Eleanor Roosevelt's in My Garage!

by Candace Fleming

“I guess not,” I agreed.

  “Still, I learned long ago that you have to accept whatever comes, and the only important thing is that you meet it with courage and the best you have to give.” She straightened her shoulders. “I am ready to hear everything…um…”

  “Nolan,” I reminded her. “Nolan Stanberry.”

  She peered at me a second, her blue eyes high-beaming. Then she climbed up and settled herself on the seat of our riding mower. “Tell me everything, Nolan Stanberry.” She rested her chin in her hands. “And please, spare no detail.”

  I’M NOT SURE HOW long she sat there, staring across the garage at me like that. It seemed like a few hours, but it was probably only a minute or two. The thing was, I just didn’t know where to start. I mean, how do you explain something you don’t understand?

  I plunged in. “It’s been two weeks since someone traveled here through time. That was the only time until this time, and that time was almost two hundred and fifty years after his time, which is an earlier time—colonial times—than you, which is like 1940, right?”

  Mrs. Roosevelt’s brow was scrunched up in concentration. It made the knot of hairnet in the middle of her forehead look like a big black spider. I could tell she wasn’t following my explanation. Every time she frowned, it made the hairnet spider look like it was moving. And right now, that spider was spinning a web.

  “Just forget it,” I said. “Let me start again.”

  “I would be most appreciative,” said Mrs. Roosevelt.

  I paused, pulling together my thoughts. At last I said, “This has happened once before, two weeks ago. That’s when a mysterious package turned up on our front doorstep.”

  Mrs. Roosevelt leaned forward. “Go on.”

  “Inside was an antique wood box. It had a hinged lid, and its sides were engraved with the words ‘Property of H.H.’ ”

  “And who is H.H.?”

  I shook my head. “Olive—she’s my sister—and I don’t know. But when we opened the box’s lid, we found an old-timey crystal radio.

  “Of course we played with it,” I went on, “and when we did, this crazy thing happened. The room got all blurry. And the headphones filled with static and pieces of conversation. And then—poof!—guess who was standing in our kitchen? Ben Franklin!

  “While he was here, we learned to mermaid swim, and made an electrostatic machine, and got arrested and stuff,” I said. “But maybe now isn’t the time to tell you about that.”

  Mrs. Roosevelt’s eyes were high-beaming again. “Do I understand you correctly? Are you saying this crystal radio is a time machine?”

  I nodded.

  “And you have told no one of its existence?”

  I thought about our nosy neighbor, Tommy Tuttle. That sneaky snoop had almost learned the truth. Luckily, our secret was still safe. And I wanted to keep it that way.

  “I can’t explain it,” I told Mrs. Roosevelt. “I just know deep down in my gut that we shouldn’t tell anyone. Not even our mom. We need to keep this a secret. At least for now.”

  Mrs. Roosevelt nodded her understanding. “And where is this radio currently? It seems to me we should take a look at it without delay.”

  And that’s when the big garage door rolled up and a car beep-beeped, pulled in, and stopped.

  Olive scrambled out of the backseat. “Hey, Nolan. What are you doing in the garage?” She pointed at Mrs. Roosevelt, still perched on the lawn mower. “And who is that?”

  “Eleanor!” exclaimed our mother, sliding out from behind the steering wheel. “You’re here! And right on time too.”

  “YOU KNOW HER?” SAID Olive.

  “Well, we’ve never met in person,” replied Mom.

  “No kidding,” I muttered.

  “But Eleanor does comes highly recommended,” Mom continued. “Her experience and qualifications are impeccable…”

  Mrs. Roosevelt stood and smoothed her skirt. “How kind of you to say.”

  “…and her achievements are impressive.”

  “I merely do what I have to do,” said Mrs. Roosevelt.

  Mom smiled and shook Mrs. Roosevelt’s hand. “I don’t have a single qualm about leaving the children with you.”

  “Wait…what?” exclaimed Olive.

  I shook my head. “Wh-what’s going on?”

  Mom put her hands on her hips. “Honestly, do you two ever listen to me?” she said. “I’m off to New York City this afternoon to plan publicity for the new book series. I told you last week, remember?”

  Her new book series still featured the Bumble Bunnies. But instead of modern-day adventures, the bunnies were blasting to the past. That was the title of the series: The Bumble Bunnies Blast to the Past. In each book, they go back in time and meet historical figures. Guess who inspired the first one?

  Mom still doesn’t know the truth—that she actually met the real Ben Franklin. So how did she know about Eleanor Roosevelt? It didn’t make any sense.

  “But who is she?” whined my sister. “Where’d she come from? What’d she do?” Olive stomped her foot. “And why are we still in the garage?”

  “Calm down,” I said.

  “She’s wearing a hairnet,” said Olive. “Is she a famous lunch lady?”

  “Her name,” I began, “is Eleanor, um—”

  “Ivey,” finished Mom.

  Mrs. Roosevelt blinked.

  “Huh? Who’s that?” asked Olive.

  I shook my head again. “Ivey? As in Mrs. Ivey from down the street?”

  Mrs. Ivey is our regular babysitter. She’s a little scatterbrained. Whenever she phones the house, she says, “Hello, Roland? This is Mrs. Ivey from down the street.”

  She thinks my name is Roland. I’m not even kidding. And she calls Olive “Olga.”

  “That’s Delores Ivey,” said Mom. “This is her sister-in-law, Eleanor Ivey.”

  “Who?” said Olive. “I’ve never heard of Eleanor Ivey. What famous stuff did she do?”

  Mom chose not to answer her. “I know you kids like having Delores stay with you, but she isn’t available. The poor dear is having her bunions removed.”

  “Ewww!” Olive gagged. A second later, she asked, “What’s a bunion?”

  Mom still didn’t answer her. “Lucky for us, she recommended Eleanor.”

  My mind was scrambling to sort things out. What was going on here?

  “Eleanor…,” I repeated slowly. “Mrs. Ivey’s sister-in-law.”

  Mom must have thought my confusion was worry, because she came over and hugged me. “I won’t be gone long. Just twenty-four hours. I’ll be back by suppertime tomorrow. In the meantime, Eleanor here will be your babysitter. And I expect you both to be on your best behavior.”

  Mrs. Roosevelt blinked again.

  My mouth dropped open. Was this really happening? Things like this only happened in wacky kids’ books!

  Mom glanced at her phone. “Look at the time! My taxi will be here any minute.”

  As if on cue, there came a honk from the curb.

  I nearly fell over, I was so relieved. Our secret was safe for now. Mom didn’t know that the woman standing in front of her was Eleanor Roosevelt. She’d mistaken the First Lady for the babysitter!

  I pushed my mother toward the open garage door. “All righty, then. We’ll see you tomorrow, Mom. Have a good trip.”

  I needed her to leave—now—before Olive or Mrs. Roosevelt said something to spill the beans.

  “But my suitcase,” said Mom. “It’s upstairs.”

  I swear, I practically broke the speed of light racing to her bedroom and back. Shoving the suitcase at her, I pushed her toward the driveway. “Time to go.”

  “Not until I kiss Olive good-bye,” said Mom. She leaned down to plant one on my sister’s cheek, but her eyes got s
tuck on Mrs. Roosevelt. “Are you sure we haven’t met? You look so familiar.” She snapped her fingers. “I know! Didn’t we meet that time in kickboxing class?”

  The cab honked again.

  I rushed Mom straight toward the street. “Don’t you worry about us,” I said as she got into the cab’s backseat. “We’re going to be great. Totally great. I mean, Eleanor’s here. What could go wrong?”

  OLIVE AND THE FIRST Lady had gone inside while I was helping Mom. Once she was gone, I hurried up the driveway, pressed the button that lowered the big garage door, and burst into the kitchen.

  Mrs. Roosevelt was sitting by herself at the kitchen table.

  “Where’s Olive?” I asked.

  “She said she had to ‘take care of business,’ ” replied Mrs. Roosevelt. “She looked quite determined and, it seemed to me, very pleased with herself.”

  Uh-oh! A smug Olive is a troublemaking Olive.

  I moved into the family room just as Olive was finishing up a phone conversation. She was using her “Aren’t I adorable?” voice.

  “Yes,” she was saying. “That’s right, she just showed up. Yes, out of the clear blue…Yes…Thank you. My mother appreciates everything you’ve done for us.”

  “Who is that?” I asked suspiciously.

  “Can you hold just a quick sec?” Olive said sweetly into the phone. Then, slapping her hand over the receiver, she turned to face me. “It’s Mrs. Ivey from down the street.”

  “Mrs. Ivey from down the street?”

  “Is there an echo in here?” Olive said. “We can’t have two Eleanors in the house, can we? So I’m calling and canceling the other one.”

  “You’re canceling her?”

  “There is an echo in here.” Olive rolled her eyes. “I told her that our aunt turned up unexpectedly, and that Mom had to catch a plane and you were carrying her suitcase to the cab, so I was the only one left to call and tell her that her Eleanor didn’t need to come.”

  “You lied?”

  “Not about Mom or the cab or you helping her,” replied Olive. “That’s three truths and only one lie.”

  “You lied.”

  “ECHO…ECHO…echo,” she said, loud to soft. “Anyway, it’s just a teensy fib, a little baby lie. And it’ll give us some time to—”

  “—figure out how to send her home,” I finished.

  “You’re wellll-come,” she replied in a singsongy voice. She put the phone back to her ear. “Sorry about that, Mrs. Ivey. Like I was saying…You what?…Right now?…This very minute?”

  “What’s happening?” I hissed.

  Mrs. Roosevelt came into the room. “Children, I believe it is high time we took a look at your crystal radio.”

  Olive huffed into the phone. “Fine!” She thrust it at Mrs. Roosevelt. “Mrs. Ivey says she needs to speak to the grown-up in charge. Can you believe that? I don’t think she trusts me!”

  Mrs. Roosevelt hesitated before taking it.

  “Don’t tell her your real name,” I whispered frantically. “Do not say ‘Roosevelt.’ ”

  Mrs. Roosevelt nodded and spoke into the phone. “Yes, hullo?…Yes, I am here with the children….Yes, I did arrive most unexpectedly….Yes, it was very sudden….Yes…Yes…Yes…Yes, good-bye.” She hung up.

  “Yes!” cheered Olive, pumping her fists in the air. She skipped out of the family room.

  I sighed and rubbed my face.

  Olive skipped back into the family room. She tapped me on the shoulder.

  “What’s her real name?” she whispered. “Eleanor who?”

  “Roosevelt,” I answered.

  “Eleanor Roosevelt.” Olive looked disappointed. “Was she famous?”

  “Why else would her face be on the back of the five-dollar bill?” I replied.

  “She’s on the five-dollar bill?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet, but she will be soon.”

  Olive perked up. “Hey, Ellie!” she hollered. “You’re a superstar! A hotshot! A big-deal diva!”

  “It is Mrs. Roosevelt,” the First Lady corrected her. “You may call me Mrs. Roosevelt.”

  Olive made a pouty face.

  Mrs. Roosevelt ignored it. “Now let us see that crystal radio.”

  I’D HIDDEN THE CRYSTAL radio way in the back of my closet at the bottom of a box of building blocks. After Ben’s visit, Olive and I had agreed never to play with it again. So how had Eleanor gotten here? Was it some kind of magic? Had the radio learned to turn itself on? Or maybe it was H.H.’s doing.

  I pulled the string attached to the overhead bulb. Light flooded the closet.

  No, it wasn’t magic that had worked the radio. Or H.H. It was…

  “Olive!” I bellowed.

  I grabbed the radio and thundered back down the stairs.

  She took cover under the kitchen table. “I didn’t mean to, Nolan. Honest. I played with it. Just for a minute. But it didn’t work. No lights. No static. Nothing. I thought it was broken.”

  “It sounds as if your machine had a delayed reaction,” said Mrs. Roosevelt.

  “That’s it!” Olive cried. “It was a relayed…derailed…um…like she said.”

  I gritted my teeth. “It’s your fault Mrs. Roosevelt is here,” I hissed. “You promised never, ever to touch it. So why’d you do it?”

  Olive’s bottom lip trembled. “I just wanted Ben to come to my birthday party. Nobody swims as good as Ben. And…and…” A tear slipped down her cheek. “I miss him. He’s my friend.”

  Oh, brother!

  Mrs. Roosevelt crouched down and looked at Olive. “I understand completely,” she said. “You made a mistake. Who has not done that? But now, Olive, it is time to learn from that mistake. You must promise yourself never to repeat it. You must become a better person because of it.”

  Olive rolled her eyes at me. “She’s kind of a Mrs. Preachy Pants, huh?”

  “She’s right,” I said. “Learn from your mistake, Olive, and promise never to touch the radio again.”

  Olive poked out her tongue at me. “And you’re Mr. Preachy Pants.” She turned back to Mrs. Roosevelt. “I feel better, though. You’re a good babysitter, Ellie.”

  “Mrs. Roosevelt,” insisted Mrs. Roosevelt.

  “You’d be the bestest babysitter if you’d let me call you Ellie,” said Olive.

  Mrs. Roosevelt shook her head firmly.

  Olive shrugged. “You can’t blame a girl for trying.” She crawled out from under the table. Then the three of us stared at the crystal radio, sitting dark and silent on the kitchen counter.

  “Now then, children, let us not waste another moment,” said Mrs. Roosevelt, suddenly all business. “I have mountains of work waiting for me at the White House—letters to answer, a newspaper column to write, a reception to host. I would like to be sent back immediately. I assume that other Eleanor person will still be willing to babysit?”

  Olive gulped and pushed me forward. “You tell her, Nolan.”

  I made a face at my sister. Why did I always have to break the bad news? I turned to Mrs. Roosevelt. “The radio has one little…er…glitch.”

  “Glitch?” said Mrs. Roosevelt.

  I nodded. “It won’t return you to your time until…um…it decides you’re ready.”

  Mrs. Roosevelt’s eyebrows shot up past her hairnet spider. “And just how does it do that?”

  “You have to learn something from us,” I said.

  “And we have to learn something from you,” added Olive.

  “I am not entirely sure I understand,” said Mrs. Roosevelt.

  I tried again. “We learn from the past how to live in the present. And vice versa.”

  “And what lesson must each of us learn?” asked Mrs. Roosevelt.

  I shook my head. “We don’t
know.”

  “But once we learn whatever it is we’re supposed to learn…whammy!” said Olive. “The radio will turn on. All by itself!”

  Mrs. Roosevelt blinked. “So…you cannot reverse the process,” she said slowly. “You have no control over sending me back.”

  I nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Sorry,” mumbled Olive. She looked down at her feet.

  Mrs. Roosevelt blinked and started rocking back and forth on her heels again. She opened her mouth and closed it. Opened and closed it.

  Opened and…She shook her head firmly.

  “Well, then we must allow the radio to take its best course,” she said.

  “That’s it?” I cried. “You don’t want to scream or something?”

  Mrs. Roosevelt frowned. “What would be the point? In times of trouble, one must keep calm and carry on.”

  “Hey, I have a T-shirt that says that,” said Olive.

  “I have a friend named Winston Churchill who says that,” said Mrs. Roosevelt.

  “Hey, I have a friend whose bulldog is named Winston Churchill,” said Olive.

  “I once had a bulldog named Olive,” said Mrs. Roosevelt.

  Olive put her hands on her hips. “Hey, are you kidding me?”

  “Me? Kid?” Mrs. Roosevelt’s voice sounded firm, but I swear I saw the corners of her lips start to twitch up into a smile. She quickly covered her mouth with a gloved hand.

  “You are! You’re a kidder, Ellie!”

  Mrs. Roosevelt lowered her hand. “Mrs. Roosevelt,” she corrected. “And I am not often a kidder. I am, however, very curious. Would you mind demonstrating what you did that brought me here? I wish to see every step.”

  “Okey-dokey,” agreed Olive. She reached for the radio.

  Warning bells started ringing in my head. I put out my hand. “Maybe we shouldn’t—” I began.