Charlie’s father showed up a minute later, with Mimi and Tiffany at his side. “We went out for a walk,” he explained to the gathering. “Didn’t want to get caught alone with Uncle Horace and Aunt Hilda.”
He blinked and looked startled, then laughed as if he had intended the comment as a joke. The others laughed, too, all except Charlie. But it was an uneasy kind of laugh, and Aunt Hilda looked sad.
“Excuse me a second,” said Charlie. Once out of the room, he shot up the stairs. Throwing open the closet door, he pulled Yorick from the shelf and stared directly into his empty eye sockets. “Do you know what’s going on down there?” he demanded.
“Bingo?” asked Yorick, his eye sockets glowing into life.
“Truth-or-consequences would be more like it! Come on, I’ve got to get you out of here.”
“Unwanted! Unloved! Homeless again!” Yorick moaned. “Mr. Elives isn’t going to like this, kid.”
“It’s just for the time being,” said Charlie urgently. “So we can get through this meal without killing each other.”
Yorick sighed. “Ah, the joy of family. Well, I’m used to it. I’ve spent most of my life—most of my death, for that matter—feeling about as welcome as a beetle in the lemonade. Go ahead. Haul me out, you coldhearted brute.”
Charlie pushed down the twinge of guilt he felt, and found a box big enough to hold Yorick. “You’d better not leave me in here overnight!” said the skull, as Charlie closed the flaps.
“I won’t. I promise.”
He started down the back steps with the box. Unfortunately his mother was still in the kitchen. “Oh, good!” she said. “You did get something for Gramma Ethel. Thank you for remembering, sweetheart.”
“This isn’t for Gramma!” said Charlie desperately. “It’s just something I have to take out to the garage.”
“Oh,” she said, sounding disappointed. “Well, you can do that later. Right now I need you to finish setting the table.”
“But, Mom, I have to—”
“Later, Charlie. Put that in the broom closet for now.”
“But—”
“Charlie, please. No excuses.”
She wiped a strand of hair off her damp forehead, and Charlie suddenly noticed how tired she looked. Even so, he couldn’t leave the skull inside.
“Just let me—”
“Now, Charlie!” she said, in a tone that left no room for negotiating. “Put the box in the closet, wash your hands, and set the table.”
Charlie felt his stomach sink. Instead of getting the skull away from the action, all he had managed to do was get it closer to the site of the family dinner.
“This isn’t going to be pretty,” he muttered as he placed the box in the broom closet.
“It rarely is,” said Yorick.
Things didn’t go too badly for the first five minutes. Aunt Hilda and Uncle Horace were boring, but that was nothing new. Gramma Ethel was grumpy and cantankerous, but that was nothing new, either. Mr. Eggleston was quieter than usual, possibly as a result of his earlier outburst of unvarnished truth. Uncle Bennie teased Mimi and Tiffany, which they loved. Mrs. Eggleston bustled back and forth from the kitchen with heaping bowls of food. And Hyacinth Priest watched everything with a quiet smile that seemed to indicate she liked what she saw.
The trouble began with Aunt Hilda’s green-Jell-O-and-cottage-cheese salad. “Uck,” said Mimi, when Mr. Eggleston put a square of it onto her plate. “I hate that stuff!”
“Mimi!” said Mrs. Eggleston sharply.
“Oh, let the girl be,” said Gramma Ethel. “I hate the stuff, too. Looks like mold, for heaven’s sake.”
Aunt Hilda gasped, and her face wrinkled into a pucker of dismay.
“I kind of like it,” said Uncle Bennie cheerfully.
“You can have mine if you want,” said Uncle Horace, lifting his plate hopefully. “To tell you the truth, I never cared much for it myself.”
“Horace!” cried Aunt Hilda.
Uncle Horace blinked, then glared around the table, as if trying to figure out who had actually said the words that just came out of his mouth.
“I’d like some, please,” said Hyacinth Priest gravely.
Aunt Hilda smiled and passed her the salad.
“So, Bennie,” said Mr. Eggleston, in a desperate attempt to get the conversation moving again. “How’s the storytelling going? Learn to do ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ yet?”
“Bennie is struggling with stories that have more personal meaning to him,” said Ms. Priest quietly.
“If Bennie had any ambition he’d stop fooling around with nonsense like that and learn to do something that would pay him more money,” said Aunt Hilda.
Everyone looked at her in surprise.
Ms. Priest smiled. “Perhaps. Do you know the story of the three boys whose mother named them with her wishes for them?”
Aunt Hilda, who was blushing slightly, shook her head.
“Then I shall share it with you,” said Ms. Priest. “A brief version only, for it is a story that can take a lifetime to learn, and another lifetime to tell.” She took a moment to look at each person sitting at the table.
Then she began.
TEN
The Truth Will Out
“Once, very long ago, there lived a woman who had three sons in three years. When the first boy was born she named him Do-As-You-Should. When the second arrived she named him Do-As-You’re-Told. And when the third came to her she named him Do-As-You-Love. This happened in a time when the world knew better the power of names, and so these names had great strength.”
Charlie stared as Ms. Priest in astonishment, wondering how she could tell such a story with the skull nearby.
“Now, Do-As-You-Should was a very good boy, and everyone marveled at how well behaved he was. He worked hard and never let his mother down. When he left home he married a good woman, and they had three children of their own.
“Do-As-You’re-Told was not quite as good a boy. Oh, it was not that he did anything wrong. He just didn’t do much of anything at all, unless he was directed to it. When he left home he married a strong woman, and she kept him on track—though I must say that it was a full-time job, and he tired her out.
“Do-As-You-Love was far and away the worst of the three boys, at least as far as the villagers were concerned. They felt he did not work as hard as his brothers, and that he rarely did anything useful. When Do-As-You-Love left home, it took much longer for him to find a wife, for he was not seen as having good prospects. The woman he finally did marry was much pitied by her friends. Oddly enough, they had a very happy marriage.
“Now, as the years went by, a strange thing happened. While Do-As-You-Should grew to a position of prominence in his village and Do-As-You’re-Told came to be seen as a proper citizen, it was Do-As-You-Love that people thought of most often, sought out, asked advice of. The only advice he ever gave, though, was to repeat his own name: ‘Do as you love,’ he would tell people. ‘Then you will be happy.’
“Usually they would explain why this was not possible, and go away feeling cheated and let down.
“Eventually Do-As-You-Should died, which should be no surprise to anyone. He went straight to heaven, which is probably no surprise, either. Once there he was taken before the Almighty, who granted him one wish.
“‘I want nothing but a chance to rest,’ said Do-As-You-Should, ‘for I have worked hard, and I am tired.’
“And his wish was granted.
“The next year Do-As-You’re-Told died. Alas, when he reached the gates of heaven, he was not taken to see the Almighty, nor granted a wish of any kind. Instead, he was sent back to try again, because doing only what you’re told is not nearly enough.” Ms. Priest picked up a piece of bread and began to butter it.
“But what about Do-As-You-Love?” demanded Tiffany. “Did he die, too?”
Ms. Priest smiled. “Oh, of course he did. We all do, eventually.”
“Well, what happened when he went to
heaven?” Ms. Priest shrugged. “He never noticed the difference.”
Mr. Eggleston snorted. “That’s the stupidest story I ever heard.”
Ms. Priest raised an elegant eyebrow and said softly, “Perhaps you did not listen properly.”
“Oh, he listened,” said Gramma Ethel. “He just didn’t want to hear. Cut a little too close to the bone, didn’t it, butcher boy?”
“Gramma!” gasped Mrs. Eggleston.
“I suppose you’ve always done what you loved, Ethel?” asked Mr. Eggleston sharply.
“It’s not that simple, Archie,” said Gramma Ethel, spearing a brussels sprout with her fork. “Sometimes one want runs into another. I wanted to be a mother. Once you do that, you stop doing a lot of other things you love, at least for a while.”
“What did you do before you were a mother?” asked Charlie.
A wrinkled smile crossed Gramma Ethel’s face. “I was an ecdysiast. I was darn good at it, too.”
“What’s an eckdizzy?” asked Tiffany.
Gramma Ethel’s smile broadened. Stretching out her hands she gave her chest a shake and said, “An ecdysiast is a striptease dancer.”
Uncle Horace spit coffee across the table and Aunt Hilda choked on a mouthful of green-Jell-O-and-cottage-cheese salad. Uncle Bennie hooted with laughter.
“Gramma,” said Mrs. Eggleston sharply. “Not in front of the children!”
“Oh, bosh, Veronica! It’s not going to hurt the little dears. What’s worse—the truth, or all the lies we tell to protect them, all the secrets we keep pushing under the rug?”
“I don’t think there’s a lot of that going on around here, Ethel,” said Mr. Eggleston. His voice was sharp, but Charlie noticed a nervous edge in it as well. He wondered if his father had some secret he was afraid might be revealed.
“Of course there’s not,” said Mrs. Eggleston firmly. But she looked nervous, too.
Gramma Ethel fairly cackled at their response. “No secrets, eh? Let’s see. Did you ever tell the kids about your first marriage, Veronica?”
“You were married before?” cried Charlie in astonishment.
Mimi turned to Mr. Eggleston. “Are you my real father?” she asked nervously.
“Of course I’m your real father!” His voice was firm and gentle at the same time, but Charlie could sense the anger underneath it. Raising his head to look toward the other end of the table, Mr. Eggleston said sharply, “Ethel, that’s enough!”
Gramma Ethel shrugged and put a forkful of mashed potatoes in her mouth.
“We’ll talk about this later, children,” said Mrs. Eggleston. Turning to Ms. Priest, she added, “I’m sorry you had to hear all that. It’s not usually like that here.”
“That’s true,” said Uncle Horace. “Generally it’s a lot more boring.”
“Look who’s talking about boring!” snapped Mrs. Eggleston. Then she blinked and said, “Excuse me, I have to go check on the dessert.”
“Do you think I like being boring, Veronica?” asked Uncle Horace mournfully, as Mrs. Eggleston pushed herself away from the table. “I hate it!”
It had never occurred to Charlie that Uncle Horace might actually know he was boring. Suddenly Charlie felt an odd kind of sympathy for him. Maybe for Uncle Horace being boring was like lying had been for Charlie before he got the skull: He knew he was doing it, but he couldn’t stop himself.
Mrs. Eggleston paused at the kitchen door. “I’m sorry,” she said. Then she hurried into the kitchen, leaving them to wonder if she was apologizing to Uncle Horace or to the table at large.
“Perhaps I should go,” said Ms. Priest quietly.
“Please don’t,” said Uncle Bennie. He sounded almost desperate.
“Oh-ho! Is she your girlfriend, Bennie?” asked Aunt Hilda. “At last, a girlfriend! I’m so pleased. But don’t you think she’s a little old for you?”
Bennie rolled his eyes. “What has gotten into everyone around here?” he asked in exasperation.
“Truth attack,” said Charlie, before he could stop himself.
Bennie took a deep breath, then said, “Well, Aunt Hilda, the truth is I’m never going to have a girlfriend. I have a boyfriend. His name is Dave. And if this family would recognize that, it would make my life a lot easier!”
Aunt Hilda gasped and burst into tears. Uncle Horace turned red. Gramma Ethel smacked her spoon on her plate and shouted, “Hot damn! It’s about time you spoke up, boy! I was getting awfully tired of watching you hide the truth.”
“You knew?” asked Bennie in astonishment.
Gramma Ethel scowled at him. “Just how stupid do you think I am?”
“Actually, I think you’re quite a smart old dame. I just wish you weren’t so cranky.”
“So do I. On the other hand, when you’re as old as I am, speaking your mind is one of the few pleasures you have left.”
Uncle Bennie turned to Charlie’s father. “What about you, Archie?”
Mr. Eggleston shrugged. “Your sister and I figured it out a few years ago.”
Bennie looked troubled. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“Why didn’t you?”
Bennie started to answer, stopped, then started again. “I was . . . I thought you . . . I wanted . . .” He closed his eyes, as if thinking very hard, then sighed. “I was afraid.”
“You should have given us more credit, Bennie,” said Mrs. Eggleston softly. She was standing just inside the door from the kitchen, holding the coffeepot. “I’m not going to stop loving my baby brother just because of something like that.”
Charlie, who had been staring at his uncle through all this, couldn’t believe what he had heard. His stomach was churning, and he could feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Suddenly he couldn’t stand to stay at the table anymore. Jumping to his feet, he bolted from the room.
“Charlie!” cried Uncle Bennie, reaching for him. “Wait!”
“Let him go, Bennie,” said Mr. Eggleston softly. “I’ll talk to him later.”
That was the last Charlie heard. Snatching the box that held the skull from the broom closet, he raced out of the house. In the backyard, he glanced around for a moment, then headed for the cemetery. Pushing his way through the hedge that separated it from their lawn, he stumbled forward among the moonlit tombstones. About a hundred feet in he tripped over a low stone and almost fell. Stopping to catch his breath, he resisted a momentary urge to fling the skull against one of the stones and shatter it into a thousand pieces.
He walked on, more slowly now. Ahead was a clump of oak trees where he sometimes went to think when he was upset.
He trudged toward the oaks and took a seat on one of the fallen tombstones that lay beneath them. After a moment he removed the skull from the box and placed it on another of the stones, so that it was face-to-face with him. He stared at it for a long time. Finally, in a low, fierce voice, he whispered, “How do I get rid of you?”
Yorick’s eyes began to glow, a sight that was more eerie than usual in the darkness beneath the trees. “Whoa!” said the skull. “Why so hostile? Bad day at the OK Corral?”
“You’re ruining my life!” cried Charlie.
“Hey, let’s not confuse a temporary problem with a ruined life.”
“The skull has a point,” said a soft voice nearby.
Charlie jumped up. “Ms. Priest! What are you doing here?”
“I thought you could use someone to talk to,” said the librarian. She was standing in a small puddle of moonlight, just outside the cluster of oaks. “Someone besides Yorick, that is,” she added, gesturing toward the skull.
Charlie’s eyes widened. “You know Yorick?”
“Alas, I know him well.”
“We’re old friends,” said the skull cheerfully. “Hi-ho, Hyacinth. How ya doin’?”
“A little tired,” said Ms. Priest, “but other than that quite well. Much better than poor Charlie here.”
“But how do you know each other?” persisted Charlie.
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“I occasionally work with Mr. Elives,” said Ms. Priest.
“I never have been able to figure out the exact arrangement,” said the skull.
“Perhaps that’s because you have no need to,” the storyteller replied smoothly. “Anyway, what’s important right now is helping Charlie get things settled. That, and figuring out just who—or what—is after you, Yorick. But first things first.” She gestured to a nearby tombstone. “May I?”
It took Charlie a moment to realize she was asking if she could sit down. “Go ahead,” he said, without any enthusiasm.
She turned and blew at the top of the stone. Though she made just the tiniest of puffs, the dirt and leaves vanished completely. She brushed the top of the stone with the tip of her index finger, nodded in satisfaction, then gathered her colorful skirt and sat.
“Difficult evening, wasn’t it?” she said casually.
“You’re not kidding,” said Charlie. “And you weren’t even around for the part with Gilbert.”
“Who’s Gilbert?”
“My friend. I hurt his feelings, and now I have to do something about it. I mean, I did do something, in a way, because I went and talked to him. But I need to do something more.”
“Have you decided what?”
“I think so. But I don’t want to talk about it.”
Ms. Priest smiled. “A truthful answer. Evasive, but truthful.”
“We could have used more of that evasive stuff at dinner. Which reminds me—how come you could tell that story at the table? Since you know about Yorick, you must know that you have to tell the truth while you’re around him.”
“But I did tell the truth.”
Charlie narrowed his eyes. “Are you trying to tell me that story really happened?”
Hyacinth Priest laughed, a merry sound that seemed to press back the edges of the night. “Of course not. But there are many kinds of truth, Charlie, and that story is true in a very deep way.”
“This truth stuff is more complicated than I thought,” muttered Charlie.
The Skull of Truth Page 8