House of Secrets: Battle of the Beasts

by Columbus, Chris

  “To pretend—” started Eleanor, but she was cut off as they heard Brendan chanting: “Pizza rolls! Pizza rolls! Pizza rolls!”

  “What do you pretend when you’re up there?” asked Mrs. Walker.

  “That the house is a big ship,” Eleanor said, “and the attic’s the captain’s quarters, and I’m the captain. Or that it’s the starship Enterprise and I’m Spock. Brendan does this thing where he hangs the rope in a certain way to try and catch if people go in there, but I know how to put it back so I don’t get caught.”

  “Nell,” Mrs. Walker said admonishingly, “it’s important to use your imagination, but it’s equally important to respect other people’s space.”

  Eleanor nodded. She couldn’t admit the real reason she played in the attic: to look out the window and remember how it felt when she first saw the forest outside Kristoff House. Back on their adventure. When everything was so exciting. And when the Walkers were working together, facing challenges, being close—not lying to one another.

  They reached the attic steps. Eleanor explained to her mom: “Okay, so sometimes, besides playing in the attic, I play in the dumbwaiter.” She pointed to the square metal door in the wall.

  “That’s awful!” said Mrs. Walker. “I mean, if the thing broke, you would—”

  “Fall three stories and break my neck?”

  “What on earth are you going to tell me next? That you’re joining a gang?”

  “Relax, Mom. I’m just explaining how I saw Dad go into the attic.”

  “Oh.”

  “Friday after school, I was playing in the dumbwaiter, and I saw him go in. Like, secretly.”

  Eleanor led her mom up the stairs.

  There were two big piles of magazines in Brendan’s attic—Sports Illustrated and Game Informer—and one continuous snaking pile of dirty clothes that led to a hamper, which curiously held no clothes. Posters on the wall had started to peel off and been reattached with gum. A plate of blue-tinged grilled-cheese crusts rested on top of a goldfish bowl where Brendan’s goldfish, Turbo, refused to die.

  “Dad was only in here for a minute,” Eleanor explained, “but after he left, I came up to see what he was doing. He left that bottom drawer open. Just a crack. When I looked inside . . . I found the phone. It was tucked under Brendan’s old dinosaur pajamas, which he would never wear.”

  Mrs. Walker went to Brendan’s bureau and opened the drawer. Nestled under the bright green pajamas was an iPhone.

  Mrs. Walker picked it up. The phone was locked. She tried to unlock it with Dr. Walker’s birthday: 0404. That didn’t work. She tried her own birthday, 1208, and sighed.

  “What?” Eleanor asked.

  “No matter what I find on here,” said Mrs. Walker, “I know he’s still thinking of me.”

  Mrs. Walker went to Recent Calls, but all the outgoing calls were made to just one number.

  “415-555-1438,” Mrs. Walker read.

  “What’s that, Mom?”

  “We’re about to find out.”

  “No, wait, what are you doing?”

  “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  “We should get out of here! What if Brendan comes back? Or Dad?”

  “It’s already ringing, Nell.”

  “Then at least let me listen!”

  Mrs. Walker knelt and held the phone so her daughter could hear it. A voice answered, “Doc?”

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  It was a man’s voice, thick and gruff, like the voice of someone with two raw slabs of bacon wrapped around his vocal cords.

  “Doc? You there? Whadda you got? Niners are three over this week, Warriors are—”

  “Who is this, a sports bookie?” Mrs. Walker asked.

  Click. The call was over.

  “Who was that?” Eleanor said.

  “Some coward,” her mom said, calling the same number again.

  This time, the man answered on the first ring: “Listen up—”

  “No, you listen! I’m Jacob Walker’s wife, Bellamy Walker, and I demand to know—”

  “I’m guessing you ain’t got picks for the doc?”

  “No! And what you’re doing is completely illegal—”

  “Hey. Mrs. Walker. Don’t judge. I just do business with your husband. You got a problem with that, you take it up with him. And tell the doc if he wants in on this week’s games, he better call back. And one final thing—”

  The man spat a very nasty curse word at Mrs. Walker.

  Click.

  Mrs. Walker looked stunned. Eleanor looked at the floor. “Are we in trouble?”

  “Not at all,” her mom said. “Mommy’s going to handle everything.”

  “We should go, I think I hear Bren.”

  Mrs. Walker stuffed the secret phone back in the bureau, and the two of them climbed out of the attic. Eleanor placed the rope back into the same position that Brendan had left it in. On the back stairs, Eleanor stopped and turned to her mom. “See, I was telling the truth!”

  “You were.”

  “And this will help our family, right?”

  “Yes. Sure. Of course.”

  “And do you realize, Mom? We just went on a little adventure?”

  “Sure, honey. An adventure. Dad is spending all our money on sports bets. Big adventure.” Suddenly Mrs. Walker had tears in her eyes.

  “I don’t understand when I lost this family,” she said. “Do you? Did you see when it happened?”

  Eleanor shook her head sadly. All she could do was hug her mother.

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  The next morning, Dr. Walker was sitting at the breakfast table, dressed in jeans, a bright polo shirt, and an argyle golf sweater, as if everything were all right. It made Eleanor want to scream.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Dr. Walker said, speaking into his legitimate phone. “No, we’re perfectly happy with the service . . . we’re just on a tighter budget now. He was really very good at his job. I’ll miss him. Thanks.”

  He hung up. “Who was that?” Eleanor asked.

  “Limousine company,” Dr. Walker said. “I got rid of Angel.”

  “What?” Brendan asked.

  “Why?” Cordelia said before sipping some water. She was using it to mush-ify the muffin in her mouth so she could eat without chewing. She had woken up today and run her tongue across her teeth only to realize with horror that they all felt loose. Like piano keys, wiggling back and forth, ready to come out!

  “Because with our family’s unforeseen expenses, we need to cut back,” Dr. Walker said. “And before you complain: it affects me too. Angel was supposed to drive me to my conference today. So I’ll take a cab.”

  “Where’s your conference, dear?” Mrs. Walker asked innocently.

  “Downtown. I’m planning on asking Henry for my old job back—”

  “But it’s Friday.”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Isn’t Henry on call Fridays?”

  “People’s schedules change,” Dr. Walker said. “Why are you always questioning everything I do?”

  The room got quiet. Mrs. Walker turned away. Dr. Walker stood up, put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from.”

  Brendan waited until his parents had an awkward hug before he spoke. “How are we getting to school?”

  “You can walk. It’s only thirty minutes,” Dr. Walker said. “Beautiful San Francisco air, friendly people walking their dogs . . . Cordelia will go with you to make sure you don’t get lost, and then she’ll go to her dentist appointment.”

  “I dunno, Dad,” Brendan said, “I think it’s against the rules for kids to walk to Bay Academy. They like their students to be dropped off by shiny, expensive cars. They might expel
us for walking.”

  “Our family did just fine before we had Angel,” Dr. Walker said, “and we can do fine without him. No new income is coming in, you know. This money won’t last forever.”

  Because you’re gambling it all away! Eleanor wanted to scream. She saw that her father was still trying to be nice, but that didn’t stop her from wanting to call him out. She gave a questioning look to her mom, who shook her head: Not yet.

  Outside, the Walkers started off on a trek through heavy Golden Gate fog. It was rolling up from the bay onto the street like a clammy quilt. Not only was the air not beautiful, they couldn’t see a thing.

  “I hate when this city is actually foggy,” Brendan said. “So cliché.”

  “Guys,” Eleanor said, in a very serious tone.

  “What?” asked Cordelia.

  “Dad’s in trouble.”

  Brendan and Cordelia both looked at her, but now the fog was so dense that they could only see a small, determined shadow with hands clutching backpack straps. Cordelia asked, “How?”

  “He’s gambling.”

  “Dad?” asked Brendan. “No way. Dad’s not cool enough to be a gambler.”

  “There’s nothing cool about what Dad’s doing,” said Eleanor. “You think it’s cool that he lies to us all the time? You think it’s cool when he says he’s going to ‘conferences,’ but he’s really betting all our money?”

  “How do you know?” Brendan asked.

  “I can’t tell you”—Eleanor didn’t want to reveal she’d been in his room—“but I know, and Mom knows, and we’re going to have to—agh!”

  She tripped, landing hard on her elbows. A man was sitting with his back against a stone wall, his legs stretched across the sidewalk, almost impossible to see in the fog.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she said, getting up. “You can’t just sit in the street like that. I almost just busted open my whole face!”

  “Nell,” Brendan whispered, “forget it. It’s just some homeless dude. Don’t get him mad.”

  “Spare change?” the man asked, and as the fog wisped around him, the Walkers could see his thin beard and cap; his dirty skin; and the old Starbucks cup in his hand, with a smattering of coins inside.

  “Yeah, sure, no problem,” Cordelia said, digging into her pockets.

  The homeless man suddenly tensed, pulling his legs close to his body. He sat up straight, got to his feet, and stared directly at Cordelia. Through the tendrils of moisture that drifted over his head, she could see his bright blue eyes. Cutting eyes.

  When the man spoke, she noticed his English accent.

  “Cordelia Walker?”

  Cordelia couldn’t speak for a moment. Then she said in a small voice: “Will?”

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  A bolt of shock silenced the Walker siblings. It was the same dumbfounded disbelief they’d experienced when, after giving up all hope of seeing their parents alive again, they showed up back home and saw Dr. and Mrs. Walker, unharmed and perfectly healthy.

  Wing Commander Will Draper stood in front of them.

  “Amazing! Incredible! It’s you!” he said. “What good fortune! I want to hug all of you, but I need a proper shower first!”

  “Will, what’s wrong with you?” Cordelia asked. “Why are you in the street? You were supposed to meet me at school six weeks ago!”

  “I’m terribly sorry,” said Will. “I never got the chance. Things went a bit off the rails. It’s all rather embarrassing.”

  “Have you been here all this time?” asked Eleanor.

  “No. I was in jail.”

  The Walkers exchanged nervous glances.

  “It started with that hotel, the Days Inn,” said Will, turning to Cordelia. “That’s where you advised me to stay the evening we came back from our . . . adventures.”

  “I remember,” Cordelia said. “That’s also when you agreed to meet me at school the next day.”

  “Yes, but you can’t imagine how difficult it is, being a visitor to the future. It’s quite disorienting. From the moment I left your house, I started seeing things that boggled me. You know, where I’m from, Saint Paul’s Cathedral is the tallest thing around. I arrive in San Francisco, I’m looking at the Transamerica Pyramid!”

  “I’m sorry,” Cordelia said. “I never should have sent you away without preparing you—”

  “No need to feel guilty,” said Will. “We had all just been through an exhausting journey. None of us were thinking clearly. I’m just so happy to finally see you!”

  “What happened that first night?”

  “I arrived at Days Inn,” said Will. “The man at the front desk brought me to my room, where there was a large box that displayed moving pictures. It was loudly playing some panto about a yellow-skinned family that ate pink doughnuts—”

  “The Simpsons!” said Brendan. “Classic show.”

  “Hideous show!” said Will. “I just wanted to get some sleep. But I couldn’t find the lever to turn off the box. So I went back and asked the man for help, and he muttered, ‘Crazy limey lunatic.’”

  “Uh-oh,” Brendan said.

  “I didn’t appreciate being insulted by this person who, to be honest, smelled like my nether regions after a long air battle. I told the man, ‘Your Days Inn operation is an embarrassment. Our hotel standards are much higher in London!’ He said, ‘Then go back to your country, Sally.’ Now why would he call me ‘Sally’?”

  “No clue,” said Brendan.

  “And then,” continued Will, “he said something very nasty about the queen. And that . . . put me over the edge.”

  “So what did you do?” asked Eleanor.

  “I punched him.”

  “Oh jeez,” said Cordelia.

  “He went down like a sack of bricks and gave me my money back.”

  “So why didn’t you come to us?” said Cordelia. “We would have helped you.”

  “I had this mad notion,” said Will, “that if I could just get into an airplane . . . I could fly back to London.”

  “Home,” Cordelia said sadly.

  “Exactly. Where it might be easier to acclimate to this time. And then, after I got my bearings, I would return to San Francisco, reunite with you lot.”

  “Don’t tell me you went to the airport,” said a cautious Brendan.

  “Yes,” said Will, “and when I arrived, I asked a woman if I could please fly a plane.”

  “Are you insane?” asked Eleanor.

  “That’s exactly what she said,” said Will. “But I told her, ‘How can you deny a war hero the right to fly?’”

  “Airplanes are kind of different these days,” said Brendan.

  “I realize that,” said Will. “But with my experience, I figured it would take a day, maybe two, to learn.”

  The Walkers exchanged a roll-eyed glance. Even though he was living on the streets, Will’s ego was healthier than ever.

  “The woman refused my request,” said Will. “So I was left with only one option. Climb over the runway fence—”

  “Oh no.”

  “Find an unoccupied airplane—”

  “Bad move.”

  “Climb into the cockpit, and learn the controls.”

  “So what happened?” asked Eleanor.

  “I didn’t even get halfway up the fence before I found myself surrounded by eight bobbies!” said Will. “They took me to the station house, and when I asked the desk sergeant to call the Walker family on Sea Cliff Avenue, I was told there was no one by that name on that street.”

  “Wait . . . I know,” said Cordelia. “We had just moved, so we were probably still listed at our old address.”

  “The next morning I met with my court-appointed lawyer, and I told him the truth: how I was originally a character in a novel about World War One, how I met you three . . .”

  “I’ll bet
that went over well,” said Brendan.

  “The lawyer told me I could be let off on account of being mentally unwell, and after a few weeks in city jail, that’s what happened. I hit the streets, scavenging garbage containers for food, begging for money, and here I am.”

  “Why didn’t you contact us?” asked Cordelia. “We would have helped.”

  “I didn’t want you to see me like this,” said Will. “Down so low. But this morning . . . I realized, after spending three weeks in the Tenderloin, being screamed at by pedestrians, kicked, punched by drug addicts, spit on by gang members . . . I knew I had to come back, that I had to find you. I realized that if I didn’t see you all again, I would die a second time.”

  Will looked down, then up. There was a sad flatness to his voice. “So what are you going to do with me?”

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  The entire time Will spoke, Cordelia had run her tongue along her teeth. It was a nervous response to his tale, which she felt responsible for. She should have known better than to send him downtown. While she had spent the last few weeks worrying about the Student Tutoring Program, he had been worried about eating.

  “I’m taking you home, getting you cleaned up, and giving you some money,” she said, grabbing Will’s hand.

  “But Cordelia. You said that your parents—”

  “They’re gone. Dad is off at some conference—”

  “Gambling, you mean,” Eleanor cut in.

  “And Mom is at . . . what day is it, Friday? She’s at the gym. C’mon, Will. You’ve been through enough.”

  “Um . . . Cordelia, can I talk to you in private?” Brendan asked.

  “Why?”

  “C’mere.” Brendan pulled Cordelia away from Will. Eleanor joined them, and suddenly Will was left standing by himself.

  “I’m not sure we should trust him,” Brendan whispered.

  “How can you say that? He’s our friend—”

  “Exactly,” said Brendan. “The Will we know would have come back to us the next day. This guy could be evil-clone Will; he could be the Wind Witch pretending to be Will—”