Mary Anne and the Secret in the Attic (9780545690621)

by Martin, Ann M.

  “Sorry.” I heard David Michael’s little voice.

  “Okay,” said Kristy. “Why don’t you and Emily Michelle go and color in the den? I’ll be there in a minute.” I heard her sigh. “Sorry, Mary Anne. It’s just one of those nights, I guess. Now, what were we talking about?”

  “It’s not important,” I said. I could see that Kristy was too busy to be bothered. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

  “Sure,” she said, too distracted to notice that I was upset. “Don’t forget we’re supposed to go to the mall in the afternoon, okay? I’ll call you in the morning.”

  “Okay,” I said. “See you.” I hung up and sank down on the couch. Now what? I wondered if I should just get a head start on my homework for next week, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate. I couldn’t stop wondering about family pictures and letters and stuff. Didn’t we have any? I had foggy memories of looking at old pictures when I was younger, but I was sure I hadn’t seen any recently. It was hard to believe that Dad would have destroyed them or something.

  Then I thought of what Kristy had said about where her family kept that kind of stuff. “In the attic,” she said. Maybe, just maybe, if we had some of those things, they’d be in our attic. I thought back to when Dad and I had moved in with Sharon and Dawn. We’d worked all day, carrying boxes out of our old house and into the truck, then out of the truck and into Dawn’s house. I’d been in charge of the kitchen stuff and the things from my room, and Dad had taken care of a lot of the other things.

  Suddenly, I remembered something. I remembered Sharon looking at a pile of boxes that were stacked on the living room floor. “Where do these go, Richard?” she’d asked my dad. He’d barely looked at them.

  “I’ll take care of those,” he said. He didn’t even open them to see what was inside. Instead, he took them upstairs to the attic.

  At the time, I hadn’t stopped to wonder about what might be in those boxes. But now, all of a sudden, I was dying to know. Maybe we did have some family pictures! Maybe I could learn something about myself if I found them.

  I grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen drawer and charged up the stairs. When I reached the door that leads to the attic, I stopped short. I realized that I’d never been in the attic before. And the thing is, this house can be kind of spooky. It has narrow hallways and low ceilings (people were shorter two hundred years ago when this house was built), and creaky floors. Not to mention the secret passage. When I first moved into Dawn’s house, I would get scared every time I heard a squeak or a creak. Then my dad explained that a house this old is always making little noises, and soon I got used to them. But it was one thing to become familiar with the main part of the house, and another thing entirely to think about exploring the attic for the first time. All alone.

  I only paused for a second, though. I was too excited about what might be in those boxes. I pushed the door open and was greeted by a musty, stale smell. And darkness. But I could make out a steep, narrow flight of stairs. I shone my flashlight all over, looking for a light switch. Guess where it was? At the top of the stairs! I started to climb, shining the flashlight on each stair before I stepped on it. The flashlight’s beam was weak, but was I glad to have it. Finally I got to the top and turned on the light.

  “Oh, no!” I said out loud. I was surrounded by boxes. Big boxes, little boxes, battered boxes, and boxes that were coming apart at the seams. How was I ever going to find the boxes I was looking for? I pulled one of them off a pile. “Linens” it said on top, in Sharon’s handwriting. I knew better than to believe that. Sharon’s so disorganized. I peeked into the box, and sure enough, instead of sheets and towels, I found Dawn’s old stuffed animals inside.

  I skipped over the next five boxes I found, since they all had Sharon’s handwriting on them. Then, behind an old broken table, I found a box with my dad’s handwriting on it. “Miscellaneous,” it said on top. I pulled it into the light and opened it up. Right on top, I saw an old photo album. “Aha!” I said.

  I sat down right there with the album on my lap and started to look through it. The first pictures were from my parents’ wedding. The one I liked best was an informal shot of the two of them walking toward the camera. My mom looks really happy, and my dad has this little smile on his face — he looks like someone with a wonderful secret.

  The pictures seemed familiar, and I realized I’d seen them before. I kept leafing through that book, and then picked up another. Baby pictures! There I was, sitting in my dad’s lap, smiling and wearing a little bonnet. I’ve seen baby pictures of myself before, but I’d never seen these particular ones. I looked cute, but the pictures got kind of boring after I’d seen two or three.

  Then I turned a page and saw some pictures that really confused me. In them, I was still really, really young. I was sitting on a porch I didn’t recognize, with an older couple I also didn’t recognize. I was sure it was me, since I could see the little “Mary Anne” necklace that I always wore around my neck. But who were those people? And where was that porch? There were other pictures, too: me and the two people sitting at a table, me and the two people under a tree. My hair was longer in some of the pictures, and my clothing was sometimes wintery and sometimes summery. Whoever those people were, I’d spent quite a lot of time with them. I looked closer at their faces. I even shone the flashlight on the pictures, but I couldn’t figure out who they were.

  “Mary Anne!”

  Oh, my lord. My father was calling me from downstairs. He and Sharon had come home while I was still in the attic! I shoved the album back into the box, tiptoed down the attic stairs, and slipped into my room. My heart was pounding a mile a minute. “I’m in my room!” I yelled, as soon as I could catch my breath. “I went to bed early. See you in the morning, okay?”

  I lay awake for a long time that night, thinking about the pictures I’d found. Instead of finding out more about myself, I’d uncovered another mystery. I felt more confused than ever about my past.

  Stacey and Mallory were baby-sitting for Mallory’s seven younger brothers and sisters that Saturday. And, because of Heritage Day, the Pike household was even more of a zoo than it usually is. Every kid had a project to do; every kid thought his project was the best; every kid needed help with his project.

  “It’s on days like these that I’m really, really glad my parents insist on two sitters for my family,” said Mallory to Stacey. “There is just no way I could handle this on my own.”

  Stacey rolled her eyes. “No way,” she agreed.

  Margo was standing nearby on a low bench, practicing her lines for the skit her class was putting on. She’s only seven, so she was having a little trouble with some of the words she was supposed to memorize. “My name is Felicity Jane Smith,” she said, “and I am one of the original settlers of Stoneybrook. My father fled to this country to escape religious pros — pres — pers —”

  “Persecution,” said Mallory.

  “Thanks,” replied Margo. “Persecution.”

  “I don’t know why they put big words like that in a skit for second-graders,” Mallory said under her breath to Stacey.

  Stacey shook her head. “Seems silly to me, too,” she answered. “But Margo’s having fun anyway, so I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “Speaking of having fun, have you heard Claire sing her songs?” asked Mallory. “I think she’s in the rec room, with Nicky. Come on, let’s see.”

  Claire was in the rec room. She was dressed in high heels, a feather boa, and her favorite red bathing suit. “Hi, Stacey!” she said. “I’m a pilgrim!”

  “You’re the cutest pilgrim I’ve ever seen,” said Stacey. “Let’s hear the songs your class is going to sing for Heritage Day.” Claire’s in kindergarten, and she just loves school.

  Claire didn’t need any prodding. She started right in with her song: “Oh, Susanna, don’t you cry for me,” she sang, “for I come from Anadama with a Band-Aid on my knee.”

  Stacey stifled a laugh. “That’s g
reat, Claire,” she said. “What other songs are you singing?”

  “Lots!” said Claire. “But I can’t remember them all, so I’m just practicing this one for now.”

  “How about practicing somewhere else?” a voice said from the corner of the room. “I’m trying to get some work done here.”

  It was Nicky. He’s eight years old and likes to boss his little sisters around.

  “What are you working on, Nicky?” asked Stacey.

  Nicky mumbled an answer.

  “He’s working on a family tree,” said Mal. “Dad gave him all these old family papers and newspaper clippings and stuff, and he’s trying to put the tree together. It isn’t easy, since the Pikes have always had big families. Our great-grandfather had ten brothers and sisters!”

  “Yeah,” said Nicky. “And they all had names that started with ‘P’. Peter Pike and Polly Pike and Prudence Pike and Paul Pike. I don’t know how they thought up all those ‘P’ names.”

  “What about Patience and Patricia and Patrick and Percival?” asked Vanessa, who had come into the room behind Stacey and Mallory. “I can think of plenty of ‘P’ names.”

  “What’s your project going to be, Vanessa?” asked Stacey.

  Vanessa stood up straight and looked proud. “My class is going to recite a poem about the history of Stoneybrook,” she said. “And I’m writing it!”

  “Wow!” said Stacey. Vanessa’s only nine, but she’s wanted to be a poet for several years now. She can go for days at a time speaking only in rhyme. Stacey knew that if anyone could write a poem about a town, it was Vanessa.

  “Want to hear the beginning?” asked Vanessa. She didn’t wait for an answer. Plunging right in, she began, “In seventeen-hundred-and-ninety-one, Stoneybrook had just begun. The town was tiny but the people were strong — their spirit is still going strong!”

  “Very nice, Vanessa,” said Mallory, trying to cut her off before she gathered steam and recited the whole poem. “We can’t wait to hear your class perform it.”

  “Speak for yourself!” said Byron, who had come into the room with Adam and Jordan trailing behind him. “That poem’s going to be about six weeks long!” Adam’s ten. So is Byron. So is Jordan. They’re triplets. They’re also wise guys, always ready with a snappy remark. The three of them were wearing hats that day, with little cards stuck in the brims. The cards said, “Press.”

  “We’re ace reporters for the Stoneybrook Historical News,” explained Byron. “And we’re on to some hot stories.”

  “Yeah,” said Jordan. “Like, ‘First Horseless Carriage Comes to Town,’ and ‘Moving Pictures to Debut.’ We’re writing this newspaper with all the news from Stoneybrook’s past.”

  “Except we’re stuck,” said Adam. “We’ve done as much research as we can in the school library, but we need more stories. Can you guys help us?”

  “I bet you could find some great ideas at the public library,” said Stacey. “I’ve found great stuff there before. And Claudia’s mom could help you since she works there.”

  “All right!” said Adam. “Can we go today?”

  Stacey and Mallory exchanged a look. “I could take them,” said Stacey, “if you could stay here with the others.”

  “Deal,” said Mallory.

  As Stacey and the triplets left the house, they heard Claire working on another song: “I’ve been working on the railroad,” she sang, “all the ding-dong day!” And Vanessa followed them out, spouting rhymes until Jordan told her to can it.

  Stacey had ridden her bike to the Pikes’, so the triplets got theirs out, too, and the four of them rode to the library. The reference room was pretty empty, since it was a nice day, and Mrs. Kishi had plenty of time to help them find what they were looking for.

  “Here’s the microfilm machine,” she said. “You can look through old issues of the newspaper and check for important news.” Adam got to work. “And over here are the town records, where the births and deaths are recorded.” Jordan started leafing through one of the oversized books. “And over here,” said Mrs. Kishi, “are some books about the history of Stoneybrook.” She pulled one off the shelf. “This one may interest you,” she said to Byron. “It was put together by the historical society, and it tells all the Stoneybrook legends that have been passed down through the generations.” Byron’s head was buried in the book before Mrs. Kishi even finished speaking.

  “Thanks,” said Stacey. “That’s a great help.”

  Stacey picked up one of the other Stoneybrook history books and started to browse through it. But before she’d gotten through the introduction, which was kind of wordy, she heard Byron give a yelp.

  “Wow!” he said. “Listen to this. There was this guy named James Hickman, who was the richest man in town. He had a mansion and everything.” He read a little further. “He was supposed to be really mean, too — and stingy. He lived all alone in a big old mansion.”

  This was starting to sound familiar to Stacey. “What did you say his name was?” she asked.

  “James Hickman,” said Byron. “But everybody called him Old Hickory.”

  Old Hickory! Stacey felt a shiver run down her spine. The BSC once had a midnight adventure at Old Hickory’s grave.

  “His grave is supposed to be haunted!” said Byron. By this time, Adam and Jordan were reading over his shoulder. “He died in his mansion one day — some people say he died of meanness. He was so stingy he didn’t want to spend money even after he was dead, so he had left instructions that he didn’t want a big funeral or a headstone or anything. He just wanted to be stuck in the ground.”

  “Yeah?” asked Jordan. “Then what?”

  “Then this nephew of his inherited all his money, and he felt guilty because there was no marker on his uncle’s grave. So he put up this gigantic headstone, and they say that the ghost of Old Hickory was furious, so it haunts the grave!”

  “Wow!” said Adam and Jordan together. “Cool.”

  “The cemetery is nearby,” said Byron. “Can we go check it out?”

  “Sure,” said Stacey. They hopped on their bikes again, and soon they were exploring the cemetery.

  “This is neat,” said Adam.

  Stacey raised her eyebrows. “Creepy is more like it,” she said.

  The triplets started to look closely at the tombstones. “People sure died a lot younger in the old days,” said Adam. “Look at this guy. He was only nineteen, and his wife was seventeen.”

  “Ooh, listen to this,” said Byron, reading an inscription. “ ‘How many hopes lie buried here.’ That’s for a little girl who died when she was only three. There’s a picture of a lamb on it.”

  “Here’s another one,” said Jordan. “ ‘Not lost but gone before.’ That’s kind of poetic. Vanessa would like it.”

  Stacey began to feel unnerved. The cemetery was beautiful and peaceful, but it felt strange to be walking over people’s graves. Just seeing their names on the stones — Sarah, Otis, Philura, Emeline — made them seem so real to her. She hurried the triplets along to Old Hickory’s grave, which they thought was “really awesome.” Then she took them home.

  * * *

  When I read Stacey’s entry in the club notebook, I got an idea. Maybe if I went there I could find my mother’s grave (which my father had never taken me to), or the graves of her ancestors. I’d never been terribly interested in finding out more about my “personal history,” but now I was awfully curious.

  It took me over a week to find the courage to go to the cemetery. I wasn’t scared, exactly. Or maybe I was scared, but I couldn’t tell you what I was scared of. I guess it was just that the idea of opening up my past seemed kind of overwhelming. There were times during that week when I could convince myself I was better off not knowing anything about my past, but my curiosity won out in the end.

  I headed for the cemetery on a Tuesday afternoon. I hadn’t told anyone I was going, not even Dawn or Kristy. This was something I had to do alone. It was a bright, sunny day, and as I b
iked to the cemetery I felt optimistic and brave. “What’s the big deal?” I said out loud. “It’s just a cemetery.”

  But when I paused at the big wrought-iron gate at the entrance to the cemetery, my palms started to sweat. My heart began to beat fast, and my breath was coming in funny little gasps. I decided to walk my bike around, just to give myself time to calm down. As I walked, I looked through the fence at the cemetery. It didn’t look so scary in the daytime.

  I thought about the adventure the BSC had had there, one Halloween. The cemetery had sure looked different at midnight on the scariest night of the year! These girls from school had tried to scare me into thinking that a necklace I had been wearing was a bad-luck charm. They thought they were tricking us into a terrifying night at Old Hickory’s grave, but we scared them out of their wits! Still, it had been a nerve-racking night. I don’t think I’ve been back to the cemetery since then.

  By the time I’d walked all the way around the cemetery to the front gates I was ready to go in. I took a deep breath and held it — and then let it out with a giggle. I was thinking about when Mallory had told us that she and her brothers and sisters believe you should always hold your breath when you’re near a graveyard. It’s so the spirits won’t bother you or something. Well, there was no way I could hold my breath the whole time I was in the cemetery, so I decided to forget about that old superstition.

  I started to walk along the main path through the cemetery. It was kind of a pretty place, if you could forget about all the dead people. (“People are dying to get into cemeteries!” is one of Watson Brewer’s favorite jokes.) Anyway, beautiful big trees were shading the walk, and flowers had been planted near many of the headstones. I had thought the cemetery would be still and quiet, but instead birds were singing happily. I heard the sound of a lawnmower, too, and music coming from somebody’s house nearby.

  I saw some impressive monuments, like the one that marked Old Hickory’s grave, and older, worn stones that must have been standing for a hundred years or more. I bent closer to look at some of the older ones. The writing was faded and hard to read, but the inscriptions were interesting. “There is rest for the weary,” said one. “Sweet is the memory of the dead,” said another.