Whistle Bright Magic
Page 9
“But I don’t want to go back,” I objected for the hundredth time. “I’m doing rotten there, and I don’t fit in!”
“You’re not doing that badly,” Mom chided, ripping a long strip of tape off the side.
“But I like it here, and I like the kids here.”
“Honey, I’ve tried to make it clear all along that the past is staying in the past.” Mom’s cheeks burned with emotion, but her tone was unyielding.
“What about the store?” I argued. “What if Aunt Viv wants to retire?”
“Then I’ll hire a manager. Or I’ll sell. Either way, we are returning to our regular lives.”
“Why can’t this be our regular life?” I yelled.
Mom was ripping the last strip of tape when the sides flipped open and packing peanuts spilled to the floor. He’d sent her a painting.
In the middle of an exquisite spring landscape sat the familiar stump, only in this version there were no doors or windows, no surrounding cabins, and no central park or shopping center. In fact, there were no little people at all. It was a glen without Nutfolk.
“Nature’s Magic,” Mom said, reading the title at the edge. “His mother painted it. It used to hang in Hazel’s living room, and she said it was the one thing she’d run back for if the house was on fire.”
I remembered the rectangle of white on the wall and figured he must have snuck it out of Hazel’s house to restore it.
“Is there a note?” I asked.
Mom rummaged through the debris and found an envelope labeled Willa.
“I’d like to read this alone,” she said curtly.
“Fine.” Torn between curiosity and heartbreak, I stalked off and ran up the stairs.
Banging around in the kitchen, I intended to make spaghetti, but as I filled a pot with water, I realized the need to wipe tears off my face. Funny how crying snuck up on me like that. No great tragedy occurred, just a fight with my mom. I coughed out a couple of sobs, foreign-sounding and strange in my ears, and then I had myself a little cry.
I had to admit that I felt better, not so angry and frustrated. And nothing bad happened. Nothing horrible transpired because of it. That little voice had been wrong.
Setting the pot aside, I splashed water on my face and blew my nose. I tiptoed back downstairs and found Mom sitting on the floor behind the counter. Except for the lit window display and the cold glow from the outside streetlamp, the room was dark.
“What’d he say?” I asked quietly.
With a grimace she handed me the note. Holding it up to the window light, I read:
Dear Wil,
Now that I am clean and sober, I would like to apologize for so many things. We could go for a walk on Wicket’s Road and clear the air between us. It’s presumptuous, I know, but I thought on Christmas Day the store would be closed, and you’d have the time off, and we could meet then. I hope you’ll bring Zelly if she’d like to come.
Wil, if it seems like too much water has passed under this bridge, it’s okay to just let it go.
V.
“Seems sort of nice” was my opinion.
Mom frowned harder. “It’s one of those letters,” she sneered, saying “letters” as if it were a dirty word. “He needs to be forgiven so he can move on.”
I wanted to blurt out that he was thinking of her more than himself and that he was just being careful and respectful, but I realized it was my blind intuition, and I couldn’t be a hundred percent sure.
“Why Christmas?” she snapped. “Like I don’t have a life or a family of my own? Like I don’t have anything better to do on Christmas Day than chase after him?” Shaking her head, she heaved a gloomy sigh. “Typical self-absorbed behavior. Just like the bad old days.”
CHAPTER 33
Wintertell
I OPENED MY WINDOW and looked out on the street. In the clean, frozen atmosphere the stars were prickly points of light, and the air delivered the kind of cold that’s a shock to eyeballs and lungs. In the intersection, the stoplight switched to green, but no cars passed, no people stirred. Saving the melancholy scene in my mind, I shivered and closed the window, and then even under five lofty blankets, it was a long while before I was warm.
At first, my dream world was as icy as the real one, when for no particular reason, I found myself transported to the woods, walking barefoot toward the Secret Garden.
My toes were freezing and tingly, and I regretted not bringing slippers or throwing on a bathrobe over my old white nightie. But as I wandered farther into the woods, I began to grow warm. In a dream bubble that defied the weather, I felt safe in body and mind.
The path was unusually smooth and clear, with marker leaves glowing to show the way. More leaves blinked on, and more, until thousands glowed to light the path all the way to Nutfolk Wood. Far above, the stars glittered, and all around, leaves twinkled like Christmas lights in the night. From the glen drifted music, where strings and flutes and small voices combined in strange and haunting song.
I stepped into the clearing and saw the whole population gathered in the green, dining at tables covered in white linen. The surrounding dwellings looked charming and clean, with fresh paint and new shingles, as pretty as Hazel’s old house.
Lighting the park were countless globes on sticks, reflecting off the white linen, the polished silverware, and the gleaming candleholders. Instead of their customary brown and green tunics, the Nutfolk wore colorful dresses and vests with bright stockings and funny boots. Like exotic birds, they were splashes of vivid color, out of place in the cold evergreen wood.
I spotted Whistle and smiled to see him in a yellow waistcoat, which at first seemed hilarious compared to his old brown shirt—like seeing Huck Finn in a dinner jacket. But I had to admit he was handsome in yellow. I had to admit he was handsome!
Feeling suddenly huge and self-conscious, I wished I could be little like everyone else, and with the wish, it was so. A tiny Zelly crept toward the tables but stayed in the shadows.
Auntie Win stepped up to the gazebo and introduced herself to the crowd. “As your healer and the first teller of tales, I best get things moving or we’ll be here all night.”
The audience chuckled and rapped spoons on the tables to show their approval.
“I know a boy,” she began, “who came from the finest folk, whose beginnings were uneasy. In the winter of terrible cold, he was but two springs, and even then he was precocious. In him we saw the mood catcher, to be sure. Quiet he was, and watchful, and always one step ahead of his tired-out poppy.”
The crowd snickered.
Detecting a wild expression in Whistle’s eyes, I realized he felt trapped. He wasn’t the sort of boy who enjoyed the spotlight, but he had to endure it. It was the kind of spectacle that kids have to suffer through for the sake of their elders.
“I remember the fateful night,” his aunt recounted. “Cold enough to freeze your spit before it touched the ground, when traders arrived from Forkton, telling of a crash down the hum town road. Bad it was, with two vehicles and four humans in distress. The traders said there were no doctors coming, because no one saw the sight but Nutfolk, and the vehicles lay steaming and hidden in the ditch.
“My younger sister, Stillness, was the healer then. She left hurriedly on a mercy trip with her good man, Ralph Bright. They rode the jay ship, cautiously as they were surging on the main road.
“Stillness checked the injured that night, healing where she could and administering bandages and the like. Then, to attract attention, she and Ralph surged branches to burn in the road, which was when the terrible truck sped through. Before they died, our loved ones lit the flame to ensure that help would arrive for those humans still trapped in the ditch.”
Here, Auntie Win paused to sweep a pinkie to her heart, as did everyone else in the crowd.
“So their boy became my boy,” she said, “and I was so lucky to have him.” She smiled at Whistle with dewy eyes, while he tried his best to sit up and look dignified.
“Human children, he discovered, were not so different from himself, and each day it became harder and harder to keep up his old habit of hate. One noon on passing, I gave the boy a quick read, and to my shock, the familiar burn was gone. Completely gone! In its place glowed the pleasant hue of fun.
“I told myself long ago that if Ronald Whistle Bright could douse that fire, I’d toast him at Wintertell for all to applaud.”
Turning toward Whistle, she raised a glass that appeared in her hand and toasted. “Here, here, Mr. Bright!”
“Here, here!” the audience called as one, their spoons tapping and their voices echoing joyfully through the silent, frozen wood.
Reluctantly, Whistle stood, his face betraying a funny combination of embarrassment and pride. I was startled when he turned my way and, smiling, toasted me . . . or so it seemed.
As another storyteller took the podium, Whistle vanished from his chair, and he was suddenly standing next to me. Now that we were the same size, his familiar glow took me by surprise. Like a walking ember, he radiated a golden, flickering light as well as a tangible warmth. In his silly yellow coat, he was all brightness and heat.
“Hey, Whistle,” I said. “Am I dreaming?”
“Sort of” was his vague answer.
“We’re leaving Plunkit tomorrow,” I whispered, “but thanks for the dream. It’s beautiful, and I’ll remember it always—if you don’t fog my brain for security.”
I smirked, and so did he.
“You’ll remember it,” he said assuredly.
I nodded and glanced down at my nightgown, suddenly self-conscious. “Can you get me home?”
“You are home,” he said, and leaning forward, he kissed me on the lips.
I woke with a jolt, the electric charge still moving from my lips to my fingertips and down to my toes.
In the darkness of my bedroom, all I could say was “Wow!”
CHAPTER 34
Relief
“ARE YOU STILL teaching brats at that fancy school of yours?” G.G. had always disapproved of the exclusive Smarty Pants U.
“I’ve been on a leave of absence. I told you, Grandma,” Mom tiredly explained. “I’ve been working at the bookstore and sorting Mama’s stuff.”
After being in the city for two days, Mom insisted we visit G.G. at the Laurel Arms. This was the last thing in the world I wanted to do, because G.G. was always a grouch and Mom and I were barely speaking. But Mom said it was our duty since it was Christmas Eve and no other relatives could stand my great-grandmother.
We found her sitting in the lounge with her usual gang of old lady friends watching It’s a Wonderful Life.
Mom presented her with a fuzzy sweater, and I gave her a little landscape I’d painted. As if on cue, her gang oohed and ahhed vigorously, which for G.G. was even better than the gifts themselves. Then we rolled G.G.’s wheelchair to a more private corner, where she felt free to dispense with the niceties and get down to criticizing.
“The store is where you ought to be,” she grumbled, “not teaching a bunch of eggheads who don’t appreciate our Hazel Jo.”
You could have knocked me over with a feather to hear G.G. stick up for me like that!
Doing a double take, Mom exclaimed, “I’m surprised to hear you say that, Grandma. I know that you don’t approve of the International School, but I didn’t realize you liked Plunkit so much. After all, it’s so full of ‘trashy hippies’ and ‘down-and-out loggers.’”
“Well, it’s not so trashy anymore.” G.G. sniffed. Then, tilting her head, she studied Mom with her one good eye. “Willa, you’ve gained weight,” she decreed.
Although this remark may have distressed some women, Mom had been bugged all her life about being too skinny, so she knew that G.G. was actually giving her a compliment.
“Whatever you’re doing,” G.G. advised, “do it some more.”
Her grandmother’s sideways praise, as well as the perceptive comment about me, left Mom visibly shaken—hearing compliments coming from G.G. was like watching a dog talk.
“We’ve got to go!” Mom said abruptly. Grabbing my hand, she dragged me through the lobby and toward the door as fast as she could. “Merry Christmas, Grandma,” she called out over her shoulder. “We’ll see you soon!”
Back in the car, we drove south on Highway 99, across town toward the apartment. As the windshield wipers swatted at fat drops of sleet, we passed block after block of strip malls. Night fell, and streetlights blinked on, illuminating the concrete landscape. Compared to the gentle countryside of Plunkit, the endless wires and poles and cement looked like a sci-fi nightmare. Everything felt hard-edged and dismally cold.
Whistle could never visit me here. It was way too dangerous with all the cars and technology. Plus, he’d hate it anyway, just like I did.
Peeking at Mom through my eyelashes, I realized G.G. was right: Mom had gained weight. In fact, she had more color and sparkle than I could ever remember, but the city seemed to paralyze her. She didn’t want to unpack. She didn’t want to call her principal. She didn’t want to get groceries. She didn’t want to be here! So what were we doing?
Suddenly, I lunged forward and my head almost hit the dashboard as Mom slammed on the brakes at a red light.
“Sorry,” she winced, embarrassed. “I wasn’t paying attention.” We were moving again when she said, “I’m going to stop in here for a cup of coffee,” and pulled into a mini-mart. “You want anything?”
“I’ll look around,” I said, distant and cool. We were still acting stiff with each other, mostly because we hadn’t resolved anything. She was absolutely determined to protect me from my “loser” dad, and I was determined to get to know him. Plus, she never regained the slightest memory of Nutfolk Wood, and it was all that I could think about.
I followed Mom into the mini-mart and squinted in the glare of the fluorescent lights that buzzed along with the bad Christmas music. I was about to check the candy aisle when something else caught my eye.
On the magazine rack, a picture swept me back to Halloween night: a moody, fall image of dead leaves swirling in a darkened sky. I was looking at the cover art for a news magazine, and although the headline announced an uneasy stock market, I recognized the image at once.
My heart racing, I stepped closer to examine the picture. This could prove that my dad had told the truth when he wrote about completing deadlines—like a conscientious guy, not like a loser.
I grabbed the magazine and, checking the byline, discovered that the artist wasn’t named Meeker. Instead it said, Cover art by Vinyn Wil.
For a short moment my brain stalled over the unfamiliar name, but as I made the connection, my eyes bugged out. Vin and Wil forever. He’d chosen that declaration for his pseudonym. It was so corny, and sad, and romantic.
Hugging the magazine, I knew that Mom would listen to him now. “Mom!” I shouted. “I want to get this.”
In the parking lot of the mini-mart, Mom and I sat in the car with the heater going. She flipped to the byline in the magazine and stared.
“It’s him,” I said again. “I saw him working on the painting at Hazel’s house.”
Shaking her head in quiet disbelief, Mom’s face traveled through four different emotions: confusion, doubt, comprehension, and last, a guarded delight.
We returned to our apartment on Forty-fifth Street. Our luggage was still sitting in the living room, where we’d dumped it two days ago. Although we’d gotten out the toothbrushes, everything else remained packed. Our luggage, our apartment, me, Mom: everything was the same, yet everything felt different. There was an excitement whirling around us like the itchy wi
nd that Whistle had created to push me up the trail.
Timidly Mom asked, “So, what did he say about Christmas Day?”
“He said to meet on Wicket’s Road.” I remembered the note word for word.
Mom nodded. “Do you want to go on this weird rendezvous?”
“Definitely.”
“Then let’s go,” she said. “Let’s go right now!” Grinning, she grabbed me in a bear hug and whispered in my ear, “Thanks, Zel.”
CHAPTER 35
Weird Rendezvous
A LIGHT SNOW HAD dusted Plunkit, giving the old town a new, clean look. Since the heat in the loft had been turned off, we ended up sleeping together in Mom’s room, glad for each other’s company and the warmth. By midmorning, we were eating breakfast and celebrating our own little Christmas.
I gave Mom a book of maps and a heart necklace purchased with money I’d earned when I was grounded and working at the bookstore. She gave me a stand-up easel and oil paints and two canvases. But I couldn’t help thinking that, this year, Christmas wasn’t so much about the stuff.
I dressed hurriedly for the weather, while Mom spent an hour deciding what to wear. She primped in the mirror for another hour, which wasn’t like her. Finally, stepping out in her cream-colored wool coat and a cashmere beret, she looked very put together and as pretty as I’d ever seen her.
“How do I look?” she nervously asked.
“Like G.G. said, whatever you’re doing, keep doing it,” I said, smiling.
After carefully negotiating Wicket’s Road, Mom parked in front of the Gypsy Wagon in almost four inches of snow. Marla’s car was there, as were those of several others who’d come for Deb’s Christmas brunch.
Deb appeared on the front porch and called out, “What’s going on?” Marla soon joined her and waved while Lupine and Frederick grinned from the windows.
“It’s a rendezvous!” Mom called back. “But don’t get your hopes up, girls.” She gave her old friends a knowing look. Apparently, no further explanation was needed.