Red Hart Magic (3 page)

Chris pulled his suitcase out from the closet. He had set the inn carefully on the bedside table. Luck had been with him all right. He had fully expected Nan to blurt out about his leaving her alone. But she had not. Only briefly, he wondered why. A good hiding place—this suitcase—was all he could think of right now. He tucked the inn into one corner, using his old hiking shirt as a cover. Aunt Elizabeth had already told him there was no wearing
that
around here. He did not
even have time to peek into the windows. But there was one thing; when he picked up the inn to put it away, he heard a rattle inside. So he was extra-careful covering it up and returning the suitcase to the closet. Maybe part of the inn was broken. He would have to wait until he had a chance to really examine it. If it was broken, he might be able to fix it.

“Chris—Nan—”

Supper! Chris gave a last push to the suitcase, sending it up against the back wall of the closet. He would have to watch that Clara did not move it around too much when she was cleaning. Clara was pretty energetic when she dusted and swept. Aunt Elizabeth did the good china and things herself; he noticed that last week. It was one reason why he had not started in on the model. Let Clara move one of these once or twice and probably nothing would be left.

Nan was already in the kitchen when Chris slouched in, wearing his usual indifferent expression. She did not glance at him as she set out plates and silverware. Aunt Elizabeth told him to get the milk and fill their glasses. He had discovered that Aunt Elizabeth believed a boy should make himself useful in ways Chris did not think at all suitable. But there was no use fighting over it. He banged shut the fridge door, and went to get the glasses from the cupboard while Aunt Elizabeth dished out a mixture of stuff from the cartons.

“Just home in time,” she observed as a gust of wind and sleet beat against the window of the small kitchen. “This is going to be a bad night. All right, we're ready now—”

Gingerly Nan tasted the small pancake-looking things Aunt Elizabeth called Egg Foo Yong. She decided that they
were not bad, just strange, and she was hungry. There was a sauce to dabble over them—salty—then a brown rice with what looked like little bits of ham cut up fine, as well as a portion of what Aunt Elizabeth called “Chicken Chow Mein.” Nan ate steadily. Chris was cleaning up his plate, too. Though he never raised his eyes from that. It was as if eating was a business, a job one had to finish as quickly as possible. Only he need not think he was going to slide out and leave her with all the dishes. Aunt Elizabeth had said this morning they must take turns washing and wiping when Clara was not here. Nan watched narrowly for any sign Chris meant to get out of the job.

Aunt Elizabeth was talking, talking. Mostly about this Cousin Philip who meant nothing to Nan—though, of course, he was Chris's kin. It seemed, however, that Chris did not care about him either, even whether he was in the hospital or not.

The flow of words only stopped when they had fortune cookies. Nan smoothed out her strip of paper to read it: “What the eyes see not, the heart craves—” She repeated the words aloud.

“Hm"—there was an odd difference in Aunt Elizabeth's smile—"What is yours, Chris?”

“Silly stuff! ‘Clear conscience never fears midnight knocking,’” he half-mumbled.

“Good sound advice,” Aunt Elizabeth said. “Now I have to make a long-distance call. You can go ahead with the dishes. And, Chris, see the rubbish all gets down the hall to the incinerator tonight.”

“Yes, Aunt Elizabeth,” he replied, crumpling his fortune and throwing it into the emptied carton that had held the Egg Foo Yong. But Nan wanted to keep hers and think about it, even though she did not quite understand what it meant.

3

The Red Hart

Sunday at Aunt Elizabeth's was different, too. They went to church in the morning, Aunt Elizabeth seeing that they were both dressed as she said “suitably.” This church was a large one where people did not seem to know even those who shared the pew with them. Nan missed the friendliness of Grandma's church. Chris sat stolidly, as if all were an ordeal to be endured.

But the afternoon was even worse. They had dinner in another big restaurant, and then Aunt Elizabeth summoned one of her ever-helpful taxis and carried them off to the park, where there was a zoo, a lake, and other supposedly interesting things. Chris dragged along so far behind that Aunt Elizabeth was plainly annoyed when she turned for about the tenth time to see where he was.

Nan watched a black leopard. She felt sorry for it because the animal was never still, pacing back and forth in its cage as if it wanted to be free. She did not like the big apes at all;
one of them made faces and spit at people who had stopped by the cage to watch. But the birds were beautiful with their many colors and plumed tails; and there were two lion cubs, who were rolled up together on a blanket, asleep like kittens.

Her feet began to ache, and she was glad when Aunt Elizabeth took them into a place where Coke and ice cream were sold and they could sit down for a while. It was then that Aunt Elizabeth met a friend by the cash register and told them to run along and find a table and wait for her.

For the first time that afternoon, Chris spoke directly to Nan. “She thinks we're little kids!”

He shoved his dish of ice cream with dangerous force off the tray he was carrying. Nan was just in time to save it from crashing to the floor. She pushed it back in his direction. “I guess she thinks we like such things. Maybe she doesn't know.”

Chris glowered at the ice cream, digging a spoon into it as if striking back at the world. “I'm not about five years old,” he exploded. “The
zoo,
for pete's sake! The
zoo,
yet!”

“The birds were nice.” Nan licked at a spoonful of hot fudge sundae. “I didn't like that monkey though, the one who spit at people.”

Chris grinned crookedly. “That ape had the right idea. Why not spit at a bunch of dumb people come to look at you shut up in there? I don't like to see animals in cages—not ever.”

Nan found she could agree with that, remembering the leopard.

“But they're all being killed off. If any are to be saved, they'll be in cages.”

Chris shook his head vigorously. “Don't have to be in cages. You never saw Lion Country, I guess. They have them outside there, free. They walk right across the road. You can drive through in a car, but you have to keep your windows shut and go real slow.”

“When did you see that?” Nan asked.

“Last year. I went to Florida with Butch Wilson and his folks. We took some camera shots. There was one old lion sleeping there as if he didn't care about anything. And in the next section we had to stop the car ‘cause a mother antelope was feeding her baby—right in the middle of the road. None of them were shut up in cages there.”

“My grandma's in Florida,” Nan announced. “When I go to see her, maybe we can visit your Lion Country.”

“You used to live with her. How come you didn't go to Florida with her?”

Nan carefully used her spoon to combine fudge sauce with ice cream, pretending to study what she was doing.

“Didn't she want you around any more?”

Now she raised her eyes to answer hotly, “Of course she did! But Dr. Simmons said she had to go and live where it was warm. And the only place she could afford was Sunny-side Retirement Acres. They don't like children there—you can only visit. Then Mother got married.”

Chris's face turned blank. His mouth was again a sullen line. “Yeah, they got married,” he said flatly. “And you had to come to Aunt Elizabeth's to live. You don't need to go into that.”

“I didn't ask to come here!” she flashed. “She's not
my
aunt.”

Chris shrugged. “Kids always get shoved around, until they're big enough to do something about it. No use trying before then.”

“What do you plan to do?” Nan inquired. She did not want to think ahead to a long time of being shoved around until she was old enough to take measures to make her own life. She did not even know now what kind of a life she really wanted.

Chris stared down at the table top. “It doesn't matter— not now.”

It was as if he had pulled down a heavy curtain between them. Nan went on spooning up her sundae. Chris had never really talked with her before, but their exchange had not lasted long. He must hate living with Aunt Elizabeth just as much as she did. Nan wondered how he had lived before. Did he have someone like Grandma, too? She longed to ask, but she did not quite dare.

“There you are!” Aunt Elizabeth swooped down upon them. “That was great luck, Nan. Mrs. Ames is driving Martha to school tomorrow and will stop by for you. I really didn't want you to go off alone the first day. It will be such a change from Elmsport to the Wickcoff Grammar School. It's all arranged; they will be by for you at eight fifteen. Chris can ride along, too. They'll drop him off at the Academy as they have to pass right by there on the way.”

Aunt Elizabeth had a cup of coffee, which she now sipped. She made a face. “Bitter—” She pushed the cup toward the
center of the table. “No one in these places seems able to produce a drinkable cup of coffee.” If she caught the look of dismay on Nan's face, the deepening of the sullen droop of Chris's mouth, she refused to accept either as criticism of her own plans for their welfare.

It was not until after supper that Chris was able to get to his room by himself. He hesitated by the closet door. Get the inn out now? That was what he wanted. Yet the feeling that it was his alone, that he did not want anyone else to know about it, kept him from reaching for the suitcase. At last he sat down on the side of his bed. Aunt Elizabeth, that girl—they had to go to bed sometime. Then he could use his flashlight, get a good look at what he had bought. He squirmed unhappily, impatient to get at his find.

Mostly he did not want to think about the Academy tomorrow. Just because Dad had gone there, he was now supposed to enjoy it, according to Dad and Aunt Elizabeth. But the truth was that he hated the place.

Chris took off his glasses and rubbed his hand across his eyes. Could he help it that he was so nearsighted he was not good at sports? Twice he had broken his glasses back at Brixton trying to play basketball. He could never see why chasing around a ball, any kind or shape of a ball, was so important.

And if a guy liked to read or knew what the teacher was talking about, then he was a soppy square or something. Chris rubbed his forehead again. Al Canfield had threatened to give him the “business” if he outsmarted Greg Fellows in
class once more. Simply because Greg was team captain, and Chris had refused to write his themes for him.

Chris's round face took on a stubborn cast. He was not going to be their tame theme-paper writer, doing just what they said, as Perry Winn did in Chemistry. He supposed they would get him for it tomorrow when he did not produce the book review for Greg to copy.

Kids were like the animals at the old zoo. They were all in cages. Maybe you couldn't see the cages really, but they were there. He had always thought that when he was older Dad would see that he didn't have to be caged up. Chris pounded one fist on the bed.

“Chris?” Aunt Elizabeth's voice was right outside the door.

He got up quickly and went to answer.

“There is the special on TV—the one about Africa.”

Chris opened the door. “I've got my book review to write,” he said shortly.

“Why do you leave your homework until the last minute?” Aunt Elizabeth asked. “Well, I suppose I should be glad you do, do it. Margery says she has to keep after Tim every minute to get him to turn in anything at all.”

But she was studying him more closely than usual, and Chris felt just a little guilty at the lie. Only a little guilty, however, not enough to send him to the living room to watch TV with the others. He closed the door and stood listening. Yes, there was the sound of the TV being turned up. But he'd give them just a little more time. He had forgotten all about this show.

When he could be reasonably sure both Aunt Elizabeth and Nan were listening only to the show, he burrowed into the closet, drawing out the suitcase. He sat on the floor, his back carefully between it and the door, ready to slam the suitcase back into hiding should anyone come.

He shook off the old shirt and brought out the inn, carefully cupped in both hands. It was even more perfect than he remembered it. He had made many models, and quite difficult ones, but this was a work he was sure he could never equal.

A peep show, the man had said. You looked into those tiny windows, and what did you see?

Slowly Chris lifted the inn, so that the largest of the diamond-paned windows was at eye level and brought the whole of the small house close to his eyes.

But his glasses—those were in the way!

Hastily he swept them off and laid them on the bed. If he held something very close without them, he could manage all right. Now, with the window only an inch away, Chris strove to see what might indeed lie inside. There was—

Chris lowered the inn and rubbed at his eyes. Queer—it was as if there were a thick mist inside. He tried again. No, if there had ever been a way to see the interior, it was now gone; as if someone had pasted some whitish material over the inside of the window. One after another, he tried all the rest. They were all the same. You simply could not see in.

As he moved the inn about, he could hear that rattle. It came, he was sure, from a room with a single window, on the
first floor. He could not be mistaken—there must be something inside.

Warily Chris turned the inn upside down to inspect the smooth piece of wood which formed its base. He could not see any nails or screws there. But there must be a way to open it somehow, the boy was sure of that. Maybe it was a trick—like a Chinese-box puzzle he had once seen. Only he must be very careful in trying to solve it; he did not want anything to break.

Longingly he thought of the small tools he used for model building. Dare he try to pry off the bottom? No. Maybe if the inn was very old, the wood itself would split. He would just have to solve the puzzle some other way.

With regret he returned the model to his suitcase, shoved that back into hiding. He began to undress. Aunt Elizabeth didn't approve of reading in bed. But he could; at least until the program was over. Chris had discovered long ago that if you had a problem and could put it out of mind for a while, then when you thought about it once more, sometimes you saw the solution.

Nan watched a big-eared elephant squirting water over its baby. Chris said animals ought to be free, as this one in the picture was. She tried to think only of what she was seeing and not of tomorrow's trip to school. Chris was lucky. He had been here a month, had had time to learn what he had to do, to meet the other students. She was starting late in the term and that would mean she would have an awful lot to
make up. City schools were different from those in Elm-sport. They must have a lot harder subjects. And she did not know anyone at all. She hated going into a new room, having everyone look at her as if she were as different as the strange bird now stalking across the TV screen.

She felt rather sick, and she was going to have a headache, she was sure. Not that she would try to beg off from going tomorrow. Grandma had always said there was no use trying not to face things; that only made them worse. Though Nan could see nothing really worse than what was going to face her tomorrow.

She did not eat much of her breakfast on Monday morning, though she did drink her orange juice, which was the only thing that tasted good. The toast was too dry, in spite of the marmalade she spread thickly over it. Such bites as she swallowed rasped her throat. She got down about three spoonfuls of oatmeal, and envied Chris a little. He ate with his usual slowness, though Aunt Elizabeth told him twice that it was almost eight five and they must not keep Mrs. Ames waiting.

He was still at the table when Nan excused herself and went to get her coat and cap, being sure she had the envelope with her transfer grades in it. By the time she was back in the hall, he stood by the outer door, plainly impatient, bumping a book bag against the wall as if he would like to hammer it clear through that surface.

Mrs. Ames waved to them from her car as they came out of the lobby. Nan hurried forward, not out of eagerness but because she felt she had to get the worst over as soon as possible. She saw another girl in the back seat.

“This is Martha, Nan,” Mrs. Ames said. “You two can ride in the back. Chris can get in the front as he gets out first.”

Nan managed a “Hello,” and Chris echoed her in his I-don't-care voice. He ignored the girl. Nan glanced at Martha, who eyed her in a way which made Nan feel that either her hair was dreadfully untidy or else she had spots on her face.

Mrs. Ames said nothing more. It was plain she was concentrating on making her way through the early-morning traffic, a rush of cars which made Nan wonder how anyone dared try to edge into lines such as these.

Nan wanted to break the silence at first, needing desperately to have some small token of acceptance from this stranger. Then pride came to her rescue, and she sat looking straight at the back of Chris's tousled head. All right, if this Martha did not want to talk, she could be quiet, too.

“What grade are you in?”

When abruptly Martha did ask her that, Nan was startled. “I'm in the sixth—I was in the sixth,” she corrected herself. Who knew where she would end in the new school, especially coming in at the middle of the term?

“Then they'll probably put you in the Crab's room.” Martha sounded smug. “I'm in Miss Hill's. But we're full—they can't get anyone else in.” Her voice held a note of pleasure as if she were only too glad to impart this daunting bit of information.

“Who is the Crab?” Nan asked, refusing to be put down.