A Summer of Sundays

by Lindsay Eland

  Jude walked up to the counter. “Hi, Ms. Bodnar. This is Sunday. Her family is fixing up the old library.”

  Ms. Bodnar grinned. “Oh, yes, I think I met your sisters already. May and Emma, right?”

  I nodded and inwardly groaned. Now it would be a miracle if she ever remembered my name.

  “Nice to meet you, Sunday.” She poured some batter onto a black pan, then lifted the handle and swirled the batter until it thinly covered the bottom. “I’m so glad you and your family have come. My late husband worked at the library for a few years. He would’ve been very sad to see what’s become of it.”

  “Really? He worked there?” I stole a look at Jude, but he was watching Ms. Bodnar flip the lightly browned crepe. Was the story I’d found her husband’s?

  “Yes. When we moved here from Paris, he did not pack any of his clothes. Not even socks or underwear. ‘I can replace those,’ he told me, ‘but not my books.’ ”

  I liked her already. “Did your husband ever try to write, Ms. Bodnar? You know, a story or a novel or something like that?”

  She laughed, slid the crepe onto a plate, and swiped a knife covered in chocolate across it. “No, he didn’t like to write. Just read, read, read.” She dropped thinly sliced strawberries across the chocolate, then rolled it up like a burrito, adding a dollop of whipped cream on top. “I am the one who likes to write.”

  “Really?” I knocked Jude with my elbow, though he didn’t seem to notice.

  She smiled and waved the comment away. “Oh, it’s nothing, really, I just write little stories here and there, and I’m not sure if they are even good.”

  Ms. Bodnar handed the plate and two forks to Jude. “Here’s a crepe for you two to split. A gift to welcome you to town.”

  I grinned, my mouth watering at the sight of the drippy whipped cream. “Thank you.”

  Jude and I sat down at one of the tables and dug in. After taking just one bite, it wasn’t hard to understand how the man in front of us got his tubby belly. It was like eating a piece of the clouds.

  We were almost finished when Jude stopped eating and took a quick breath in.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Shh!” He hunkered down and glanced quickly at an old man with a cane who walked past the café. When he was out of sight, Jude sat up, dug his fork into the last bite of crepe, and popped it into his mouth.

  “What was that about?” I asked. “It wasn’t Wally.”

  “It’s hard to imagine, but that old man is even more awful than Wally.” Jude leaned in closer but craned his neck to watch the man continue down the street. “That there is the meanest man in the entire world.”

  “Him?”

  Jude nodded and stood up, swiping up the last bit of whipped cream with his finger.

  I followed. “How’s he so mean?”

  “Just a second,” Jude whispered, and set the plate on the counter. “Thanks, Ms. Bodnar.”

  “Yes, thank you. That was delicious.”

  She waved. “Anytime.”

  Jude and I started down the sidewalk. The old man was one block in front of us, and I could hear his feet and the cane creating a shuffle-shuffle-tap rhythm on the cement.

  Jude whispered, even though there was no way on earth the old man could hear us, if he could even hear at all. “His name is Ben Folger. He’s the lunatic that lives across the field from you. He’s lived here almost all his life. You see his cane?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, Terrance Von, a senior at the high school, says he’s seen him pull a knife out of it and stab a stray cat before. There’s also a curse around his house. Anything that goes over the bushes into his yard”—he paused and glanced around, lowering his voice—“never comes out again. Balls, shoes … kids. I hear he even eats raw meat.”

  “You don’t really believe that stuff.” I laughed.

  Jude stopped, grabbed my arm. “Sure I do. And you should, too. That is if you want to make it back to your own town at the end of the summer. He hates kids and every kind of animal. His basement is like a dungeon, damp and dark with rats and spiders. Terrance says that’s where he keeps and tortures the people who’ve trespassed.”

  “How does Terrance Von know if he can’t go onto his property because of the curse?”

  Jude continued walking. “How should I know? But he doesn’t seem like the type of guy who would lie.”

  I stared down the sidewalk, watching the old man disappear around the corner.

  “So, is he like a hermit?” I asked.

  “Sort of, I guess. He does come out every now and then, but mostly I think he just hides away in his house plotting evil and burying the bones of the cats he’s eaten in his garden.”

  That sounded kind of hermitish to me. “Or maybe he sits inside and writes? I’ve heard that sometimes writers hide themselves away in their houses while they tap away on their computers. Do you think he could have written the story that I found?”

  Jude grabbed my arm and stopped. “Does the story have murder or torture in it?”

  I shook my head. “Not so far.”

  He released my arm and started walking again. “Then no. He couldn’t’ve written it. Besides, I doubt he has ever set foot in the library.”

  “Well, maybe that’s what I need to do to make my mark: befriend the local hermit and bring him out of hiding.” I would be like Mary Lennox in The Secret Garden. The idea made my heart thump with excitement and my skin crawl with fear.

  Jude stopped again, pulling my arm harder this time. “No way, Sunday Fowler,” he whispered, as if saying it too loud was dangerous. “You need to stay as far away from Ben Folger and his house as you can. And you should tell your brothers and sisters to stay away, too.”

  “If I told my brothers to keep clear, they would be knocking on his door before I even finished my sentence.”

  DESPITE Jude’s warning, I couldn’t get old Ben Folger out of my head the rest of that day or the next.

  If Ben Folger really was a hermit, then bringing him out of his shell after years of hiding away would be a big deal. Everyone would want to know how I did it.

  Or maybe he really did torture intruders in his basement. If I was able to prove that, I would be responsible for putting him behind bars and saving the entire town!

  TWELVE-YEAR-OLD HERO SAVES US ALL!

  It didn’t seem like I could lose … well, unless he captured and tortured me.

  I pushed that thought out of my mind and pictured my mom wrapping me in a big hug, and my dad proudly ruffling my hair as reporters interviewed me. “We’re so proud of you, Sunday,” my parents would say. “Our daughter, the hero.”

  A knock at my door startled me. After tucking the pages of the manuscript underneath my pillow, I opened The Mystery at Lilac Inn and pretended to read. “Come in.”

  The door creaked open and there was Bo, standing in the dark stairway.

  I set the book down. I hadn’t seen him much since this morning, and the sight of his messed-up hair, small bare feet, and dump-truck pajamas made me smile. “Bo? What are you doing still up?”

  He rubbed his eyes and wrapped his blanket around his head. “CJ is snoring so loud I can’t stand it, and Mom told me that unless I’m bleeding I can’t come into her room ’cause Henry’ll wake up.”

  I scooted over and flung back the covers. He grinned and dove in beside me, squinting his eyes closed, though I knew it would be a while before he fell asleep. I picked up the book and skimmed through the words. I was glad he was tucked in next to me, but there was a tiny part that was annoyed. With Bo here, I wouldn’t be able to read more of the mysterious manuscript until tomorrow.

  “Sunday?”

  I sighed. “Yeah.”

  “I can’t fall asleep.”

  “You haven’t even tried. You just came in a minute ago.”

  Who was I kidding? There was no way he was going to fall asleep with the lamp glowing. I set the book down on the nightstand and flicked off the light. Then I carefull
y pulled out the manuscript pages from underneath the pillow and slid them under the bed. In the morning, I’d hide them under the mattress again.

  Bo cuddled up next to me and I could faintly smell the toothpaste that he’d gotten in his hair before bed.

  Bo yawned. “Will you tell me a story, Sunday?”

  I closed my own eyes and told Bo about what I’d just read. Lilly and the boy, Mark, were becoming friends. She had just dared him to eat a dog biscuit, which he had done, throwing up afterward.

  “Gross,” Bo whispered. His voice was soft and I could tell that he was slipping off to sleep. I liked remembering the story even if I couldn’t tell it with the same beautiful words and images that I had read. I told a little more. How Lilly had hidden in the woods away from her dad, who wasn’t a very good dad and had yelled at her something awful.

  “She was crying all alone by a tree. Crying until no more tears came out. Crying until her nose and eyes were swollen and her stomach ached. When she finally went home, she made herself a peanut butter sandwich, slipped quietly into her room, and fell asleep. When she woke up in the morning, there was a little flower on her windowsill.”

  I stopped and listened. Bo’s breaths were even and deep. Tucking the covers higher underneath his chin, I glanced out the window at the sky dotted with stars, closed my eyes, and drifted off to sleep, too.

  After lunch the next day, I helped Mom wipe down the bookshelves and stain the desks that Dad had sanded smooth. Dad was busy with another desk, and Jude sat at the new computer, helping Miss Jenny install programs and get the library’s Internet service up and running.

  “The Internet’s working now,” he told her. “When the new cataloguing system arrives, I can help set it up on some of the other computers for you.”

  “That would be really helpful.”

  Dad walked over and watched Jude click away on the keys. He put a hand on his shoulder, then rubbed his hair. “Thanks for all your help.”

  I could tell that Jude was surprised by the gesture at first, but then I worried that if he smiled any wider he might strain his cheek muscles.

  “Sunday,” Mom called, holding out a book. “We must’ve missed this one when we were sorting. Have you read it?”

  I set down my paintbrush on the drop cloth, walked over, and took the book from her hand. The paperback cover was worn around the edges with a small tear on the back. As I fanned out the pages, the musty smell blew across my face. Some of the pages at the beginning were starting to come loose.

  I loved it already. “The Life and Death of Birds? I haven’t read it, but I’ve heard of it.”

  “That was one of my favorites,” Miss Jenny said, looking up from the computer.

  Mom smiled. “I remember loving it, too. You know, the author lived here in Alma.”

  I glanced over at where the portrait now leaned against one of the walls. Dad had taken it down and covered it with a cloth so that it would be protected while we worked. “You mean the woman in the portrait?”

  “Yep. Lee Wren,” Miss Jenny said. “I would’ve loved to have met her.”

  Mom reached for her sandpaper. “Anyway, I know how much you like to read. You should try it.”

  I put the book in my backpack. “Cool. Thanks.” My heart gave an excited skip. I wasn’t sure if it was the idea of starting a new book or the fact that my mom noticed something about me. But I was already looking forward to cuddling under the covers and sinking into the pages.

  At four o’clock, Dad made us all quit. Mom went back to the house to start dinner, Dad cleaned up, and Jude and I tried to decide what our next step was going to be. None of the authors we’d written to had sent a letter back yet, and though the thought of befriending Ben Folger tickled on the edge of my brain, I couldn’t figure out where to begin.

  I handed Jude a cookie and a glass of milk, then we went outside and sat on the porch stairs. I took a bite. “I think I need to talk to him.”

  “Who?”

  I pointed across the field at the house.

  Jude choked on a piece of cookie. After taking a swig of milk, he shook his head. “If you want to die.”

  “Come on, Jude. He can’t really be dangerous. And even if he does have a sword in his cane—”

  “A knife.”

  “Whatever. Even if he does, he’s not going to hurt us.”

  “And what about the curse?”

  I shrugged. “I doubt there is a curse.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea, Sunday.”

  Maybe it wasn’t, but I had to do something to make my mark. Time was creeping away from me. And then there was the manuscript. There was no reason that the author couldn’t be Ben Folger. And if that was the case I would have befriended the local hermit and discovered that he was also a really good writer.

  “Well, I’ve got to try,” I said, looking down at my cookie. “I think I’ll bring some of these over. Dad always says that nothing melts the heart like cookies on a plate.”

  Jude laughed. “But you have to have a heart to melt. And I don’t think Ben Folger has one.”

  Ignoring him, I went inside, took out a paper plate, and set five cookies on it. Then I covered it with plastic wrap, ran a brush through my hair, and made sure that my brothers were occupied with something so they wouldn’t tag along and get in the way. Luckily they were so busy making paper airplanes they didn’t even hear me open their bedroom door and peek in.

  “I’ll be back in a little while, Mom,” I yelled from the front door. “Come on, Jude.”

  “I don’t know, Sunday. I really don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “Fine, scaredy-cat. You stay here.” I held the plate in front of me and started across the field.

  “You can’t go that way!” he yelled after me. “He’ll see you coming.”

  “Well then, show me a better way. But with or without you, I’m going. So decide.”

  He groaned and caught up. “You’re impossible.”

  I smiled, satisfied, and followed after him.

  At first, I thought he was leading me on some sort of wild-goose chase. We walked downtown (in almost the exact opposite direction of Ben Folger’s house) and said hello to Ms. Bodnar as she closed up the café.

  We continued on in silence and finally came to a deadend road. Jude stepped into the overgrown weeds that quickly turned into a forest of tall trees. It was getting darker by the second.

  “Where are we going?”

  He stopped and turned. “Ben Folger’s,” he whispered. “It’s right through these trees. Unless you want to turn back.”

  I straightened, clutching my plate of cookies so that Jude wouldn’t see the way my hands were shaking. “No, I’m fine.”

  “Now, be quiet. Who knows if he’s lurking out here.”

  I held my breath and tried to step carefully, avoiding as many dried twigs and old leaves as I could.

  Jude ducked behind a bush. “There it is,” he whispered.

  Clouds had moved in, and the sky had darkened even more. The windows looked black and the porch swing banged against the siding.

  “What should I do now?”

  He looked over at me. “How should I know? You’re the one who wanted to come here and talk to him. And it doesn’t even look like he’s home.”

  “Maybe he isn’t.”

  Just then a light flicked on in the front window. My heart raced. I found it hard to steady my breathing. The sound of the triangle clanged from across the field, making me jump. Mom was calling everyone in for dinner.

  I didn’t have much time. But what if he really did have a sword in his cane, or I did disappear after I crossed over to the other side of the hedge?

  “Are you going or not? Dinner’s probably ready at my house, too, and my mom is gonna kill me if I’m late.”

  “Maybe we should see if the curse is real first.” I picked up a pinecone and tossed it over the hedge. Jude and I watched as it landed and rolled a few inches. I looked at him and shrugge
d. He picked up a rock and did the same thing.

  Thud.

  “Here goes,” I whispered.

  “I’ll be the lookout.”

  I crawled the length of the hedge, one hand awkwardly holding the plate of cookies, until I could see the front door looming ahead of me. A solitary light glowed behind the closed blinds—the rest of the house was eerily dark. Nervously clutching a fistful of grass, I whispered to myself to stand up: “Come on, you can do this, Sunday. On the count of three. One. Two—”

  Adrenaline rushed through my legs and arms, my toes and fingertips.

  Jude whispered over to me. “Sunday?”

  I turned to him. “I’m all right.”

  My heart sped up and my breaths came shallow and shaky. The door wasn’t too far away, just down the stone walkway. But first I had to pass through the small white gate that was level with the thick hedge. I forced my foot forward one step, and then another. Holding my breath and closing my eyes, I pushed the gate forward and took a step onto Ben Folger’s property. I opened one eye and then the other. I hadn’t disappeared.

  “I made it!” I whispered back to Jude.

  There was no curse.

  Turning back to the house, I clutched the paper plate, now sagging in the middle from the weight of the cookies, and started down the walkway to the porch, and then up three steps to the door. Everything would be fine. No one could resist chocolate chip cookies. Not even an old hermit who maybe ate stray cats and tortured intruders in his basement.

  I knocked on the door, my heart doing flips inside me, my hands trembling. I tried on my best smile, the one I wore when I used to sell cookies for my Girl Cadet group.

  The sound of footsteps shuffle-tapped closer.

  The knob turned, and a sliver of dim light peeked out through the barely opened door. A blue, clouded eyeball magnified by glasses looked out at me.

  “Well? What do you want?”

  “Um,” my voice squeaked. It took all I had to keep from sprinting back to my house. Is he reaching for his cane? “I … I thought I’d bring you some cookies. They’re, um … they’re homemade. Chocolate chip.”