by Robert West
That balcony was also pretty strange looking. You see, the house had a dome. Beamer thought that domes were supposed to be on top of buildings, but this one stuck out the front of the house like a pimple. The balcony was cut out of the bottom of that sideways dome. Just above the balcony, in the center of the dome, was a big round window. Suddenly, the picture clicked in Beamer’s head. “Hey, guys!” he whispered too loudly. “It’s a train! The whole front of the house is shaped like a streamlined locomotive!”
Suddenly a woman stepped onto the porch and winced in the bright sunlight. She wasn’t smiling. Actually, she had a long, lean faced that looked like it hadn’t smiled for an eon or two. The good news for her was that her face had no laugh lines. The bad news was that she had loads of frown lines.
“Hello, children,” she said in a high-pitched, whining voice. “I am Mrs. Drummond, and I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that I could turn you over to the police for trespassing.” She tilted her face down to look through the upper part of her bifocals.
“As you can see we have gone to a great deal of trouble to maintain our privacy.” Tall and wiry, she wore a long, dark dress with almost no decorations, except for puffed up shoulders. Her hair was piled up in a ring on top of her head, which was held up by a long, narrow neck, reminding Beamer of those aliens you’d see in movies who had big heads tilting and turning on tiny necks.
“However, I am going to overlook your actions this time. But I warn you against repeating this intrusion. Mr. Parker is very ill. He was once a very brilliant man, as you can see from these sentry creatures he constructed long ago. Incidentally, I must ask that you tell no one of the existence of these creatures. Mr. Parker’s health is very fragile, and any undue excitement can pose a danger to him,” she added with a cold smile.
Beamer felt his face flush at the same time a chill spread down toward his feet. It hadn’t occurred to him that they might endanger the man’s health by dropping by.
She glanced up at the sentries and ordered, “See that these children leave the premises and then return to your posts.” Without another glance at the kids, she turned around and reentered the house.
Something about the way she whirled around, her head turning slower than her body like a snake pivoting about, with her arms lifted high in a gesture of dismissal, gave Beamer the brief image of a dragon with its wings spread, guarding a cave full of treasure.
About half an hour later Beamer closed his front door and turned to find a sword pointed at his chest.
“Do you yield?” a guy wearing a mask and armor asked in a gruff voice.
“Yes, Dad, I yield,” Beamer said with a sigh, pushing the plastic sword away with his finger. Why couldn’t he have a normal dad — you know, just some everyday SWAT team member or a spy for the CIA? Nope, his dad was the king of make-believe — a theater director at the local college. Naturally, he had to try out the props for each new theater production at home. Beamer had a feeling that his dad would play every part himself if he could get away with it. But then, on the positive side, his half-kid father could often make sense of what made no sense to Beamer.
While his father continued his duel with an invisible opponent, Beamer told him about his experience with Mr. Parker and Mrs. Drummond.
“Sounds like there is nothing you can do,” his father said as he put down the sword and took off his mask.
“Something doesn’t sound right, though,” Beamer said with a stiff jaw.
“Yes, but as unpleasant as the lady seems to be, she knows more about Mr. Parker’s health than you do. Now leave them alone. It is far too dangerous to pursue Mr. Parker’s situation any further. Oh,” he said, changing the subject at the same time he was changing into a helmet with bull horns sticking out on each side. “Your mother and I contacted Social Services about the boy in the trolley station. They’ve apparently known about him for some time but have never been able to find him.” He picked up a rubber battle axe and swung it around. “Can you imagine that?” he asked as Beamer ducked. “They said that they would try again — maybe bring in the police.”
9
Never-Never Land
“What are we doing here?” protested Scilla, huffing and puffing behind Beamer as they approached the trolley terminal turned ice Castle. “You got your wallet back.”
“Do you want the kid picked up by the police?” he countered her.
They went into the building. Everything inside was linked together in rolling hills of snow. With every step came a crunch. They could forget about sneaking up on the little crook.
“Why didn’t Ghoulie come?” Scilla asked.
“His parents were taking him out to an amusement park for their anniversary,” Beamer said as he huffed clouds of chilled breath into the station. He banged through the side door, and they were once again in the trolley-car graveyard.
“Is this the right car?” he asked Scilla when he reached the trolley-car door where he thought they’d found the thief ’s stuff last time.
“Pretty sure,” she answered as she jumped up to the first step. “I remember that the car next to it had a broken window and a twisted mirror the same as it has now.”
“Yeah, well, something’s definitely not the same here.”
The trolley was empty. It was like the kid had never been there. He’d left nothing behind — no clothes, no gadgets, no loot — nothing. “As they say, he’s gone without a trace,” said Beamer.
They went on to search the other trolley cars. This time, though, they skipped the ones that required jumping up to see through the windows. If they couldn’t get inside, the chances were the little hobo couldn’t either, and Beamer didn’t want another headache.
“Come on,” Beamer said as he started walking back to the station. “We may as well look for the ghost of Mr. Parker while we’re here.”
“Ghost?” exclaimed Scilla. “You didn’t say anything about a ghost.”
“It’s sort of his ghost — we’re looking for what Mr. Parker left behind when he disappeared.”
“Cute, MacIntyre,” said Scilla with a crooked grin. They finally found the station office on a balcony above the passenger and ticketing area. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Someone had treated the place like it was the city dump. Drawers had been broken out of the desks and filing cabinets. A confetti factory wouldn’t have had as much paper strewn about.
“I’ll take what’s left of the filing cabinets,” said Scilla. Beamer started going through desk and table drawers. “Doesn’t look promising,” Beamer said as a drawer broke apart and crashed to the floor.
“Maybe there’s more here than you’d think,” Scilla said as she plopped to the ground beneath the weight of a huge file folder. “There’s a bunch of newspaper clippings still here — really old ones.” Scilla picked up the first one only to have it immediately crumble to pieces in her hand. “Whoa,” she said and laid the folder flat on the floor between her crossed legs. She leaned over the folder and turned the next page like it was made of thin glass. “Here’s a picture of the trolley station under construction, and here’s another one of trolley tracks being laid.”
Beamer slid down beside her. A newspaper photo showed a man getting an award from a city official. Beamer started to grab it, but Scilla shook him off. “Take it easy. These are halfway to dust already.”
“Okay, but then what’s it say?” he asked impatiently.
“This one says somethin’ about going into bankruptcy,” she said.
“That’s pretty bad,” mumbled Beamer.
“Sounds like the trolley business didn’t make any money,” said Scilla. “Too bad Ghoulie’s not here — numbers bein’ his thing and all.”
“Happened back in 1951,” said Beamer as he pointed at the date.
They suddenly heard a thump above their heads. “Someone’s on the roof!” Beamer exclaimed as he jumped up. He ran out the door, then suddenly reappeared, twisting around to look back in at Scilla. “Bring that stuff with you. We’ll get
Ghoulie to go over it with us back at the tree ship.”
“You got any idea how heavy this thing is?” Scilla yelled after him. But he was already gone. Scilla rolled her eyes, muttering, “Boys talk, girls get things done,” as she carefully folded everything back up.
A moment later Beamer was outside the station. He spun around to look at the roof just in time to get his breath knocked out. He fell back into a small snowdrift with a football planted on his chest.
“Hey, nice catch!” yelled the boy, laughing on the rooftop like a rooster.
“Hey, where have you been hiding?” Beamer yelled back at him. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“You and Social Services,” he said with a disgruntled look.
“Why’d you rat me out for?”
“Whaddya mean, rat you out? It’s dangerous being here by yourself in the middle of winter. You could freeze to death or starve or get mugged or — ”
“Hey, old Jack can take care of himself. I’ve been doin’ it for a couple years now, ever since my dad died and my mom flipped out on drugs. Come on, throw me the ball,” he ordered.
The boy — Jack — spoke with a drawl like Scilla but with a little country-western flair. Beamer stood up awkwardly and threw a wobbling pass back to him. “Where’d you get the football, anyway? Steal it?”
“Look here,” he answered with a sudden hard look. “Jack’s no thief. I only take what other folks lose or throw away. You wouldn’t believe what they toss out — especially the rich folk.”
“What about my wallet, huh?” Beamer asked with a cocky look. “I didn’t just ‘lose’ it.”
“Hey, I was gonna pay ya back. In fact, I’ve got it right here.” He threw what looked like a little ball at Beamer’s feet. “Just consider it a little investment.”
Beamer picked up the object and discovered that it was a few dollar bills wrapped around a rock and held together by rubber bands.
That’s when Scilla came running out of the station awkwardly carrying a half-torn paper box that bumped against her body. “Whatcha got?” she asked.
“The money he stole from me,” said Beamer, pointing at the boy on the roof as he examined the ball of money, “and one dollar more.”
Scilla turned and shielded her eyes against the bright snow to see him, dropping the box in the process.
“All right, go long,” Jack yelled at Beamer, waving the football in the air.
“Wait, I’m — ” Beamer protested as he started to backpedal.
“No, the other way,” Jack yelled. “Come on, I said long!”
Beamer ran, slipping and sliding across the snow and ice. Jack heaved the ball in an almost perfect spiral. Beamer stretched out to catch it and fell onto the ice. Amazingly, especially to himself, he still managed to hold on to the ball as he slid on his belly.
Jack leaped off the roof like Peter Pan in a wintry Never-Never Land. “Way to go, what’s your face — nice catch!” Jack yelled. He leaped up, cocking his arms like a pro player on TV, or maybe a rooster on Animal Planet.
Scilla ran over to see if Beamer was all right, but he waved her off. “My name is not what’s your face,” Beamer grumbled after he spit out a mouth full of snow. “It’s Beamer, Beamer MacIntyre.”
“Okay, Beamer,” Jack said agreeably. But then he stopped to think about it. “You sure it’s Beamer? I’ve never heard of anythin’ besides a car called a Beamer.”
“I am not ‘a Beamer,’ just Beamer, and I’ve never heard of anybody who lived in a trolley car either,” Beamer threw back at him.
“Hey, it beats being locked up in some government joint. Here I’ve got my freedom and a pretty cool playground. Now tell the little guy next to you to go out for a pass.”
“I’m not a guy!” Scilla said in a huff as she whipped off her stocking cap to reveal her dark blonde ponytail. “The name’s Scilla.”
“Oh, sorry,” said Jack with a grimace. “Here, kid . . . uh . . . Beamer. Hit me over middle.” He was just starting to run when Scilla cut in front of him.
“Hey, what do y’all think you’re doing?” she shouted at Jack. “Just because I’m a girl, doesn’t mean I can’t play football. Come on, Beamer, I’m gonna cut right.” She ran about ten strides and then cut right. Beamer lofted the ball but it wobbled away behind her.
“Whoa there, Beamer,” Jack said as he ran to scoop up the ball. “Your passing technique’s strictly in the toilet. Here, let me show ya,” he said as he walked toward Beamer, tossing the ball up and down several times.
He worked like a coach showing Beamer the way to hold the ball, until Beamer’s passes started losing their wobble. Surprisingly enough, they all started having fun, catching and passing or trying to block or intercept. They plopped and skidded, getting face-fulls of snow and throwing alley-oop passes over the trolley cars. By the time the sun was low in the sky, they were so caked in snow they could have passed for gingerbread cookies — iced.
“Hey, we gotta get goin’,” Scilla finally said. “My grandma doesn’t even know where I am. If she start’s worrying, I could be in big doo-doo.”
“Me too,” chimed in Beamer.
Jack looked disappointed, and his eyes started moving like he was thinking up something. “Well, y’all are about the worst football players I’ve ever seen,” he finally said with his rooster laugh, “but I can work you into shape. When y’all comin’ back?”
They looked at each other and shrugged almost at the same time. “I don’t know,” Beamer mumbled. “We’re not supposed to be here at all.” After an awkward silence, he shrugged again and said, “We’ll see what we can do. Where can we find you?”
“Nice try, Beamer,” Jack said with a smirk. “I’ll find y’all, but only if y’all are alone.”
10
The House that Time Forgot
That night Beamer had to face some heavy-duty interrogation. Luckily his parents weren’t into thumb-screws and electric shocks. When the questioning was over, it was torture enough that they forced him to clean up his room. Brushing the dust off his wall-length Lego monorail system took him a whole hour! “Cleanliness is next to godliness,” they’d always say, as if it was in the Bible or something. Frankly, as far as Beamer was concerned, cleanliness was way overrated. Nobody ever had to sweep the forest floor or dust the rocks on a mountain.
Well, the Star-Fighters did have to dust the instrument panels in the tree ship from time to time. Otherwise, they couldn’t read them. But that was a definite exception. In fact, it was while they were polishing things up a few days later that the crew got their first airmail delivery. Beamer heard it bang off the side of the tree ship.
Beamer ran out the door and picked it up off the outside platform. It was another wad of paper wrapped around a rock with rubber bands. “Hey, Jack!” he yelled down toward the ground. “Are you down there?”
“Nope, jus’ me,” yelled Beamer’s little brother. “Who’s Jack? Anyway, some man in a fancy suit delivered this to the house a few minutes ago. Dad asked me to give it to you, and this seemed the fastest way to do it.”
“Thanks a lot, bubble brain,” Beamer grumbled. “I can hardly read this wrinkled wad of trash. At least try using a Frisbee next time.” Beamer smoothed the paper out enough to read the typed message beneath an elegant letterhead. “Hey guys,” he yelled to the others inside. “You won’t believe this!”
Seconds later, Ghoulie and Scilla crowded up next to him over the message. Beamer read it out loud: “Mr. Parker requests the presence of the Star-Fighters at his home at #2455 Colonial Street this coming Saturday at 2:00. Please be mindful of Mr. Parker’s condition and prepare to act with respect and the utmost courtesy.” Beamer folded up the message neatly.
They looked at each other in amazement. Finally Scilla said, “Judgin’ from the last sentence, I’d say it was Mrs. Drummond who wrote it, and she’s not overjoyed with the idea.”
“Well, at least she gave us a code number to input at the gate,” said Ghoul
ie.
On Saturday, the Star-Fighters appeared at 2:00 sharp and were dressed just as sharply. Scilla even wore a dress. Beamer and Ghoulie almost didn’t recognize her. She couldn’t stop wiggling and pulling the hem down to cover her spindly legs.
Ghoulie’s mom drove them to the gate and flooded them with a thousand dos and don’ts. You’d have thought they were going to the White House. Ghoulie plugged in the code, and the gate opened obediently, though with a lot of grating and squealing. They waved good-bye to Ghoulie’s mom as the gate closed behind them, and they turned to walk up the lonely, broken driveway.
Mrs. Drummond met them at the door, her face as dark as a storm cloud. “Follow me,” she said like a drill sergeant, “and keep your hands to yourself.” Scilla saw Beamer open his mouth to speak. “And no talking,” she added. His mouth snapped shut.
The house was the closest thing to a palace Scilla had ever seen. The entry room was as big as a hotel lobby. Grand doorways bordered by columns led to rooms on either side of the large room. Mrs. Drummond led them straight ahead, beneath a double staircase that circled from either side of the entry room to a second-story entry above. Everything was polished and gleaming, but the house still seemed dark and old — as in Dark Ages old. Scilla looked around for a suit of armor — one with moving eyes and a sword ready to lop off somebody’s head.
As they walked down the wide hallway, Scilla sensed something familiar about the house. It took her awhile, since she’d never been in a house this grand, but then it hit her. The furniture, curtains, decorations, the figurines, and pictures were like what you’d find in any older woman’s house — and Scilla had been with her grandmother to many such homes. As they moved toward the back of the house, Scilla looked into one room after another. There were no big chairs, no heavy cabinets or tables, but lots of glass cabinets filled with delicate figurines. But this was supposed to be a man’s house — Mr. Parker’s house!