Us and Uncle Fraud

by Lois Lowry

  All of the houses on The Riverbank—there were only seven—were grand estates by our standards, fortresses of massive stone set far back on sculptured lawns and in some cases surrounded by forbidding walls and gates. But the Leboffs' house was the grandest. When, in third grade, our class had turned a page in our geography books to reveal a photograph of something labeled "A Norman Castle," a murmur had passed through the room. "The Leboffs' house," we had all whispered. I had squinted at the page and pictured Evelyn Leboff, then a tall, bony girl with long braids, strolling beside the moat.

  There was no moat at the Leboffs' house, and, in truth, it was not so much a Norman castle as it was a miniature version of one. It had the same stone turrets, the same massive door, but they were all condensed to a scale suitable for human life—though certainly a different form of life from the one we knew.

  Uncle Claude stood at the end of the long gravel driveway, with Stephie still on his shoulders, and whistled.

  "Now that," he said, after his admiring whistle had expired, "is what I call a house. What do you call it, Miss Picklepuss?" He tilted his head and looked up at my little sister.

  "House," she said solemnly. "Big house."

  "Come on," Marcus said and started up the wide drive.

  "Well now, Marcus the Newbold," Uncle Claude said, laughing, "I've clean forgot to bring my engraved calling cards. And I never go calling on royalty without my engraved calling cards."

  "It's okay," I said. "Come on. They're not home."

  Marcus was already partway up the drive. After a moment, Claude lifted Stephie from his shoulders and set her down on the driveway. She whimpered a little and held her arms up.

  "I'll give you a ride back home," Claude said. "But for now I need a rest. My muscles are crying out. Listen: Can you hear them?" He knelt beside Stephie and put his shoulder to her ear. She listened, the way she always listened to Father's gold watch. Then she nodded.

  "Quite a racket, isn't it?" Claude said and stood back up. "All those tiny muscle voices calling, 'We need a little rest, please!'"

  Stephie nodded again, grinned, and took his hand. We started up the driveway.

  "The Leboffs go to Europe every spring," I explained to Uncle Claude. "They leave the fifteenth of March, and they don't come back until June fifteenth."

  "Louisamanda," he said, "I know you are a very precocious person, but you're overlooking something. A house like this has servants. Now I know that footmen and chambermaids died out with the Tyrannosaurus, but, even so, there's going to be a housekeeper in there, and I have a very strong suspicion that at this very moment she is looking through the windows at us, phoning the police station, and announcing: 'There is a band of Visigoths and Huns storming my driveway. Please come and pour boiling oil from the tower.'"

  I laughed and shook my head. "The housekeeper is Mrs. Shaw, and every year from March fifteenth to June fifteenth she goes to Kansas City and visits her daughter, who has a fatherless child and a severe skin problem that causes her torments of itching." I was especially proud of that bit of gossip, which came from my mother, who had heard it from her friend Mrs. Mallory.

  "Torments of itching?" Uncle Claude asked in amazement. "Torments of itching? How do we know it's not contagious? How do we know this entire driveway is not crawling with itching germs that have been brought here from Kansas City?" He stamped his left foot hard on the gravel. "There. I think I got one," he said.

  Stephie laughed and stamped her foot. "Me, too," she said. "I got one, too."

  Marcus was waiting for us under the portico at the end of the driveway, where it curved around for cars. "Hurry up," he called.

  "And there's no one else here, once Mrs. Shaw has gone to Kansas City to visit her itching daughter?" Uncle Claude asked. He was looking up at the massive house.

  "No. And we can—well, wait. I'll let Marcus tell you."

  When we reached the place where Marcus stood waiting, he beckoned for us to follow and turned to head for the back of the house. I had done this with Marcus before, so I knew where he was going. But Uncle Claude held back.

  "Marcus," he said, "you are my good and trustworthy friend. But I am not going to go one step farther until you explain where you're taking me. I will plant my feet right here in this ostentatious driveway, and they will take root. I will become part of the shrubbery. They will have to prune me every fall and sprinkle bone-meal fertilizer over my shoes."

  "Me, too," Stephie said, and she planted her feet.

  Marcus sighed. "My friend from school," he explained in a loud whisper, "Kenny Stratton? His father is the Leboffs' driver. When they're here, I mean. He takes care of their cars, and he drives the Leboffs everywhere. The cars are over there." Marcus pointed beyond the house to the side, where an extension of the driveway led to a large structure that had once been a carriage house and was now converted to a garage.

  Uncle Claude looked and nodded. "Duly noted," he said.

  "And when the Leboffs are away, like right now, Kenny Stratton's father takes care of the house. He checks it every night at six."

  "Promptly at six? You're sure of that? He doesn't sometimes lose track of the time and come at—" Uncle Claude glanced at his watch—"eleven A.M.?"

  "No," Marcus said impatiently. "He won't be back till this evening. So in the meantime we can look around, and no one will know."

  "Well," Uncle Claude said, "I guess I could go along with that. I expect that from the back of the house you can look out over the river. We could pretend it's the Rhine. Do you feel like being a Rhine Maiden, Louisamanda?"

  I didn't know what a Rhine Maiden was. But I nodded. I waited to see if Marcus would go on to reveal the rest.

  Marcus moved ahead, through an opening in a hedge, and along a flagstone path that led into an area deeply shadowed by trees beside the towering gray walls of the house. We followed him, Stephie clinging tightly to Claude's hand and me bringing up the rear.

  When the trees and shrubbery parted to open onto the vast lawn that ended at the steep riverbank, we stopped and looked with awe at the view. In April, with the runoff from melted snow, our slow, unimpressive river was turgid, deep brown in color, and punctuated with foamy whirlpools and woody debris. By midsummer it would be listless and lethargic again. But today it roared and churned.

  Marcus didn't bother admiring the dangerous grandeur of the river. "Wait here for a minute," he commanded and disappeared.

  "Where's that small Visigoth off to now?" Claude asked.

  Well, it was Marcus's secret, but I decided that I would tell it anyway.

  "He knows where Mr. Stratton keeps the key," I whispered. "We can go inside."

  4

  In a moment Marcus was back, a metal ring with a large key dangling from it in his hand. "It's always there," he announced, "on a little hook behind the third step to the back door."

  But Uncle Claude was shaking his head in a decidedly negative way. "My good man," he said to Marcus, "you've shown enormous bravery and a definite devious cunning that is to be respected. But do you know what would happen if we used that key and entered this castle?"

  "Nothing would happen," Marcus said with assurance. "I've done it before. So has Louise. And Kenny Stratton. He's the one who showed us where the key is kept, and—"

  I interrupted him. "We don't touch anything," I explained. "We just look. There's all this fancy furniture, and paintings, and one of those giant pianos with the top that opens up, and—well, there's just all this stuff."

  "A pool table," Marcus added. "We don't even touch that. We just walk around. Nothing happens."

  "From that side," Uncle Claude said, pointing to the north, "the Militia would come. From over there—" now he pointed south—"the Gendarmes. In the meantime, large artillery would be lining up in front of the house, commanded by generals. We would be completely outnumbered, and we would be captured—though we would fight nobly, of course—and then—"

  "Uncle Claude," I said, laughing, "nothing would happen.
Honest."

  But Stephie's eyes were wide. "What then?" she asked.

  "Well," Claude said in a mournful voice, "do you see those four sycamore trees there, at the end of the lawn?"

  We all looked and nodded.

  "We would be tied there, one to each tree. I expect they would offer us blindfolds. Myself, I would refuse a blindfold. What about you, Marcus?"

  Marcus nodded solemnly. "I'd refuse," he said.

  "They would offer us each a last cigarette," Claude said, staring at the four sycamore trees. "Now I don't smoke. But I think I would probably accept that cigarette. Just as a gesture, you understand. What about you, Louisamanda?"

  "Well, yes, okay, I'd accept a cigarette, I suppose."

  "We'd stand there, tightly tied, bravely puffing on those final cigarettes, and then they would ask each of us if we had a last statement to make. Mine would be something slightly scornful, I think. Mine might be: 'Noblesse oblige.' That's French. What about you, Marcus? What would you say?"

  Marcus felt the edge of his chipped tooth nervously with his tongue. "'Geronimo,'" he said. Would that be okay, do you think?"

  "Perfect," Claude said, nodding. "Louisamanda?"

  I thought frantically. "'Onward, Christian Soldiers'? Is that all right?"

  Claude beamed at me. "Incredible. It has just the right patronizing air of scornfulness. I wish I'd thought of it myself. Now: Stephie? What would you say?"

  Stephie's chin was puckered. "I don't want a cigarette," she whimpered.

  Uncle Claude picked her up. "Good for you," he said, patting her on the back. "You're a much better person than the rest of us. I think they'd probably untie you and let you run home. But Marcus. And Louise." He looked at us grimly. "You know what would come next, don't you?"

  "Firing squad," Marcus muttered.

  We all—except Stephie, who had her face buried in Claude's shoulder—looked once more at the row of death trees. None of us said anything for a moment.

  Then Claude handed Stephie to me, and she wound her arms tightly around my neck. "Women and children stay here," Claude said. "Marcus and I will return the key to its place."

  They were back in a minute, Claude's arm across Marcus's skinny shoulders. "Now," he announced, "we will beat a retreat."

  "It's almost lunch time anyway," Marcus said.

  "The eggs!" I remembered suddenly. "We have to stop at the store. I told Mother I'd buy eggs to dye for Easter."

  We started down the driveway, and Claude lifted Stephie, who was cheerful again, to his shoulders once more. He was silent, and it looked as if he were thinking. Finally, when we were nearing Main Street, he said, "After lunch, Marcus and Louise, I will tell you what's in the box. We will have a tête-à-tête. That's French for secret meeting."

  "Stephie," Mother said, untying my sister's bib, "after your nap we'll dye the eggs so that the Easter Bunny can hide them tonight."

  Stephie nodded happily. At two-and-a-half she had no idea who the Easter Bunny was, or wasn't, but she was agreeable to anything that sounded like fun.

  "I'll take her upstairs for her nap," Marcus volunteered. He had raced through lunch, slurping his vegetable soup and demolishing a tuna sandwich in four bites. "When's our secret meeting?" he asked, turning to Claude, who was still sipping coffee at the kitchen table.

  "In a few minutes," Claude answered. "One o'clock sharp, in my bedroom. Excuse me," he added, looking at me apologetically, "I meant, of course, Louise's bedroom."

  Marcus disappeared upstairs, holding Stephie by the hand. I took my own plate to the sink, rinsed it, and started off after them. But I stopped in the hall when I overheard Mother speak in a soft, firm voice to my uncle.

  "Claude," she said, "don't you go filling their heads with nonsense."

  I could hear his chuckle, and the sound of liquid as he poured more coffee from the pot into his cup. "They are born with their heads full of nonsense," he said. "Don't you know that that's what distinguishes mankind from the animal world?"

  I could hear Mother sigh. "Claude," she said.

  "Just think about it. A cat—now a cat will go off to a corner of the garage and have its kittens. A dog gives birth to puppies under the porch, or on the floor of a closet, surrounded by wet galoshes. Am I right or am I wrong?"

  "You're right," Mother acknowledged.

  "Now why do you think a human being like yourself—when you're expecting a baby—and only one usually, mind you, not a litter—dashes off to a hospital to be surrounded by doctors and nurses and anesthesia? You did that, didn't you, when your children were born?"

  "Of course I did," Mother said. "It's safer. And easier."

  "Exactly," Claude announced triumphantly. "It is more difficult to give birth to a human child because a human child has a large head. Are you following me?"

  Mother started to laugh. "Yes," she said. "And the head is—"

  "Right! Large because it is cram-chock-full of nothing but nonsense."

  "I don't think my children are filled with nonsense," Mother said a little defensively.

  "Look at your youngest," Claude said. "Look at Stephie."

  "All right. What about her? Stephanie's a sweet little girl."

  "Of course she is. But she's full of nonsense. The Easter Bunny. Her head is full of the Easter Bunny. She was born with the Easter Bunny in her head. Eventually you'll have to start replacing that. What are you going to replace it with?"

  Mother didn't answer. I could hear the clink of coffee cups.

  "Now," Claude said, as if he hadn't expected her to reply, "let's take a look at your oldest. Where is Tom, by the way?"

  "Down at the office with his father. Matt always works on Saturday, and Tom spends all his time with him, at the paper, when he's not in school. Now that's not nonsense, Claude. Tom is a nice boy. He's a very responsible boy. He wants to be a newspaperman like his father."

  "My point exactly. There is not one iota of nonsense left in Tom's head. Somehow it was replaced with responsibility. Does Matt have any more bourbon hidden away, by any chance?"

  "No," Mother said. "It's the middle of the day, Claude, for heaven's sake."

  "No harm in asking. Now, where was I? Yes: Louise and Marcus."

  I cringed, standing there silently in the hall. I wasn't at all sure I wanted to hear myself discussed. But I stayed and listened.

  "What do you want for them?" Claude asked my mother.

  "I'm not sure what you mean," she said slowly. "I want the best for them, of course."

  "I know you do," Claude said. "And Hallie, don't you see what the best is? It's not newspapers. It's not this dull town by this tired river. Hallie, don't you remember when you and I were children?"

  She laughed. "Yes. You were full of nonsense, Claude, and you still are."

  "Dreams, Hallie. I was full of dreams."

  She was silent. Finally she said, "What have they brought you? Nothing."

  "Ah, Hallie, don't say that, not to me. I still pursue them. That's why I'm a traveling man—always will be. Nothing wrong with that."

  "No," she sighed, "I guess not. But I don't want you filling my children's heads with craziness, Claude."

  I could hear his chair scrape the floor as he pushed it back and stood up. "Dreams, Hallie. I'm simply putting dreams into their heads."

  I scampered silently up the stairs, out of sight, when I heard Claude's footsteps in the hall.

  5

  Claude joined Marcus and me in my bedroom just as the clock in the hallway struck one. His suitcase was on the window seat, closed, and beside it was the small box, also closed and still sealed with its strap. My bed was neatly made. The green and red Life Savers were gone.

  I wanted to get credit for the gift. "I see you ate the Life Savers I left for you," I said to Claude.

  He looked puzzled for a moment, then glanced at the pillow where I had left them, and finally rolled his eyes in horror. "Life Savers?" he asked. "You mean they were candy?"

  "Of course," I said.
"You know what Life Savers are."

  "My dear Louisamanda," he said, heaving a huge sigh, "my life is such that I cannot trust anything. Imagine entering an unfamiliar house, a house I have not visited for three years, so that I no longer knew if the inhabitants were friends or enemies. Imagine finding—"he hesitated, and then spoke in a whisper, "— edible objects on my pillow."

  I giggled. "I only meant them as a sort of present," I said.

  "What a relief to hear that," he said, shaking his head. "I just couldn't be certain. The colors seemed meaningful—well, you can imagine."

  "What color were they?" Marcus asked.

  "You tell him, Louisamanda," Claude said. "I can hardly bring myself to speak of it. The shock of finding them there was so great."

  "They were red and green," I told Marcus.

  "You realize what that signifies," Claude said.

  Marcus frowned. "Stop and Go?" he suggested. "Like on traffic lights?"

  Claude reached over and shook Marcus's hand firmly. "Good man," he said. "You have the kind of quick perceptions that may bring you fame someday."

  "It means cherry and lime," I scoffed. "It doesn't have any other meaning."

  Uncle Claude put his arm around my shoulders. "I like that, Louise," he said. "You are not a suspicious person like Marcus and me. My life has been so fraught—absolutely fraught —with sinister occurrences that I confess that I misconstrued your gift. I felt that it was a message of some sort: a message that I should Stop, or perhaps Go, and—well, here they are. I saved them as evidence."