Henry & Eva and the Famous People Ghosts

by Andrea Portes

  “Voilà!” The top hinge unfastens.

  Zeb and I rush over, unfastening the pins on the two bottom hinges in a dash.

  “If my calculations are correct, the door will now come off—”

  “Lookout!” I scream.

  The dark wood heavy door timbers over in giant . . .

  THWAM!

  The dust flies up around it and the sound echoes through the stone chamber.

  “Uh-oh. We better get out of here before those tweedles come running.” Zeb looks around.

  “Indeed,” Henry agrees.

  “But which way?” I ask. The dark hallway stretches both ways into eternity.

  “If memory serves, I believe I heard Binky heading to the left,” Henry remembers.

  “Are you serious right now?” I ask. “You’re saying you could hear that.”

  “Dead serious,” he adds.

  From the end of the corridor echoes the sound of heavy footsteps. They must have heard the door crash. Everybody in California must have heard the door crash.

  “Okay, no time for chitchat. Let’s go!” Zeb snaps us into shape and the three of us take off, running in the opposite direction of the footsteps.

  Behind us, the footsteps come closer.

  As we make our way through the dark, dank labyrinth of the basement, we hear the noise echoing behind us.

  “Come out, come out, little kids!”

  “Come out wherever you are!”

  Great. Hide-and-seek. I hate that game.

  Mostly because I am very, very bad at it.

  18

  THE HALLWAY DEPOSITS us at the bottom of a rickety wooden staircase. Behind us, we can still hear the footsteps of the guards in pursuit. The three of us hurl ourselves up the steps, about thirty of them, and through a door, shutting it behind us and locking it. In front of us is a kind of mini courtyard. Vines and stone benches.

  “Which way?” I ask.

  Henry points to a doorway across the courtyard. That way.

  The three of us fling ourselves through the doorway and into the room, catching our breath.

  “Shh.” We listen. “They’re out there.”

  Outside we can hear the steps of two guards, looking around.

  “Hey, this way!” The two guard’s feet hit the ground and the sound gets farther and farther away.

  “Phew.” Zeb exhales.

  “I wonder why they didn’t check in here?” I ask.

  “They likely assumed we wanted to escape, and there were two passageways from the courtyard out,” Henry quips.

  “Ah, so you tricked them by doing the thing no one would do.” Zeb thinks.

  “Exactly.” Henry nods.

  Zeb and I share a look. “Not bad.”

  “I vant to be alone.” The voice breaks into our little moment. It’s a woman’s voice, a kind of European accent to it.

  We look over and observe, for the first time, the room we’re in. It’s a kind of dressing room, with tuxedos, assorted costumes, boas, hats, and evening gowns hanging from all four corners. In the middle of the wall on the other side of the room sits a solitary figure facing the other way. We can only see her reflection in the mirror. She shimmers a beautiful gray-blue.

  “I vant to be alone,” she repeats.

  “Cool! Look at these costumes!” Zeb says, donning a top hat.

  He doesn’t see the ghost before us. The ghost of Greta Garbo, sitting there on the vanity in some kind of white chiffon getup, making her look like a shimmering dove.

  “Greta Garbo?”

  She looks up at us, and says in the same Swedish accent, “I vant to be alone.”

  Henry and I step forward, transfixed. Zeb, on the other hand, is now playing with a boa.

  She looks at us, imploring, “You must reverse the incantation. Your little spell . . . or I shall never have any peace.”

  Henry and I look at each other.

  I guess it never occurred to us that our little incantation might actually bother some of the ghosts. Our ancestors seem to relish making an entrance, telling us strange things, and—poof!—disappearing once again. But I guess you never really know when it comes to ghosts. They’re as finicky and singular as . . . well, people.

  Henry nods to the Greta Garbo ghost. “Yes, yes, of course. We didn’t know we were . . . actually bothering you. Or upsetting you—”

  She begins to fade into the mirror, her reflection a prism of light and shadows. “I vant to be alone. . . .”

  “Henry, do you think we hurt the ghosts by saying the incantation?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. But we can’t forget to reverse it.” Henry turns to Zeb. “Zeb, don’t let us forget to reverse the incantation.”

  Zeb is now wearing a top hat and a boa and wielding a sword. He steps forward, declaring, “I shan’t, my noble king!”

  “Okay, you’re having far too much fun right now, considering the circumstances.”

  He shrugs. “Just trying to be present for the universe.”

  “Okay, I don’t mean to be a bummer, but we still have a heist to thwart, remember?”

  “I know, I know. I’m waiting for you guys to finish your ghost encounter.” He thrusts his sword in the air. “And then I shall march with honor!”

  “Fine. Let’s march with honor this way.” Henry leads us out to the courtyard, following the cobblestone path.

  We take a left and full stop, stepping all over one another as we see three guards up the path about a baseball field away. We twirl on a dime and head the opposite direction of the guards.

  “Phew. That was close,” Zeb whispers.

  The three of us breathe a sigh of relief but we should just take that breath back because just as we take a quick left, we run smack-dab into the Midwestern Mastermind.

  19

  “AH! JUST THE three little annoying nuisances I was looking for!” The Midwestern Mastermind towers over us.

  Up close, now, I see he really is one of the skinniest people I have ever encountered. The purple rings around his eyes are more defined, and his snaggly yellow teeth look like a row off a corncob.

  In case we had any thought of escape, behind him are the majority of the tweedle-guards. Most of them are lugging things around and groaning, but a few of them, about three, are most definitely on surly guard duty. Sitting a few feet away, looking bored and playing Candy Crush, is Binky.

  “Binky? I thought you hated video games!” Zeb looks over.

  “Yeah, that was an act for your bleeding-heart dad.” She rolls her eyes.

  He stares at her for a beat, the air between them heavy. “I can’t believe you! You are literally the worst! I can’t believe I was looking forward to spending Christmas with you! Now I wouldn’t even accept anything from you! Not an Xbox One X! Or even a kids’ motorcycle. Or one of those things that you drive around and has bars on the top—”

  “Dune buggy,” I chime in.

  “A dune buggy! Or even a golf cart! Or an all-inclusive safari on the Serengeti! Or a robot butler named Jeeves! Or a—”

  “Are you done?” the Midwestern Mastermind interrupts.

  “Not quite. No, not quite at all. I left out the most important thing, the number one thing, I would not accept from you. Your love! I would not accept your love!” Zeb shouts.

  “Got it. So—”

  “NO LOVE!” Zeb cuts off the Mastermind.

  Some of the other tweedle-guards are coming over now, taking an interest.

  “What’s the deal?” one of them asks the one nearest.

  “I think that lady was the bride in this sham of a wedding and I think she was gonna be his stepmom,” the other guard answers.

  “Man. Stepmoms suck,” a tweedle answers.

  “I hear ya,” the other agrees.

  “Would you idiots mind!” Mastermind insults them. “Can’t you see; I’m wrapping up a heist here?!”

  He turns to us, smiling. “That’s right, kids. Wrapping up. That means . . . success. That means . . . on your
part . . . failure.”

  “Failure is just a stepping stone to success,” Zeb corrects him.

  “No! No, it’s not! This. Is. A. Fail. You lost! Okay, get it through your heads! Losers!” Mastermind now calms down, taking another tone.

  He steps forward, closer to us. “You know, I was thinking about you kids. What’s the best thing to do with little obnoxious kids that won’t go away?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say we’re obnoxious. Especially Henry, he’s very polite,” Zeb points out.

  “Stop it! Stop interrupting me!” He goes back to his calm act. “And I realized . . . Yes, you can kill those kids. You can. String ’em up by their little belt loops. But . . . is that really the most profitable thing to do . . . ? I mean, wouldn’t it be better just to keep these little kids as your very own personal servants? Living a full life in the basement, eating gruel and doing whatever I say for eternity? Isn’t that a more suitable punishment?”

  Henry and I look at each other.

  Mastermind goes on. “After all, they’re certainly smarter than these idiots I’ve hired.”

  “Hey!” One of the guards takes offense.

  “I’m just telling it like it is. I could use some indentured servants with brains.” He scruffs Henry’s hair. Henry winces. “And . . . now that I’m going to have the most enormous mansion and estate in the history of the world, I could use a sweet little girl to clean it! Just like little girls are supposed to do, ain’t that right?” Now he scruffs my hair. I fume.

  “And you, little blue-streaked devil. I’m sure I’ll be able to turn you into a juvenile delinquent in no time.” He goes to scruff Zeb’s hair.

  “Don’t touch me, dude,” Zeb tells him.

  He sneers, drawing back. “Oh, don’t worry, little ones. You’ll make a great little troupe. Perhaps I can teach you to do funny acts for my many guests. A kind of ‘in-house’ theater.”

  “I wouldn’t have pegged him for a theater guy,” I whisper.

  He turns to his tweedle-guards.

  “All right, knuckleheads, load ’em in the truck.” Two tweedle-guards come forward, grabbing Henry and Zeb.

  None of the tweedles seem to want to grab me so Binky, annoyed, does it for them, pulling me by the arm.

  The back of the very last white truck is open, revealing a treasure trove of statues and oil paintings. The guards begin leading Henry and Zeb over to the mouth of the truck, which waits to swallow us whole.

  It never occurred to me that we might fail. That somehow, after all this effort, all this madcap running around, running back and forth, communing with ghosts, trying to save everyone . . . that it would all be for naught. That’s not the way it is in movies. In movies, no matter what, the good guys win.

  Like, in that movie with all the airplanes flying around in Dunkirk, when all the normal people give up their boats to go save the trapped soldiers because Churchill—

  Wait a minute.

  Churchill.

  Winston Churchill showed up in the bathtub and he said what? What?

  The guards hoist Zeb up into the truck. Henry looks back at me.

  Strategy!

  Strategy strategy strategy . . .

  Before my head knows what my body is doing, I hoist off Binky’s arm, tipping her off-balance.

  “Hey!” she screeches.

  I rush over to the cab of the truck, using the side mirror as a ladder, stepping up onto the top of the cab, and then onto the top of the truck.

  “You imbeciles! Get her!” the Mastermind shouts.

  The tweedle-guards circle in, now there are about twenty of them, almost the whole crew.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll come down. I’ll come down in a second and there doesn’t have to be a struggle. Okay? I’ll come down.” The tweedles relax a bit.

  Henry and Zeb look up at me like I’ve lost my marbles.

  “But before I do . . . I just want to say one thing.” I take a breath. “Look behind me! What do you see? A castle? Or a testament to one man’s greed? I mean, seriously, did he really need ALL THAT STUFF?”

  The tweedles look up at me quizzically.

  “And this guy, your boss! Look at him! Does he really need all that stuff? Does anyone? No. I say no! And I say . . . that if you guys are the ones doing all the work, all the toil, all the blood, sweat, and tears . . . then this guy, your boss, shouldn’t be the one making off with all the profits. You get me? The great Charlie Chaplin organized his artists, he stood up to the man, and said, ‘No more! We are the power! Not you!’”

  The tweedles shuffle a bit on their feet.

  “I say you should do the same!” I shout.

  “C’mon! Get her down!” the Mastermind urges.

  “Look, some of you are getting paid as little as two thousand, right?”

  The tweedles shuffle some more.

  “Get! Her! Down!” The diabolical Midwesterner is now steaming at the ears.

  “I don’t know much but I do know that he!” I point at the hopping-mad mastermind. “He . . . is raking in millions from this. Maybe even billions!”

  The tweedles start looking at one another, sharing glances.

  “So, does that seem fair to you? This guy? Here? This skinny little guy? The guy who has been verbally abusing you for the past three hours? He’s just sailing out of this set for life . . . and what about you? What about your rent? Your car payments? Your medical bills? Your dumb roommate situations? Are you set for life? Are you waltzing out of here? Well . . . are you?”

  The tweedles mutter a response.

  “Are you?”

  “No!” One of the tweedle-guards yells it out.

  Now another. “No way!”

  “Not even close!”

  “I just saved a bunch of money switching my car insurance!”

  Everybody looks at that guy.

  “Sorry.”

  But the tweedle crowd is riled up now, seeing the injustice of it all. I roll with it.

  “And is he!” I point back to the Midwestern Mastermind. “Is he going to serve all your sentences for you if you get caught? Well . . . is he?”

  “No!”

  “Nope!”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No way!”

  They’re one-upping one another. Rapid. Ready to pounce. All the injustices of the world suddenly revealed.

  I go on. “And if we stick together, we can help one another. We can demand fair payment, and stick it to the man! Say it with me! Enough is enough! Enough is enough!”

  “Enough is enough!” they shout out.

  “Enough is enough!” Now everyone.

  It’s kind of fun.

  The Midwestern Mastermind starts to tiptoe backward, trying to melt into the bushes.

  “Oh, no you don’t!” One of the tweedle-guards grabs him, pinning him down. “You’re staying right there, you greedy little jerk!”

  “Yeah, you jerk!”

  “How about share the wealth!”

  “Yeah, how about giving a working guy a break, huh?”

  I pipe up. “Now, you guys, it’s not too late. You could just set yourselves free and just take off! There are even costumes on the first floor, next to the courtyard! You could dress up as wedding guests and just flee to liberty, away from this dark life of thievery and woe . . . ! Also, you should free the wedding guests!”

  “Oh, they’re not going anywhere,” one of the tweedles says.

  “Why not?” Henry asks.

  “They’re watching a Law & Order marathon,” he answers. “We put it on at the beginning of the heist. You know, just to put everybody at ease. . . . That show’s really good. Good acting. Gripping plot. Sam Waterston offers a certain gravitas. . . .”

  Another tweedle joins in. “That noise at the beginning. Clunk. Clunk. It’s like you have to watch.”

  “Oh yeah. Exactly. They get you in the first two minutes,” another tweedle agrees.

  “Wait a minute.” It comes to me. “So those gunshots we heard were f
rom a Law & Order marathon?”

  “Gunshots? Yeah, that definitely wasn’t us.” The tweedle thinks. “Must have been the episode with the fancy art thief and his mistress.”

  Now another tweedle pipes up. “No, it was definitely the one with prep school kids and the measles mom.”

  “Oh, that was a good one.”

  “I know, right?” The tweedles nod in agreement.

  Down below, both Binky and the Midwestern Mastermind are being tied to a tree. Both of them are kicking and hurling insults.

  “You imbecile!” Binky yells. “You ruined my entire impeccable plan! You blew it!! I should have left you in Kalamazoo!”

  “Not everyone has your snake-in-the-grass talents, Ms. Royal Princess Bride! No, they do not. But I was the one down here in the gutter recruiting muscle while you . . . you were having cake tastings!”

  Binky gasps. “I did that for us! You know my sensitivity to carbs!”

  But bicker as they might, they’re literally stuck together for the foreseeable future.

  “Sorry, dude, shoulda been less greedy,” one of the tweedles tells him as he tightens the rope. The others chant:

  “Enough is enough! Enough is enough!”

  This scene of egalitarian happiness is interrupted, however, by the sound of sirens in the distance.

  Finally.

  The cops.

  “Oh, dudes, we better get out of here!” The tweedles all realize this is not the best place to be right now. It’s amazing how quickly they scatter to all four corners of the map, into the trees, into the castle, up the hills, down to the sea. It’s about twenty seconds until every last one of them is gone completely, leaving our resistance moment all but a giddy memory.

  The line of police cars winds its way up the long drive to the castle, snaking its way up to us in flashes of blue and red.

  The rain has gone back down to a drizzle, almost a mist.

  “Wait a minute.” Zeb stands up.

  Henry and I look, seeing what he sees. In the first police car, in the front seat, there sits the Redondo guard. Right there, in the passenger seat. He smiles wide.

  As the car pulls up, the Redondo guard gets out, hurrying over to Zeb.