Читать книгу Secret Summers - Glynda Shaw - Страница 9

“Come in, Monique! It’s our little lighthouse girl,” my aunt confided. I was caught, so to speak, like a deer in the headlights and just stood there where I was as a small whirlwind in pink pedal pushers and blond ponytails came gusting through the door.

“This is Monique,” Claire said unnecessarily. ”Monique, this is Ninian. You know, the one I’ve been telling you about?”

“Well, hello!” Monique actually hugged me in excitement. ”I’ve been hearing all about you. We’ll have such fun!” In the same breath she asked, “Do you sleep in the tower room?”

I nodded.

“I’ve got to tell you a secret,” she whispered. ”Can she show me her room?” Monique asked. Of course I thought at first she was talking to me. Claire hadn’t offered to show me her room, and why would anyone be asking my permission? but my aunt responded, “You children just run along,” she said. ”We’ll finish the look-around later. Maybe I can find some refreshments.”

Without time to process what I’d just heard, what I’d just experienced, I led the way to my room. Monique pulled the door closed behind us. I’d not visited with that many girls in my home before or that many kids at all, come to think of it, so had no strictures about bedrooms and doors open or closed, and she obviously desired that what passed between us wouldn’t go farther. Monique pointed at my closet door.

“That’s where,” she said.

“Where what?” I asked.

“Where the ladder is,” she illumined. When I’d noticed the ladder that morning, I’d found it kind of creepy that I had a hole right from my room into the attic but had decided I was just being silly.

“I know,” I said.

“I’ve stayed here before,” Monique told me then. ”Lots of times. My mom and your aunt are—good friends.” She made an unh-hunh noise in her throat as if there should be more meaning to that than the words alone expressed, but I didn’t catch her meaning.

“I’ve been told to leave things alone in other people’s houses,” she went on, “but this is your house too, isn’t it?”

I considered a little. ”I suppose. It’s my room for the summer anyhow.” I’d not have reached this sort of decision on my own, but Monique made the whole thing sound so reasonable and so definitely right. ”Is there something wrong with the ladder?”

Monique put her mouth up against my ear and the little hairs inside tickled as she whispered, “There’s something up there.”

“What?” I asked, not so sure I wanted to know.

“A box,” she told me.

“A box?” Now she had me whispering too.

“A carved wooden box,” she said, “with stuff written on it.”

“Really? What does it say?”

“I’ve never seen it,” Monique demurred. ”I’d have to show you.” Without further remark, she was into the closet and climbing up the ladder. ”Up here,” she called gasping a bit with the effort of pulling over the top. I began to follow, then remembered the flashlight Aunt Claire had given me the night before. I scrambled back down and reached for the tall metal cylinder standing on my almost empty dresser. ”Come on,” Monique urged.

“I’m getting a light,” I said and was up there with her as quickly as I could with the flashlight clamped between my chin and chest. The attic was empty mostly, a few boxes, a few of what might be gardening tools, some rolled up rugs and old sofa cushions, and a polished, dark wood box with carved lettering on it, sitting on the attic floor, maybe five feet from the opening. I flicked on the flashlight and crawled closer. In the unaccountably clean surface of the box was written

The key to things without is that locked safe within.

The thread that runs, however far, must tie yet end to end.

The open hand alone can grasp the things unknown.

No question lies upon the tongue with no answer nearby to be shown.

“Wow,” I said. ”You’ve never seen this before?”

“No,” Monique said as if by reflex. Then she added, “I’ve heard about it though.”

“Wonder what it means,” I said.

“I think it’s a way to open the box,” she opined.

I thought of my sketchpads and drawing pens still in the satchel. ”Wait a minute. I’ll go get a pencil and a piece of paper.”

“Don’t bother,” she told me. ”I have it by heart.”

“I thought you said you’d never seen this thing before.”

“I’m a quick study,” Monique said mildly.

“Wow,” I said again, rattling the lid, trying the fastenings. It seemed latched. There was a lock plate with keyhole and nothing I did could open it.

“No good doing that,” she objected. ”It’s locked.”

I remembered, just then, the noises I’d heard the night before, a door opening and closing (or a lid?), something sounding not big enough to be a door for a house or room, maybe more like a cabinet or a chest. Then I recalled that Monique had watched us drive in late last evening.

“Monique?”

“Hmmm?”

“You weren’t over here last night were you?”

She gave a delighted little laugh. ”Of course not, silly! What makes you ask a thing like that?” I told her about the sounds I’d heard. She was quiet for a time then. ”Maybe you’re the one,” she said.

“Nin-ian! Mo-nique!” Aunt Claire called. ”Lem-on-ade!”

“Oh, shit,” Monique said. I don’t know that I’d heard a girl her age talk that way before, and I was nearly knocked over in her scramble to get down the ladder. I landed just a few seconds after her, brushing at my borrowed clothes, my heart pounding as if caught out in some grave mischief. Though it was less than an hour since breakfast, Claire had spread a party-colored paper cloth on the table and set out neat little stacks of Oreos, strawberry slices, and glasses of lemonade, which appeared fresh squeezed.

“Why, thank you, Claire,” Monique said sounding now very grown-up. ”This looks lovely.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, my ears still reddened from the thought that I’d just invaded Aunt Claire’s attic without asking permission, something that Mom, I was pretty certain, would disapprove.

Monique kept up a running chatter about local events and persons concerning the identity of whom I hadn’t a single clue and telling me from time to time about all of the fun things there were to do now that summer was here. ”So,” I said when my aunt had left the table for more of something or other. ”Why did you say that I was the one?” She kicked me under the table on my bare shin.

“I don’t know how much your aunt knows,” she hissed in my ear when the little party was over, and we could be alone for a moment in the living room. ”Look at that girl in the picture.” Monique pointed to the blue clad figure who my aunt had once been. ”I saw a dress just like this in your closet,” she said then. “Let’s go get it and see what Claire says. Maybe she’ll let something slip.” Monique’s voice became even more hushed. ”You know,” she said, “about the ghost?”

I shook my head. ”A ghost?”

“Oh yes, she’s been seen often, a little girl about seven years old. She always appears to be looking for somebody, and I’ve had the feeling she’s been looking for that girl in the picture. Why, I don’t know, but you’ve got to admit that you are looking just like her.” Again she pointed.

A feeling of confusion enveloped me. Then I realized I still had the scarf on and dressed as I was—. It finally became clear. Monique thought I was a girl! I had no urge to delve deeper than I already had, but Monique had a tone to her voice, a stare to her eye, a way about her that made it difficult to tell her no. Soon enough we were back in my room. Monique removed the long blue dress from its hanger. Under her prodding, I took off my tee shirt, leaving on the Bermuda shorts, and she helped me work the musty smelling material over my head, buttoning me up in back.

Then she spied the suitcase still lying open on my bed and gave a little shriek. ”This!” she said, holding up a pink garment very much like the dress worn in the picture by my mother. Without hesitation, she stripped off shirt and shorts, showing polka dotted underpants for just a moment before she was dressed again and, with some rummaging, found a scarf among the other feminine items in my appropriated luggage. Monique studied herself in the mirror on the back of my door, gasped, looked back to me. ”See?” she demanded. ”We could have just stepped out of that photo!”

Stealthily we went in search of my aunt. She was in one of the work rooms standing between a potter’s wheel and an old-fashion treadle-type sewing machine, riffling through a card file. Some noise we made alerted her when we were about three feet behind her. Whirling, “Goddess,” she breathed, then laughed uneasily. ”If you two are interested in giving me a coronary, you’re on the right track!” Her face grew more thoughtful then. ”You do look perfect though. Both of you.”

“Could we wear these dresses to the gathering tonight?” Monique squealed. ”Please?”

“Well,” my aunt wrinkled her forehead. “Come to think of it, that sounds like a wonderful idea.” To me, she said, “It’s just like a masquerade party.” Monique clapped her hands, but I must’ve looked blank. I’d been doing quite a bit of that lately.

“A little celebration,” Claire explained, hugging me, “in honor of having my special one here after so long and,” hugging Monique, “my other special one who’s always here.”

So, I thought, she’s glad to see me, and I’d already figured out Monique was somebody pretty important to her, which was okay all around. I liked Monique and she pretty clearly liked me. Whether that all added up to wearing a dress to a neighborhood picnic, or whatever, was to be seen.