Isabelle hid her apple beneath a ratty napkin before she stepped onto the second-floor landing. The Wormbottoms and the twins stood in line outside the bathroom.
“Hurry up, Limewig, and do your business,” Mr. Wormbottom said, pounding on the door. “It’s cold out here and you’re keeping me from my bed.”
“Can’t rush these things,” Mr. Limewig replied from behind the door.
“You want me to help you with that tray?” Bert asked.
“I can manage,” Isabelle said. She wanted to share the apple with Grandma Maxine before anyone else saw it. It would be the first time she had ever been able to give her grandmother a special treat.
Boris pulled half a dinner roll from his pocket and placed it on Isabelle’s tray. “Saved that for Maxine,” he said with a shy smile.
“That’s so sweet.” Isabelle stood on tiptoe and gave him a quick kiss on his pale, wrinkled cheek. Small acts of kindness were all the tenants had. Kindness kept their hearts from turning stone cold like Mama Lu’s and kept their spirits from washing down the storm drain. Isabelle vowed to save an apple slice for Boris and Bert.
Up the stairs Isabelle went. Grandma Maxine used to climb the stairs with her but over the last few months the old woman’s cough had steadily worsened. First, the trek to the factory had become too difficult. Then the trek up and down the stairs. Then she hadn’t been able to get out of bed. As the weeks had passed, Grandma Maxine ate less and slept longer. Isabelle had taken extra shifts at the factory to cover the lost wages and she had cared for her grandmother as best she could. She loved Grandma Maxine with her entire heart and she couldn’t bear the thought that one day the old woman would die.
She just needs more time, Isabelle told herself. Old people need more time to heal. That’s all.
Isabelle reached the fourth floor and hurried into the bedroom. Grandma Maxine lay beneath a thin, striped quilt, made from old socks. Her chest rose and fell in steady snoring. Isabelle quietly placed the tray on the bedside table. She held the apple up to the room’s single bulb. The light reflected gloriously on the shiny skin. Did it come from far away? she wondered. Do apples grow in Nowhere?
“Hello, Isabelle,” Grandma Maxine said, startling her.
Isabelle tucked the apple under the napkin. “Hello, Grandma. Are you feeling any better?”
“Not really. But at least it’s nice and toasty in here.” The bedroom didn’t have a fireplace or a heater but over the last few weeks the temperature had begun to rise. “I think it’s the moss carpet that’s keeping it so warm.”
The moss carpet was a recent addition to the room on the fourth floor. It had started with a simple clump of dark green moss that Isabelle had found on her factory locker. For some odd reason, hers was the only locker that grew moss. “Clean that locker!” Mr. Supreme’s assistants always yelled. But the moss always came back. Isabelle loved the way it felt when she brushed it across her cheek, so she had carried a clump to the boardinghouse where she had placed it on her windowsill, beneath a steady drip of water. The next morning the moss had doubled in size, and after a week it had grown down the wall. In two weeks’ time it had covered the entire floor. Amazingly, the moss absorbed all the nasty roof leaks yet it never felt wet.
Isabelle peeled off her damp socks and buried her aching feet in the living carpet. “It’s so nice to walk on. I wish you could walk on it, Grandma.”
“I wish I could too.” Grandma Maxine brushed aside a vine that dangled in her face. “I think these vines are also making the room warm.”
A few weeks back, Isabelle had found a tiny uprooted plant stuck to the bottom of her boot. Strange that the slugs hadn’t eaten it. She had taken the plant up to her room and had tucked its roots into the moss. In a few days’ time it had grown like Jack’s Beanstalk, with a stem as thick as her arm and leaves that sparkled like wet sand. The vines covered the ugly plank walls, blocking all the nasty breezes.
“The vines are beautiful but they worry me,” Grandma Maxine said. Her cheeks and eyes looked sunken and her skin, which was usually as translucent as Isabelle’s, had taken on a grayish shade. “If Mama Lu comes up here, she’ll get real mad. She’ll say that you don’t have permission to grow things in her house.”
“Then I would tell her that I didn’t grow anything,” Isabelle replied. “The moss and vines grew themselves.” A true and clever response. She placed the tray on her grandmother’s lap. “Besides, she won’t come up here. She can’t get up the stairs. So please don’t worry. Look, Boris saved half a roll for you.”
“Such a kind man.” Grandma Maxine’s long gray hair had fallen loose of its braid. She raised the spoon to her mouth with a shaky hand. Isabelle’s stomach clenched as she realized that her grandmother had grown even weaker. Isabelle took the spoon and started to feed her.
“I’m such a burden to you,” the old woman said, tears filling her red-rimmed eyes.
“You’re not a burden.” It was a sweet lie. Isabelle would never say or think the word “burden,” not ever, but her skinny, tired body felt differently, having worked all those extra factory hours to pay the rent.
“I don’t feel very hungry.” Grandma Maxine turned her head away.
“Try to eat,” Isabelle insisted.
“Maybe later. Go on and feed your critters. They’ve been waiting all day.”
“Okay.”
A table, made from a discarded factory crate, sat next to Isabelle’s rickety old bed. On top of the table sat a pickle jar. Mama Lu had eaten the pickles and had thrown the jar into the street. No one else seemed interested in the jar, so Isabelle had transformed it into an aquarium. The only occupant was a creature that looked like a little white rock.
“How’s your barnacle?” Grandma Maxine asked.
“I think it’s sleeping,” Isabelle replied. She had found the lone barnacle on one of the creosote pilings. Because she had never been to school, and because Mama Lu didn’t own any books on marine biology, Isabelle hadn’t known what to call it. No one kept books in Runny Cove—not a single one. Paper tended to bloat and mold. Bindings disintegrated within weeks. When Mama Lu got a catalogue in the mail, the pages were always stuck together.
But Grandma Maxine knew it was called a barnacle because there had been lots of barnacles on the beach when she was little. She had studied them in school. She knew that barnacles ate tiny creatures called plankton. She knew that Isabelle would need to collect new water for the barnacle so its food supply wouldn’t run out.
Isabelle opened the window and, holding the barnacle in place, carefully poured out the aquarium’s old water. Rain blew against her face, soaking her short hair. My grandmother can’t hold onto a spoon anymore. Time isn’t making her better. These thoughts made Isabelle feel heavy, so she leaned against the window frame. That’s when she noticed something unusual.
A tall person stood across the narrow street, on Gertrude’s front porch. The porch light illuminated the edges of a long hooded cape. How strange. Most everyone in Runny Cove wore cheap plastic slickers, sold at the factory store. Who could that be? No one ever visited Runny Cove.
Grandma Maxine coughed—a deep, wet sound. Cold night air rushed through the window, so Isabelle quickly closed it. She filled the aquarium with the fresh seawater she had collected. The barnacle opened and a white feather emerged, fanning the water. “It’s eating,” she reported.
“That’s nice,” Grandma Maxine said, coughing again.
There were other critters to feed. Isabelle pulled some grass blades from her pocket and tossed them into a cracker box that she had turned into a slug garden. She dropped a small piece of rotten driftwood into an empty milk carton that she had turned into a potato bug palace.
“I’m so sleepy,” Grandma Maxine murmured, closing her eyes.
“Oh, wait.” Isabelle had almost forgotten. She rushed across the soft moss and grabbed the apple. “Look, I have something special for dessert.”
“I’m too tired to eat.”
Grandma Maxine opened her eyes and gasped. “An apple? Oh, Isabelle. I know we don’t have enough food, but you shouldn’t steal. It’s wrong.”
“I didn’t steal it.” Isabelle dug a small chunk from the apple with the spoon. “Go on, eat some.” She gently pressed the piece into her grandmother’s mouth.
Grandma Maxine chewed slowly, then her eyes widened. “As sweet as I remember,” she said. “It’s been so long.”
Isabelle eagerly took a bite. Sweet juice burst onto her tongue. She wanted to shove the entire apple into her mouth. “It’s the best thing ever!” She dug her grandmother another chunk. As the old woman ate, her eyes ignited, as if a lightning bolt had shot right through her. She held out her withered hand for another piece.
“How much I’ve missed this taste. When I was a little girl, we had an apple tree in our backyard and we ate apple pie and drank apple cider. Our neighbor had a plum tree and the church on the corner had a cherry tree. It was so different when I was little. It used to be called Sunny Cove in those days.”
Isabelle knew all about her grandmother’s childhood. Life in the old days sounded like a dream.
“My father loved apple cider. He was a fisherman, like all the other fathers. He’d leave in the mornings before I woke. After school I would run down to the docks and wave as his boat came in. There were plenty of fish in those days. We ate halibut and salmon and herring. My father was the best fisherman in Sunny Cove.” The light faded from her eyes and she slumped against the pillow. Talking about the old days always made Grandma Maxine sad.
Isabelle knew the rest of the story. Each year the fishing fleet caught more and more fish until there were no more to catch. The people almost starved. Then the factory came and Mr. Supreme Senior gave everyone jobs. Then, mysteriously, the endless rain arrived and life changed forever. It was the saddest story she had ever heard.
The overhead light shut off with a popping sound. All the bedroom lights turned off automatically at eight o’clock. It didn’t matter if Mrs. Wormbottom was darning a sock or if the twins were playing marbles. Mama Lu didn’t want to spend any extra money. “Good night, Isabelle.”
“Good night, Grandma.”
“I love you, dearest.”
“I love you too.”
Then a whisper floated through the darkness. Grandma Maxine’s voice was quivery and sad. “How will you take care of yourself when I’m gone?”
Isabelle removed the tray. “Don’t worry about that. You need to get some sleep.”
Grandma Maxine rolled over and started to snore. The sound comforted Isabelle, for a person who snores is not gone.
She sat on the edge of her grandmother’s bed, her mind racing, thoughts turning from her grandmother’s health to the day’s weird events. Finding an apple beneath a cat could be simply a matter of luck. Having an apple dropped on one’s head could just be a coincidence. But having a sea monster sneeze an apple onto one’s lap seemed deliberate. The fact that all three apples had appeared on the same day, in a place where apples did not grow, seemed… miraculous! No doubt about it—Isabelle was smack dab in the middle of a mystery.
She crept to the window and leaned on the sill. That strange person in the cape had gone. The lights in Gertrude’s Boardinghouse had also shut off. Gwen’s window was on the back side of the house. She’d be in bed, like the others, probably crying over her lost apple. But wouldn’t she be surprised in the morning when Isabelle presented her with a lovely, sweet chunk?
Isabelle tucked the partially eaten apple under her pillow. How easily she could have eaten the entire thing, stem, seeds, and all. How nice it would have felt in her stomach. But she was determined to share it with her friends.
She curled her legs beneath her only blanket. Tomorrow would bring another long day of peeling labels and pressing them onto boxes. Did they have factories in Nowhere? Did everyone in Nowhere grow mushrooms between their toes and lichen on their heads? Did apple trees… grow… and… plum… trees…
Sleep tugged at Isabelle’s thoughts. But just as she closed her eyes, a scream shot up the stairway.
Isabelle crept down the dark stairway, her bare feet gripping the cold planking. The Limewigs poked their heads out of their bedroom and whispered nervously as she hurried past. “Someone screamed.”
The Wormbottoms huddled on the second floor’s landing. “What’s going on?” Mrs. Wormbottom asked. “Are we being robbed?”
“Don’t go down there,” Mr. Wormbottom said. “It might not be safe.”
Curiosity is a powerful force, so Isabelle didn’t heed his wise advice. She slipped between the Wormbottoms and continued down the stairs.
“You’ve ruined it!” Gertrude screeched. Light spilled from the kitchen. A cloud of black smoke drifted by. Isabelle tiptoed cautiously to the kitchen’s entry and peeked around the wall.
The apple, now golden brown, sat in a pan on top of the oven. Sugar bubbled at its base and juice dripped from the hole where the stem used to be. A slice was missing.
“I didn’t ruin it,” Mama Lu insisted. “Look at it. It’s perfect. Ya just got a bad slice. Try again.”
Gertrude frowned. Oddly, her lips had turned black. The front of her bathrobe was black, too. She stuck a knife into the apple and carved another slice. Then she plunged a fork into the slice and held it at arm’s length.
“That slice looks just fine. Go on. Give it a try,” Mama Lu urged.
Watching those greedy women gobble up the beautiful baked apple would be torture, but Isabelle didn’t turn away. Gertrude blew on the steaming slice and with a shaky hand, cautiously brought it to her mouth. But just as her blackened lips opened, the slice made a high-pitched sizzling sound. Then, BAM! It exploded. Gertrude screamed and dropped the fork. All that remained of the apple slice was a puff of black smoke.
Gertrude shook ash from her hair. “You ruined it,” she snarled. “You overcooked my beautiful apple. You burnt it.”
“It ain’t overcooked,” Mama Lu snarled right back. “Look at it.” She pointed to the golden apple. “It ain’t burnt one bit. I’ll prove it.” Mama Lu stuck a fork into the apple and lifted it from its pan. She didn’t even bother to blow on it. She opened her mouth to take a great big bite.
Sizzle. SIZZLE. BAM!
This time both Mama Lu and Gertrude screamed as the apple exploded. The fork fell to the floor. Mama Lu’s eyes popped even wider than the time she had found a family of slugs vacationing in her whipped cheese spread.
An enormous black cloud arose, blocking Isabelle’s view. Coughing, the landladies ran from the kitchen straight into the parlor, where they gasped for air. Isabelle searched desperately for a hiding place and found it behind the hanging rain slickers. She snickered to herself, remembering Mama Lu’s expression, then peered between yellow sleeves.
“You owe me an apple,” Gertrude said, coughing.
“I owe ya nothing. That was a bad apple. Ain’t my fault ya don’t know the difference between a good apple and a bad apple.”
“Are you calling me stupid?” Gertrude asked, shaking ashes from her bathrobe.
Mama Lu wiped soot from her eyes. “I ain’t calling ya nothing. All I know is that it don’t take much brains to know a bad apple is a bad apple.”
Gertrude growled. “All I know is that it don’t take much brains to know how to bake an apple.”
“Are ya calling me a bad cook?”
They balled up their fists and stood, smudged face to smudged face. Isabelle delighted in the sight. They had gotten what they deserved for taking that apple from Gwen. Maybe they’d start punching each other. Oh, how she’d love to see that, but if the landladies caught her spying she’d be in huge trouble. How could she get back upstairs without being seen? The distance between the hanging slickers and the stairway stretched before her, where squeaky floorboards lay like landmines. It was too risky, but so was standin
g in the entryway with her feet sticking out from under the slickers.
Mama Lu’s Boardinghouse had a back door, used only by Boris and Bert because it led directly to their basement room. Isabelle could hide in their room until Mama Lu went to sleep. She’d have to walk around to the back of the house in the dark, but she’d manage. The front door couldn’t be seen from the parlor, so she’d be able to slip out. Isabelle reached for the knob and was about to yank it open when she noticed two eyes staring at her through the window.
“Ahhh!” she cried—not scared, just startled.
A stranger stood on the porch in a puddle of kitchen light. His eyes were darker than any eyes Isabelle had ever seen. And he wore a hooded cape.
“Who’s that?” Mama Lu bellowed. Isabelle tried to hide behind the slickers again but Mama Lu grabbed her arm. “Whatcha doing down here? Ya looking fer something to steal?”
“No, I heard something. There’s someone outside,” Isabelle said, her heart pounding in her ears. “A stranger.”
“What?” Mama Lu stomped over to the door and pulled it open. “There’s no stranger out there.” She slammed the door shut.
Gertrude emerged from the parlor, wiping soot off her face with her bathrobe sleeve. “She was going to steal my apple. That’s why she came downstairs.”
“I wasn’t going to steal anything,” Isabelle said. The landladies closed in. “There was a man standing on the porch just now. In a cape with a hood. I saw him.”
“Yer a terrible liar. Did ya fiddle with my oven?” Mama Lu demanded. Isabelle shook her head. “I bet yer the reason the apple got ruined. She’s the reason, Gertie. She thinks she’s special just because she got left on a doorstep. Well, I say she’s a mold-covered lying rat and she fiddled with my oven.”
“You’re right,” Gertrude said. “She done it because she’s friends with Gwen.”
Fortune's Magic Farm Page 3