Pale Phoenix

by Kathryn Reiss

  Miranda frowned. For a second it had sounded as if Abby meant she'd moved in with old people lots of times. She watched Abby toss back her long hair again and glance more confidently around the table at them. She seemed more relaxed now that she was telling them her story. But Miranda's frown deepened. Is any of this story true?

  "So you broke into the Prindle House?" pressed Helen.

  "Oh, I know it was a terrible thing to do. But I was cold, and the house was empty. At first I meant to stay only a couple of days, until—well, until I could find somewhere else to live. I shopped for food with the money I had left and used my sleeping bag and stuff I'd brought from Baltimore to set up house in the kitchen there. It's the warmest room. After a few days I realized that people were trying to fix up the house and set up a museum or something, and then when I went to school, I learned about the restoration project. I made sure to take all my things out early each morning and hide them in the crawl space under the back porch." She paused and looked at the Brownes as if defying them to comment. "But then a couple days ago people from the Historical Society changed the locks on all the doors. The new locks, they're much stronger and, well...." Her voice trailed off.

  "Pick-proof?" suggested Philip drily.

  "Well, yes."

  "So where have you been sleeping?" Helen asked, her voice gentle.

  Abby glanced up from beneath her pale lashes. "Under the porch where I'd hidden my stuff," she said softly. "I thought it would be out of the wind there. But it's awfully cold. I've been hanging out at the library until it closes, then walking around the streets to keep warm until I'm tired enough to sleep. My sleeping bag is pretty good. But then I ran out of money. I had to take food from school."

  "And from the corner grocery," said Miranda.

  Abby shot her a venomous glance. "Only once. But I never," she hastened to add, looking back at Miranda's parents, "broke into anyone's car before. I hate to steal from people—it seems different with big stores, or the cafeteria. I didn't think anyone would miss the food. I mean, I know it's still wrong, but it's just awful to be hungry and cold...."

  Helen looked near tears. She reached over to put her arm around Abby's thin shoulders and hugged her. "The morning we nearly hit you, it seemed you fainted in front of the car. Was that because—?"

  Abby nodded, her face clouded. "I hadn't eaten in two days. I tried to sell some of my old things—from my grandfather's house, I mean—at the flea market to get some money. But I sold only one brooch. For three dollars! And it wasn't even really mine to sell, so that was stealing, too. I finally realized I'd have to steal to survive."

  Miranda had to admit to herself she was impressed with Abby's resourcefulness. But her father was frowning.

  "Abby, there are children's services," he said. "Social workers, lawyers, teachers. Any one of them would be glad to help you."

  Abby's expression was bleak. "No. I don't want anything to do with them."

  "Listen, of course the things from your grandfather's house were yours to sell. And if you're the only member of your family still alive, as you seem to believe is the case, then surely you'd inherit his house anyway. There might be plenty of money coming to you. You need a lawyer, like it or not."

  Abby pressed her lips together and shook her head. After a moment Philip shrugged. "Well, how long were you planning to live like an outlaw?" he asked drily.

  She sent him a shy look from beneath her lashes. "I didn't really have a plan," she murmured. "Of course, I knew I couldn't go on for long like this. I suppose I'll move on again when the snow stops. It's always hard to travel in the winters, even when I have some money."

  Miranda sat there, puzzling over Abby's story. The girl made it sound as if she had often had to travel in cold winters. There was something about Abby's account that didn't sound right to Miranda. But she couldn't think what it was.

  Abby closed her eyes and rested her thin hands atop the tablecloth. "It feels good to tell someone after so long." She opened her eyes then and looked right into Philip's. "I know I was wrong to break into your car for the food, and I know you're going to call the police after all, and I'll end up in a children's home...."

  "Oh, no," began Helen.

  "Not so fast," said Philip at the same time. They looked at each other. "What are you thinking, Helen?"

  Helen checked his face carefully before answering. In his eyes she saw his nod, although physically he didn't move a muscle. Miranda always marveled at the unspoken communication her parents managed so easily. But now she could read the message, too. She braced herself for what was coming.

  "Abby," began Helen, taking one of the girl's thin hands in hers, "would you like to stay here with us for a while? Until we can decide what's the best thing to do? I don't think at this point we need to involve the police. I'd rather have you here safe with us. For now. That is, if you want to stay."

  "We'll have to talk to the right people, of course," Philip joined in. "A social worker, I guess. And call our lawyer. They'll conduct a search for relatives you may not even know you have. And if you become a ward of the state," he added, his voice warm now, "they would eventually try to place you in a good foster home. Probably you can stay with us while we make inquiries. How would you feel about that?"

  Abby nodded eagerly, her eyes shining. "Oh, I'd love to stay with you."

  Helen turned to Miranda. "Mandy? What do you think about all this?"

  Miranda was fuming. She glared at her parents, but they didn't notice. Both of them had eyes only for Abby, and those eyes were now full of caring and compassion. Miranda drew a ragged breath and expelled it angrily.

  "Fine." Her voice was harsh. "I mean, sure, great, we can't very well leave Abby out in all this snow, can we?" She pushed back her chair and stood up. "Look—I'm going over to Dan's now." She carried her plate and cutlery to the sink, then turned back to the table. She saw her parents and Abby sitting there with their empty plates and their big smiles, and she thought they looked like players on a stage. She felt the atmosphere in the big, warm kitchen had changed with Abby inside, as if the snow falling outside had somehow crept in. Miranda longed to escape. "I told Dan I'd come for an hour or so, since I couldn't make it for dinner."

  Philip nodded. "Okay, Mandy," he said. "I think Abby looks like she could use a nice, long, hot bath and then an early bedtime."

  "We'll make up the fold-out couch in my office," said Helen, already busy with plans. She stood up and began clearing the table. "But first, how about some homemade apple crumble?"

  "Oh, yes," said Abby enthusiastically.

  "No, thanks," said Miranda. She left the kitchen and ran up to her room. Inside, she stood for a moment, looking around. Was it only food Abby stole, or might she be interested in other things? Miranda saw her favorite silver snowflake earrings on her dresser top and hooked them into her earlobes. Then she snatched up her wallet from the desk. It contained only a few dollars and her library card, but she felt safer keeping it with her. She hesitated. What else to take? On a whim she opened her dresser drawer and fished under her socks for the little stone phoenix. She stuffed it into the back pocket of her jeans.

  "Don't be back too late!" Helen called from the kitchen as Miranda bounded down the stairs to the front hall. Abby's voice rang out next, "Bye, Mandy!"

  Miranda didn't answer but shivered as she shrugged into her coat. She left her boots by the door and raced outside in her tennis shoes—so great was her hurry to be gone.

  Chapter Five

  MIRANDA LAY ACROSS Dan's bed, telling him about it. Her soaking shoes were propped against the radiator. Dan sat across from the bed in an old beanbag chair and rolled the beans beneath the vinyl while she talked.

  "Unbelievable," he said at last. "So what's the juvenile delinquent doing now?"

  "Probably soaking in the tub. Ripping off all my bubble bath, probably."

  Dan shook his head. "That poor thing."

  "Hmmm."

  "You don't think so?"
/>   "Oh, of course I feel sorry for her. But I don't want her living in my house."

  "Come on, Mandy. You're usually so softhearted. I mean, I know she's rude and everything. But it sounds like she's had a rough life."

  Miranda sighed and flopped over onto her back. "I guess I just don't trust her. She's got this quirky little smile that bugs me to death. I always feel she's mocking me."

  "You're paranoid."

  Miranda frowned. "Maybe."

  "Well, anyway, you missed a first class, five-star meal. The chef was crushed."

  "Oh, yeah? What did the chef concoct tonight?"

  "House secret. But I'll give you one more chance to try it. Next time."

  "You mean you've saved it?"

  "Nope. Ate all of it. It was great."

  "You ate all of it!"

  "I'm a growing boy," he said defensively, and she laughed. But it was true, she reflected, looking at him now. He seemed to have grown a full foot in just the past year, shooting up to almost six feet and developing muscles that had the football coach after him to try out for the team. But Dan preferred to spend his time learning about photography or taking long bike rides to neighboring towns. Sometimes Miranda went with him on those rides, and she always marveled at his stamina on the rolling hills.

  She stretched on the bed. "It's so peaceful here. What have you done with Buddy? Did you drug him?" Dan's ten-year-old brother was a great fan of Miranda. She rarely was able to snag time alone with Dan when Buddy was around.

  "Better than that. He's away at a friend's house for the night. And my parents are working on the special exhibit at the Prindle House."

  "I'm glad Buddy's not here, sweet as he is. I'm really low on energy tonight. Abby just seems to drain me. She gives me a headache, too. I know it's going to be horrible having her at our house."

  Dan reached over and switched on his CD player, then slid in a disc. "You need some music to calm you down." He crossed to the bed and sat down beside her. "How about a back rub?"

  Miranda felt inexplicably shy. This was simply Dan, her good friend. So why was she studying the cracks on his ceiling to avoid looking at him?

  "Go on, turn over," he said. "You're all tense. I give good back rubs."

  Then she did look at him. His head was bent low next to hers, and she could see his lashes, short and spiky, framing his dark eyes. "First class, five-star back rubs, I hope."

  He grinned. "Absolutely."

  She tugged the stone phoenix and her wallet out of her back pockets and set them on his bedside table. Then she turned onto her stomach, and he straddled her thighs, placing his hands on her shoulders.

  "Relax," he said. "How can I massage you if you bunch up your shoulders like this?"

  "That's your job," she said. "You can't just tell someone to relax. You've got to make me relax."

  In answer, he pressed his fingers lightly under her shoulder blades, then more firmly. He lifted her hair to prod the nape of her neck. She lay quietly, trying to calm her pulse. All thoughts of Abby and the strange situation awaiting her at home fled from her mind as Dan kneaded her muscles. She tightened up for a moment as she realized he would feel through her sweater that she wasn't wearing a bra. Didn't need one; though she wore one on gym days so the other girls in the locker room wouldn't tease. Then, just when she began to relax, Dan suddenly slid his hands up under her sweater and T-shirt and she tensed again. He rubbed her back in wide, firm circles in time to the beat of the music, his hands warm on her skin. Finally she stopped worrying and just enjoyed the soothing massage.

  When the song ended, his hands slowed then stopped. He let them lie there against her skin for a long moment, palms down, until she made a move to turn and sit up. Then Dan drew his hands out from under her sweater and sat back on the bed.

  For a second she could not look at him, but when she glanced over, he was staring at the bedspread, his face flushed. She felt better suddenly, better about being with Dan in this new and exciting way, and even better about Abby's infiltration of her house. "Well," she said finally.

  "Does your back feel better?"

  Miranda, who could not recall having complained her back hurt in the first place, smiled at him. "Much better. Maybe you'd better forget being a museum curator or a photographer and go work at a health club instead."

  He laughed and turned up the volume. They sat listening to the music another fifteen minutes or so until Miranda looked at his bedside clock and stood up. "I guess I'd better go. I told my parents I wouldn't be long. Although I doubt they'll miss me when they've got Abby to talk to and fuss over."

  "You sound like a jealous only child who doesn't like the new baby."

  "Oh, shut up. Abby isn't our new baby. Don't say such horrible things." She headed for the stairs.

  "Hey, don't forget these." He handed her the stone whistle and her wallet from the bedside table and she stuffed them back into her pockets.

  Down in the front hall, he loaned her his boots to wear across the drifts back to her house. "My ulterior motive is"—he grinned—"that now you'll have to bring them back early tomorrow."

  "How early is early?"

  "As soon as I get up. Oh, like after lunch."

  Miranda rolled her eyes and darted out the door, carrying her damp shoes. The snow had stopped and the moon peeked through the dark clouds, and Miranda smiled even as the cold wind bit into her. She had the memory of Dan's hands on her back to keep her warm. But as soon as she entered her own house, the smile faded from her face. She could hear gut-wrenching sobs coming from the top of the stairs—from her mother's office. And yet Helen and Philip sat peacefully in the living room, sipping tea and talking before the fire.

  "Here's Mandy now," said Philip when she stopped in the doorway, her hands on her hips. "Can we talk now, sweetheart? Mither and I know you were shocked when we asked Abby to stay, but what else could we have done right then? Sent her back out into the snow? Called the cops?"

  Miranda stared at him. "Well, why don't you go to her now, if you care so much? She really sounds awful."

  Philip and Helen were on their feet in an instant. "What do you mean?" asked Helen, coming into the front hall.

  Miranda kicked off Dan's dripping boots and set them on the mat by the radiator. "What do you mean, what do I mean? Lost your hearing?"

  Philip shot her a puzzled glance. "What are you talking about, Mandy?"

  From the floor above them, Abby's sobs rose. "Oh, yeah, I guess it's only the wailing of the wind." Miranda couldn't keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

  Helen and Philip looked at each other, concern and puzzlement clouding their faces.

  Miranda lost her patience. "Come on, you guys! Are you deaf? Are you going to let Abby cry like that and not even try to help? I thought you two were the charitable ones around here." She stomped up the stairs. "I don't even want her here. Why do I have to play Florence Nightingale?"

  At the top of the stairs she threw open the door to her mother's office without knocking. The sofa bed was all made up, its bedclothes rumpled as if Abby had been lying in them. Her sweater and jeans lay in a heap on the desk chair. The beaded satchel sat on the desk. The light was off, but the room was illuminated by soft moonlight. And Abby was not there.

  Miranda flung open the closet door, then ran across the hall into the bathroom. Abby was nowhere, yet the crying continued, mournful and deep. Miranda ran to the stairs, frightened.

  Her parents were on their way up. "What is it, Mandy?" demanded Philip. "What in the world is going on with you?"

  Then the crying abruptly stopped. The house seemed to ring with the sudden silence. Miranda stood there uncertainly. "Are you telling me you didn't hear anything?"

  Helen and Philip shook their heads. "We haven't heard a peep out of Abby since she went to bed about a half hour ago," her mother told her. "She was exhausted, poor thing."

  "Well, she's not in bed now. Maybe she's out ripping off a few more cars or burglarizing the neighborhood. Maybe we'd
better go down and lock up the silverware." What Miranda felt like doing was running downstairs and out the door, back over to Dan's house.

  "What do you mean, she's not there?" Philip reached past her and pushed open the door to Abby's room. He flicked on the light switch.

  Abby lifted her tousled head from the pillows and stared at them, blinking in the sudden blaze of light. "What—?" she asked in a thick voice, though whether the thickness was from tears or tiredness, Miranda could not say.

  Miranda's heart thumped in her chest. What is going on?

  Helen hurried to her side. "Are you all right, Abby?"

  "Oh, yes," she mumbled. "The bed's very comfortable."

  "Miranda thought she heard you crying," said Philip from the doorway.

  Miranda could see Abby's face in the moonlight as she blinked at them from the bed. Her cheeks were red and her eyes were bright, surely signs that she had been crying. "She did?" asked Abby. "She heard crying?"

  "Please come to us if you need anything," Philip said. "Anything at all."

  Abby stared at Miranda. "I—I will. But I'm fine. Thank you."

  "Sorry to bother you," said Philip, and he ushered Helen and Miranda out into the hall. He closed Abby's door gently. "Now what was that all about, Mandy?"

  "She was crying. I heard her," said Miranda flatly. "And then when I looked in the room, her bed was empty."

  "Oh, Mandy." Helen shook her head. "Getting us all upset about nothing at all."