The Doldrums

by Nicholas Gannon

  For Archer, summer was not two and a half months’ parole. It was just the opposite. During school, Archer at least had the Button Factory and the library. During summer, he only had Helmsley House, with very few exceptions.

  “You must enjoy being a plump, ripe tomato while you can,” Mr. Glub said. “You’ll be a sun-dried tomato like me in no time.”

  This sun-dried tomato was the editor-in-chief of a small newspaper called The Doldrums Press. It was not a terribly successful paper by any stretch, but it had a decent, dedicated following. It was The Doldrums Press, in fact, that had delivered the iceberg story to Archer’s doorstep, and Archer was in the habit of asking Mr. Glub if he’d heard any news about his grandparents.

  “Still nothing,” Mr. Glub admitted as he pulled on his raincoat and hat. “But there’s an expression out there, Archer. Everyone says ‘no news is good news.’ And while that’s bad news for us in the business, in situations like these, it’s always for the best, wouldn’t you say?”

  Archer wasn’t sure if no news was for the best in this particular situation, but he nodded all the same.

  “I knew them well—your grandparents, I mean,” Mr. Glub continued, using Archer’s shoulder to balance as he slid into his boots “Ralph once told me we’re all explorers, which was a fine observation. The only problem, I said, is that a great many of us have embarked on fantastically drab expeditions.”

  Archer agreed. “My expedition is pretty drab,” he said.

  Mr. Glub shook his head and opened the front door. “I can’t imagine that’s true,” he replied. “No, I saw that sparkle in your eyes the moment I met you, and I knew it meant something was on the boil. Never told your mother, of course—not sure she goes in for such things. But I was glad to see it. Either way, chin up.”

  And with that, Mr. Glub shut the door and whistled his way down the rainy sidewalk.

  “Found them!” shouted Oliver from atop the stairs. He took the steps three at a time but missed the final few. He valiantly grabbed hold of the railing, spun around, and collapsed in a heap on the floor.

  “I hope I didn’t break them,” he said, handing Archer the binoculars.

  “I hope you didn’t break yourself,” said Archer, helping him up off the floor. “You have to stop closing your eyes.”

  “I guess so,” Oliver mumbled, dusting his sleeves. “But listen, I was thinking about this whole adventure idea. And before anything else, you should talk to your mother about leaving your house this summer. Otherwise you’re not going to get very far. It’s been two years. How long are they going to keep you in there?”

  Archer hung the binoculars around his neck. “Until I’m too old to walk,” he replied.

  Oliver grinned. “Well that’s only what? Seventy more years at the most.”

  Archer said good-bye and stepped back into the rain. When he walked up to Helmsley House there was a soggy note on the door.

  Archer,

  There’s been an opossum ravaging the gardens and threatening owners. I’m next door at Mrs. Leperton’s. It nearly chewed her ankle off. You’re to remain inside the house and out of trouble. I’ll be home shortly.

  Oliver was right. He had to get permission to leave his house this summer. But it wouldn’t be the first time Archer had the discussion with his mother and he knew what she would say: icebergs and tendencies. It was hopeless. Still, as he took one last look down Willow Street and shut the door, he was desperate to make it happen.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  ♦ DOERS & DREAMERS ♦

  Archer was slow getting out of bed. Not for the first time, he’d had a dream that he was the one stuck on the iceberg. He’d wandered the ice in search of the ocean, but frigid peaks shot up all around and no matter how far he traveled, he couldn’t find the sea. As always, he awoke before freezing to death and stayed under his covers, waiting till the sunlight made his eyelids glow a brilliant red, then stepped into the bathroom, attached the blindfold to the flamingo, and took a bath.

  It was a week into summer, but Archer still had not made the request to leave his house. Today would be the day. Only he wasn’t sure how. He and Mrs. Helmsley were very different people.

  It’s a fact of life that we all dream while we’re asleep. Try as you may, such a thing cannot be avoided. It’s when we wake up, however, that we see two types of people emerge. On the one hand are doers, and on the other are dreamers.

  When doers wake up, that’s it, their dreams are over, and in general, they’re content with this. They wash their faces, brush their teeth, and go about their business hoping nothing strange or out of the ordinary will happen along the way. Doers don’t do much original thinking and they don’t do surprises and they won’t ever do anything unexpected or anything someone hasn’t already done before. But they are called doers, after all, so they must do something and they do. In fact, doers do the same something over and over and over again. This is called routine, and doers are very good at routine.

  Dreamers are different.

  When dreamers wake up, their dreams have only just begun. They wash their faces and brush their teeth and open the front door hoping everything strange and out of the ordinary is waiting for them. Dreamers like asking questions that have never been asked before and doing things that have never been done before in ways that no one has ever thought of before.

  Archer was a dreamer. That was obvious. Even a pigeon somewhere in Rosewood knew that. Mrs. Helmsley was a doer.

  ♦ SIP OF RELIEF ♦

  Archer made his way into the kitchen and ate his breakfast of tea with milk and toast with jam. He listened closely to the advice of his spoon, clanking the side of his cup, as he stirred in the sugar. “Chin up,” it said. “You’ll be out of here soon.” He was plotting just that when his mother entered, her arms filled with groceries. Mr. Helmsley’s head was buried in a newspaper.

  “I’ve invited the new neighbors to dinner tonight,” Mrs. Helmsley announced. “Murkley—that’s their last name. I just met Mrs. Murkley on the sidewalk. She seems a little, well . . . I’m sure both her and her husband are lovely people.”

  Lovely? thought Archer. After everything Oliver had told him about Mrs. Murkley, lovely was not a word he would use.

  Mr. Helmsley lowered his newspaper and took a swig of coffee. He didn’t look terribly excited, either.

  “What time are these murky people arriving?” he asked.

  Archer smiled. That was the exact word he would use.

  Mrs. Helmsley was less amused.

  “It’s Murkley,” she said. “They’ll be here at seven. And Archer, I expect you to put your best foot forward tonight.”

  “That would be the left foot,” Mr. Helmsley said, raising his newspaper once more. “Make it eight. I’m in meetings till seven.”

  Mrs. Helmsley nodded and pointed a bundle of Russian white asparagus at Archer. “First impressions are most important,” she insisted. “We don’t need to review your past performances, do we? She won’t admit it, but I’m certain Mrs. Leperton is still afraid to come over here.”

  Archer sighed. While it was true he nearly set Mrs. Leperton on fire during a dinner party a few years back, it was untrue that he did so on purpose. It was simply his first time trying to light candles.

  “But he used the entire matchbook, Helena! And when it ignited, he threw it on my lap!”

  No, there was no need for review. Archer was well aware of past dinner parties, which was why he wanted nothing to do with this one. He pressed his tea for advice but the cup was empty, leaving Archer flying solo.

  “I’ll just stay upstairs,” he said, hoping that would put an end to it.

  It didn’t.

  “That would defeat the purpose,” his mother replied. “I’ve invited her to meet you.”

  “Why?” Archer asked, not sure if he wanted to know the answer.

  “She’ll be teaching at Willow Academy this fall. She used to teach up at Raven Wood. And I’d like her to meet y
ou. Oh, don’t make that face. You need good influences!”

  “But I’m not feeling well,” he lied.

  “You’re sick?” asked Mr. Helmsley.

  “He’s not sick.”

  “I feel sick.”

  “Then you had better get some rest before they arrive,” she said, and that was that. When Mrs. Helmsley put her foot down, she never left an inch of wiggle room.

  Archer poked a finger at his toast and thought this over. Perhaps this was an opportunity. Perhaps he could use this to his advantage. It was worth a shot. He turned to his mother and said matter-of-factly, “I’d like to leave the house this summer.”

  Mrs. Helmsley dropped the asparagus.

  “To go to Rosewood Park with Oliver,” he quickly added.

  “I don’t see why not,” said Mr. Helmsley from behind the paper. “I see nothing here about iceberg sightings in Rosewood Park.”

  “It’s not a joke,” Mrs. Helmsley said.

  “I work in law. A sense of humor is required. Just yesterday a man came in wanting to sue his dog.”

  “You can’t sue a dog,” said Archer.

  “No,” Mr. Helmsley admitted. “But he was fed up with the creature burying the family’s fine silver in the backyard.”

  Mrs. Helmsley stood silently at the sink, rinsing off the asparagus. Archer watched her from the corner of his eye. He was almost certain something was coming—something good? He didn’t hold his breath.

  The interesting thing was that because Archer had spent much of the past few months buried in books, she thought perhaps his tendencies were not quite what they once were. Archer didn’t know this, but it explained what followed.

  “If there are no episodes,” she said. “If you can give Mrs. Murkley a good first impression, then we’ll discuss what the summer will look like. But I’m not promising anything.”

  She didn’t have to. That was enough. Archer was practically beaming. He was actually going to be free! He quickly retreated from the kitchen before he could ruin this. “Your best foot,” she yelled after him, but Archer was already up the stairs.

  ♦ ELEPHANT HOUSE ♦

  Archer stepped into his closet and scanned the secret boxes. He removed number 17: Elephant House, sat down on the rug near the balcony doors, and pulled the red string.

  ARCHER B. HELMSLEY

  375 WILLOW STREET

  DEAR ARCHER,

  I WROTE THIS TO YOU FROM THE BACK OF AN ELEPHANT. WE WERE IN A SMALL COUNTRY WHERE THE INHABITANTS BUILT THEIR HOUSES ON THE BACKS OF THEM. THEY WERE BEAUTIFUL AND HOSPITABLE PEOPLE AND WELCOMED US TO STAY AWHILE. THEY WERE ALSO KIND ENOUGH TO STRAP ME DOWN AT NIGHT. (I HAVE A TENDENCY TO SLEEPWALK.)

  A MAN NAMED AYYAPPIN SCULPTED THIS ELEPHANT HOUSE AS A GIFT. THE STONE IS JADE. BEAUTIFUL, ISN’T IT? WE THOUGHT YOU MIGHT LIKE IT.

  YOURS TRULY,

  Ralph Helmsley

  Archer wished Helmsley House had been built on the back of an elephant. Each night he would fall asleep as the elephant wandered, and in the morning he would wake up some place entirely new. But house number 375 was planted firmly on the ground, and the view from his balcony remained completely unchanged.

  Archer went to his dresser, clicked on the radio, found his notebook in a drawer, and was thinking about Rosewood Park as he returned to the rug. He had no intention of staying inside the park. The question was where could he go from there? And he sat quietly, considering just that as the sunlight slanted in through the balcony door. His thoughts were shortly interrupted when a shrill cry shot up from the gardens.

  “HENRY!” the voice shouted.

  Archer tilted his head.

  “HENRY!” the voice shouted again.

  Archer grabbed his binoculars and hurried to the balcony.

  ♦ NON-NOCTURNAL OPOSSUM ♦

  Oliver had also dashed to his balcony. Archer motioned to him. Oliver climbed a ladder to the roof, hopped over the small gap between the houses, and slid down the ladder to Archer’s balcony.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  Archer wasn’t sure. He directed his binoculars down into the gardens. The voice that had cried “Henry!” belonged to Mrs. Murkley, a rather bulbous woman with little neck to spare, who at present was cornered by an opossum in her garden.

  “HENRY!” she shouted. “HENRY!”

  The Murkleys’ garden door swung open and a man who looked in need of a decent meal sauntered valiantly through.

  “Yes, my dear?” he said. “What seems to be the—ah! What is that?”

  “It’s what you’re about to kill!” shouted Mrs. Murkley. “So don’t just stand there. Get a shovel and smash it to pieces!”

  There are many tunes in this world that can soothe the savage beast. That wasn’t one of them. The opossum hunched its back and let out a terrible hiss.

  “Don’t show it fear,” Henry said. “I think they attack when they sense fear.”

  The opossum turned to Henry and gave him the once-over. Henry backed into the opposite corner of the garden.

  “On second thought,” he said. “Show it a little fear, darling.”

  Oliver placed his hand on Archer’s shoulder, trying his best not to look afraid. “Opossums don’t really attack when they sense fear, do they?” he asked.

  “Normal opossums don’t,” said Archer. “They just play dead.” But this opossum was out in the daylight, and Archer thought it might be a non-nocturnal opossum. “I’ve never seen one out in the day before.”

  Oliver hadn’t, either. “But it looks too soft and fluffy to be violent,” he said. “Mrs. Murkley, on the other hand . . .”

  With all of her shouting, Mrs. Murkley had gone quite pink in the face and looked something like an overzealous mosquito. The non-nocturnal (and probably nonviolent) opossum eyed both Murkleys. It seemed to realize it was outnumbered and sounded the retreat, scurrying backward up the garden wall and scampering away. As it did, the opossum paused to look up at Archer and Oliver.

  “I think that thing just winked at me,” said Oliver. “I knew it wasn’t violent. Isn’t she horrible, though?”

  Archer pointed his binoculars back toward the Murkley house. The garden was empty.

  “She’s coming to dinner tonight,” he said.

  Oliver paled. “That’s terrible! Why would your mother invite that?”

  “She’ll be teaching at the Button Factory this fall.”

  Oliver needed to sit down for a moment. It was a lot to take in. As he did, Archer explained what else his mother had said and that come tomorrow, they would be on their way to Rosewood Park.

  “That place creeps me out,” said Oliver. “It’s like the city grew around it and no one knew what to do so they left it there.”

  “We’re not going to stay inside the park,” said Archer. “It’s about getting out of here. And from Rosewood Park, we can go—anywhere.”

  “Where’s anywhere?” Oliver asked.

  Archer wasn’t sure. He ducked back inside his room and returned with one of his grandfather’s journals. Those were filled with brilliant ideas.

  “While you’re figuring that out,” said Oliver. “You should come to my house.”

  Delicious smells were wafting from the Glubs’ kitchen. Mrs. Glub always made wonderful food. Archer knew this because ever since he’d become friends with Oliver, he’d been sneaking into Oliver’s house. His mother had no idea how easy it was, and she was completely unaware how frequently he did it. She wouldn’t like it. And with his chance for real freedom so close, perhaps he shouldn’t risk it today. But Archer knew a dinner party at night meant a day of busied preparations for his mother. He just had to be careful. So he followed Oliver up the ladder, over the crack between the houses, and down the stairs to the Glubs’ kitchen.

  ♦ WONDERS OF WEEDING ♦

  Mrs. Glub nearly hit the ceiling when Archer and Oliver stumbled in through the back door to the kitchen.

  “Did you take the roof again?” she asked, staring at the both of them
.

  Archer and Oliver exchanged glances.

  “It’s not safe jumping over that gap! One of these days you’re going to fall into it and Mr. Glub will have to fish you out!”

  “But the roof is quicker,” said Oliver, following the delicious smells seeping from the oven.

  “Quicker is rarely safer,” Mrs. Glub said. “But I’m glad you’re here, Archer, and you’re just in time. Have a seat.”

  Mrs. Glub pulled a steaming hot tray of apple cider turnovers from the oven. They were crusted in caramel and nuts and smelled heavenly.

  “I’m taking your sister to get a new dress,” she said to Oliver. “I need you to weed the garden while we’re out. That flower festival, or whatever it’s called, is just around the corner.” Mrs. Glub frowned. “I’m sure the neighbors are whispering again.”

  Oliver said he would get to it after eating, and when Mrs. Glub left the house, they began popping apple cider turnovers into their mouths as quickly as they could, careful not to burn their tongues. Archer ate with his head buried inside his grandfather’s journal. What was he going to do when he left the house?

  “They finally opened the new upstairs area at DuttonLick’s sweetshop,” said Oliver. “Everyone from the Button Factory was going there yesterday. We could go if you can actually leave your house. I think you’d really like the—”

  “We should do this,” interrupted Archer, not hearing a word Oliver had just said.

  . . . the jungle dripped with uncertainty. Everywhere were insects, flying, jumping, and crawling up trees. One bit my arm. A bump swelled, festered, and popped. It flowed yellow. I became delirious. Rachel nursed out the poison and we dug in for the night. The air was thick and the wood, too wet to burn. We floated in a sea of leaves and moss. Large creatures lurked in the moonlight. We couldn’t see them, but knew they were near. . . .

  Oliver lowered his pastry. His appetite was gone. “I don’t understand you sometimes—a lot of times. What about that sounds enjoyable?”