Читать книгу House of Secrets - Ned Vizzini - Страница 14

“What are you doing here?” Brendan demanded, brandishing his lacrosse stick like a two-handed axe. “Leave my family alone!”

“Brendan!” his mother snapped. “Have you lost your mind? Put that down!”

The old crone turned to face him. She wasn’t dressed in dirty rags any more. She wore a loose polka-dot dress and a floral bandanna that hid her baldness; her teeth were freshly cleaned and polished, almost white. She carried an apple pie in her left hand; her right was tucked into her dress pocket. “What’s wrong, son? You seem troubled.”

Brendan gritted his teeth. “You bet I’m troubled. Now drop the pie, put your hands over your head, and get out of our house—”

“Brendan! Give me that lacrosse stick! Immediately!” his father ordered.

“Dad, this old bag’s evil. I’ll bet she spiked that pie with arsenic—”

“You’re playing too many video games. Hand over the stick!”

Silence gripped the room. Brendan gulped and gave his dad the lacrosse stick.

“Now apologise,” ordered his mother.

Brendan took a deep breath, refusing to make eye contact with the old woman, and said under his breath, “Sorry.”

“You’re more than sorry. You’re grounded for a month. You can’t just threaten people,” said his father.

“I’m not sure she’s a person,” Brendan mumbled.

“Bren,” Cordelia said, “she was introducing herself. She’s our next-door neighbour.”

“Great.”

“I apologise for my son’s unconscionable behaviour,” said Dr Walker, putting the lacrosse stick against a wall. “Brendan, go to your room; we’ll discuss this shortly. Ma’am, we never had a chance to get your name.”

“Dahlia Kristoff,” the old crone said. “And please don’t worry about your son. I understand about young boys. Especially these days. So many stimuli.”

“Are you related to Denver Kristoff, the writer?” Cordelia asked breathlessly.

“He’s my father.”

Was your father, Brendan thought as he mounted the back stairs, unless he’s like two hundred.

“I’m a fan,” Cordelia said. She held up her copy of The Fighting Ace.

“It’s so nice to meet a fellow bibliophile. Did you get that from my father’s library?”

Cordelia nodded, a little embarrassed – but then again, it was her library now.

“I remember when he finished it. I was born here. See that old joker behind you?” Dahlia nodded to the philosopher bust in the great hall. “Used to call him Arsdottle. Never could pronounce his name correctly.”

“How long did you live here?” asked Cordelia.

“Oh, not too long,” replied Dahlia. “I’ve moved around a bit. Europe, the Far East… I’ve lived in places you wouldn’t believe. But I could never get Kristoff House out of my soul.”

“Where do you live now?” Eleanor asked. “One thirty or one twenty-six?” Cordelia gave her a squeeze. She was getting better with numbers.

“Aren’t you a precious one!” said Dahlia. “One thirty, the fine painted lady next door.”

“The purple house with the white trim?” asked Mrs Walker. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you. And you are… Walkers, correct?” said Dahlia.

“How did you know that?” asked a slightly unnerved Dr Walker.

“The neighbours,” replied Dahlia. “They like to talk. But they didn’t tell me your Christian names—”

“She’s lying!” Brendan called from the staircase where he’d been spying. “Don’t listen to her—”

“Brendan. To. Your. Room,” Dr Walker said. “I’m sorry, Mrs Kristoff—”

“Miss Kristoff.”

“Miss Kristoff. We are the Walkers, yes.” Dr Walker put on his business voice. “I’m Jacob. This is my wife, Bellamy; our daughters Cordelia and Eleanor; and… um… Brendan… who is apparently refusing to leave the staircase.”

“That’s right!”

Dr Walker sighed.

“Such a pleasure,” said Dahlia. “So what are you children ‘into’?”

“Excuse me?” Dr Walker asked.

“What are your enthusiasms and interests? Isn’t that how the young people put it today?”

“Reading,” said Cordelia.

“Horses,” said Eleanor.

“And your brother? What about him? Is he more adventurous?”

“None of your business!” Brendan yelled. “Why are you guys letting her stay here! You should be kicking her—”

“Brendan! I’ve got this,” Dr Walker said. “I don’t want to be rude, Miss Kristoff, but we have dinner to get to. We do look forward to being your neighbour. And we gratefully accept your pie.”

Dahlia handed Dr Walker the gift and looked at each of the Walkers in turn. There was nothing in her eyes but equanimity.

“I know I ask too many questions. It’s only because I don’t have many friends left. Or much time.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” said Mrs Walker. “Your health…?”

“It’s nothing to worry about. Nothing lasts forever. I shouldn’t have even mentioned it! Please, enjoy your pie – and your evening.”

With that she left, closing the door behind her.

“What a strange—” Cordelia started, but her father said, “Shhh.”

“What?”

“When you say goodbye to a person, you always wait ten seconds before talking about them.” He counted down: “Two… one… go.”

“What a freak,” Brendan said, rejoining them. Dr Walker sighed at the futility of sending his son to his room. “I bet she isn’t even sick. And you better throw that pie away. Definite anthrax alert.”

“For once, Bren, I agree with you,” said Dr Walker, dumping the pie in the trash.

“Hold on!” said Cordelia. “You guys aren’t being fair. She could just be senile. She’s obviously not really Kristoff’s daughter. He built this house in… Bren?”

Her brother thought for a moment. “1907.”

“Right, so what is she, a hundred?”

“If she was born here, she could be as old as a hundred and six. And you should see how she looks before she takes a shower. And gets teeth-whitening strips.” Brendan was wondering how he would sleep tonight. Forget the lacrosse stick – he needed a flamethrower.

“She was a little creepy,” Mrs Walker said. “I don’t like the idea that she used to live here.”

“Don’t worry, it’ll sort itself out.” Dr Walker put an arm around his wife. “Let’s just be thankful that the move is over and get dinner.” He kissed Mrs Walker on the cheek.

“Who wants to try our new pizza place?” Mrs Walker asked. “It’s called Pino’s.” She was already looking at her phone. “It’s supposed to be delicious.”

“I’m going upstairs,” Cordelia said – and then, in a whisper to Brendan, “to find out a little more about Dahlia Kristoff.”

“I’ll come with you,” Brendan whispered back, surprised at his sudden urge to work with his sister.

“No, you’ve got to talk your way out of being grounded,” Cordelia said, leaving Brendan… who looked up to see his parents standing over him, ready to have a long talk with him about threatening people with weapons.

Upstairs, Cordelia took down a picture from the wall: the faded image of the elderly woman, who Diane Dobson had said was Kristoff’s mother, holding a baby. She went to her room, got a nail file, and came back to the hallway. She used the nail file to open the frame, moving very slowly and carefully. Finally she got the picture free. On the back of it, perhaps in Denver Kristoff’s own handwriting, it said: Helen K w/Dahlia K, Mother’s 70th, Alamo Square, 1908.

Cordelia flipped the picture over to look at the baby: the infant Dahlia Kristoff. Her eyes had the same steely intensity—

“Cordelia!”

She nearly jumped out of her skin. It was her mother from downstairs. “Pizza’s here!”

Cordelia shimmied the picture back into the frame, which was a very painstaking process that left her pizza downstairs almost cold by the time she got to it. She found her family on the living-room floor, digging into a pepperoni pizza without plates, pouring cups of soda for one another. Dr Walker had hooked up the TV and ordered an on-demand movie: the Marx Brothers’ Duck Soup.

“The Marx Brothers? Again? We always watch the Marx Brothers!” argued Eleanor. “Can’t we watch something in colour? Where the people are still alive?”

“It’s a family tradition,” said Dr Walker. And he was right. Whenever the family had something to celebrate, they’d order up a Marx Brothers classic. The opening credits for Duck Soup began to roll.

“What’d you find?” Brendan whispered to Cordelia.

“Dahlia Kristoff is in one of the pictures upstairs. And if that picture is dated correctly, she’s a hundred and five years old.”

“Did you see her hands in the picture?”

“Yes, why?”

“Because somewhere along the way she lost one. I have to tell you something, Deal. I didn’t want to say, because I was embarrassed, but—”

But the doorbell rang.