“Never heard of him,” I said. “Where’s the key?”
“Right here. But it doesn’t say the kind of car.”
Dad handed the key to me. The key had a red top. In the center of the top was a yellow square. Inside the yellow square was a tiny black horse. I nearly fainted.
“Dad—”
“What?”
“Do you know what this is?”
“What? It’s a key.”
“You know what kind of car it’s for?”
“I already told you I don’t know. All these papers.”
“Dad, it’s a Ferrari key.”
THE NEXT MORNING WAS SATURDAY. I woke up early and ran outside, but no car was there yet.
Dad and I had looked through the envelope. He was right. It was full of legal mumbo jumbo. There was a highlighted section of the will, showing Dad’s inheritance. It listed this Mr. Shoreby and his red Ferrari. It didn’t say what kind of Ferrari it was. And it didn’t say who Mr. Shoreby was.
I heard a door open behind me. I assumed it was Dad. “It’s not here yet,” I said.
“What’s not here yet, you little geek?”
I recognized the voice of Joanna. I didn’t turn around. “None of your business.”
“It’s my business if it’s in my building.”
“It’s not your building. Lots of people live here.”
“It’s more mine than yours. I was here first.”
My hand touched the bottle in my pocket. I thought, just for a second, about wishing for Joanna to disappear. Poof. Just one little wish and she would cease to exist. “You better watch the way you treat me.”
Joanna laughed. “Or what? You gonna beat me up? Or tell your mommy on me?”
My hand went back to the bottle. “You seriously better watch it. Just because your mom is sick doesn’t make it okay for you to—”
Joanna grabbed me by the collar and hauled me to my feet. “What did you just say?”
“I—I meant—”
“Never mention my mom again.” Her eyes were wide, her nostrils flaring. “She has nothing to do with you. I have nothing to do with you. We are not your business.” She shoved me back down to the ground. “Stay—out—of—my—life!”
I sat on the curb by myself for the next hour, feeling alone. I thought about hanging out with Lancaster—after all, he was my new friend, wasn’t he? But I didn’t really want his company.
A flatbed truck turned the corner onto our street, with a car on its back, under a cloth cover. I texted Dad.
The whole family came outside. Mrs. Appleyard walked across the street from Hank’s. “This is about the envelope from yesterday, isn’t it?” she said to me. I nodded. “Things are looking up for the Silvers. Heard your Dad got a job. Now he gets a car. Maybe I should raise your rent.”
“Don’t even think about it,” said Mom.
“Didn’t know you were listening,” said Mrs. Appleyard. “I was just kidding, of course. I don’t raise rents until December. That’s how Mr. Appleyard did it. That’s how I do it, in honor of his dear memory. Gotta stay on the schedule. The schedule is everything.”
The truck driver rolled the car to the ground and drove away, leaving us all staring at this package parked on the curb. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Joanna watching us from an upstairs window.
“Well, I’d say it’s about time we unwrapped our present,” said Dad. “Who wants to help?” We all rushed forward. In a whoosh, the cover came off, revealing shiny red paint and gleaming chrome.
“It’s a beauty,” said Dad.
“I don’t believe it,” I said. “It’s a 430.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“It’s the best thing. It’s the very best thing on—on the whole planet.” I touched the bottle in my pocket and shouted, “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!”
Dad said, “I’d say you’re welcome, but I didn’t have much to do with it. I suppose we should thank Mr. Shoreby, whoever that is.”
“Why would someone you don’t even know leave you a car like this?” said Mom. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Who cares if it makes sense,” I said. “It’s beautiful.”
“There’s got to be a catch,” said Mom. “There’s always a catch.”
Meg and Georgina begged to go for a ride. “Oh, I don’t think we should drive it,” said Dad.
I spun around and stared at Dad. “What? What do you mean?”
“Well, what’s a car like this worth?”
“I don’t know. A good one—with all original stuff—maybe two hundred.”
“Two hundred what?”
“Two hundred thousand.”
“Dollars? Then we are definitely not driving it. We’re going to sell it. I’ll find a dealer who will come and pick it up. That’s money we could use to get back into a house.”
I felt sick to my stomach. “Dad—Dad, you—you can’t be serious. You’re not serious, are you? I mean, this is—somebody died so you could have this car.”
Dad laughed. “I don’t think that’s the reason he died, Gabe.”
“But you’re supposed to take me to school in it. That was the whole point!”
“The whole point of what?” said Mom, narrowing her eyes at me.
“Of—of—you know.” I gulped.
“Of what?”
“Of having a car like this. I mean, what’s the point of getting a Ferrari if all you’re going to do is sell it?”
Dad said, “The point is that it’s practically worth a whole house, Gabe. We could move out of this building and into our own place.”
“Move out?” said Meg.
“We don’t want to move,” said Georgina. “We like living in an apartment. Apartments are awesome. People above ya—”
“And people below ya,” said Meg.
Dad said, “It’s not a practical car for our family, Gabe. It only has two seats. Besides, I agreed to start taking that girl—Joanna—to school with you. Make things a little easier on them. Here, help me put the cover back on it.”
“No!” I shouted. I laid my body against the car. “You can’t get rid of it. It’s not right.”
“Then I’ll just cover you up, too,” said Dad. He flung the cover over my head.
Tears started running down my face as I climbed out from underneath.
“Gabe—” said Dad. He tried to put his hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t touch me,” I said.
I ran up to our apartment. Joanna was leaning against the wall outside our door.
“Poor baby,” she said. “Didn’t Daddy take you for a drive in his new car?”
“Shut up,” I said.
“What’s eating you?” Joanna said.
“Seriously. Just shut up.”
Joanna smiled.
“And stop smiling.”
“But I like seeing you so unhappy,” she said.
“I hate living in this stupid building.”
“Then move.”
“The sooner the better,” I said.
“I couldn’t agree more.”
I went inside and looked around our crappy apartment. There was still a hole in the ceiling where Alejandro had torn it open to fix the leaky pipes.
I was so mad at Dad, my hands were shaking. I thrust one into my pocket and pulled out the bottle. I wanted to do something. For a second, I thought about throwing the bottle across the room. Instead, I wished.
“I wish for—for fifty thousand dollars. I wish for the hole in the stupid ceiling to be fixed. And I wish for—for—I wish for a—for a—for a hot tub!”
I don’t know why I said it. I wanted something crazy. Something extravagant, like Lancaster’s giant TV. If I couldn’t have the Ferrari, then by God, we’d have a hot tub instead.
I didn’t have time to think about it. There was a knock on the
door. I opened it, half expecting a delivery man to ask where I wanted the hot tub, but it was Doctor Mandrake. He was wearing a blue silk robe over shiny gold pajamas. His eyes were red. His chin was unshaven. He had the morning newspaper folded under his arm.
“Ahh, young Sea Goat. I was hoping to find you here. Very good. Very good. The strangest thing. Since we spoke the other day I have not slept a wink. Not a single minute of sleep. There is a great disturbance in the energy of this building, and I can tell it is connected to you. But is it you, the personhood of you? Or is it that blasted bottle?”
Doctor Mandrake yawned. “Poor me. I am quite sensitive to shifts in the energy fields, you see. And this one—this field—is concurrent with Capricorn in midheaven. That is your house, you see. It is unique to you—your astral fingerprint, you might say. But it may also be connected to the object that entered under the apex of that house. May I see it? The bottle?”
I pulled it from my pocket and nervously handed it to Mandrake.
Mandrake asked me to hold his newspaper while he examined the bottle. “Ah-ha. Yes. It practically excretes energy, does it not? This is the culprit, I tell you. This thing.”
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
“I don’t know, I don’t know. Perhaps…hmmm…” Mandrake continued mumbling under his breath. While he turned the bottle in every direction, I unfolded the newspaper. Down in the corner of the front page was a small headline: TACOMA’S RICHEST CITIZEN DIES. Underneath it was a name: Shoreby.
Here’s what the article said:
Mr. Shoreby, the reclusive philanthropist of Tacoma with no known first name, was found dead in his home Tuesday night. Early medical reports failed to identify the cause of death.
Shoreby was known both for his charitable giving and for his mysterious past. While he had little contact with the community, he donated millions of dollars to local causes, particularly in support of parks, libraries, and the Shoreby Wing of Tacoma General Hospital.
Shoreby had no known family members and, as of this writing, little is known of his history or how he made his fortune. Private services will be held at Peat Funeral Home in Tacoma. Shoreby’s attorney was contacted for information regarding the Shoreby estate, but he declined to comment.
“Something catch your eye?” asked Doctor Mandrake.
“Huh?” I could barely speak. An overwhelming thought pressed on my brain. Was Mr. Shoreby the man who had sold me the bottle? And then, half a second later, another thought pushed that one out of the way: Had Mr. Shoreby died because of my wish? Had I killed him by wishing?
Mandrake grabbed my arm. “Look,” he said. “You see these two tiny marks on the bottom of the bottle? These were carved there by the maker. They are hard to decipher. Get me a piece of paper, would you?”
I grabbed a scrap of lined notebook paper from my bedroom. Mandrake pressed it against the bottom of the bottle. He pulled a stub of a pencil from his robe pocket and rubbed it against the paper until two stick-figure marks appeared.
The first looked like a bird—maybe a falcon—but with a human head. The one next to that was a man kneeling. His hands were behind his back and tied with rope.
“Fascinating, fascinating,” said Mandrake. “These look quite old. Perhaps from a pictographic society.”
“A what?”
“Oh, you know. A society that used symbols instead of an alphabet. Like ancient Egypt and their hieroglyphs.” Mandrake handed me the paper, but held on to the bottle. “I know I gave this object to you,” he said, “but would you mind if I borrowed it for a while?”
This bottle had given my dad a job. It had given us a Ferrari. It might have also killed Mr. Shoreby. I knew the bottle would come back to me.
“Take it,” I said.
WHILE DAD AND I WERE GETTING READY for the funeral, I found the envelope the lawyer had left. I dug the Ferrari key out and when Dad and I went outside, I held it out to him.
Dad said, “Put that away, Gabe. We’re not driving that car.”
“Why not, Dad? The funeral home’s only about a mile away. It’d just be a little drive.”
“Yeah, and one car pulls out and the Ferrari is destroyed, along with our chance of selling it.”
“Come on. Just once. I’m begging you.”
“No. The answer is no. It’s not insured. And it’s worth too much money.”
I put the key back into my pocket. Dad and I drove his old Honda over to the Peat Funeral Home on Sixth Avenue. The funeral home looked like a white mansion, nestled in among the coffee shops and restaurants. We parked right in front—few other cars were around—and walked up the gray steps to the wide wooden door.
Two men stood in the foyer: one tall and thin, the other short. They wore matching black suits and narrow black ties. The tall one hunched his shoulders and jutted his chin out like a perching crow. The short man had a bristly mustache so large it seemed to cover the bottom half of his face.
“Thank you for coming,” said the tall man. He turned to his partner. “Ludwig, lead them into the chapel.”
We followed the short man through a set of double doors. Rows of empty chairs filled the room. “Where is everyone?” whispered Dad.
“There is no one else,” said the tall man’s voice behind us. “You will be the only ones in attendance. You may sit anywhere you like.”
We sat halfway back. The tall, thin man stood in the front of the room and introduced himself as Victor Peat. He thanked us again for coming. He read a brief description of Mr. Shoreby, but there was nothing I hadn’t already read in the paper. Ludwig then played a short piece on an organ—it might have been “Amazing Grace,” but it was played in such a gloomy style I couldn’t be sure. Victor Peat then cleared his throat and addressed us again.
“The following is a letter from Mr. Shoreby himself. His will stipulated that it be read at his funeral.” He began to read:
Dear attendees,
I was planning to die many years from now. But as I write this, I know my death is imminent.
I had a secret. You know what it was. I gave the secret away and thought I had escaped. I thought I had gotten off scot-free. But then, just this morning, I felt a sudden urge to update my will. To pass on my favorite automobile upon my death. I put pen to paper, and it was as if an invisible force moved my hand, telling me to leave my auto to a certain Johann Silver, a man I had never met.
But Silver. I knew that name. And I know the limits of coincidence. If a Silver were to inherit my auto—if my hand was forced to write such words—then I knew I was about to die.
Dad leaned over to me and whispered in my ear, “This guy was nuts. We are definitely selling the car.”
This shouldn’t have surprised me. The secret always works this way. When one wins, another loses.
So let me warn you: Be rid of the thing. Sell it quickly. And protect your soul. There are more ways than one to lose it.
With great regret and great relief,
Shoreby
Victor Peat motioned for us to come forward. “It is now time to view the body.” Dad pulled me to my feet.
“I am not looking at any dead guy,” I whispered.
“Just do it,” said Dad. “Whoever Shoreby was, he gave us a car. Just give him a quick look and we’ll get out of here.”
I said no again, but Dad pushed me forward. “Keep your eyes closed if you want.”
I followed Victor Peat onto the platform until I was even with the black coffin. I was afraid of whom I was going to see. I was ninety-nine percent sure I knew who it would be, but I still hoped I’d be wrong.
I muttered, “I don’t want to look. I don’t want to look.”
“Shhh,” said Dad.
The bottom half of the coffin was closed. I walked along it, staring down, getting ready to shut my eyes before the body came into sight. But curiosity took hold. I had to see.
He wore a simple black suit. His hands were folded upon his chest. He clutched something between the fingers of his right hand. It was a single dollar bill.
Dad grabbed my elbow. “Gabe, come on.”
But I couldn’t stop staring at the dead man, thinking that he had rid himself of the bottle just in time to save his soul. He’d dodged the Devil, with only days to spare. And then I thought about my wish for the car—the Ferrari. I’d gotten the car. And Shoreby had gotten dead.
Dad pulled me away. “I thought you said you didn’t want to look.”
When Dad and I returned home, Dad stood on the sidewalk, staring at the car under the cover. He said, “I haven’t found anyone to buy it yet, but I’m selling it just as soon as I can.”
“So it’s going?” I reached out a hand toward the Ferrari.
Dad pulled my hand back. “You heard the letter. He said to sell it quickly. It’s going. Don’t touch it.”
“I don’t think he meant the car, Dad.”
“What else could he have meant?”
I gulped and said nothing. I went to my room and fell onto my bed. I had to turn to my side to keep from staring at the Ferrari poster. I was so lonely I texted Henry.
I got rid of the bottle. And I just came back from the funeral of the guy at the cheese store. You want to come over?
After half a minute, Henry texted back,
Let me ask my mom.
Henry knocked on the apartment door about fifteen minutes later. I gave him a quick tour, ending in my room.
“Did you see the car?” I asked.
“What car?”
I pointed out my half window to the covered car. “You’ll never believe what it is. A Ferrari 430.”
Henry gulped. “You wished for it?”
The Bottle Imp of Bright House Page 5