Henry & Eva and the Castle on the Cliff

by Andrea Portes

  “Oh, c’mon. You’re just saying that to stall me so that you get all the chilaquiles.”

  “Not this time.” He winks. “After breakfast. You’ll see.”

  “Fine.”

  Henry has a little zing in his shoe-step, just a little bounce to him he didn’t have yesterday. Even if all of this turns out to be nonsense and he and I are both carted away to the funny farm babbling about ghosts, waterspouts, and gold miners, I find myself thinking that this little pep in my kid brother’s previously heavy-with-the-weight-of-the-world step might be worth it.

  3

  BREAKFAST THIS MORNING mostly consists of Claude reading the real estate section of the Los Angeles Times, grumbling to himself and then picking up the Monterey Herald. I think he must be the only person left on earth who still reads an actual, physical newspaper. Also, I think he must be the only person left on earth who does not like chilaquiles.

  Terri is looking intently at her phone the entire time. She says it’s super-duper important but I’m pretty sure she’s playing Candy Crush. Marisol is once again hiding in the other room, this time glued to Cosmos. The new version, starring the guy who wears the cool vests.

  Henry is gloating into his chilaquiles, happy in the knowledge he knows something I don’t. He is, in fact, beaming for the first time in a very long time.

  This silent and excruciating breakfast seems to last forty years and then another forty years as Henry pours himself an uncharacteristic and unnecessary bowl of granola cereal.

  “You already ate!” I whisper. “And you don’t even like cereal!”

  He smiles, whistling to himself, nonchalant.

  “May we be excused, please?” I ask.

  Terri doesn’t look up. Claude glances up from a full-page ad on a Palm Springs golf property.

  “Huh? Oh. Of course, kids. Have a . . . nice day.” He sits there for a second, trying to think of something more original to say, then gives up, and goes back to his full-page ad.

  Henry and I look at each other, then simultaneously bound up the stairs. It’s three stories up to the attic and we are racing each other the whole way, at each turn trying to sneak our way in front of the other one.

  He beats me on the stairs up to the attic by cutting me off on the landing.

  “So annoying.”

  “Don’t you mean ‘such a mastermind’?” He mocks a diabolical gesture, throwing his head back in maniacal laughter. We’re both giggling when we hear a click on the other side of the room and the sound of the audio, digitized, coming out over the computer, through all the speakers. The ghost in the machine.

  It’s the wailing sound we heard before, but without all the crashing waves, sound of the surf, seagulls, and clicks from Henry’s electromagnet-o-meter. We tiptoe inside, leaning in as the sound plays out the myriad speakers, wafting over the room like a mist, plaintive.

  “Viiiiiiiine. Theeeeeeeeebooooooo!”

  Henry and I look at each other.

  “Viiiiiiiiiiiiiiine. Theeeeeeeeeeeeeboooooooooo!”

  “What is it saying?” I whisper.

  Henry looks at me, as quizzical as I am.

  “I think it’s saying . . . ‘Vine Thebo’?”

  “Well, what the heck is that supposed to mean?”

  “Vine Thebo?!” Henry and I turn to see Plum plopped down below the marble run in all her spectral glory. Her feather fan flap-flaps away the dust.

  “Sound like the name of some kind of hooch!” We spin around. This time it’s Beaumont, the gold miner ghost, perched up next to the ladybug chalet, squinting in at the ladybugs.

  August and Sturdevant blink into view close behind. “Obviously, it’s some kind of fine wine. Perhaps from Château Pichon Longueville Baron in Bordeaux.”

  Each nods in agreement. “Quite, quite.” They clink martini glasses.

  “What does it matter what it means? The universe is a foul and unforgiving place, frequented by a series of meaningless, insignificant, desperate gestures on the inevitable, inescapable road to unending doom.” That little piece of sunshine was brought to us by Maxine, draped over the window bench.

  “Don’t listen to Grumpy Gussy over here,” Plum huffs. “I know exactly what it is! It’s a clue!”

  We all stare at each other.

  “Your folks were trying to tell you something! It must have to do with the reason they”—she stops short, not wanting to be indelicate—“passed.”

  “But even then, what is it?” I ask. “What does it have to do with how they . . . passed?”

  Plum snaps her incorporeal fingers. “I’ve got it! It’s the name of a town. A town up the coast!” She stands up. “Let’s all go.”

  “Nonsense, woman! I’m telling ya, it’s moonshine, plain and simple!” Beaumont slaps his dungarees and dust flies everywhere, sending the entire room into coughing and sneezing spasms, including me and Henry.

  “How about that?” Henry muses. “I’m even allergic to ghost dust.”

  “Um, excuse me, not to be rude, or even to seem ungrateful, but what, exactly, are you all doing back here?” I ask. “You told us what you needed to, so shouldn’t you be off enjoying your own personal Ever Afters or what have you?”

  “We could, but we’re sticking around,” Plum tells us.

  Henry blinks. “But . . . why?”

  “Why? We’re helping you kids, of course! Just like we said.” Plum smiles.

  “Perhaps they don’t want our help,” August laments wistfully.

  “Perhaps they don’t need our help, old chum,” echoes Sturdevant, patting sad-faced August on the back.

  “Perhaps life can be measured out in teacups and coffee spoons and the insipid minor existence of the masses who come and go like waves on a beach, each one insisting on its own importance. Know me. Acknowledge me. See me. But, alas, no one is to be seen,” Maxine drones.

  The entire room stares at her.

  She looks up. “What? It’s how I feel.”

  Henry shares a look with me, leans in.

  “Eva, please pinch me. I need to renew my belief that this is actually happening, through scientific evidence.”

  I pinch him.

  “Ow!! Thank you.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Kids! There’s no time for your chicanery, skulduggery, and shenanigans! We must find a bottle of Vine Thebo! It must hold the key to the mystery!” Beaumont seems extremely excited about this heretofore unthought-of stash of liquor.

  “Sounds enticing,” August quips, nose in the air.

  “Indeed.” Sturdevant nods.

  “We got a date with a bathtub of hooch hidden somewhere on this here property! The dearly departed of these here young-uns want us to find it!” Beaumont cheers.

  “Now, now,” Plum says, “I still think we should check a map. It might be a town up north, on the Oregon coast. Maybe past Eugene.”

  “‘The undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns, puzzles the will and makes us rather bear those ills we have than fly to others we know not of? Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all.’”

  Again, the entire room falls silent.

  “It’s Shakespeare,” Maxine says. “Hamlet, to be precise.”

  “Ah, the Bard.” August and Sturdevant clink glasses respectfully.

  “Dagnabbit. I can’t take all this lily-livered lollygagging! We’ve got a Vine Thebo to open!”

  But just as he’s about to start a deluge of swearing and huffing and puffing over a probably nonexistent bottle of ancient whiskey, the attic trapdoor creaks and there is Marisol once again.

  “The Cosmos has ended. Who are you two talking to up here in this spider place?”

  Henry and I share a look, caught, and then look around us.

  Crickets.

  No one.

  Not a single ghost.

  Just the two of us in Henry’s mad scientist laboratory.

  And Marisol, who is looking at us like we are bonkers.

  “Oh, we were just�
��”

  “—practicing a play,” I jump in.

  “Yes, rehearsing. We were rehearsing a work of theater.”

  “Aha? And what is this play? This obra de teatro?”

  “The Sound of Music!”

  “Sesame Street on Ice!”

  We blurt these out simultaneously.

  “It’s actually a version of The Sound of Music on Ice,” I cover.

  “I play the ice-skating, um, Nazi?” Henry offers. Then cringes.

  I look at him.

  He shrugs.

  Marisol gives us the international look for “I don’t believe you.”

  “Welp, this has all been great, Marisol, but I have to get back to memorizing my lines. Don’t you? Henry? Don’t you have to get ready to memorize your lines for The Sound of Music that we are rehearsing right now like we just said?”

  “Yes, yes. Most certainly.” Henry nods.

  “Doe, a deer, a female deer. Ray, a drop of golden sun . . .” I’m singing now.

  “. . . Me, a name I call myself. Far, a long, long way to run . . .” He joins in, a little flat, to be honest.

  “Sew! A needle pulling thread!” I’m now doing a little impromptu dance number. Involving my arms in a kind of arch of a forward motion.

  “La! A note to follow sew!” Henry is getting into it, following with his own hot moves.

  Marisol just rolls her eyes and shuts the trapdoor.

  SLAM!

  “Well, that was a bit rude.” Henry looks disappointed.

  “I know. She could have at least waited until the end,” I add.

  Henry, dejected, laments, “People just don’t appreciate theater like they used to.”

  4

  THE ENDLESS NAUTICAL obsession of my dad on full display here, within the four walls of his office, might as well be the hull of a ship. On every centimeter of the wall behind his desk are nautical paintings of ships in every kind of weather. A ship at dawn. A ship in a storm. A ship carved out of a wooden board. And then there are the whale teeth, etched in scrimshaw. And the glass display of a variety of sailor knots. And the steering wheel, from a boat sunk off the coast of Maine in 1743. On the top of his desk, a ship in a bottle, its three sails raised high and the string rigging intricate, each line perfectly placed.

  There is mahogany paneling up to the navy-blue-painted walls, covered in high-seas art. And even two gray stools, washed up from the beach. They look like the spine of some long-forgotten whale.

  Right now we are trying to break into my dad’s desk. Mission: uncover anything relating to “Vine Thebo.”

  Plum’s excused herself for the moment (some sort of ghostly duties to attend to?) and although I appreciate her enthusiasm, the experience of spending time with ghosts, even friendly ones, is . . . unsettling.

  The ghosts were certainly giving it their all, but I’m not sure they were, exactly, helpful.

  “Vine Thebo” could be anything. Maybe a lake, or a map, or a map of a lake. You get the idea.

  There is a little key to the cherrywood monolith that is our dad’s desk. It’s somewhere, but no one knows where it is. This is where Henry’s uncanny mechanical skills come in handy. I’m pretty sure if he thinks long enough about it, he can break into anything.

  “Do you think we’ll get in trouble for this?” I ask.

  “With who. Terri the Terrible? I don’t think she even knows what a study is, let alone that there’s one in this house.”

  “True.” I think about it. “But maybe Claude does.”

  CLUNK. The desk lock opens.

  “Wait? How did you do that?”

  He holds up a bobby pin, proud. “The magic of friction.”

  The drawer slides out and inside there are papers stacked on papers stacked on files stacked on receipts stacked on maps stacked on photographs. Same for the side drawers. Same for the bottom drawers. Same for the top drawers.

  “So, organization was not our dad’s strong suit.”

  “Wow. Okay. This is going to take forever.”

  Somehow seeing all the detritus from his desk deflates me. What is left? What is left when you go? This? A drawer full of papers? A few receipts? A host of old, possibly unpaid bills? A parking ticket? What does it all mean? All these numbers on papers and wanting for things? All this red tape and correspondence and paperwork? What is all this trying even for?

  Oh no, I sound like Maxine.

  “All right. Let’s just concentrate on finding the words ‘Vine’ or ‘Thebo’ or both in any of these papers. I’ll take this side. I think it’s only fair you take that side.”

  Henry is not allowing himself this moment of existential doubt. He is on a mission. It’s true, he’s always been very goal-oriented. A vector. Henry needs a vector. Not waddling around. Not chitchat. A quest. A goal. There always has to be forward motion.

  The problem is that nearly six hours later, this mission is not complete. Nothing is accomplished.

  What we have is an epic fail.

  Henry and I sit here, on the ground, engulfed in papers. We have found not one single reference, not one tiny, itty-bitty scrap of paper with the words “Vine” or “Thebo” on it. Our eyes are bloodshot from the strain and by now the sun is dipping down, making squares through the dormers. Little pieces of light, catching the dust motes in the room, which seem to be increasing every minute.

  Henry sneezes.

  “Okay, I think we may have to consider looking somewhere else. Henry?”

  He exhales, sitting back into a pile of papers as tall as a sofa.

  “I mean, do you really think we’re going to find it here? We’ve been searching since ten in the morning. It’s four o’clock. See?”

  I point to the clock on Dad’s desk. A clock shaped like a ship’s wheel, carved in maple.

  Henry looks up at the clock. Then, next to it, the miniature SS Constellation in a bottle. His face is turned down and the failure of this quest is starting to weigh on his shoulders. Down down down he slumps into the netherworld of paperwork beneath.

  We both sit silent for a moment, the only sound the call of a California towhee somewhere outside in the trees. Chirp . . . chirp . . . chirp . . . chirp chirp chirpchirp. Then a stop. Chirp . . . chirp . . . chirp . . . chirp chirp chirpchirp. It’s a funny little call, accelerating and then abruptly stopping. As if it forgot what it was so angry about in the first place.

  And we are stopped, too. Sitting here in this amber-sunlit room. Stopped abruptly but not forgetting. Never forgetting.

  Suddenly Henry’s face is lit up from inside and he stands up. Looking at the tiny SS Constellation trapped in the yellowing glass bottle.

  He stands there, wheels turning in his head, the way they’ve always whirled with him.

  “Eva. We’re idiots.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t call us idiots. I’d just say we’re at the beginning of a process, and life, as a process full of moments, is what lends wisdom to—”

  “No, we’re idiots.”

  “Jeez. Honestly, are you trying to hurt my feelings—”

  “There’s no person named Vine Thebo.”

  “Wait. What?”

  “There is no place named Vine Thebo, either.”

  “There isn’t?”

  “That’s not what it was on the audio. It just sounded like that, with all the wind and the waves crashing against the rocks taken out. It just sounded like that with no accounting for the echo or the reverberation against the rocks and the ocean tide.”

  “Well . . . um . . . I’m not confused at all. Also, what?”

  “It just sounded like ‘Vine Thebo,’ but I believe the words really were . . .”

  “Um, I’m waiting . . .”

  “Find. The. Boat.”

  My mouth drops open.

  Now that, dear readers, sounds like a clue!

  5

  SO, TO MAKE sure you’ve got this all firmly in your head:

  Two months ago, my parents died.

  Since then my f
ather’s brother and his terrible girlfriend moved into our house.

  As of this week, we have learned not only that ghosts are real but that my long-lost family members have risen from their eternal slumber to deliver a message to us that our dead parents couldn’t. A message that could lead to evidence that my parents were not the victims of a tragic accident but foul play.

  That message was “FIND THE BOAT.” The boat that they sank in, which was never recovered.

  You good? All caught up? Okay.

  So, the next morning, in our room, we decide to come up with a plan to, you guessed it, find the boat.

  “Oh my God. We are so stupid. Vine Thebo. I feel so dumb.”

  “You are not alone,” Henry reassures me.

  The weight of this new discovery is still hitting us when the sound of footsteps comes toward us, creaking the floorboards down the hall.

  KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

  Henry and I look at each other.

  “Morning, you two!”

  It’s Claude. Not another ghost invasion. Somehow this is a relief.

  “I thought we could take the day and you guys could see what I do to pay the bills. You know, come along with your old uncle. Take your kids to work day.”

  Henry and I share a moment of disbelief.

  He opens his mouth but I stop him. I know what he’s going to say. Henry wants to say, “We’re not your kids.” But that doesn’t seem helpful.

  “Um . . . what?” That’s me.

  Living with Claude has been kind of like living with a rump roast. He’s just . . . there. So why the sudden . . . engagement?

  “I thought it’d be fun! You know, see the office. You’ll love it. It’s all glass! Designed by Renzo Piano. They even put it in Sunset magazine!”

  I look at Henry, who is shaking his head.

  “Uuuuummmm . . .”

  Henry leans in, whispers, “Negative. We cannot be tied up. We have to find the boat.”

  “Look, I think it will be exciting! I’ll even buy you an ice cream. Or a frozen yogurt. Or whatever weird almond-soy-cruelty-free thing the kids are eating these days.”

  Henry has two eyes that are normally eye-size but at this moment are as big as geodes.

  He’s trying to beam the word “NO” into my skull and out of my mouth.