Black and Blue Magic (17 page)

“Lorna,” Mr. Brighton said, “I don’t think you have a thing to worry about. A kid like Harry doesn’t change overnight. If there’s anything strange about Harry this summer, it’s probably only that he’s growing so fast it’s worn him all out.”

Mr. Brighton set the coffee down, pulled up the vanity bench, and sat down. But Mom went on sniffing and gulping and holding her handkerchief over her eyes. “Look here, Lorna,” Mr. Brighton said after a while, “if there
is
any thing wrong with Harry—and mind you, I’m not saying there is—but if you’ve even a suspicion there might be, I think I know just the thing to straighten him out.” In the dim light it was hard to tell for sure, but Harry thought Mr. Brighton was grinning. His voice had that sort of sound to it.

“Yes?” Mom said, lifting her head a little.

“Well, it’s just one man’s opinion, of course, but it seems to me that the best thing in the world for Harry would be a good stepfather.”

“Oh, Hal,” Mom said, shaking her head but with a smile in her voice. “You’re awful. Can’t you be serious about anything? I’m really worried.”

“I am serious,” Mr. Brighton said. “Look. I’m solemn as a judge.”

“All right, then. You’re serious,” Mom said. She sounded just a little bit sarcastic. “And I suppose you have someone in particular in mind for the job. Mr. Konkel, maybe. He’d be a fine one.”

“No, not exactly,” Mr. Brighton said, “I’ve been seriously considering applying for the job myself.”

“Hal!” Mom said in a weak little voice, but Harry wasn’t so bashful.

He sat right up in bed and yelled, “Whoopee!”

T
HE NEXT MORNING HARRY
woke up to a curious mixture of feelings. First of all, he thought about Mom and Mr. Brighton (or Mom and Hal, he should say—that’s what Mr. Brighton had said to call him, for the present at least. Thinking about Mom and Hal and the farm in Marin and everything made Harry feel so great that he bounced out of bed. And that made him feel awful—at least physically.

That fall off the roof last night must have really been something. Harry had been stiff and sore before, but this was something else again. It felt as if nearly every bone in his body was protesting, and there was still a big bump on the back of his head. Exploring with his finger tips, he decided that his whole back was just one king-sized bruise. Harry sat back carefully on the edge of the bed.

Sitting there, thinking and rubbing the bump on his head, Harry remembered about the magic ointment and that made him feel bad, mentally, too. Boy! Wasn’t that just like him? Falling off the roof and spoiling his chances for one last wonderful flight. But after a few minutes of gloom, he decided he might as well knock it off. After all, there was a lot to be happy about. And who knows? Maybe there was still enough ointment left for one more flight. He’d been in such a hurry to get started last night, he hadn’t checked very carefully. At least, it would be worth a try.

Harry eased himself up enough to reach over to the silver bottle, removed the cork, and peered inside. The bottom seemed to be covered with a thin film. It just might be enough for one more flight. With that thought, Harry hobbled downstairs to find Mom and ask a few questions.

Mom was busy in the kitchen so Harry poured himself a big glass of orange juice and got comfortably settled at the table to wait until she was able to stay in one place long enough to do some answering. Mom was bustling around getting breakfast and humming little bits of tunes under her breath. Harry noticed that for the first time in a long while she didn’t look the least bit tired.

When Mom had finished mixing the muffins and had them in the oven, she sat down for a minute with a cup of coffee and Harry got his chance. He found out that the wedding was set for the end of September, and they’d be moving to the farmhouse in Marin just as soon after that as the tenants could find a new place to live.

“There’s another thing I’d like to know,” Harry said. “If Hal has been wanting to get up his nerve to ask you to marry him for so long, how come he spent so much time talking to that Miss Clyde?”

Mom laughed. “Well, you have to admit he didn’t have much choice. Clarissa is the kind who’s pretty hard to avoid, at least without being rude.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Harry said. “And another thing. How come you were being so friendly to Mr. Konkel? That really had me worried.”

Mom laughed, but then she looked down at her coffee and her cheeks got pink. “I’m ashamed to admit it, but I guess I was just trying to convince everybody, myself included, that I didn’t care about Hal and Clarissa.” Mom stopped and thought for a moment and then she went on. “You see, Harry, you don’t know all there is to know about this whole thing. Some time ago, not too long after Hal first came to board with us he ... well, he seemed interested in marrying me. I discouraged him so completely that he thought I wouldn’t ever change my mind. I did change my mind, but he didn’t know it—at least, not until last night.”

“Well, for Pete Squeaks!” Harry said. And here he’d been so darn sure that he always knew when any romantic stuff was going on in the boarding house. He’d sure been fooled this time. He had to think about that for a minute before he got around to asking, “What did you want to go and do that for? Discourage him, I mean?”

Mom shrugged, “There were a lot of reasons. I’d made up my mind a long time ago that I wasn’t ever going to get married again. And I was worried about how you would react to having a stepfather. But mostly, I just hadn’t gotten to know Hal well enough.”

Harry was just having a few quiet thoughts about how it was true, all right, about women not being able to make up their minds, when he remembered that it had taken him quite a while to make up his mind that he’d like having Hal as a stepfather. So, maybe it was only natural for Mom to take a long time to decide on him for a husband. He was just getting ready to tell Mom that he understood about her being so wishy-washy about the whole thing, when she interrupted.

“Well anyway, Harry, I guess you know that we have you to thank for getting things straightened out. If it hadn’t been for your silly tumble off the roof, Hal might not have asked me. He’d about decided that we Marcos didn’t need or want anyone to look out for us; but last night—with all the bruises and tears—it was pretty plain he’d been wrong about that. So he decided the time had come.”

That made Harry feel a lot better. He hadn’t really wasted those last drops of ointment, after all. Maybe he hadn’t had a last long flight, but it looked like—entirely by accident—those drops had brought him something even more important. “And I
do
mean ‘by accident,’ ” Harry thought, gingerly rubbing the bump on the back of his head.

That afternoon Mom took Harry to see their family doctor, as the emergency doctor had recommended. Dr. Kimura had taken care of Harry since he’d first come back to San Francisco when he was just a little kid. Dr. Kimura was a great kidder and, sure enough, he had quite a bit to say about a boy Harry’s age who didn’t know any better than to play games on the roof. As a rule Harry didn’t mind a little kidding, but this time he couldn’t help wishing that the doctor would knock it off. He was getting a little bit mad when Dr. Kimura said something that made up for all the teasing.

The doctor was examining Harry’s back when all of a sudden he said, “Well, well, well.”

“What is it Doctor? Is anything wrong?” Mom asked.

“Wrong?” the doctor said. “Oh, no. These bruises aren’t anything to worry about. In fact, I consider a few bruises standard equipment for a boy Harry’s age. I was just being impressed by the way Harry’s been growing up since he was last in. Just look at those shoulders, Mrs. Marco.”

“Yes, I’d noticed lately how his shoulders were filling out,” Mom said.

“Yes, sir!” Dr. Kimura said, clapping Harry on one of the biggest bruises, “that’s quite a change for such a short time. What have you been up to this summer? Weight lifting?” Of course, Harry wasn’t about to tell him what he’d really been doing, but before he had to try to think something up, the doctor went on. “Yes indeed, that looks to me like the beginning of a real athlete’s build.”

After that, it wasn’t a bit hard for Harry to forgive him for all the kidding.

By the next evening most of the stiffness was gone from his back and Harry decided to find out for sure if there was enough ointment left for one last flight. There was that slight film of liquid in the bottom of the silver bottle, and it wouldn’t hurt to try. As he started getting ready, Harry kept telling himself that it probably wouldn’t work, so he wouldn’t be too disappointed in case it didn’t, but he couldn’t help hoping desperately down underneath.

But when he tipped the bottle over his bare shoulders nothing at all came out. Not even when he shook it up and down, time after time. At last he put his finger up inside the bottle and ran it around the inside surface. It felt moist when he pulled it out, so he quickly rubbed it on one shoulder. He did the same thing to the other shoulder and then he closed his eyes and recited the incantation.

Wing feather, bat leather, hollow bone,

Gift of Icarus and Oberon,

Dream of the earthbound—Spin and Flow

Fledge and Flutter and Fan and GO!

There was a tiny tingle, a twinge, and that was all. When Harry opened his eyes and looked back over his shoulder, nothing was there. No huge white arching wings, nothing at all, except—except one big white feather, drifting very slowly down to the floor.

It was with an awful feeling of sorrow and loss, that Harry took down the shoe box that held his most important keepsakes. Just as his happiness and pride in his wings had always seemed too big for one person, the sadness he felt as he put away the bottle and feather seemed to be more than just his. He was putting the shoe box back on the highest closet shelf, when suddenly he had an idea. He took the feather out and looked at it again.

It was long and cloudy white; soft, and yet strangely strong. There was something about it so pure and perfect, you knew without a doubt, that it came from the wing of something entirely out of the ordinary. Instead of putting the feather away again with the silver bottle, Harry put it inside his shirt. Then he went over to make a social call on the Furdells.

It was just barely past dark, so the Furdells weren’t surprised to see him. Besides, Harry, and other people, too, were beginning to call on the Furdells a lot, since—well—since Olive started being different. Harry sat around and chatted long enough to make it look natural, and when he left he knew where both the Furdells were and what they were doing. He knew, for instance, that they wouldn’t be likely to look out the back windows for the next few minutes. As soon as he was outside, he headed for the carriage house roof.

Sure enough, the little table was still sitting against the railing at the corner of the roof. The candle was in a little lantern now, so the wind wouldn’t blow it out when it was lit, and there were fresh flowers in the vase. Harry ran his hand over the softly gleaming feather for the last time. Then he tucked the end of it under the lantern so it would be sure not to blow away. After all, he had other things to remember by.

For only a moment Harry looked up into the endless open sky before he turned and hurried down the stairs and home. Back at Marco’s, Mom was ironing in the kitchen and Hal was drinking coffee at the table. Harry sat down too, and it wasn’t long before they were having a great conversation, all about the farm and trips they could take on Hal’s vacation and things like that. After a while, Hal went upstairs to get some snapshots he wanted to show them, and Harry had a chance to ask a question that had been on his mind lately.

“Mom,” he said, “do you remember the prophecy that old fortuneteller made when I was little?”

“Of course,” Mom said. “I’m sure I’ll never forget it. Your father talked about it so often.”

“Didn’t he say that I had a rare gift and I’d have a special kind of magic?”

Mom nodded.

“What do you think he meant by that?”

“I don’t know, Harry. Not really. But I’ve always had a theory of my own about it. Of course, your father was sure it meant that you would grow up to be a very famous magician, but I ... well, I always thought it might be referring to something else.”

“What?” Harry asked. “What did you think it meant?”

Mom stopped ironing and sat down at the table with her chin on her hand. She thought a while before she said, “I don’t know if I can explain it very well, but it’s something like this. It seems to me we all have a little magic. It’s as if life makes a magic circle around each of us, but its size is entirely up to you. If you try to make your circle closed and exclusively yours, it never grows very much. There are even people who try to make their magic so private and tight that eventually it almost strangles them. Only a circle that has lots of room for anybody who needs it, has enough spare space to hold any real magic. Does that make any sense to you?”

“I think so,” Harry said. “But I don’t really see what it has to do with me and the prophecy.”

“Well, it’s just that you’ve been crowding people into your circle ever since you were a tiny boy. That seems like a rare gift to me. I’ve always thought there was going to be room in your life for all sorts of people—and all kinds of magic, too.”

Mom went back to her ironing then and Harry thought about what she had said. He wasn’t too sure just what she’d been trying to say, but, at least, he was glad to hear that she didn’t think the prophecy meant that he ought to try to grow up to be a great stage magician. Because he had always been pretty sure he’d much rather not.

It was the next morning, the day before Labor Day, that Mike Wong came back from his summer in the Sierras. He had just two days to spend with his grandparents before school started. Of course, he came over to see Harry right away. They sat on the front steps and talked, and Mike had lots to tell about his summer in the mountains. Harry had very little to say because nothing much had happened on Kerry Street—not that he could talk about, anyway.