Us and Uncle Fraud (12 page)

"I hate him," I added, "and Marcus hates him, too."

But there was no response from Tom—we had learned by now not to expect one—and it was time to go home.

Marcus leaned over and began talking into Tom's silent, expressionless face again. "Claude left this message for Louise and me, in code, and we thought it really meant something. We used to say it to each other, just in private, all the time, and sometimes we wrote it to each other and poked it through this hole we have in the wall between our rooms."

We were telling Tom all of our secrets. It had been so important to Marcus and me, to have secrets together, and now it seemed important to tell them all to Tom.

"
Ya tebya lyublyu
," I said.

"
Ya tebya lyublyu
," Marcus repeated.

We said it in unison, and I think we had both meant to laugh at it and at ourselves, so that somewhere down there in his sleep, where maybe he could hear and understand, Tom could laugh at it and at us, too.

But we kept saying it and didn't laugh. It had meant so much to us, those meaningless and mysterious words; for a while it had been such a strong and secret bond. Now we were sharing it with our
brother who seemed lost, drowned for a second time in the deepness of this horrible sleep.

"
Ya tebya lyublyu, ya tebya lyublyu
," we chanted together, leaning over his bed. The evening nurse appeared, coming to take over from the afternoon shift, and she looked at us curiously. We didn't care. We ignored her, said the magic words one more time, and then went home for dinner.

That night, after I was in bed, I heard the knock on the wall that Marcus and I had devised as a signal. Marcus was about to send a note through our message hole. I turned on my light and reached for the paper that appeared.

DO YOU THINK HE STILL HAS DREAMS? Marcus had written to me.

I grabbed my pencil and wrote a lengthy answer while Marcus waited on the other side of the wall.

YES, I wrote, MOTHER SAID HE'LL STILL BE CHASING HIS DREAMS AROUND WHEN HE'S NINETY YEARS OLD, AND YOU KNOW WHAT I THINK? I THINK THAT'S STUPID. HE'S A LIAR AND A FRAUD AND A SILVERWARE THIEF AND I HOPE HE NEVER COMES BACK. AND ALSO HE CAN'T SPELL. ROLLS ROICE, HA HA.

I shoved my response through the hole and waited, but Marcus sent no note back. I turned off my light again. But I heard a noise in Marcus's room. I listened. Marcus was crying.

I climbed out of bed, went to the hall, and opened Marcus's door. He was in bed, his arms around his pillow, his shoulders shaking.

"Marcus, what's wrong?" I asked him.

"I meant Tom," he wept.

Stephie chattered endlessly at breakfast, about everything, and my two aunts bustled here and there, worrying about this and that: "Do you think this toaster needs repairs? I don't like the looks of that last piece of toast—it's much darker than it should be. And I believe I smell something odd from the toaster. Do you think it needs repairs, Florence?" "Well now, Jeanette, I just don't know. Shall we ask Hallie or Matt? I hate to disturb them with these household things, after all they're going through, but you know a defect in an electrical appliance can be dangerous. Goodness, what if Stephanie touched it and there were some defect that might cause her harm—Stephanie, dear, promise me that you will never touch this toaster; I think it may be defective."

Even Stephie had learned to tune them out and ignore their endless laments and warnings and complaints. She continued to talk to her doll.

Father came into the kitchen, poured himself some coffee, and drank it standing up. He couldn't bear to eat breakfast at home anymore; he said that if he had to listen to Florence and Jeanette first thing in the morning, he would go stark, raving mad.

"Let your mother sleep late, pip-squeaks," he said. "She had trouble sleeping last night. She's upset about something."

"About Tom?" I asked, suddenly frightened. "He was just the same when we saw him yesterday."

"No. I was with him last night, and there's no change. I don't know what's bothering her. She'll probably be all over it when she gets up." He set his cup down and turned to leave for the office.

"Oh, say," he said as he picked up his briefcase in the hall, "Marcus and Louise. Here's a mystery that you can clear up for me. I hate to start a day with an unsolved mystery."

"What's that?" We went into the hall to kiss him good-by and to solve his mystery.

"Last night, when I was at the hospital, the night nurse was there—you know, that heavyset woman with gray hair? I forget her name."

"Yeah," I said. "She came on duty just before we left."

"Well, she said that she was very surprised to hear you two speaking in Russian to your brother. I had to admit I was surprised, too. Where on earth did you pick up any Russian?"

Marcus and I looked at each other in amazement.

"It's
Russian
?" Marcus asked.

"Apparently whatever you were saying to Tom was Russian," Father said, grinning. "Didn't you know?"

We shook our heads. "What does it mean? We thought it was just words that didn't mean anything! Did she tell you what it means?" We were both talking at once.

But he shook his head. "I didn't think to ask her that."

"Call her! Ask her!" We tugged at him, pleading.

He looked at his watch. "She's gone off duty by now."

"Call her at home!" I begged.

"I don't know her name. Do you remember her name?"

But Marcus and I were at a loss. We paid no attention to the names of the nurses.

"Well," he said, turning to leave, "your mother will know. You can ask her when she gets up. But let her sleep for a while. She really had a rough night."

Marcus and I waited impatiently, prowling the house aimlessly, until Mother woke. School had ended for the year; outside, we could hear the neighborhood kids playing in the street. Nancy Brinkerhoff and Ben Staley came to the door to ask us to join a game of hide-and-seek, but we said no. We waited. Finally, at ten, we heard Mother go to the kitchen and pour herself some coffee.

Marcus and I ran to the kitchen. "Mother!" I said eagerly. "Guess what!"

But her face was grim. "Louise," she said in a cold voice, "come upstairs with me. I have to talk to you."

"But, Mother! Marcus and I—"

"Louise. Come now."

I followed her upstairs, motioning to Marcus to wait.

She took me into her room. The bed was still unmade; she sat down on it with her shoulders slumped as if she were very sad or in pain. I stood dutifully in front of her, waiting to be scolded or punished for some unknown offense, and she put her arms around me and held me very tight. Then she released me, and said, "Louise, you're my oldest daughter, and I love you more than I can ever tell you. Whatever happens, I want you to know that."

"I do," I said, puzzled. "I've always known that."

"And we must try our best to be honest with each other, always," she said.

I thought of Claude and wondered if he had tried his best. But I nodded. "Okay," I said.

She reached into the pocket of her bathrobe, took something out, and handed it to me. "I want you to tell me exactly where and how you got this," she said.

I held it, looked at it, and turned it over and over in my hands. It was a small silver pitcher, with an elegant, scrolled
L
engraved on its side. I knew
intuitively that it was a piece of the Leboffs' stolen silver. But I had never seen it before in my life.

"It's not mine," I said in confusion. "This is the first time I've ever seen it."

Mother sighed. "Louise," she said firmly, "last night I went out to the shed to bring in some gardening tools because I was going to try to find time to weed the tulip beds this morning. And there, lying in the corner, were your slickers—yours and Marcus's. They'd been there ever since that terrible day when Tom was hurt. And I thought that finally, after all this time, I could bring myself at least to pick them up and throw them away in the trash can."

She looked for a long time at the little pitcher before she went on. "This was in the pocket of your slicker," she said.

"Mother," I told her, "I'm telling you the truth. I've never seen it before. I didn't put it there."

Solemnly I crossed my heart. I looked at her face, sad and frustrated, and I thought of how hard it must have been for her to pick up those two torn, bloodstained slickers and to be reminded of what had happened to us and, especially, to Tom. The terror of that day surfaced in my memory, and I thought of how I had run through the rain, how I had seen Marcus's yellow slicker so bright against the terrible brown river; I thought of how I had screamed and sobbed, running there among the toppled tombstones, and—then I remembered.

"Mother," I said urgently, "it was Mr. Stratton! He dropped it on the ground, when I screamed for him to help me, and I picked it up and ran after him. I wasn't even thinking about anything but Tom. It was all covered with mud, and I didn't know what it was. Mr. Stratton had it there with him—he was up on this little hill, sort of hunched down, and I thought he was praying. He was
digging
, Mother! He dug this up from the ground in the cemetery!"

We hugged each other in relief. "I'll tell your father," she said. "He'll call the police."

I followed her down the stairs as she went to the phone. "Mother, what's the name of Tom's night nurse? The one with the gray hair?"

"Mira," she said distractedly. "Mira Leonov."

I didn't even listen to her conversation with Father. I took the telephone book, and Marcus and I found Leonov listed there. The house was on Woodmont Street, only a few blocks away from ours. We ran outside and headed for the night nurse's house.

The man who answered the door of the small frame house smiled pleasantly at us, but couldn't understand what we were saying. He spoke practically no English. He stood there patiently, listening, watching our lips as if it might help, but finally he simply began to laugh heartily.

"Quit trying to explain everything, Marcus," I suggested. "Let me try saying something real simple."

"Mira Leonov," I said to the man, and he nodded. "Is she here?"

He seemed to understand, but his face wrinkled up with the
effort
as he tried to think of an answer for us. Finally he resorted to pantomime; he put his hands together in a praying position, arranged them beside his face, against his cheek, closed his eyes, and snored loudly. Then he opened his eyes and beamed.

"She's asleep," Marcus said in disgust.

"Well, she works all night," I said, defending poor Mira Leonov.

"Let's tell him to wake her up."

"How?"

Neither of us could figure out how to say "Wake her up, please, it's important" in sign language. The man stood there smiling at us, waiting. He seemed to be just as frustrated as we were.

"Well, look, Louise," Marcus suggested, "he's probably her husband, don't you think?"

I nodded. "You—Mr. Leonov?" I asked.

He smiled and nodded eagerly.

"So he speaks Russian," Marcus said to me. "He'll know what it means."

"Great; how's he going to tell
us?
"

"Let's try, anyway."

I shrugged; it couldn't hurt. Marcus and I stood up straight as if we were reciting in school, side by side. He said it first, pronouncing it carefully; and then I repeated it.

"
Ya tebya lyublyu.
"

"
Ya tebya lyublyu.
"

The man's smile broadened in delight, and he clapped his hands together. He knelt, there in the open doorway, so that his face was level with ours.

"
Ya tebya lyublyu
," he said in a booming voice, and he opened his arms wide and drew us both into them. We were squished against his chest, but it wasn't a bad or a frightening feeling; the man seemed so happy.

He let us go and pinched our cheeks gently. Then, still kneeling at our level, he took a deep breath, and it was obvious that he was about to attempt a translation.

"
Ya tebya lyublyu
," he said. "Russian."

We nodded.

He grinned. "English," he announced proudly.

We waited, while he thought it over.

"I love you!" he said.

We backed away, startled.

"Thank you," I said, nervously. "Good-by now." Marcus and I headed down the steps of the small porch, and he watched us, beaming.

"I love you!" he called, and we both nodded, embarrassed, and waved to him.

We walked home together sheepishly, hoping no one had seen or overheard our encounter.

"Jeez," Marcus muttered, kicking a stone down the sidewalk, "You don't say stuff like that to strangers."

"Well," I pointed out, "we said it to Tom. And Tom's like a stranger. I feel like I don't even know him anymore."

Marcus turned angrily and punched me on the arm. "You take that back," he said.

I didn't respond, except to rub the place where he had punched me, and he did it again, and repeated his words. "Take it back," he said. "Take it back."

But I wouldn't. I simply walked beside him silently, enduring his repeated jabs at my aching arm, not even bothering to punch him in return.

When we reached our house, the aunts were there on the porch, both talking at once, waving their arms and their aprons, giving us instructions and news and warnings and predictions. When we sorted out what they were saying, we shrieked with delight and headed full speed for the hospital, where Mother and Father were waiting for us. Tom was awake.

It was a long time before Tom was really well. He had to learn to walk and to talk and to read, as if his life had begun all over again. He didn't remember the day of the flood; when he came home from the hospital and we showed him his bike, newly painted after Father's hours of meticulous repairs, he seemed puzzled and confused. "Why did you do that?" he asked Father, forming the words very carefully. "It was okay before."

When we explained to him that the bike had been smashed by rocks and had lain in the filthy flood water for three days, he just shook his head.