Caleb didn’t answer right away. Out in the kitchen, Mrs. Larsen was singing softly to herself as she worked. Upstairs, Steffi called to Granny Tate. “I don’t know about all that,” he said, at last. “It’s none of my business anyway. I just didn’t want you to think they told me to invite you to the movie. That was my own idea.”
He turned away, looking so uncomfortable that Meg panicked all over again. “But it’s not true, is it? Is it?”
Caleb opened the front door and went out on the porch, motioning Meg to follow. He settled in the big swing and waited until she sat, reluctantly, beside him.
“What the heck is so wrong if our folks like each other?” he demanded in a low voice. “It happens.”
“But my dad already has a family.” Meg felt ready to explode. “He already has a wife in Milwaukee.”
“Not anymore,” Caleb said. “He doesn’t have a wife anymore, and having kids isn’t going to stop him from getting married again if he wants to. People do it all the time.”
Married! “He doesn’t want to,” Meg said, close to tears. Faced with Caleb’s blunt comments, she didn’t know how to argue.
“Hey, don’t you like my mom?” he asked curiously. “I think your dad’s okay. He’s probably going to be famous someday, and we’ll all be glad to be related to him.” He cocked his head at her and grinned.
Meg turned away. If she didn’t, she was afraid Caleb would see how close she was to crying. He would never understand how disturbed she was by his talk of marriage. Liking or disliking his mother had nothing to do with it. Meg would have felt the same about any woman threatening to take her mother’s place.
“Anyway,” Caleb went on, “I’m through with school next year, and then I’m going to get out of this town so fast you won’t believe it. My mom is going to need somebody—”
“To run errands and take out the garbage,” Meg said bitterly.
“Sure,” Caleb agreed. “And to keep her company. She gets pretty depressed sometimes, even if she pretends everything is great. I can tell.”
“Well, it doesn’t have to be my father who keeps her company,” Meg said. She jumped up and started toward the front door. “I don’t want to talk about it any more, do you mind?”
“I don’t mind.” Caleb was right behind her. “Hey, tell me more about your dreams that come true.”
“No! You don’t believe me.”
“Sure I do. I’m sorry I teased you. I told you, I was just in a lousy mood last night.”
Meg wished he would go away, but talking about dreams was better than talking about Mrs. Larsen needing a companion. “Well, I had another dream about a fish last night,” she offered cautiously. “But it wasn’t one of the real ones.”
Caleb’s eyebrows shot up. “Another big fish?”
“I saw a man and a little boy fishing,” she said slowly. “All of a sudden, this fish jumped out of the water, right near the boat. I don’t mean a big one like the bait-shop fish. It was three or four feet long, but it had those same sharp teeth and really mean-looking eyes. It kept circling the boat on the end of the man’s line, and when it got up close, the little boy began to cry.”
Caleb had started to open the front door. Now he stopped and leaned against it. “So then what happened?”
“The man was yelling at the little boy. He kept shouting, ‘Get the net! Get the net!’ And the little boy picked up a knife from the bottom of the boat and leaned out over the edge. He was going to cut the line because he was afraid of those horrible teeth, but the man yelled some more and jerked the line away. I don’t know what happened after that—guess I woke up.”
Caleb looked stunned. “I’ll tell you what happened after that,” he said. “The man caught the fish and took it home and had it mounted to hang on the wall. It was a record-sized musky. Meg, that really happened to me! I was six years old, and I almost made my dad lose the biggest musky of the season—” He stopped. “What did he look like—the man in your dream?”
Meg tried to remember. “He was tall and thin and—and he had a young face, but his hair was all gray.”
“That was my dad!” Caleb was practically shouting now. “His hair turned gray when he was just a kid. Listen, Meg, that’s a really terrific trick you have there!”
“It’s not a trick,” Meg protested. She was thoroughly confused by what Caleb was saying. “It wasn’t even one of the real dreams.”
“Because it’s not going to happen,” Caleb said, as if he’d never had a doubt in the world about real dreams. “It’s already happened. To me! I wonder what it means. It has to be important, Meg—your dreaming about something that happened to me a long time ago.”
“Meg! Caleb! Breakfast.” Mrs. Larsen’s cheery call from the kitchen saved Meg from having to reply. She was sorry now that she’d told Caleb this latest dream. He didn’t understand that most of her dreams were just … dreams. Looking at his excited expression, she knew she’d have a hard time convincing him that this particular dream was just a coincidence.
“It’s crazy,” Caleb marveled. “I never heard anything like it. You’ve got to let me see your dream book, Meg. I mean it. I want to look at the book myself.”
Meg sighed. “Okay,” she said. “Okay, then.” Her father was coming downstairs, and hearing his footsteps reminded her of what was really important.
She’d let Caleb read the dream book. What difference did it make, anyway? If her father was going to marry again, she didn’t care who read the book. She didn’t care about anything.
9
Dear Princess Running Deer,
I hope you’re having a terrific time to make up for not being in the play. The Princess we have—Yellow-Hair got the part—isn’t much. Every time she says her big farewell speech, I think about how much better it would sound if you were doing it. Mr. Cody does, too, I can tell. He gets this funny look on his face, like he’s wishing he’d signed up for Softball coaching this summer instead of theater-on-wheels.
Actually, being in the play is fun, but it would be a lot more fun if you were in it, too. Instead, you’re off there in the north woods having dates with Handsome Boys. And who knows what other exciting stuff! Oh, speaking of Handsome Boys, Bill came downstairs after supper last night, and we sat on the front steps for a long time, just the way you and I always do. I guess he thought I was lonesome, which I was. My dad is working extra hours this week, and I’m usually asleep before he gets home.
It was the third time Meg had read Rhoda’s letter. She liked picturing her brother and her friend sitting on the apartment steps, telling each other what had happened that day. Rhoda thought Bill was perfect—that was another wonderful thing about Rhoda. She considered him the smartest and nicest boy in Milwaukee, and Meg agreed.
If only they could all be there together on the steps for an hour or so, Meg knew she’d feel better. There was so much that needed telling. She’d tell them that ever since she’d shown Caleb the dream book, he’d been watching her with something close to awe, as if he expected her to pull a rabbit out of a hat or walk on air. More important, she’d tell them that during the last few days she’d been watching closely for signs that her father and Mrs. Larsen cared about each other. She was convinced now that it was true.
They smile at each other when they think no one’s looking. If Mrs. Larsen doesn’t have to work in the evening, they sit on the porch and talk after everyone else has gone to bed. He bought her a present yesterday—a map of Wisconsin the way it looked a hundred years ago. We’ve had lemon meringue pie twice in four days.…
“Meg, do you want cold fried chicken or ham sandwiches or both in your lunch box?” Mrs. Larsen’s sudden appearance on the porch made Meg jump, as if her thoughts might be easily read. The trouble was that she couldn’t hate Mrs. Larsen, even if she wanted to. Caleb’s mother was warm and cheerful and unfailingly kind. She obviously liked Meg and wanted her to enjoy her time in Trevor.
“Both, I guess, My father—”
“—
has a healthy appetite. It’s going to be even healthier when you two are out on a lake breathing all that fresh air.” Mrs. Larsen nodded at the giant postcard lying next to Rhoda’s letter on the swing. “You’ve heard from your mother, haven’t you? Is she having a good time in New York?”
“Oh, yes.” Meg held up the card so Mrs. Larsen could see the picture of the Central Park Children’s Zoo. “She and my uncle Bill went up in the Statue of Liberty and to the top of the World Trade Center, and they ate at Rockefeller Center, and she bought me a bathing suit and a book at Bloomingdale’s.” It was a book on acting. Meg knew that was her mother’s way of saying she was sorry Meg had missed her chance to be Princess Running Deer. It was a pretty special gift, since Mrs. Korshak almost certainly thought acting in a play wasn’t very important. Just as she thought writing stories and novels wasn’t important.
“Well, I’m glad she’s having fun.” Mrs. Larsen sounded as if she meant it. “I’ll be leaving for the hospital in a couple of minutes, Meg, and Caleb has already gone on a round of errands. I’ve asked Granny Tate to take Steffi to the drive-in for a hamburger—otherwise she’d make a terrible fuss about going along with you. When your dad finishes his writing for the day, you’ll find your lunch box in the refrigerator.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Larsen.”
“You have a wonderful time, now.”
“We will.” Meg tried to match the landlady’s tone, but it wasn’t easy. She’d been alternately looking forward to and dreading this afternoon ever since her father had suggested, a couple of days ago, that they go fishing together if he could get time off at the office. They would rent a boat, take their lunch, and have a whole afternoon to themselves. A week ago Meg would have been thrilled, but now she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to spend hours alone with her father. Maybe he’d suggested the outing because he had something to tell her. Something he knew she wouldn’t want to hear.
When Mr. Korshak came downstairs, just before twelve, he didn’t look like a man with a serious announcement on his mind. “What a beautiful day!” he exclaimed. “You ready to go, Meggie?” He pushed his old narrow-brimmed hat well back on his head. “I’ve promised Kathy we’ll bring home fish for dinner tonight.”
Kathy. Mrs. Larsen. “I’m ready,” Meg said. “But don’t count on me for a dinner. I don’t know anything about fishing.”
“Don’t know a whole lot myself,” her father replied. “Not like some of the natives around here who know the lake bottom better than their own backyards. Just the same, I caught my share when I was living out at Uncle Henry’s place.”
They gathered fishing rods and the lunch box, and Meg checked to make sure she had her brand-new license in the pocket of her jeans. The bait was in a cottage cheese carton—three dozen night crawlers that Caleb and her father had dug the evening before while Meg held the flashlight. She was grateful that her father hadn’t suggested using leeches. She still shuddered every time she remembered the squirming black shapes on the bait-shop floor.
“We’ll make a fisher-person out of you yet,” her father promised as they headed out of town in the blue sedan. “By golly, I’ve been looking forward to this!” He hummed softly and glanced at Meg as if he hoped she’d join in.
“How did your writing go today?” Meg asked. The question sounded stiff and formal, but she couldn’t help it.
“It’s going beautifully, Miss Sobersides.” Her father reached over and pulled her long braid, just the way Bill always did. “My book is going well, and so is everything else. Now relax and enjoy yourself.”
“I guess Mom is having a good time, too,” Meg said. “I got a postcard from her this morning.”
“Glad to hear it.” He pointed up the road at a sign bearing the profile of an Indian and an arrow. “Indian-head Lake,” he said. “That’s where we’re going. Carpenter’s Landing is at the end of the road, and they have boats and motors for rent.”
He swung into a narrow lane that wound under low-hanging branches. Meg took off her sunglasses. She didn’t want to miss seeing a deer if one poked its head out of the brush.
A small log cabin stood in the clearing at the end of the road, and beyond it a half-dozen boats bobbed in the sparkling water. “You go on down to the shore and pick out a boat,” her father said. “I’ll check in at the cabin and find out where the weedbeds are.”
Obediently, Meg picked up the lunch box and one of the fishing rods and made her way to a narrow pier. The air was sweet, and the clear brown water rippled in the breeze. Weedbeds, she thought. Was fishing really all her father had on his mind? She wanted to think so, but she doubted it. Get it over with, she ordered herself sternly. Ask him. But how do you ask a question like that?
Her father jogged down to the shore, his fishing rod over his shoulder, and stepped lightly into the boat she’d chosen.
“The best weedbed’s straight across the lake,” he reported. “There’s a little bay, and right at the mouth of it—” He broke off. “What’s the matter, Meggie? Not seasick before we start, are you?”
“I’m okay,” Meg said. “Why do we want to find a weedbed?”
“Because that’s where fish find their dinners, dear girl. Mrs. Carpenter says she and her husband go over there two or three times a week and catch all they can eat.”
He adjusted the motor, tugged the starter rope, and brought the boat roaring to life. Meg was impressed; he handled the boat as if he’d been doing it all his life. At first she faced forward, hoping the cool cut of the wind would help to whisk away her worries, but as they neared the other shore she turned to face her father. He smiled at her, and she realized with a pang that he was a handsome man. She’d never thought of that before, but it was true. And he had a kind look, much like Bill’s. Of course Mrs. Larsen is in love with him, she thought despairingly. Why wouldn’t she be?
It was an afternoon Meg wouldn’t forget. Her father taught her to bait her own hook, chuckling when she squealed at the cool slipperiness of the worms and cheering loudly when she landed her first perch after just two minutes of watching the bobber dance on the water. There was a fish basket—a wire cage with a hinged cover—that dangled in the water, and this was where the fish were put as soon as they were caught.
At the end of forty-five minutes there were six fish in the basket, and Meg was beginning to relax. They had talked about nothing but fish, the beauty of the shoreline, and whether Meg was setting her hook quickly enough after the bobber dipped under water.
“It’s time we took a lunch break,” Mr. Korshak decided. “Wash your hands over the side of the boat, and we’ll see what Kathy fixed for us.”
“What about the fish in the basket?” Meg asked. “How long can they stay cooped up in there?”
Her father shrugged. “They’re fine. At this point they probably don’t even know they’re in trouble.”
Meg felt a pang of sympathy for their catch. Their fate was already settled, and still they swam around in the underwater basket without a care. That’s how I was until this week. Just going along, thinking there was a chance our family would be together someday—and all the time it was too late. Maybe.
“Kathy packs a terrific picnic lunch, doesn’t she?… Don’t you love it out here on the water?… I want to spend the rest of my life close to a lake.…” Even though he didn’t come right out with an announcement, it was easy to read meanings into every word her father said. As they were finishing their lunch and packing away cups and scrap paper in the hamper, he asked ever so casually, “How do you like the Larsens, Meggie? Aren’t they a great family? You know, Kathy has been through a bad time without letting it beat her. She’s one of the most remarkable women I’ve ever met.”
“I like her,” Meg said honestly, and waited for what would come next. Her father looked very sober, and for a moment he returned her stare. Then he grinned and stretched. “Time for us to get back to work, I guess. We’ve got a lot of fish to catch if we’re going to provide dinner tonight.”
Me
g discovered she’d been holding her breath. He wasn’t going to tell her now. She was going to be left like the perch in the fish basket, not knowing what lay ahead. Poor fish. Poor Meg.
“You’re looking glum again, Meggie. What’s the matter, does fishing bore you?”
Her father sounded so concerned that Meg forced a smile. “I’m not bored at all,” she said. “I guess I was beginning to feel sorry for the fish.”
Mr. Korshak laughed. “Don’t think about it,” he advised. “Concentrate on how good they’re going to taste with fried potatoes and coleslaw.”
“And lemon meringue pie?” Meg couldn’t resist.
“Maybe,” he agreed. “We can hope.”
Meg threw out her line. Suddenly she was remembering how her father had left the apartment on Brookfield Avenue, early one morning, two years ago, without saying goodbye to his children. He hated scenes, so he’d simply walked away while they were still in bed, assuming that she and Bill would understand. Maybe, she thought, after she returned to Milwaukee, a letter would arrive one day announcing that her father and Mrs. Larsen were married. He had taken the easy way once; he would probably do it again.
The bobber danced and turned on the ripples without dipping below the surface. After a while Mr. Korshak moved the boat farther down the shore, and then to a different weedbed, but it was no use. The fish had stopped biting.
“It’s probably your fault, Meg,” he teased. “You can’t start feeling sorry for the darned things. They know it, and it scares them off.”
“What’ll we do?”
“Try for another half hour and then call it a day. It’s after four anyway.”
Meg was astonished. She felt as if she’d been in a trance ever since lunch, her thoughts turning and drifting like the bobber, pulling her in a hundred different directions. She was tired, tired, tired of her family’s problems. She was tired, too, of being the one who was left behind. Her mother went to New York, Bill went to college, and her father was secretly planning a whole new life for himself. It wasn’t fair.
A Ghost in the Window Page 6