by Jane Langton
… what a beautiful bird am I!
The Brothers Grimm, “The Juniper Tree”
Chapter 22
At Weston Country Day the girls in the fifth grade were studying the Greek myths. Mary had written a play about Pandora’s box. Amelia Patterson was Pandora and Becca Smith was Prometheus. Everybody else was an evil spirit released from the box by Pandora.
The first rehearsal in the auditorium was noisy and successful. The evil spirits threw themselves into it. Mary laughed and stood back while they hopped and howled. “Good, good. Now, why don’t you run off the stage and make faces at the kids in the audience? That’s right, Carrie. Good, Julie. Good, good, Beverly. Oh, Mrs. Rutledge, welcome. I’m sorry, are we making too much noised?”
“No, no.” Mrs. Rutledge clapped her hands. “Sorry, you people. Charlene has just come in late and told us she won that big swimming meet last night in Danvers. We want to congratulate her in front of the whole school.”
It was an impromptu assembly. All the classes poured into the auditorium. The headmistress told her news, and everyone applauded. Then Mrs. Rutledge called Charlene to the stage and congratulated her. Mr. Orth, the athletic coach, presented her with a bouquet. Charlene thanked him prettily and said, “I hope everybody will come to the swimming meet at Harvard next Friday night. It’s the semifinals.”
Mary sat in the back of the auditorium and clapped along with everybody else. She was interested in the way everyone in the school admired Charlene Gast. Already she was beginning to get a sense of the ruthlessness of ten-year-old tribal structure. It occurred to her that if all the fifth-graders in the school were to fill out a questionnaire ranking their classmates in order of popularity, Charlene Gast would come out on top. Even the outcasts would list her as number one. Even fat little Cissie Aufsesser.
The hierarchy was painfully visible on the playground. Young as she was, Charlene had perfected a system of total domination. She bound the others to her one at a time. She would take Becca aside and giggle with her and whisper in her ear. Next day Becca would be out and Carrie was the favorite. Then Carrie was forgotten and it was Joanna’s turn. In the ongoing drama of the spring semester in Mrs. Rutledge’s fifth grade, hearts were broken, mended, and broken again, as Charlene tossed her favors this way and that.
On the day when it was Beverly Eckstein’s turn, Mary was monitoring the playground. She saw Charlene approach Beverly with a beaming smile, she saw Beverly’s joyful surprise. She watched as Charlene admired Beverly’s new bike, and ran her hand over the narrow blue fender that sparkled with flecks of gold. She saw Charlene take something out of her jacket. She saw Beverly start with surprise. But she couldn’t hear what they were saying.
The magazine was Beverly’s. She had found it under her big brother’s bed. It showed two naked women and a naked man intertwined like snakes. Charlene had discovered it in Beverly’s desk, hidden under her English workbook.
“I’m going to tell on you,” said Charlene.
Beverly’s homely round face flushed purple. Tears ran down her cheeks. “No, no, oh, please, please. Oh, Charlene, please.”
“Give me your bike, then, or I’ll tell.”
Beverly couldn’t believe it. She clutched the handlebars. “Oh, I can’t, Charlene. I just can’t.”
“Okay, then. I’ll tell.”
When the recess break was over, Beverly hurried back indoors ahead of everyone else. Mrs. Kelly spoke to her as she trotted past with a tear-streaked face. “Are you all right, Beverly?”
Beverly nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Inside the school, she ran down the basement steps to the building superintendent’s office, next to the furnace. The room smelled of tuna fish and orange peel. It was dark in there, but Beverly did not switch on the light. For five minutes in the dim windowless room she tore out the pages of the dirty magazine one by one, wadded them up, and stuffed them in the big plastic waste barrel. Then she stirred the contents with both hands until the crumpled pages were thoroughly mixed up with greasy paper towels, dusty cleaning rags, used-up workbooks, and the remains of a hundred paper-bag lunches. Her bicycle was gone, but so was the magazine.
“Why, Charlene,” said Roberta Gast, “where did you get that beautiful bike?”
“Beverly gave it to me,” said Charlene. “She got a new one for her birthday, so she gave me her old one. You know, because I won the swimming meet.”
Roberta looked at the bike. “She got a new one? But this one looks perfectly new.”
“No, no.” Charlene pointed to a slight dent in the front fender. “See, it’s old, really old.”
Eddy was excited by Charlene’s new bike. He made enthusiastic noises and tried to grab the handlebars.
Charlene jerked it out of his grasp. “Get away, dummy.” She glowered at her mother. “If he so much as touches this bike, I’ll murder him. I mean it.”
“Beverly,” said her mother, “why did you come home on the school bus? I thought you were going to ride your bike to school from now on.”
“I had this flat tire,” said Beverly in a small voice.
“A flat tire already? Well, then, jump in the car. We’ll pick up your bike so Daddy can fix it.”
“No, no, Mummy. It’s—it’s in the gym, and everything’s all locked up by now.”
“Well, tomorrow, then.”
After a miserable night, Beverly confessed that her bike was gone. “This big boy, he came to the playground and grabbed it and took it away.”
“He stole your bike? A girl’s bike?”
“Right. Like maybe he had a sister or something.”
“What did he look like? We’ll call the police.”
So Beverly had to go on telling lie after lie. At school there were more lies. “Isn’t that your bike Charlene’s got?” said Becca. “It looks just like it.”
“No, no, it’s not my bike. I—uh—gave mine to my cousin. Didn’t I, Charlene?”
“That’s right,” said Charlene, smiling sweetly at Becca.
“Lord Fish, Lord Fish!” cried the fisherman, rowing in a circle, looking up anxiously at the dark clouds gathering in the sky.
The great fish appeared above the slowly heaving sea, and whispered, “Here I am.”
“Oh, Lord Fish, forgive me, but my wife would like to ride in a golden chariot drawn by six white horses.”
“It shall be as she wishes,” murmured the fish. Leaping in a great arc out of the water, he plunged back into the deep.
Chapter 23
“My grandmother, what big ears you have!”
“The better to hear you, my child!”
Charles Perrault, “Little Red Riding Hood”
“Listen,” said Fred Small, “some guy was here the other day, wanted to look at a lot. I took him all the way to the end of the property, he said he’d talk to his wife.”
“Did you get his name?” said Bob Gast. “When the deal goes through we’ll send him a brochure.”
“Kelly, I think. Homer Kelly.”
“Homer Kelly! No kidding? Hey, he’s my landlady’s uncle. Big professor. Listen, when’s Pearl coming back? Where is she? She’s got to sign on the dotted line, or we can’t get going. I mean, my expenses are colossal. You wouldn’t believe—”
“Don’t get so upset. She’ll sign. I—uh—had a postcard yesterday.”
“Where from? Where is she?”
“Albany, big hotel in Albany.”
“Albany? I’ll bet she’s at the Regency, right?”
“I don’t remember. I handed it over to McNutt. He’s got those gossip columnists on his tail. You know, MISSING WOMAN WAS BATTERED WIFE. This’ll shut ’em up.”
“Well, great. Good for you, Fred.”
“Professor Kelly?” The voice on the line sounded familiar.
“Sergeant Kennebunk? Hey, how are you? Have you got the chief’s job yet?”
Kennebunk cleared his throat. “Professor Kelly, Chief McNutt would like to speak to you.”
“
His Honor, Rollo McNutt, he’s right there?” Homer made a derisive blubbering noise. “Well, okay, put him on.”
There was a pause. Homer could hear a muffled explosion from McNutt and an apologetic mutter from Kennebunk. Then McNutt spoke fiercely into the phone. “Listen, Kelly, I got news for you. Mrs. Small, she’s in Albany. Her husband got a postcard. You want I should read it to you?”
“Well, okay, go ahead.”
McNutt read the postcard in a horrible falsetto.
Dear Fred, this is a luxury hotel
in the heart of downtown Albany,
with 229 rooms, a London pub,
a French cafe, a hairdressing salon,
and an indoor pool. I’m exploring
the fashionable shops located
in the lobby. Love, Pearl.
Homer couldn’t believe his ears. “Hold on. Just read that again.”
McNutt harrumphed, then read it again very fast, in his own voice this time. “So you see, pal,” he said, coming down heavily on the word “pal,” “the woman is not missing, she’s on a shopping spree in Albany. Kindly get lost.”
There was a savage crash in Homer’s ear. Wincing, he stared at the phone, then called back the police department in Southtown.
“Sergeant Kennebunk? Is McNutt still there?”
“No,” said Kennebunk softly, “he’s in his office.”
“Well, listen, did you see that postcard? Is it the real thing? Was it canceled by the post office in Albany?”
“Oh, sure, it came from Albany, all right. There’s a picture of the Regency Hotel on the other side.”
“Tell me, Sergeant, did you ever hear anything so phony in all your life?”
Kennebunk snickered. “It sounded to me like a promotional pamphlet.”
“Exactly.” Homer gripped the phone and gazed out the window at the opposite shore of Fair Haven Bay, hazy now with pale-green budding leaves and a mist rising from the river. “Easy enough to check. We could call the hotel, find out if she’s registered as a guest.”
“Great, I’ll take care of it.” Then Kennebunk raised his voice. “Yes, ma’am, of course we’ll look into your missing cat. I’ll talk to the dog officer. She also handles cats.”
“Thanks, Sergeant,” whispered Homer, and put down the phone.
Chapter 24
… the Dodo suddenly called out “The race is over!”
and they all crowded round it, panting,
and asking “But who has won?”
Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
Charlene won in her age group at the New England Senior Swimming Championships at Harvard’s Blodgett Pool. Most of the kids in her homeroom at Weston Country Day were there to watch her compete.
Mary went along to swell the participation of the school in support of its star athlete. Besides, she was still taking an interest in the sociopathology of the fifth-grade class in which Charlene had become so powerful.
Mary had taught at Harvard for ten years in a joint professorship with Homer, but she had never been to Blodgett Pool. She edged along one of the steep rows of seats in the bleachers, which were crowded with the families of the contestants. Sitting down, she tried to take it all in.
It was an unfamiliar world. Below her the pool was big and blue, its surrounding apron alive with adolescent contestants, slim girls in one-piece bathing suits, gangly bare-chested boys. Deafening music roared from the loudspeakers. For an hour the rows of patient parents watched their children practice in the roped-off lanes. The swimmers were slender fishes speeding underwater, surfacing to race for the turn and go bottoms-up, then pushing off again with strong thrusts of their feet against the wall.
“Hi, Mrs. Kelly.” A procession of excited girls crowded in beside her and sat down, pulling off jackets and scarves and craning their necks to look for Charlene. Were they too late Had they missed her event?
No, they were just in time. There were squeals. “There she is!” “Charlene,” screamed Alice Mooney, who had lost her doll to Charlene. “Charlene,” screamed Beverly Eckstein, whose bicycle had mysteriously become Charlene’s. “Charlene,” screamed Cissie Aufsesser and Wilma Brownhill, to whom Charlene had never said a friendly word. “Charlene, Charlene,” screamed Becca and Joanna and Carrie and all the rest.
Charlene looked up and smiled her queenly smile. She was standing with her competitors behind a row of low diving platforms along one side of the pool. The other girls had narrow waists, plump breasts and thighs. Charlene was still a skinny little kid.
The music stopped. The loudspeaker grated and scratched. “At this time,” boomed the master of ceremonies, “please rise for our national anthem.” At once everyone stood up. The young swimmers turned to face the flag hanging over the pool, and a hoarse recorded version of “The Star-Spangled Banner” bounced off the walls. When it ground to a stop, the voice roared again, “EVENT NUMBER THIRTEEN, THE WOMEN’S TWO-HUNDRED-YARD INDIVIDUAL MEDLEY.”
Charlene’s classmates clutched each other as she mounted her low diving block. There were eight contestants along the edge of the pool, waiting for the signal, nervously adjusting swimming caps and goggles, pulling at their suits, waggling their arms to loosen muscles.
The whistle blew. At once the eight girls bent over, ready to dive, and then, at the sound of a horn, they plunged into the water.
Charlene was in lane four. “Go, go, Charlene,” screamed all the girls from Weston Country Day. Mary screamed too, “Go, Charlene, go!”
Charlene needed no urging. She was ahead of the pack from the beginning.
“What are they doing?” shrieked Mary to the woman sitting in front of her, as the eight girls rose and fell across the twenty-five-foot width of the pool. “The butterfly,” shouted the woman. “Go, Debbie, go!”
There was no contest. Charlene’s butterfly stroke was no more graceful than the rest, but it was faster. Her backstroke carried her yards ahead of her nearest competitor. With her breast stroke she was far in the lead, and in the beautiful stroke called “freestyle” she flew to victory. “CHARLENE GAST, THE YOUNGEST COMPETITOR, WINS WITH A TIME OF TWO-ONE-FORTY.”
Mary stayed to watch Charlene receive her award. The eight girls had changed to sweat suits. They stood on a pyramid of boxes. It was just like the Olympics. Charlene stood at the top to accept her medal, while her classmates screamed her name, and screamed it again.
Mary applauded politely, then stood up to go. She brushed past the knees of Charlene’s fifth-grade fans, smiling at them, saying goodbye. Looking back, she saw Roberta and Bob Gast way down in front, cheering their daughter. Eddy was not there.
Annie woke up. Across the room the TV was noisy with excited music. A cheetah in a final burst of speed reached its prey. Cymbals clashed, the rhebok was dragged down. Annie hated wildlife shows. She clicked the remote control, put out her hand for the lamp switch, and gave a small shriek. There was a face at the window.
Oh, God, it was Eddy. What was he doing, wandering around in the dark?
She unfastened the screen and lifted him inside. “Eddy, what are you doing? Why aren’t you in bed?”
There were tears on Eddy’s cheeks, but he smiled at her, and gave her a rumpled piece of paper. It was a drawing of the emperor’s nightingale. Annie had read him the Andersen story. Eddy’s mechanical bird was a miracle of jewels and interlocking gears, while his live bird sang in the background with open beak. “For you,” said Eddy.
“Oh, Eddy, thank you, it’s beautiful. Come on, now, I’ll take you home. Your mother will wonder where on earth you are.”
The front door of Eddy’s house was wide open, the way he had left it. No one was at home. There were no cars in the driveway.
What should she do? She could send him back upstairs to bed, but that would mean leaving him alone. She could take him back to her house and put him down on the couch and leave a note for the Gasts to explain where he was, but it would look like a criticism. Well, goddamnit, they deserved it. They
might be indulgent parents for their talented daughter Charlene, but they were rotten caretakers for their retarded son Eddy.
Her dilemma was solved by the return of the Gasts. They came rocketing up the driveway in two cars. Charlene bounced out of the Bronco and ran past Eddy and Annie. At once there was a blare of noise from inside the house.
“It’s the news,” explained Roberta, hurrying in after her. “She’s on the news.”
“Charlene won,” cried Bob, slamming his car door. “The youngest kid there, and she broke the record.”
Annie stood in his way. “Here’s Eddy,” she said loudly. “He was wandering around outside.”
“Oh, thanks,” said Bob. He took Eddy by the shoulders and rushed him indoors.
There was a screech from Charlene. “Here it is, quick, quick. It’s me!”
Chapter 25
“Oh dear!” said the poor Princess. And the three drops of blood heard her, and said, “If your mother knew of this, it would break her heart.”
The Brothers Grimm, “The Goose-Girl”
“Homer, Annie’s got problems.”
“Annie’s got problems?” Homer stared at his wife in disbelief. “For Christ’s sake, who cares? Not me. I’m the one with problems. My teaching assistant’s down with flu, so who has to read two hundred papers? I do. And those poor kids in prison, what about them? Talk about problems! They’ve got problems, and who’s going to help them out? Me again. Yours truly. And what about my poor book? It’s not getting written, for Christ’s sake, and, good grief, Mary Kelly, your friend Princess Pearl, she’s got a problem, because where the hell is she? She’s not really in Albany at all, did I tell you? Because that postcard was the silliest thing you ever—” Homer scrambled his hair with his fingers and looked wildly at his wife. “And now you tell me poor old Annie has problems.” Homer groaned. “Well, all right, what is it this time?”