a way to wake me when you need to pee. Okay?” She tips her head to the right. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
After I clean my carpet, Dad hands me more bacon and a heaping plate of scrambled eggs. “What’s in these? They’re amazing,” I say, scooping up a big forkful of eggs.
“Ah. Used some of the truffle salt Gram bought last month.”
“Do you know that she’s dating Mr. Caldwell?”
Dad nods. “She told me the first time he took her to Armin’s Villa for dinner. I hadn’t seen her that happy since Mom.”
Was alive floats unsaid.
I finish my eggs and head to the sink. “You want me to wash or dry?”
“The dishes are all done. You’re off the hook today. A true snow day.”
Confusion sets in. I look around. Usually the kitchen isn’t clean from breakfast until closer to lunch. I slept late but not that late.
“Only the Hernandez family and Mendelsons are still here.”
“Where’s everyone else?”
“The Florences canceled for work, the Herraras had a family emergency, and the Lings’ car broke down. I don’t remember why the others canceled.”
The word ghost sticks in my throat. This has never happened before. Never. The one person who would know what to say is Gram and she’s with Sid. “I, um, I’m sorry.”
Stupid thing to say.
I want to take it back. But, I can’t.
“It’s okay, Francine. No worries.” He winks at me the way he did after he’d check under my bed when I was five and promise me that Ned, the one-eyed monster who I believed lived there, had packed up and moved away.
“This happens. Business is cyclic.”
That’s what he said to Reggie, but I don’t believe him. The empty rooms outnumber the ones with guests. Dad’s voice says no worries, but the vacant B&B screams the opposite.
He interrupts my rising worry meter. “I’m heading to the store to get more sand for the driveway, and then I told Annie and Maisy I’d stop by with the snow blower and clear their driveways.”
“Are we still hiking later today?” I ask. It’s our day.
“Oh, sweetie, with all the snow, I still have so much to do around here. Shovel the front. Shovel the back. Put down the sand. Clear the sidewalk so the B&B is safe for all of our guests.”
In the past, once we put “hiking” on the calendar, it was there for good. No canceling. Snow or no snow. I stuff my hint of disappointment behind my big toe. “I get it. People are counting on us,” I say.
“Exactly.” He nods, then kisses my head and leaves. More determined than ever, I text Naomi. Want to see if she can come early since I don’t have school, Dad’s out, and apparently, we’re not hiking.
She replies immediately. She can be here in thirty minutes. She has a truck and is already dug out of her driveway.
I look down and see that I’m still wearing my fuzzy slippers, so I run back to my room to make myself look like someone Possible #3 could love. I start by trying to tame the beast that is my hair and finish by putting shoes on my feet. Nice, no-holes-in-them shoes. Actually green sneakers but, still, no holes.
Thirty minutes later, the front door creaks open and standing there is Naomi.
A much older version of the woman in her profile picture. I wonder if Dad’s the only one with a recent photograph of himself.
“Hi,” she says. “I’m looking for Brad.” She smiles.
Nice teeth. That’s positive.
“He actually had to run out. At the last minute.”
She looks disappointed, and I feel kind of bad. I want to tell her it’s for everyone’s benefit that she meets me first. But it feels too complicated to explain.
“I’m Frankie. Brad’s daughter.”
She gives me a warm smile. That’s ten points in her favor. I bring over the leftover cranberry muffins from this morning. “He made these. You should try one. He’s a really good baker. And cook.”
She takes a bite, and I can tell by her soft groan that she agrees.
“Do you bake, too?”
She’s interested in me. That’s another plus ten.
“Yep. I’m on cookie detail half the time,” I say, pointing to the check-in platter. “The other times my gram makes them.”
“What else do you like to do?” she asks, reaching for another muffin. I notice a long scar down the side of her arm.
“Draw.” And recently, I’ve taken up spying.
“Charcoal? Pencil?” she wants to know.
“I love charcoal.” Even though I’ve already eaten enough bacon to fill a grown man’s belly, I grab a muffin. They smell too good to ignore.
“I used to teach art at the community college.”
“Cool. Why did you
stop?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Then she points to the long red line running down her arm. “Had to deal with some medical stuff.”
I wonder if she was in a car accident on a rainy night.
“Once they put Humpty Dumpty back together again, I just felt like exploring other things.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“Well, I still draw. Just don’t teach it. I took up hiking in the summer and snow shoeing in the winter. I found I love everything about the outdoors.”
“Me too. I like to hike up Gale Mountain to Beaver Creek and draw sitting on the big boulder next to the row of trees. It’s one of my favorite spots.”
“I’ll have to explore that route some time.” She glances at her watch.
I don’t know what to do. I mean I like her. I do. But the way I like Mabel.
“Do you think your dad will be back soon?”
I’m about to say no when the door opens.
It’s Dad.
Naomi stands and walks over to Dad.
Uh-oh.
My brain’s screaming Code Red–Hot Chili Peppers! Code Red–Hot Chili Peppers!
“Hi, I’m Naomi.” I notice her scar again. I think about the scar on my chin from the time I fell on the driveway—facedown—after an ice storm. I wonder if Mom would have had a scar.
Dad smiles politely. “You look familiar,” he says.
“You too. I thought so when I first saw your picture.”
I hold my breath, calculating just how much trouble I’m in. This could be the moment Dad kills me. I look down so I can at least remember the shirt I’m wearing when I die. It’s orange and yellow and says Love, Peace and Art in a circle on the front. I kind of wish I had on the green one with the horseshoe on the back.
“Do you spend time at Mills? My mother-in-law plays cards there,” Dad asks as he moves toward the desk.
My whole body cringes. The good news is the photo comment didn’t process in his brain. The bad news is he thinks Naomi hangs out with Gram at the senior center.
She tilts her head in that I’m-now-totally-confused way.
I step forward. Confession at the ready.
Then I have an idea.
“Dad, Mr. Barker called. He said he’s trying to open up the pharmacy and could use a hand shoveling. Asked if you’d come by.”
Dad sighs and looks over at the boots he just took off.
“I can put the sand down in the front and back walkways of the B&B if you want to go and help Mr. Barker,” I say.
“That’s my girl.” He looks over at Naomi and says, “Nice meeting you.”
Before she can do anything but smile, he slides on his boots and heads out the door.
Naomi turns to me. “Your dad seems like a good man.”
“He is,” I say.
“Should I wait?” she asks.
I shake my head as I walk her to the door. “This kind of thing could take a while.” As she leaves, I wonder if we’ll hear back from Naomi. Not sure what to think of what just happened, but I’m thankful my secret’s safe for one more day.
This snow day feels lucky. I find the last puzzle pieces we need to complete the mama beagle. Chocolate brown and black with a white belly and paws. Then I spread sand on the walkways, as promised, run upstairs, and take Winston out of his cage. He trolls up my arm and over my shoulders as I tell him about Naomi and ask him what he thinks is going to happen when Dad shows up at the pharmacy with his shovel. We both agree Mr. Barker will likely just be happy for the help. It’s kind of what people do around here. Maybe that’s why no one leaves.
Out the window, Lucy, Winston, and I stare at our footprintless backyard. The B&B snow globe looks just like it does out my window. I call Elliot. In ten minutes, he’s at my door in full snow gear, and we head outside. Lucy dives into the snow, nose first, looking for hidden anything, while Elliot and I make snow angels and our version of Frosty. This guy’s got beet eyes, a parsnip nose, and cucumber slices for a mouth. Once our bodies are numb, we come inside for hot cocoa with cinnamon, marshmallows, and whipped cream.
“Next Thursday’s the day,” he says with a whipped cream mustache.
“Shh.” I look around to make sure no one’s around. “I don’t live alone, you know.”
He slurps the rest of his cocoa. “Got it.” He slides closer and in a very quiet voice says, “I confirmed with my dad the date and time of the meeting. So we should be clear to go.”
I pick the marshmallows from the bottom of my mug.
He guzzles the last of his cocoa and grabs his coat. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“To find Mickey Hogan.”
“Dead Mickey Hogan?”
“Exactly.”
“Wait, I thought you thought he was dead and his ghost was flying around the B&B?” I ask, trailing behind Elliot through the snow.
“I do.”
“So where are we going?”
“To his house.”
I stop walking.
“I hate to ask the obvious, but why are we going to the house of a person who’s dead and gone?”
“To find out what really happened?”
“Is this our trial break-in?” I ask.
He stops. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“Did you think Dead Mickey was going to just let us in?”
He laughs and starts walking again. In five minutes, we’re standing in front of a ranch-style brick house with white shutters. I can see the tops of two gnome statues sticking out of the snow, red cap next to green cap. They remind me of the one in Gram’s room. I wonder if Mickey has lots of candles and tins and hangers. I start to brush the snow off green cap gnome to see what’s under his cap, when I hear a creaking sound.
I slowly turn my head toward the noise as my brain frantically searches for the excuse I’m going to use for being at Dead Mickey’s house. We were just visiting. My aunt lives in the neighborhood. I’m selling Girl Scout cookies. Then I see what’s making the noise.
Elliot’s opening the mailbox.
Creak. Creak. Creak.
I walk over and throw snow on his head. “You scared me!”
His eyebrows go scrunchy. “What are you talking about?”
“I heard the noise and thought someone was coming.”
“Who cares if someone is coming? We’re not doing anything wrong. We’re just standing on the lawn. Anyway, take a look at this.” He points to the inside of the mailbox. “It’s packed.” Then he pulls out a ton of mail.
I shove his hand back into the mailbox and look around. “Someone could see you. And I’m pretty sure it’s a federal offense to take another person’s mail.”
“I’m not taking it. I’m just looking at it.”
“Either way. Put it back.”
“There’s a lot in here. Look. Electric bill. Gas bill. Phone bill. All the envelopes have a big red stamp that says OVERDUE. A brochure to Aruba. Another one to Puerto Rico. And loads of magazines. Real Estate Madness. Cooking Together. Guns, Bows, and Other Toys.”
“Guns? And bows?”
Elliot puts the mail and magazines back into the mailbox. “Let’s go,” he says, walking toward the front door.
“I don’t think this is such a good idea,” I say as I follow him.
The front door is locked.
The side door is locked.
The back door is locked.
This is a sign. A go-home-right-now sign. “Okay, we tried, but this is a no go. Let’s head back. I’m sure my dad could use some help clearing the rest of the snow.” I tug on Elliot’s coat, but he spins around and takes a step back.
“I bet it’s here somewhere,” he says, rubbing his hairless chin.
“What is?” I look around and see nothing but a potentially dead guy’s abandoned house and lots of snow.
He walks over to a rock and lifts it up. “Look what I’ve got.”
In his hand is a key.
I’m standing in the
middle of Dead Mickey’s kitchen. It’s cold and smells like nothing. No cookies. No turkey dinner. No bacon. No muffins. Just nothing. It reminds me of my old house after Mom died. Not right after. Those first few days it was filled with gross food from lots of people I didn’t know. Weeks after that, there was a whole lot of nothing but weepy sadness. And weepy sadness doesn’t smell like anything.
“Hello!” Elliot shouts.
“Really? You think you can just break into someone’s house and yell, ‘Hello’? And when Dead Guy comes into the room with a shotgun, are you going to ask him about his day?”
“I would simply say that we knocked, that we’re doing a survey on ghost sightings in the neighborhood, and that the door was open.”
“And you think that would convince him not to shoot us?” I rub my arms to stop the chill from spreading through my body. It’s not working. “What are we looking for anyway?”
Elliot walks into the den. “Clues. If Mickey’s our ghost, maybe we can find something here to confirm it.”
I walk into the kitchen. On the refrigerator is a teeth-cleaning reminder, a photo of a big, fat cat, and a calendar. One date three months ago is circled in black marker. I stare at the date, wondering if I’m supposed to know if it’s a clue.
I decide I’m not and move on to the den.
Neither the worn, overstuffed brown recliner in the corner, the leather boots by the door, nor the stink of stale cigar smoke tell me anything. All I see are dead stuffed heads. Moose head. Deer head. Rabbit head. Squirrel heads—looks like a whole family.
Elliot moves down the hall into the bedroom. On the way, I try not to bump into the deer head staring at me with plastic eyes. I hear a loud bang coming from the backyard, and my neck stiffens. “We should go,” I whisper.
“Soon.” He peeks into the only room with a bed. “Look, it hasn’t been slept in.”
“Or maybe he makes his bed every morning.” Like Mom used to do. I don’t really remember, but Gram always tells me I don’t have Mom’s neat gene and then points to my unmade bed. She says I’m more like her.
He spins around to face me.
“Nope. No one’s been here for a while. The mail hasn’t been picked up. The dishes in the sink are crusty, the cigar smells old, and the boots look unworn—even though we’ve had snow.”
