Young Whit and the Shroud of Secrecy

by Phil Lollar

  Harold folded his hands, rested them on the table, and looked down at them. “I believed I needed to abide by your grandfather’s wishes.”

  Johnny nodded.

  Harold took a breath, called Mr. Warner, and asked for the check. “On the house,” the old man called back merrily. “For my Scottish friends. May the wind be at your backs,” he declared with a wave of his hand.

  “I need to grab my briefcase at the office before we head home,” Harold said as they rose from the table, then added pointedly, “and the book you were snooping through, too.”

  Chapter Eight

  The walk back to the university campus was unexpectedly pleasant. Harold even had a bounce in his step, as if Mr. Warner’s giddiness had rubbed off on him.

  Time for refraction. “Dad, you do remember that it’s Halloween tonight.”

  “All Hallows’ Eve, you mean,” Harold corrected.

  “Yeah. And you said I could go to Emmy’s party.”

  “I remember, though I thought maybe now you’d want to stay home instead—to go through the journal.”

  “Don’t you think we should keep doing normal stuff, though? So people won’t get suspicious?”

  “Yes,” Harold mused. “Just in case, I suppose we should go on with business as usual.”

  “I was thinking . . . maybe I should go trick-or-treating with the other kids, so as not to draw attention to myself. I mean . . . I’d probably be the only kid in town not going.” Johnny acted as nonchalant as possible.

  “You don’t think Fiona will get suspicious about that?”

  Tactical mistake! thought Johnny. I just blew it! But whether it was because chocolate sodas were Harold’s weakness, or more likely because he was going to get to see the journal, he looked at Johnny and said, “All right, you can go with your friends. But no mischief. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir!” Johnny instantly agreed, stifling the smile trying desperately to break over his face. Nonchalant. Stay nonchalant, he thought.

  His father’s expression resumed its usual stern and unbending manner. “And don’t think you pulled one over on me, young man. I know how your mind works.” He paused, then with a twinkle in his eye added, “Because it’s a lot like mine.”

  At that, Johnny couldn’t hold the smile back any longer. It beamed on his face.

  “Not a bad tactic, that,” his father added, sporting a bit of a smile himself.

  A few minutes later, father and son entered Harold’s office. Harold grabbed a folder on his desk containing student reports he had to grade later, the research book, and a few other things and stuffed them into his briefcase. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  The rotary phone on Harold’s desk rang loudly. He grimaced but answered. “Harold Whittaker,” he said. A pause. “Oh, yes, hello.” He cupped his hand over the receiver. “I’ll be just a minute, John. Wait out in the hall.”

  “Yes, sir.” Harold resumed his conversation, and Johnny walked out and gently closed the door behind him.

  A voice startled him. “And what do we have here—Eindringling? A trespasser?”

  Johnny turned to see Professor Mangle walking toward him. “Oh! No, sir. I was just here seeing my dad.”

  “You’re Harold’s boy, eh? Johnny, isn’t it? I don’t know. You don’t look much like him. You sure you’re not here to steal university secrets?”

  Johnny’s heart sank. “Um . . . no . . .”

  Mangle laughed. “Ich scherze Sie. I’m only kidding! Where is your father?”

  “He’s on the phone.”

  “Don’t look so frightened, young man. I don’t bite.”

  Johnny forced a smile. “You startled me. I thought everyone would have gone home by now.”

  “This is a university. No matter how many hours a day you work, it’s never enough.”

  Johnny suddenly felt uncomfortable, though he wasn’t sure why. Mangle had helped his father get this job. They were old friends, or at least acquaintances. Still, there was something disquieting about the man.

  “Are you feeling all right, Johnny?” Mangle inquired.

  “Uh, yes, sir. Why?”

  “Your arm. It’s . . . green.”

  “Oh! That’s a compound I developed. It’s part of my costume for Halloween tonight. It’ll make me glow.”

  Mangle’s eyes brightened. “Bioluminescence? I’m impressed! The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?”

  Johnny grinned feebly, wishing his father would hurry and finish his phone call. Suddenly, for a split second, he saw something in Mangle’s eyes. It was only a flicker, but it was unmistakably there. He couldn’t attach a word to the expression or even explain what it looked like, only how it made him feel.

  Vulnerable.

  But as quickly as it came, it was gone again, replaced by cordial joviality. “You know, we don’t live that far apart. Of course, no one in Provenance lives very far from anyone else, am I right? I’m on the south side of Granville House. You should come by tonight. We have loads of treats.”

  Johnny blinked. “You live by the old Granville House?”

  “Ach, ja, ja, I’m afraid so. That eyesore ruins my view, not to mention my property value.”

  “Professor Mangle, have you seen a boy hanging around that place? About my age?”

  Mangle thought for a second. “My boys are about your age. Well, Paul is anyway. Steve would be a few years older.”

  “I met them the other day. I didn’t know you were their father.”

  “Oh? Where did you meet them?”

  Johnny hesitated. “By the river. I was working on an experiment down there.”

  Mangle sported a crooked smile. “They didn’t mention you by name either, but putting the pieces together, I assume Paul’s versengt hair and eyebrows were the result of your bioluminescent concoction?”

  Johnny blushed lightly. “Uh . . . yeah . . . Sorry about that.”

  Mangle chuckled. “Nein, not at all. The boys liked you. Do please come by our place tonight. We’ll load up your bag mit wunderbar treats, und then you can all venture out together. We’re at 236 Custer Avenue, two blocks below Granville House.”

  The door to the office opened, and Harold stepped out. “Still here, Karl?” he said.

  “Just leaving when I ran into your son,” he responded. “I’ll see you tonight then, Johnny?”

  He nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Fantastisch! Gute nacht!” he said with a nod, walking down the hallway.

  Harold and Johnny walked the opposite way. “What was that about?” Harold asked.

  “I met his kids the other day. I just told him I’d go trick-or-treating with them tonight.”

  “I see.” Harold hesitated for a few seconds, then added, “John, don’t tell anyone about the journal or the cloth, all right? The fewer people who know about them, the better.”

  “How about Fiona?”

  “Not even her,” Harold said. Then he frowned. “You haven’t told anyone else about any of this, have you?”

  “No, sir. Only you.” At least, Johnny didn’t think anyone else knew. Emmy didn’t ask where the words came from. The one unknown was the person who found McDuff when Johnny had run off to get things to patch up the dog. Whoever that was might have seen the cloth. He couldn’t be sure, and he decided not to tell his father until he was sure.

  “And whatever we learn about the journal, you won’t tell Professor Mangle about it, right?” Johnny asked. He wasn’t sure why he asked; it came out before he knew it.

  Harold nodded. “No, as I told you, Karl’s not the man for this job. I have a contact in England—a man well versed in linguistics. I think it would be wise to send the journal to him to translate.”

  Johnny came to a full stop. “You want to mail the journal overseas?”

  “It’ll be perfectly safe. I trust this man. Either we send the journal to him, or he comes here. There’s no other way to get it translated properly.”

  Joh
nny wasn’t sure what to think. What if the journal got lost? Or what if the man his father intended to send it to wasn’t as trustworthy as he thought? And—Johnny hesitated to allow the final question to enter his mind—what if his father had bigger plans than he was admitting? He seemed to be saying all the right things, but his father was skilled in convincing people to do what he wanted. Sometimes it came through clever reasoning; other times, through sheer force. Convincing Johnny to give him the journal felt like a little of both.

  Harold pushed open the exit door, and he and Johnny walked outside into the cool, overcast autumn afternoon. They reached the black Ford Victoria Model 18, opened the doors, hopped in, and drove away.

  From a distance, peering around the corner of the faculty building, Professor Karl Mangle watched as the sedan puttered down the road.

  Chapter Nine

  “John Avery! Charlotte Marie!” Fiona called. “Hurry along, you two. The children will be arriving any minute!”

  Johnny opened the door to his room as his stepsister, Charlie, raced by him and traipsed down the stairs in her Bible costume. He held back to make a more dramatic entrance, but he could hear the conversation below. Charlie decided she would be Queen Esther this year, though the costume was the same as last year when she was Ruth. “It’s not fair that Johnny gets to go trick-or-treating tonight and I don’t,” she pouted.

  Fiona adjusted Charlie’s collar. “We’ve been through this already, child. John Avery is older than you.” She paused and then added, “And obviously your father doesn’t care about how the celebration of evil will affect his son’s heart and mind.”

  Harold winced. “They’re going out for candy; that’s all,” he said. “And he promised me he wouldn’t prank anyone. It’s not that different from guising, and we still celebrate that.”

  “Yes, and dookin’ for apples, too. But guising, like we grew up doing in Scotland, has nothing to do with evil, and you know it! We pray together and sing songs and recite poems or jokes. It’s special. Here they dress up like witches and goblins and such. How do you suppose the good Lord feels about glorifying those things?”

  “Well, our children don’t dress up like that. Charlie here is a beautiful little Ruth—”

  “Queen Esther, Daddy,” she clarified.

  “Pardon me, your highness—and by the way, thank you for saving the Jewish people. And John . . . Where is John?”

  “Right here,” Johnny said, moving majestically down the “Sinai” stairs and entering the room. He wore a mop as a wig, and the mop handle was his staff. He had stuck cotton balls to his face for a beard and wore his father’s old, brown bathrobe as his tunic. In his hands were two pieces of wood, painted gray, with the words Ten Commandments painted on them.

  “You certainly do make an imposing Moses,” Fiona bragged.

  “Turn off the lights!” Johnny told Charlie. She did, and “oohs” and “ahs” filled the room as he walked around it, moving toward his father.

  “You’re glowing!” Charlie exclaimed.

  “Absolutely radiant,” Fiona agreed.

  Johnny stopped in front of Harold, his back to Fiona and Charlie. “Dad? Whadaya think?” He pulled the journal from between the commandment boards and passed it, reluctantly, to his father, who took it and slipped it into his coat.

  “Luminous,” Harold said with a nod. “Quite enlightening.”

  Johnny nodded back and said, “I’m just glad it works. I don’t know how long it’ll last, though. I’d better soak up as much light as I can.” He switched the lights back on. Neither he nor Harold looked at each other.

  Charlie moped. “Johnny’s going to get loads of treats and candy, and I’m not going to get anything.”

  “I can tell you one thing you will get if you keep that up,” said Harold sternly.

  “You can have some of my stuff, Charlie,” Johnny offered.

  “And I’ll tell you what,” Fiona added, bending down to Charlie’s eye level, “if you be very good, and join in helping me pass out the soul cakes to the kids who come to our door, I might take you horseback riding with me tomorrow.”

  That got her attention. “Did you buy a horse, Mama?”

  “No, dear. But I did meet our neighbors. The woman is very nice. And . . . she has four horses! And a couple of donkeys to boot! Her name is Eleanor, and she’s kindly offered that I—and anyone I wish to bring along with me—may ride at any time. Isn’t that grand?”

  “Very grand!” Charlie excitedly answered.

  “Can I come, too?” Johnny asked. “We haven’t gone riding together in months.”

  “No, this is only for me,” Charlie said snippily. “’Cause I can’t go trick-or-treating.”

  “Right you are, Charlotte,” Fiona agreed.

  Just then, there was a knock on the door.

  “Och, our first visitor,” Fiona said. “Would you care to do the honors, my girl?”

  Charlie ran to the door. Once out of earshot of her, Fiona whispered to Johnny, “Don’t worry, lad. I’ll take you riding next time. But only if you take a slow horse. I canna keep up with you master riders.” She tousled his mop hair, and they all followed Charlie to the door.

  Several children waited expectantly on the porch. “Trick or treat!” they yelled in unison.

  “Goodness, don’t you all look wonderful!” Fiona gushed. “A pirate, a princess, a clown, and . . . What are you, dear?”

  The little girl, no more than five, shyly answered, “A kitty.”

  “Oh, of course you are. How silly of me,” Fiona said. “Well, we don’t celebrate Halloween in our house, but fortunately we do celebrate All Hallows’ Eve, the night before All Souls’ Day, when we remember and pray for the souls of the Christian faithful who have passed away and gone to glory.”

  The kids just stared at her.

  “Oh, and we also hand out these.” At which point, Charlie handed a small, round cake to each of the children.

  “Are they cookies?” the pirate boy asked.

  “No, lad. They’re soul cakes. They do look a little like cookies, I suppose. And they’re delicious.”

  The children thanked them and wandered on to the next house.

  Johnny looked at the clock. 7:20. He needed to get going to the Mangle house so he could join up with Steve and Paul to do their own trick-or-treating.

  He grabbed his staff and a pillowcase to carry his plunder and called for McDuff. The dog lazily responded, taking his merry old time. “We’re going to have to work on your training,” Johnny scolded him. “Come on,” he huffed, walking to the door.

  He was about to open it to leave when a heavy hand knocked on the other side. He wondered if it would be Emmy. She always knocked hard. He hadn’t told her he could go out yet; for all she knew, he would just be going to her party later. If she came by to rub it in, she’d have a surprise waiting for her.

  Johnny opened the door and found out that the surprise was on him. It wasn’t Emmy on the porch, but a grown man.

  “Trick or treat?” the fellow said tentatively. He was black, dressed like a hobo, wearing a tattered old coat and threadbare hat. The gray hair exploding from under the hat was dirty and unkempt. Even his scruffy beard looked the part of the homeless bums down by the railroad tracks. Kids who dressed like hobos had to use coffee grounds. This guy looked like the real deal.

  Fiona and Harold walked up behind Johnny. “May I help you?” Fiona asked.

  “I saw you giving out food to the kids. I wondered if you might have any left for a fella down on his luck,” the man asked, hat now in hand.

  “You mean you’re a real hobo?” Johnny queried. “You’re not just trick-or-treating?”

  The man lowered his gaze. “That’s right.”

  Harold frowned. “John, you should get going.”

  Johnny noticed the look on his father’s face. “Oh! Uh, right. Uh, sorry, mister. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “No reason to be sorry, boy. You couldn’t know,” the man s
aid. Then with a curious, trilling sort of laugh, he added, “On a night like this, nothin’ seems real.”

  Johnny walked out the door and past the man. As he stepped off the porch, he heard Fiona invite the hobo inside. “I’ll make up a plate for you, Mr.—?”

  “Just call me Clarence, ma’am,” he said as the door closed behind him.

  It was a glorious night, perfect for trick-or-treating, or so Johnny imagined. A huge moon in a clear sky lit up the ground, and the air was crisp and cool. Johnny crossed the street to Emmy’s house and rapped on the door. Emmy opened it. Her hair was in pigtails, as she often wore it, and she sported a blue-and-white gingham dress. She had a picnic basket in her hand and pointed silver shoes on her feet.

  “Trick or treat, Dorothy,” Johnny said.

  Emmy giggled. “Welcome to Kansas, Moses,” she replied. “Oh, and you brought Toto, too!” She bent down to pet McDuff’s head. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from the wicked witch.”

  McDuff yawned and scratched.

  “You look great,” Johnny stated. “Just like I imagined Dorothy from the book.”

  “Thanks. I’d like to say you look like the Moses I imagined, but to be honest, you kind of look like a cross between a clown and a frog.”

  Johnny scowled. “I wasn’t counting on the green tint showing up in the dark,” he admitted. “But it could be how Moses really looked. Who’s to say?”

  Emmy wrinkled her nose. “One thing’s for sure. I’m not gonna nickname you Moses.” She paused, then smugly added, “Personally, I still like ‘Whit.’”

  Johnny rolled his eyes. “Keep trying,” he said.

  “So, what are you doing here anyway?” Emmy asked. “The party isn’t until nine.”

  Johnny smiled broadly through his cotton beard. “You won’t believe this, but my dad said I can trick-or-treat tonight!”

  “What? You’re kidding! How did you pull that off?”

  “Refraction!”

  She looked confused.

  “You don’t remember?” he asked. “The conversation you and I had this morning? You asked me how to make something solid look as if it were bent.”