Raymie Nightingale (8 page)

Beverly snorted.

Raymie flexed her toes. She reminded herself of what she was doing. She was working to get the book back, to do a good deed, to win the contest, to bring her father home. She put her foot on the first dark nonstick strip and then the next one and the next.

She climbed the stairs.

The common room was entirely empty. The floor was shining, but in an ordinary kind of way. The piano was silent. There were several scraggly ferns hanging from the ceiling and an unfinished jigsaw puzzle on a small table in the center of the room. The box of the puzzle was propped up to show what the picture would be when the puzzle was done: a covered bridge in autumn.

“Well,” said Martha, “I have to return to my station. Maybe you three would like to take it from here and go down to Isabelle’s room and knock on her door and see if she would like visitors.”

“Okay,” said Raymie.

“Thank you very much,” said Beverly in the same terrifyingly polite voice she had used before.

“I like this room,” said Louisiana. “You could dance on this floor. You could put on a show here.”

“Well,” said Martha, “I suppose you could. There’s not a lot of dancing here, and I don’t believe that we have ever had a show. But perhaps someday. Who knows?” Martha shook her head. And then she clapped her hands. “Okay, girls. You just head down the hallway. Raymie, you know which door is Isabelle’s.”

Raymie nodded. She knew which door was Alice Nebbley’s. That was what mattered.

“Right,” said Beverly when Martha was gone. “Which room?”

“It’s this way,” said Raymie. Beverly and Louisiana followed her down the hallway, and as they got closer, they heard it.

“Take my hand!” screamed Alice Nebbley.

“Oh, my goodness,” said Louisiana. “Let’s go back. Let’s not do it.”

“Shut up,” said Beverly.

Louisiana caught up to Raymie and took her hand, and Raymie had the strange thought that holding on to Louisiana’s hand was like holding the paw of one of the ghost bunnies on her barrettes. She almost wasn’t even there.

But still, it was comforting for some reason, to have Louisiana’s hand in hers.

“Take my hand!” shouted Alice Nebbley again.

“Just get out of the way,” said Beverly. She pushed past Raymie and Louisiana and marched right into Alice Nebbley’s room without knocking. Raymie could see that the room was dark, as it had been before, as dark as a cave, as dark as the grave.

“She went into the room,” said Louisiana to Raymie.

“Yes,” said Raymie. “She did.”

They stood together in the hallway and stared at the dark outline that was Beverly Tapinski. She was standing right next to the bed.

“Arrrgggghh!” screamed Alice Nebbley, and both Louisiana and Raymie jumped.

“It’s under the bed,” called Raymie.

“I know that,” said Beverly from inside the darkness. “You told me that a thousand times. If there’s one thing I know, it’s where the stupid book is supposed to be.”

Raymie saw the dark form of Beverly duck down and disappear.

“There’s no book under here,” said Beverly’s muffled voice a minute later.

“There has to be,” said Raymie.

“It’s not there,” said Beverly. Her shadowy form reappeared. “It’s not anywhere in here. I don’t know. Who knows what old people do with books. Maybe she ate it. Or is lying on top of it.”

And then, instead of coming back out of the room, Beverly moved closer to Alice Nebbley’s bed.

“Never mind,” called Raymie. “Leave it alone. Come back.” She was suddenly afraid that Beverly might do something drastic and unpredictable, like try to pick up Alice Nebbley and look underneath her.

“Arrrrggghhhhh!” screamed Alice Nebbley. “I cannot. I cannot. I cannot stand the pain.”

“Oh, no,” said Louisiana. “It’s too terrible. She can’t stand the pain. I can’t stand the pain of her not standing the pain.” She squeezed Raymie’s hand so hard that it hurt.

“Take my hand!” screamed Alice Nebbley.

And then, just like before, a skinny arm came out from underneath the covers as if it were emerging from a grave. Louisiana screamed and Raymie let out a whimper, and in Alice Nebbley’s dark and tragic room, Beverly stood quietly without jumping or moving at all. And then, slowly, she reached out and took hold of the hand.

“Ooooooohh,” said Louisiana. “She took the hand. Now that woman is going to pull Beverly into the grave. She is going to kill her and use her to fashion a new soul.”

Raymie had not imagined any of these gruesome outcomes in particular, but she did feel a very deep sense of dread.

“No, no,” said Louisiana. “I can’t stand and watch.” She dropped Raymie’s hand. “I’m going to go and find someone to help.”

“Don’t,” said Raymie.

But Louisiana was gone, running down the hallway, her sequined dress glowing and glittering in a purposeful way.

Raymie stood alone, watching as Beverly, still holding Alice Nebbley’s hand, sat down on the bed.

“Shhh,” said Beverly.

Alice Nebbley stopped screaming.

“It will be okay,” said Beverly. And then, incredibly, she started to hum.

What was Beverly Tapinski — the safecracker, the lock picker, the gravel beater — doing sitting on Alice Nebbley’s bed, holding her hand, telling her it would be okay, and
humming
to her?

It didn’t seem possible.

And then Louisiana was standing next to Raymie again. Her small chest was rising and falling. A wheezy sound was issuing from her lungs. “I found it,” she said.

“What?” said Raymie.

“I found it. I found your Florence Whatsit book.”

“Nightingale,” said Raymie.

“Yes,” said Louisiana. “Nightingale. Nightingale. It’s in the janitor’s office. I went in there to see if the janitor would help Beverly fight the goblin, and then surprise! I found the book! Also, I let the bird go.”

“What bird?” said Raymie.

“That little yellow bird. In the cage in the janitor’s office.”

At this point, someone somewhere in the Golden Glen screamed, and it wasn’t Alice Nebbley.

“I had to climb up on top of the desk to do it,” said Louisiana. “And then I had to leave in a hurry, so I forgot your book. I don’t think that birds should be in cages, do you?”

There was another scream and the sound of running feet.

Beverly came out of Alice Nebbley’s room.

“What happened?” she said.

“I’m not sure,” said Raymie.

“I found the book!” said Louisiana.

A small yellow bird came whizzing down the hallway and sailed over their heads.

“Was that a bird?” asked Beverly.

In her room, Alice Nebbley was completely silent.

Raymie hoped that she wasn’t dead.

The janitor came running down the hallway. His keys were jangling, and his janitor boots were making a very authoritative sound as they hit the polished floor of the Golden Glen.

The janitor had a determined look on his face. He didn’t seem at all like a man who would play mournful music on the piano. His fingers were too thick. Also, he didn’t look very much like someone who would own a yellow bird.

“Oooooh,” said Louisiana. “Hurry. Follow me.”

Louisiana led them down the hallway. “In here,” she said. “Right there.” She pointed at a small room with the door open. Inside the room, there was a desk, and right in the center of the desk was
A Bright and Shining Path: The Life of Florence Nightingale.

“Is that it?” asked Beverly. “Is that your stupid library book?”

Above the desk, there was a birdcage, rocking back and forth. It was empty. The little door to the cage was open.

Something about the open door on the cage made Raymie feel sad.

At home right now, Raymie’s mother was probably sitting on the couch, staring into space. Mrs. Borkowski was probably in her lawn chair in the middle of the road. And Mrs. Sylvester was surely at her desk, typing, the giant jar of candy corn in front of her trembling slightly from the hum and clatter of the electric typewriter.

And Raymie’s father? Maybe he was sitting in the diner with the dental hygienist. Maybe they were both holding menus. Maybe they were thinking about what they might order.

Did her father think about her?

What if he had already forgotten her?

Those were the questions Raymie wanted to ask somebody, but there wasn’t anyone to ask.

“Why are you just standing there?” said Beverly. “Are you going to get the book or not?”

“Well, my goodness,” said Louisiana. “
I
will get the book.” She ran into the janitor’s office and grabbed Florence Nightingale off the desk and ran back out.

From somewhere in the Golden Glen there came another scream.

“I think we should go now,” said Louisiana.

“That’s a good idea,” said Beverly.

And the three of them started to run.

Outside, in front of the Golden Glen, Louisiana was holding the book, and Beverly was sitting on the curb, and Raymie was standing and staring at nothing at all.

“You said I wouldn’t be any help,” said Louisiana. “But I found the book, and I retrieved the book. And I freed the bird!”

“No one told you to free a bird,” said Beverly.

“Yes,” said Louisiana. “That part was extra, an extra good deed.”

Raymie’s heart thudded somewhere deep inside of her. Good deeds, good deeds. She was so far behind on good deeds that she did not think she would ever catch up.

“You —” said Beverly. But whatever she intended to say next was interrupted by the appearance of the Elefante station wagon. It came careening down Borton Street, emitting great clouds of black smoke.

“Look,” said Raymie. This was an entirely unnecessary directive. It would have been impossible to miss seeing the car.

The station wagon pulled up to the curb and screeched to a stop. A piece of decorative wood paneling was peeling off and hanging at an odd angle. It flapped back and forth thoughtfully.

“Get in, get in!” shouted Louisiana’s grandmother. “She’s right behind me. There’s not a moment to waste.”

“Is it Marsha Jean?” said Louisiana. “Is she hot on our trail?”

“Hurry!” shouted the grandmother. “All of you.”

“All of us?” asked Raymie.

“Don’t just stand there!” shouted the grandmother. “Get in the car!”

“Get in the car, get in the car!” shouted Louisiana. She hopped up and down. “Hurry. Marsha Jean is hot on our trail!”

Beverly looked at Raymie. She shrugged. She walked toward the station wagon and opened the back door. “You heard her,” said Beverly. She held the door open. “Hurry up. There’s not a moment to waste.”

“Come on!” said Louisiana. She climbed into the station wagon. Raymie got in after her, and Beverly got in last. She slammed the door shut, and it immediately popped back open.

The car accelerated so quickly that they were all thrown back against the seat. The broken door slammed shut and then opened again.

“Oh, my goodness,” said Louisiana. “Here we go.”

And they went.