Always October

by Bruce Coville

  Three details make the picture particularly strange. First, it’s set in the cemetery; behind her are tombstones and a mausoleum.

  Second, on the moon are the hands of a clock. It is five minutes to midnight.

  Third, despite her smile, a tear is trickling down her cheek.

  Dad used to stare at the painting too. If I came up beside him while he was doing so, he would put his hand on my shoulder and say, “My father used to say there was a long story behind that picture, and the key to the family mystery. When I begged him to explain, he would only say, ‘I’ll tell you more on your eleventh birthday.’”

  That was all Dad ever said about it. He didn’t need to say more. I knew that by the time he had turned eleven, his father was gone.

  Like father, like son …

  In my room I lined up my pencils by length, then took out the picture I was working on, an attempt to copy the cover of one of my grandfather’s books. It was cool: two horrifying monsters wrestling in a swamp while behind them a beautiful woman without many clothes presses herself against a big old tree, screaming.

  I love drawing. It’s about the only time I can shut out the world and not think about stuff like how many times I have to touch the door before it’s safe to open it. I got so lost in the picture, I almost forgot about the trouble with my mother.

  Then I smelled the hamburgers.

  Mom knows I can’t resist hamburgers, so she cooks them whenever she feels she might be even partly in the wrong. It’s her way of apologizing without actually having to say “I’m sorry.”

  Mom isn’t a big talker.

  I tried to resist but the smell was too good. Before long I was downstairs, setting the table—my role when Mom cooks apology burgers. Later, as we were clearing the dishes, she said, “I have to work on that tapestry I’m making for the new hotel over in Winchester. Want to join me in the Loom Room while you do your homework?”

  Mom’s a weaver. She does most of her work on a big loom Dad built for her back when I was a baby. Later he made a much smaller version for me. Mom had been using it to teach me to weave. I liked it; the rhythm was relaxing. I don’t use it anymore, though. I stopped when Dad disappeared.

  Mom’s big weavings hang in art galleries. One is even in a museum. After Dad disappeared, her weavings changed. Some, filled with dark, jagged designs, were downright disturbing. That was why I was glad when she got the hotel commission: it forced her to create a design more like her work used to be.

  It had been a long time since she’d had a new commission. Fortunately, she has a part-time job teaching weaving at the community college. Otherwise, we’d really be in trouble.

  “Well?” asked Mom, interrupting my thoughts. “Do you want to join me or not?”

  I shrugged. “I guess so.”

  “All right, get your books.”

  Even though I was pretending it was no big deal, I loved being in the Loom Room. It’s at the front of the house, in the base of the tower. The racks of yarn make it look as if someone has spilled a rainbow on the wall. Behind the bench where Mom sits is a picture of Penelope, weaving as she waits for Odysseus. To Mom’s right is a painting of Arachne, who was turned into a spider for boasting that she could weave better than Athena. Above my own loom, which—with the help of a piece of plywood—I now use as a desk, is a picture of the three fates weaving the destiny of all mankind.

  The storm had broken and rain was pounding against the windows. Mom worked on her tapestry. I pretended to work on my math. Everything was very cozy.

  Actually, I didn’t plan to pretend about the math. I really did want to get the work done. But my mind kept wandering, distracted partly by the pleasure of watching my mother’s slim, quick fingers manipulate the bright strands of yarn, partly by the howling of the wind. I was trying to force my attention back to my own work when a rumble of thunder shook the house.

  As it tapered off, we heard a loud thump from the porch.

  Mom looked up. “Go see if the wind blew something over, would you, Jake?”

  I sighed, but mostly for effect, stepped into the front parlor, and turned on the light. (With money so tight, we don’t leave on lights we aren’t using.) Even with the light the room was gloomy, since it’s covered with dark-brown wallpaper. Every time I saw that paper, I felt a twinge. Dad had always said he was going to take it down someday. Now every time I saw it I wondered if “someday” would ever come—if he was dead, or had simply gone missing like his own father. If so, might he improve on his father and actually come back to us?

  At the front door I was touching the knob for the third time when another bolt of lightning split the sky, this one so close I could hear the crackle of the electricity. The thunder followed almost immediately, shaking the house.

  I waited for it to fade, then pulled the door open.

  A small cry at my feet caused me to look down.

  I let out a yelp of surprise.

  3

  (Lily)

  OUT OF THE BLUE

  Most of what happened that first night went down at Jake’s house. Even so, I need to put in something about what I did, since it turned out to be really important.

  So … after supper and homework I decided to go back out to the cemetery. I love being there when the rain is pounding down and the sky is exploding with lightning.

  Grampa was napping on the couch, which made things easy. I slipped on my raincoat and boots, grabbed a big umbrella, and headed for the door. The wind was strong, and I had to be careful not to let it blow the umbrella inside out. I headed for our library. It’s incredibly cool to sit inside that mausoleum and read scary stories while a huge storm is shaking the world.

  As I got close to the building, someone—someone really big—came running out. I ducked behind the Crawford family tombstone so I wouldn’t be spotted, but I was madder than the Phantom of the Opera listening to a bad soprano. Who else would be in the cemetery at this time of night? More important, what was he—I assumed it was a he, because of the size—doing inside our mausoleum?

  The books! I thought suddenly. Someone is trying to steal our books!

  That might sound silly, but even though they were only paperbacks, I knew some of the books Jake had brought were collector’s items. I also knew they meant a lot to him. I was so upset at the thought of losing them that it didn’t occur to me it was unlikely anyone else even knew they were there.

  Once the intruder was out of sight, I ran to the door. It was wide open. Well, that wasn’t so strange. The thief probably didn’t care about closing up after himself.

  What was strange was the blue light coming from inside.

  Cautiously, I peered around the door frame.

  The entire back wall of the mausoleum, the one where Jake and I had heard scratching earlier that day, was glowing.

  Irresistible.

  I walked toward it.

  It wasn’t so strong that it hurt my eyes, and I couldn’t feel any heat coming from it, so I reached out to touch it. The instant I made contact, the beautiful glow died. Everything went black.

  From the other side of the wall came a howl of rage.

  I turned and ran.

  4

  (Jacob)

  LITTLE DUMPLING

  The reason I yelped was that directly at my feet lay a basket woven from coarse black twigs.

  Actually, the real reason for the yelp was what was inside the basket: a baby, bundled in a black blanket.

  It cried out again, then stared up at me as if it expected me to do something. So I did. Lugging the basket into the house, I bellowed, “Mom, you’d better get out here!”

  She shot out of the Loom Room. “What is it, Jake? Is anything—” She stopped in her tracks when she saw the basket. Eyes wide, she came to kneel beside it. “Poor little fellow,” she murmured, stroking the baby’s cheek.

  “What makes you think it’s a boy?”

  “Mothers know these things,” she answered, chucking the baby under the chin.


  The kid gurgled with delight.

  While Mom fussed over the baby, I took a closer look at the basket, which was wet from the storm. That black blanket bothered me. I mean, who wraps a baby in a black blanket? Then I spotted a piece of coarse paper tucked next to the baby. I pulled it out and unfolded it. The edges were slightly soggy, but the center was dry and the ink had not run. I’m going to copy it over, so anyone who reads this can see how bizarre it was:

  To the Family in This House,

  Please take care of my baby. I am in a desperate situation and must leave little Dum Pling behind. Please, please protect him! This is more important than you can imagine.

  Thank you.

  M.A.

  “Better look at this,” I said, handing the note to my mother, who by this time had picked up the baby and put him over her shoulder.

  Outside, the rain continued to hammer at the windows, lightning flashed ever more frequently, and thunder rattled the roof with increasing force.

  Mom read the note, wiped away a tear, then handed the paper back to me. Cuddling the baby close, she whispered, “I’m so sorry, sweetie. But your momma brought you to the right place. We’ll take good care of you.”

  The kid burped, then puked on her shoulder.

  Mom sighed. “Get the paper towels, would you, Jake?”

  I scooted off to the kitchen, flicking on lights as I went. More important, I made sure to touch all the right spots on the wall.

  “How do you know the note came from the baby’s mother?” I asked when I came back. “Couldn’t it have been the father?”

  “Mothers know these things,” she repeated, taking the paper towels.

  I rolled my eyes. She had been using that phrase a lot since Dad disappeared.

  “So what are we going to do about, um, it?” I asked.

  “He’s not an ‘it,’ Jacob, he’s a little dumpling, just like the note says. In fact, I think that’s what we should call him.” She patted his cheek. “Don’t you agree, Little Dumpling?”

  “That doesn’t answer my question. What are we going to do about, er—Little Dumpling?”

  “For now, not a thing.”

  “Are you kidding? We have to do something!”

  “Jacob, nothing we can do tonight can’t wait till morning—and there’s no point in going out in that storm.”

  As if to prove her point, a huge bolt of lightning hissed down from the sky.

  Rocking from side to side, she patted the baby’s back. “The little darling is in no danger here. And it’s possible his mother might change her mind and come back for him. Just look at that note.”

  “I know! It must have been written by a crazy person!”

  “Jacob! You have no idea what kind of stress this baby’s mother might have been under. I don’t want him gone if she returns.”

  “Why should we give the baby back to someone who left him on our doorstep? She can’t love him very much!”

  Mom’s eyes flashed. “Jacob Doolittle! Have some compassion. We don’t know what drove that poor woman—”

  “Or man!”

  “—that poor woman to do this. If she does come back, perhaps we can help her.”

  We can barely help ourselves, I thought. What are we going to do for her? Fortunately, I was smart enough not to say this out loud.

  Another enormous crack of thunder made us both jump. To our surprise, the baby laughed.

  “What a good Little Dumpling,” cooed Mom.

  I made a face. “What kind of baby laughs at sudden noises?”

  “A brave one, of course.”

  The baby grinned at me over Mom’s shoulder. It had chubby cheeks and huge green eyes. The smile was so adorable that, almost against my will, I put out a finger.

  The baby grabbed on and began gumming.

  It was soggy but funny.

  “Oh, dear,” said Mom. “I bet he’s hungry. I wonder if he’s on solid food yet. Come on, Little Dumpling, let’s rustle up some grub.”

  In the kitchen Mom made me hold the baby while she worked the blender. Soon she had a bowl of vegetable glop that looked like something from a swamp. The baby actually seemed to like the stuff. At least it liked the first few spoonfuls. Then it started blowing out whenever she put some in its mouth. Soon goo was flying in all directions. When the baby landed some in my eye, I said, “I think Little Dumpling has had enough!”

  The fact that the kid had managed to get me in the eye was fairly impressive, since I was holding it with its back to me.

  “You’re probably right.”

  Mom’s face and blouse were dotted with blobs of green. Even so, she looked really happy. She fetched a washcloth and wiped off my face, then the baby’s. “Hold him for a bit longer while I get clean clothes,” she said when she was done.

  I scowled, but I didn’t really mind. It was kind of fun to have a baby around. I bounced Little Dumpling on my knee and sang one of Lily’s bizarre songs. The baby laughed, a gurgling sound deep in its throat. I would have been almost sorry when Mom returned if it hadn’t been for another sound I heard just before she got there—and the smell that followed.

  “I think Little Dumpling has some, er, dumplings,” I said, holding the baby out to her.

  Mom rolled her eyes. “I’m pretty sure there’s a half box of paper diapers in Junk Room B. Go get them, would you?”

  Yes, we have two junk rooms. That’s because my father had been such a pack rat that it took two rooms to hold all his stuff. Actually, it’s not fair to blame Dad for all the mess; it had been building up for at least four generations.

  Given my other problems, I sincerely hope I haven’t inherited the overwhelming-need-to-save-useless-crap gene that seems to run so deep in our family.

  As I started to go, Mom added, “After you get those, scoot up to the attic and bring down the old rocker.”

  I sighed but went to do as she asked.

  The gentle creak as Mom rocked back and forth while crooning to the baby made the house feel warmer, despite the howling wind. I realized that since she had changed the diaper, she would know one thing for sure. “What’s the verdict?” I asked. “Boy or girl?”

  “Boy,” she replied. “Definitely.”

  I was a little annoyed that she had been right.

  After a few minutes of rocking she looked at me and said, “Better get back to that homework, son.”

  I refrained from saying, “Better get back to your weaving, Mom,” and went to the Loom Room to fetch my math book.

  She was still rocking when I returned to kiss her good night.

  “Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite,” she said.

  I know that’s supposed to be a little blessing of some kind. Personally, I find it pretty creepy.

  “I’m going to wait up, in case Little Dumpling’s mother comes back,” she added as I left the room.

  I should have seen what was coming right then.

  5

  (Lily)

  OUTLAWS

  When I met Jake in the cemetery the next afternoon, I said, “You’re not gonna believe what happened last night!”

  He said exactly the same thing at exactly the same time.

  We sounded a little like Sploot Fah, though we hadn’t met him yet, of course.

  I could tell Jacob was afraid I was going to punch him in the arm and shout, “Jinx! You owe me a Coke!”

  He could have done the same thing to me, of course, except he gets so freaky about it that I knew he wouldn’t. Which was why I didn’t do it either. The first time I jinxed him, he wouldn’t say a word until he actually went back to his house and got me a soda.

  He can be so weird.

  Finally Jake said, “You go first.”

  I figured this bit of courtesy was because he assumed whatever news I had, his would be even cooler. But after I told him about seeing the person running out of the mausoleum the night before, and the glowing blue wall that blinked out when I touched it, he looked both amazed and a little d
eflated, as if he wasn’t going to top my news after all.

  Even so, his news was plenty weird. When he was done telling me, I cried, “OMG! What are you gonna do?”

  Jake shrugged. “Mom probably took him to the police, or social services, or something like that while we were in school today.”

  Only it turned out she hadn’t, which Jacob told me on the way home the following afternoon.

  “Why didn’t she?” I asked, fascinated.

  “She’s still hoping the real mother will come back.”

  “I sincerely doubt that will happen.”

  I based this statement on personal experience.

  Jacob nodded. “Me, too. Also, she’s asked me not to tell anyone, which I think means we could get in trouble for this.”

  “You told me.”

  “You don’t count.”

  “Thanks a lot!”

  “Come on, Lily, you know what I mean. Anyway, she didn’t ask me to keep my mouth shut about Little Dumpling until this morning, and I had already told you by then—though I didn’t tell her that. I probably would have told you anyway. I mean, you are my best friend. Besides, she got to tell someone, so it’s only fair I get to do the same.”

  “Who did she tell?”

  “Mrs. McSweeney.”

  That startled me. Mrs. McSweeney is my grandfather’s cousin—which makes her my third cousin, or something like that. Even though we’re related, we don’t see each other that much. I don’t think she and Grampa get along very well. Of course, Gramps doesn’t get along with anyone very well. And Mrs. McSweeney does put up with him on occasion. I guess that makes her one of our closest friends.

  It’s a little pathetic.

  “How come your mom told her?”

  “She and Mom are great pals. Besides, Mom didn’t really have a choice. The three of us have dinner together at least once a week, so it would have been almost impossible to keep Little Dumpling a secret.”