Foxy's Tale

by Karen Cantwell

  “Whoa,” Mr. Warden held up a hand. “Slow down. Yes I remember. What are you asking specifically?”

  “Well, how would you know if a house was part of the Underground Railroad?”

  “There’s a lot of documentation on the houses that were in use in the nineteenth century as what was known as depots or stations. Some of them have been designated historic landmarks. But many of those houses no longer exist. Or they were never discovered. Remember they would have had to remain secret to be used safely. Now Washington, D.C. was certainly an important conduit for the Underground Railroad, situated as it was between northern free states and Southern slave states.”

  Amanda shifted from one foot to the other. Mr. Warden always sounded like he was giving a lecture.

  “Of course Maryland and Delaware were also slave states, but they had many safe houses used in the Railroad system. Now what was your question?”

  “Well, is it possible that a house in Washington might have been used and never ever known? I mean that no one ever found out about it?” Amanda picked up her backpack. She did have to get to lunch before it was over.

  “Possibly,” Mr. Warden said and then put his finger to his mouth. “It’s always possible. After the war things were very chaotic for many years around Washington. And if a house had been used as part of the Underground Railroad, the owner might not have wanted it known. I suppose it’s possible that some houses were not used as often as others. Or there may have been any number of reasons why a house was used for a time and then fell out of use. Of course the house would have some signs that it was used.”

  “Like what?” Amanda asked. “I mean how would you be able to tell?”

  “Well,” Mr. Warden rubbed his half-bald head. “There might be a hidden room. All the stations had some sort of secret room that was very hard to find. False walls, hidden doors, even rooms underground that seemed to have no access at all. They were very cleverly camouflaged. Now you’d better get to lunch young lady. It’s getting late. I’m so glad you’re taking this interest in American history. Maybe you’d like to write a paper on this and share it with the class.”

  “Sure, Mr. Warden,” Amanda nodded and took off for the door. As soon as she started down the hallway toward the cafeteria, Nick fell into step next to her, almost as if he’d been waiting for her to get out of class.

  “Hey,” he said softly and, without giving her a chance to say anything, continued. “Sorry about this morning. I’ve got a lot on my mind, y’know.”

  “Yeah, sure. I understand,” Amanda said, thinking he was letting her down easy. Well, she expected it.

  “Hey have you got some time after school? I don’t have practice today.” He laughed a little, nervously. Amanda looked at him sideways. This was unexpected. She didn’t know what to say. “Maybe we can drive over to the park and just, you know, talk or something. I have to get to class. You going to eat now?”

  “Yeah,” Amanda answered, totally bewildered now.

  “Meet at the front door at three?” he asked. Before turning to head the other way down the hall, he waited for her answer. And he did this little thing where he bumped his fist against her arm, gently, like a nervous caress.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Inside his apartment, weak from the fall but steadier than he was an hour ago, Myron opened the Igloo cooler and transferred thirty vials of blood to the refrigerator. One by one he stacked them neatly into their little holes in the snap-together boxes he’d bought from a laboratory supply house. He got four different colors – red, bright blue, lemon yellow, and bright green. He liked the way they snapped together so he could add more later if his supply increased. The color was returning to his face and he felt steadier on his feet with every minute that passed. That was a close one, he thought, as he gingerly lifted each vial and slipped it into its hole. He must be more careful. These people were not as stupid as some others thought they were. He sighed and stood back, counted the vials and did some quick calculations on his fingers. This should last nine days. Unless he experienced some unusual exertion. He couldn’t imagine what that might be. Except for the pressure of time, life had become rather routine and pleasant. He liked this house and the people in it. Not all his living situations had been so hospitable. There was one in London, in particular, that he remembered with shivers.

  He sat at the counter and rested his head in his hands. His new computer was still open to the page showing the plans for this house. He had studied and studied this page and he still couldn’t find what he needed. It was as if there was a puzzle, but he didn’t know which pieces were missing or where to look for them. He studied it again, traced the lines of the rooms. He saw the jagged lines that denoted stairwells. One, he traced from the ground floor, two . . . he traced up, three . . . now he was at the top floor, his apartment. He traced back down and then noticed, for the first time, a tiny jagged line at the back of the floor plan. It was difficult to tell which floor was which. The lines all looked washed out. This, after all, was a copy of a very old building plan. And it looked as if some of the lines had been erased and redrawn. Anything was possible in a hundred and fifty years or more. Myron knew that better than anyone.

  He tried to see the lines better by leaning in toward the screen, but it was no use. If only he could make the image larger, perhaps he could see where that tiny jagged line connected. He put on his overcoat and headed back down the stairs and outside to find a store where he could buy a magnifying glass. It would not be easy near DuPont Circle.

  Myron wandered from street to street peering into store windows at merchandise that he didn’t need but saw nothing that looked encouraging. Finally, he passed a CVS and entered. Inside people waited on line to pay for candy, pills, shampoo. One woman held a box with a picture of a hair dryer on it. Another held bandages and gauze. He saw a bit of everything, so he wandered back through the aisles until he came to the eye area. Hanging from a wire hook was a little plastic packet with an eye glass repair kit inside, including a very small magnifying glass and some tiny screws. He took it down from the hook to examine the contents more closely. He turned the pack this way and that, held the small magnifying glass over some small letters on another package. He considered it but decided this would not help him greatly. He moved down the aisle past eye drops, shoe laces, and a rack of arch support insoles until he stopped in front of a woman choosing her size. She had very large feet.

  “Such a lot of ways to make a nicer life,” he told her. “Ach, such misery is out there to be needing all these things for making it better.”

  She ignored him, hurriedly picked out an insole size, and moved down the aisle. He wandered further down and turned the corner, only to discover a sea of aisles stuffed with boxes and bric-a-brac. It was all too overwhelming. He saw a woman in a white coat standing behind a counter so he approached her. “Excuse please,” he said.

  The silver-haired woman looked up. “Can I help you, sir?”

  He nodded and asked, “Please, this item, I am searching the whole store and can’t find it, is a glass of magnifying for . . .”

  “Maps.” she said briskly and went back to what she was doing.

  “Maps? Vehre are these maps you speak?”

  “Aisle nine, sir,” she frowned and walked behind a shelf.

  Myron found aisle nine. At the very back of the store against the wall was a rack with street maps and driving atlases. Above them, in a small display, he saw a box of magnifying glasses for reading maps. Myron squinted at the wall. He made his way past a fat lady bending over in front of the foot relief aisle. She was trying to read the description on a large yellow carton containing a foot massager. She was wearing a worn boot on her left foot and a house slipper on the right.

  Oy, Myron thinks, you should only have good feet to valk around on the ground. At least I got my health.

  As she pulled the box from the bottom shelf onto the floor, he squeezed past her, which was not easy as she was now squatting smack in the mi
ddle of the aisle. But Myron was focused on that magnifying glass, and he made it to the back wall without tripping over her.

  “Gevalt, just vaht I vould need on this day is another fall all over myself,” he said to no one in particular as he reached up to take the plastic package. And then he mused aloud, “Look how they make these things now. A body can hardly figure out a vay how it opens. You could break a finger getting this thing out of itself vith von think and another.” The magnifying glass was encased in thick, flexible but hard plastic with no entry point visible. Myron carried it up a different aisle and waited his turn on line.

  When he got to the cashier, she scanned it and announced: “Eleven fifty-four.” She waited. Myron unbuttoned his coat. With the look of a gangster, the cashier chomped on a wad of gum. Myron fumbled with the buttons. He got the coat unbuttoned and reached inside his jacket to the vest pocket. The cashier rolled her eyes. People behind Myron fidgeted. Myron pulled out a wad of bills, peels off a hundred and handed it to the cashier. She held it up to the light and called out: “Mr. Delgado, bill check.”

  There was loud sighing from the woman behind Myron, and the cashier chewed her gum more vehemently. She stood there nonchalantly awaiting the arrival of Mr. Delgado, who bustled up in a few minutes wearing glasses and a sport coat that was stained on the lapel with what looked like Pepto Bismal or perhaps bubblegum. He also held the bill up to the light.

  “Already did that,” said the cashier and popped her gum.

  “I know, Juliann, but I have to do it too.” He ran a special counterfeit detecting pen across the bill. “It’s okay.” Then he moved to the adjoining register and said, “I’ll help the next person over here.” The line broke up and Juliann handed Myron change from his hundred and a plastic bag with his magnifying glass inside. Myron wondered what that stuff was in her mouth. And why she didn’t swallow it. He shrugged. This time had too many mysteries for him to concern himself with every one.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  They drove in silence to Rock Creek Park, where Nick said he liked to run sometimes. It didn’t take long to get there. While they drove, Amanda sorted through her thoughts. It had been on her mind all day. She was still not sure what she should say. Or what Nick wanted to say. She decided to wait for him to speak first, but he remained silent, concentrating on driving and finding the parking area and then parking the car. They got out and Amanda followed his lead. He knew the park. She didn’t. In her pocket was the note. At the right time, she’d return it to him. She’d apologize, tell him she found it by accident, that she didn’t know what it was, didn’t even read it. She left her backpack in his car, and they walked along a path that led to a jogging trail.

  “This is where I usually start running,” he told her and leaned down to re-tie his sneaker. “There’s a bench up ahead.” He pointed up a slight hill where the path curved.

  As they walked, Amanda kept her hands in her jacket pockets. Her fingers rested against the note. Shafts of afternoon sunlight turned the forest into a kind of cathedral, the leafless trees like spires with fingers waving silently, shadows of tree trunks like tilted stilts. For Amanda it was all a bit breathless and heady. Maybe Nick wanted to tell her how much he cared for her. Or maybe he wanted to tell her about the letter writer. Or maybe it was not anything she could imagine. Her stomach was all butterflies. They trudged on up the hill and she saw the bench, tucked off the path in front of a fat oak trunk. The trees’ network of branches spread out like nerves above the bench and over the path.

  “Thanks for coming with me today,” Nick said as they sat, not exactly close to each other but not far apart either. He rested his hand on her shoulder for a moment and she felt the butterflies kick around inside her gut. He dropped his hand and she fingered the note again.

  “I,” she started but hesitated before adding, “I mean, it’s okay. It’s nice here.” Lame, she thought. Really lame. But Nick nodded and looked out at the trees and the fallen leaves. “It’ll be getting cold soon,” she started again. “And then Christmas will be here and then another year. I have to decide what to do after next year.”

  He poked his toe at the ground, where he dislodged a small rock. He leaned down and picked it up. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “About what?” This was not what Amanda expected, but she assumed he meant college.

  “Everything,” he said and threw the rock at a squirrel that had just run down a tree. He missed and the squirrel twitched its tail.

  “You mean like college?”

  “Sure, stuff like that. Life.”

  “What do your parents say?” she asked. It was an innocent question. The kind of thing anyone would ask. But the minute it was out in the air, it was obvious she’d unconsciously hit a raw nerve.

  Nick jumped up. He walked over to the path and then back to the bench. Amanda thought maybe he wanted to leave, so she leaned forward and started to get up, but then he sat down, closer to her this time. He reached out and took her hand in his and looked into her eyes for such a long moment that she looked away, embarrassed. When she looked back he was still holding her hand and gazing at her. The butterflies felt as if they were about to jump out of her stomach.

  “Can I trust you?” Nick asked her. “Because I need to trust someone. I thought, you know, the first time we talked, I thought you would be someone I could trust. But I have to be sure. Can I?”

  He released her hand and Amanda felt like she’d been tied to an electric cord and plugged in. Her whole body felt she was breathing air for the very first time. “You can trust me,” she said, and then her hand felt the note in her pocket and she realized she was not being honest. If she failed to tell him now, she’d lose his trust, and Nick with it, forever. “But I have to tell you something.” And this time it was Amanda who touched Nick’s arm. Very gently. He moved closer to her so that his leg pressed against hers. His leg was all muscle from running, and to Amanda it felt as hard as the bench. A wave of emotion passed through her so strong it made her heart race, and she couldn’t seem to control her rapid and erratic breathing. She’d never felt like this before; she had to close her eyes for just a moment to gain control.

  “Whatever it is, it can wait. If I don’t talk now I might never have the nerve again.” He insisted.

  She opened her eyes and looked at him. “Nick,” it was the first time Amanda had said his name out loud. It sounded strange to her. “Please listen.” She took a deep breath and considered not continuing, fearful that he wouldn’t want anything to do with her after she confessed.

  “I’m listening.”

  A brief smile crossed her face. He was so cute. She had to do this. Another deep breath. “Whatever you want to tell me, you might not want to after I show you something.” She pulled the note out of her pocket and handed it to him. “I’m so sorry. I picked this up when I dropped my book report papers in your car. It was totally an accident, and then at my house, when I was straightening out the papers, I opened it without knowing what it was. I didn’t mean to.”

  Nick looked down at the folded piece of paper. He didn’t take it from her, so she kept talking. “Is it from a teacher? Because if it is, well, that’s really, just, I mean,” and she didn’t finish because she didn’t know what to say and she was sitting there trying to give the note back to him and he was not taking it and she felt stupid by then. She’d made a fool of herself when he was trying to tell her something, and now the moment was gone and she’d never get it back. She wished she could disappear into the woods, just fade away like the sunlight.

  “Did you read it?” he finally asked.

  Amanda considered saying she didn’t but blurted out, “Yes.”

  “And you think you know what it is?” he asked, his voice gruff.

  Amanda shrugged a pathetic little shrug. God, I’m such a baby, she thought.

  “Do you?” he insisted and his voice was demanding, different from before, deeper and a little scary. His leg was still pressed against hers, but s
he felt she should move away, and then he stood up suddenly and turned away from her. He wrung his hands and let out a sound like a small cry, and when he turned back to her, his face was contorted and he was biting his lip.

  “Do you think you know?” Nick asked again. “Tell me.”

  Amanda shook her head. “I don’t know for sure,” she said. “But if it’s a teacher, well, if it is, then you have to tell someone. I mean someone besides me. Like your parents.” She thought for a second and added, “I mean, I wouldn’t tell Foxy but she’s not normal. Your parents are probably normal so . . .” Amanda realized she was babbling nervously, so she stopped.

  “My parents,” he scoffed and did this little thing with his chest like he was exhaling hard. “You don’t really know anything about me. I shouldn’t have brought you here. It was wrong. Lets’ go back.” He put out his hand to help her up. It was a gentlemanly move, unexpected, out of place with what he’d been saying.

  “No,” Amanda shook her head. This was what she feared. That he’d shut down and that would be the end of it. She couldn’t let him go now. “Just sit down and tell me everything. I won’t judge you. I promise.”

  He opened his mouth but no sound emerged. “I can’t,” he said finally. “It’s not what you think. It’s nothing you can imagine. It’s not a teacher or anything creepy like that. I mean that would be bad but . . .” he stopped again and this time it was for good.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Myron held the magnifying glass against the laptop screen. The old house plan looked yellow and faded. He slowly pulled the glass back until the drawing came into focus. He located and then followed the short, horizontally-stacked lines that represented stairs from the top until they came to a stop and then found where they began again and followed them to where they stopped further down the page. One, two landings, and then the ground floor. He stopped. Pulled the glass a tiny bit farther back, focused on the trail of the last faint lines and thought he saw something, a short line, the start of another series. But it was just a shadow on the screen, so vague that he was not sure it was really there. He stopped for a moment, rubbed his eyes, then returned, trying to look at it anew. He sighed heavily. His eyes were tired. He’d had a difficult day. Over against the wall his neatly made up bed looked inviting. He didn’t sleep often, but when he did it was the sleep of the dead. He couldn’t let himself get pulled into that. Not now. He looked at the wall clock and noted the date on the wall calendar, then went back to the laptop screen and began his search again.