At second glance, I saw the light of future hope, and with determination glowing about him, he collected his luggage, rolled his bedding, packed his painting, and wrote a note, which he fixed to the door. Then he clicked the lock and drove away in the black auto ride with loyal Eddie.
So determined was Vincent Meeker that I could catch the brilliant edge of his willpower far, far down the road.
—R. Whistle Bright
CHAPTER 29
Years of Chances
I REREAD WHISTLE’S DESCRIPTION and thought about it all day long. Finally I decided to tell Mom the truth about Halloween night. I was certain that she would feel more compassion for a guy who was trying so hard, but I didn’t get the reaction I’d hoped.
“I can’t believe you went there by yourselves,” she said gravely. “He could have been flipped out and paranoid—and there’s no cell phone service on Wicket’s Road, and Deb wasn’t even at home! Honestly, Zell, I thought you had better judgment,” she scolded, angry and worried.
I’d been kidding myself that Mom would warm to the idea of a reunion with my dad. Even as I heard myself speak, I had to admit that the whole encounter sounded pretty darn weird.
“But, Mom,” I tried again, “he said he’d been sober for five years!”
“He can say anything he wants to, can’t he?” Folding her arms like a shield, she rallied for the next argument.
“He seemed like a very nice guy,” I added quietly.
“Then where has he been all these years?” she demanded. “Not a single phone call or letter. Not a word to let us know whether he was alive or . . .” She stopped and, for the briefest moment, looked as if she was in agony.
“He was afraid he’d be interrupting our happy lives!” I said, reciting his phrase exactly.
“Or we’d be interrupting his party,” she returned, drawing her coolness around her. I was stunned at her flinty resentment, and I wondered if she carried it around all the time, packed away in one of her boxes.
“How did he look?” she finally asked.
“Well, he seemed healthy. He was a little messy, like I said—but that’s only because he’d been working.”
“Oh, it’s just like the bad old days,” she groaned.
“I think he’s painting for a living. . . .” My words trailed off because I remembered I hadn’t actually confirmed this detail.
Taking a deep breath, Mom closed her eyes, and when she opened them, she was composed.
“Look, honey, I know you want the happy ending,” she said, with sympathy dripping from every word. “But sometimes the ending is just hard.”
“If he was so bad, then why’d you get together in the first place?”
As she recalled those years, she smiled a fleeting smile. “We got together because we belonged together. But with his sad family and rotten genetics, he was a train wreck waiting to happen.
“His brother, Michael, died in a motorcycle accident when he was twenty-one. That’s when Ed—his dad—started drinking again. Two years later, the poor old guy managed to drive off the North Plunkit Bridge into floodwater.” Mom shivered. “At least he killed only himself.
“Vin just unraveled, and I realized that all my energy was being spent on saving a guy who couldn’t be saved—not by me, anyhow.”
“Mom, you’re not being fair. That was then. Why don’t you at least give him a chance?”
“Oh, Zelly.” She sounded tired to the core. “I gave him years of chances.”
Night fell uneasily over the loft, with Mom pretending to read a book in her bedroom while I wrestled with the strange events of the week. Staring out my window, I watched Plunkit’s one traffic light turn red for nobody, and then I flopped into bed for a rotten sleep.
All night I dreamed of crying babies and angry grown-ups and slamming doors. When I finally woke in the morning, I was relieved to be out of that awful slumber and surprised to find Mom sitting at the foot of my bed.
The moment our eyes connected, she announced, “I’m going up to Wicket’s Road to give that man a piece of my mind.” Her face was puffy and tired-looking, as if she’d gotten a rotten night’s sleep, too. “I don’t know what he’s up to,” she muttered, “hanging around that empty house and painting by kerosene like some crazy van Gogh.”
“Mom, I told you, he got permission from the daughter, who said he could stay there in return for some cleaning.” I wanted to say more, but I couldn’t exactly share what Whistle had written, that the house had magically mended itself and Vincent Meeker left with “determination glowing about him.” Unless she suddenly regained her memories of Nutfolk Wood, I’d sound like a lunatic.
“Regardless”—Mom flipped her hand, dismissing my argument—“he’s a bad influence, and I don’t want you around him.” She bobbed her head to cement her decision. “As long as we’re in Plunkit,” she ordered, “you stay away from that house.”
CHAPTER 30
Stubborn Girls
“I’M KNOCKING!” WHISTLE’S voice was insistent, his little fist tip-tapping on the top of my desk.
“Oh, hi, Whistle.” I didn’t bother to tell him that knocking was a request for entry, not an announcement of arrival.
“Did you hear any of that?” I asked. He’d appeared the moment Mom shut my bedroom door.
“Just the ‘stay away from that house’ part.”
“She’s really mad. She said my dad’s a bad influence, and she’s going up there to yell at him.”
“Well, I didn’t detect a bad influence, and anyhow he won’t be there,” Whistle pointed out.
“What did he write on that note?” I asked.
“Stuff about business and money and deadlines,” he relayed, “and how happy he was to meet you.”
“Whistle, are you sure he’s a good guy? I mean, when I talked to Mom, she made him sound pretty messed up.”
My internal compass was wavering with the two opposing views, both so certain and so final. I wasn’t sure what to believe.
Whistle sat down on my dictionary and began swinging his legs. “He is as good as you,” he said with an open expression.
Surprised at Whistle’s appraisal, I asked, “Are you just saying that?”
“I don’t just say things,” he declared, insulted. “Whether I want to or not, I can feel the core of the person I read.” His green eyes bored into me. “It doesn’t matter how you appear, and it doesn’t matter the words you choose or the colors you shine. I always know the truth.”
“And the truth of my dad is good, right?”
“Right. And the truth of you is something more.”
He gave me a funny look and then changed the subject.
“We had a lark at the house transformation,” he said with a grin. “All the old toots got riled and wanted to work more on the project.”
“I wish I could have seen it!” I said, imagining the magical renovation.
“They’re going back,” he added. “I think the job gave them energy and direction, you know?”
“Probably gives them hope,” I agreed.
“And me, too,” Whistle admitted with a faraway look.
I wished for Whistle’s sake that his sketchy plans would somehow preserve Nutfolk Wood.
“Whistle, you should go before traffic picks up,” I advised. “You could get stalled in a surge.”
“I’m a careful fellow,” he claimed. “Unusually skilled.”
“Yes, and unusually boastful,” I added.
With exaggerated shock, he tried to look offended. “Pesky rude of you to say so,” he returned. Raising one eyebrow, he barely smiled and slowly surged away.
Mom returned from her fruitless trip up Wicket’s Road. She placed my dad’s note on the kitchen table where I sat eating a bowl of cereal.
“Well, the house looked good,” she began. “But he’s gone.” With a mixture of irritation and something else—disappointment, I think—Mom slumped into the other kitchen chair and blew a noisy sigh. Pressing her fingers to
her eyes, she said, “Go ahead, read the note.”
Dear Zelly,
I am so happy to have met you. A million things are running through my mind right now, but first on the list is money. I am leaving to get some things in order, and I hope to return when I complete my deadlines and rearrange some business.
Best Regards,
V. Meeker
“Zelly.” Mom was solemn. “This stuff about deadlines and business . . . He’s just not . . . trustworthy.” Her jaw tightened, and her face hardened into the picture of a stubborn woman.
“I won’t have you jerked around like this,” she warned. “I won’t have it.”
But I was stubborn, too. I wanted to see my dad again, to feel that connection, to mend that gap. For the first time ever, I felt secure in my place in the world, and I knew it was from being in Plunkit, from my friendships with Lupine and Frederick and Whistle. And from finding my dad.
I did not intend to lose him again.
Thinking her own troublesome thoughts, Mom pursed her lips and frowned, but if she had been paying attention, she would have seen the same clenched jaw on a girl who was just as stubborn as she was.
CHAPTER 31
Transformations
“SOMETHING WEIRD IS going on.”
It was Lupine again, trying to sound all dramatic on the phone.
“There’s always something weird going on with you,” I pointed out.
“This is serious!” she exclaimed. “Jimi Hart is nailing a SOLD notice on the Wickets’ FOR SALE sign.”
“Run out and ask him who bought it!” I cried. “Okay, I’ll bring the phone.” Immediately, rustling and foot-pounding ensued.
“Mr. Hart?” I could hear Lupine’s high-pitched voice. “Who bought this property?” she sweetly asked.
“Beat it, kid” was the grumpy retort.
“Come on, we’re the closest neighbors. You may as well tell me,” Lupine coaxed.
“I said, get lost.”
“How rude!” Lupine admonished. Then, rustle, rustle. “Hello, Zelly? Someone just drove up. It’s a Glen Wood truck! Hold on. I think I’ll just hang around for a minute.” More annoying shuffling sounds made me think she was putting the phone in her pocket.
A car door slammed, and a man bellowed, “Hart! I thought we talked about a deal?”
“Yeah, Lou, we talked, but some guy beat you to the punch. Flew to Palm Springs and buttered up the old lady.”
“Did he make a better offer?”
“Nope. Got it for a song.”
“Who is this guy?”
“Some tree hugger. He promised he’d never develop since that’s what dear departed Granny would have wanted.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah, I’m serious. And it seriously reduced my percentage,” Hart complained. Suddenly angry again, he shouted, “Hey! I told you to get lost.”
Lupine’s nervous giggle accompanied more muffled thumps that sounded like jogging. Then bump bump bump, up the stairs, and bang! That must have been the trailer door.
“What a jerk,” I heard her say to herself. Then, “Hello, Zelly?” She was loud and clear now. “It sounds like the right person bought that property!”
I had to respect how Lupine stood up to cranky Mr. Hart, even after he told her to get lost. “Lupine, you’ve got some nerve.”
“That’s what my mom always says.”
Weeks passed without one word from Vincent Meeker, which made me worry despite Whistle’s assertion that he was a good guy. Was it possible that the “determined glow” that Whistle described was my dad’s resolve to get the heck out of Plunkit?
Aunt Viv went ahead and had her knee surgery, so Mom was busier than ever at the store—although she left no doubt that we were leaving before Christmas. Still furious about how I had snuck up to Hazel’s and met my dad, Mom had not wavered in her opinion of him. I’d been grounded and working in the store after school, until Mom finally relented and let me return to Lupine’s, but only after Deb relayed that Jimi Hart had installed a metal gate at the entrance of the Wickets’ driveway, and no one had gone in or out since the day that he had locked it.
November crept to its end, and the usual stormy showers doused the last of autumn’s color. The landscape was pretty in a wintry way, with bare branches, windswept fields, and that wide-open sky.
When the bus dropped us off at the hairpin, we were blasted with a startling gust of wind that sent Frederick’s loose paperwork flying. Laughing, we ran around trying to catch it all.
“We’ve only got an hour before my mom gets home,” Lupine complained. “Frederick, you should have packed your homework properly,” she scolded, grabbing at two more of his papers.
“I need a secretary,” he moaned, stooping for his math worksheet, now defaced by his big footprint.
“Be your own secretary,” Lupine mumbled, true to form.
We dropped our backpacks at the door of the Gypsy Wagon and wasted no time in hiking to the homestead.
From the knoll, we could see that the house had been painted bright yellow, with black shutters framing the windows. We reached the front yard and appraised more changes, noting that the chimney had been restored with pretty rocks from the stream, and the shingles on the roof looked like newly split shakes. The old maple now stretched its limbs over a trim, green lawn, and all the outbuildings had been repaired and reroofed and now were barn red, like proper country sheds.
“Wow!” Frederick exclaimed. “Did the Nutfolk do all of this?”
“They must have,” Lupine insisted. “That gate has stayed locked, and there’s no sign of tire tracks. Plus, I haven’t heard a hammer bang or a human voice coming from this place. I mean, how can you reroof a house without making a sound?”
Walking around the property, we admired the cute outbuildings, the pruned apple trees, and the weeded garden beds. Even though the house was locked up and the ladder was gone, we could peek in the porch windows and ooh and ahh at the cozy interior.
It was all so pretty that I wished my mom could see it. I bet it was nicer than when she was a kid.
“Whoever bought it sure got a cute place,” I said. “And hopefully, Nutfolk Wood will be safe.”
“Come on,” Lupine urged, checking her watch. “We’ve got less than forty minutes to visit Whistle and get back to my house.”
We found the town in a whirlwind of activity. Little people were everywhere, washing windows, sweeping porches, fixing chimneys, and patching roofs. The LEAVE BE sign had been removed from the jamb of the stump house, and cheerful lights lit the house from within. When Whistle stepped onto the porch with some bread and jam, I was surprised.
“What are you doing in the stump house?” I asked.
“Before she was a Bright, my momby was a Nutbone,” he explained, “which makes this our rightful home. It was just that after my parents died, Auntie didn’t care for the stump. Too big and drafty, she used to say. But now we’ve got folks surging in who need lodging.”
“Why all the company?” I asked, marveling at the shimmering Nutfolk cleaning and repairing the shabby town.
“They’ve come for the project,” Whistle said between big bites of bread.
“You mean Hazel’s house?”
He nodded and gulped.
“But it’s all done and sold,” I pointed out.
“It’s the home-sweet-home factor,” Whistle replied. “The final touches. Plus, if all goes well, townsfolk plan to return.”
Grampy joined him on the porch with a thimble-sized mug of something hot. He was smug when he said, “It was worth the sweat to catch a good hum. Now we just want to keep ’m caught.”
“Do you know who bought the house?” I asked, suddenly nervous about hearing the answer.
“Our Whistle tells us that the glow on that question is good,” Grampy said with confidence.
“So, who is it, Whistle?”
“That I can’t tell you specifically.” He shrugged. “But I caught impression
s from Mr. Hart that were favorable.”
“A fair hum has taken claim,” Grampy summed up, “and that’s the main thing.”
“Yes, I guess so.”
Surrounded by the Nutfolk commotion, I suddenly realized how unnecessary it all was.
“Why are you doing this work by hand?” I asked. “Why don’t you just do your surgey thing?”
“It’s good, honest work,” Grampy declared, “and we’d grow fat and silly indeed if we always took the easy path.”
A noisy spit was his exclamation point, and he repeated the words with a smile because he liked the sound of them so well. “Fat and silly indeed.”
CHAPTER 32
Regular Life
CHRISTMAS WAS A week away, and now that school was out for the holiday, Mom insisted I start packing to return to the city. It was like one of those dreams where you’re trying to get away, like you’re trying to climb out of quicksand but never make any progress. I was trying to stay in Plunkit, and no matter what I said or did, I couldn’t get anywhere with my mom.
Deb had invited us to her Christmas Day brunch, but Mom was being so stubborn, she wouldn’t even consider it. “We’ll be back in the city on Christmas Day,” she’d stated, as if the stupid plan couldn’t be changed. I argued, finagled, and begged. I did everything except cry, but she simply would not budge.
When a large box was delivered to the bookstore, I read the return address and felt a thrill. It was from him. Finally! Maybe he could convince my mom to stay.
Eyeing the package, Mom frowned and made a growling sound of disapproval. It wasn’t until after closing the store that she would even look at the box, and then she felt the need to make a little speech before unwrapping it. “Zelly, I want it understood that we are moving back to the city. I’m going back to teaching, and you are going back to the University International School.”
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