The Doldrums

by Nicholas Gannon

  Without protest, Archer stood up and did as he was told, avoiding eye contact with his mother as he made for the door. Just before leaving, he turned back to Mrs. Murkley, planning to apologize, but Mrs. Murkley cut him off.

  “You watch it, young man,” she said. “Or you just might find yourself atop an iceberg someday.”

  ♦ HEAT RISES ♦

  It’s often said that heat rises, and it must be true because Archer was feeling hot under the collar when he reached the top of the stairs. It’s not difficult to see why. If some brash behemoth marched into your house and told your parents that one day you’d be sitting cozy in an electric chair, you might be tempted to lower an eyebrow or two. But that wasn’t it. It was the comments about his grandparents being crazy that set Archer boiling.

  Did Ralph and Rachel march to the beat of a different drum? Perhaps. You could even say they ditched the marching and the drums and danced a jig to a xylophone instead. But crazy? Certainly not. Ralph and Rachel never wore fur in the summer.

  Archer ripped off his bow tie and tossed it to the floor. He trudged down the hallway to his bedroom knowing tomorrow would not bring something new. Tomorrow would bring something worse. And he now wanted nothing more than to drive that beastly woman out of Helmsley House.

  “Be on the lookout,” he said to the polar bear in the alcove. “If what they say about heat rising is true, there’s a hot air balloon that’s sure to come this way. And she’ll look at you as if you’re the bizarre museum creature.”

  “But I am the bizarre museum creature,” the polar bear replied.

  “You’re more real than she is!”

  No sooner did Archer say these words than he was struck with a brilliant idea. A smile stretched across his face and he turned back to the polar bear.

  “You’re much bigger than a non-nocturnal opossum,” he said.

  “Please don’t drag me into this,” the bear replied.

  But that’s precisely what Archer did. With all his might, he dragged the bear down the hallway and into his bedroom. Archer would have his revenge.

  ♦ NO MORE THAN AN HOUR LATER ♦

  Archer was no stranger to Helmsley House dinner parties. And he knew that almost anyone who ever attended one would request a tour of the house. These tours always concluded near his bedroom on the top floor. That’s what he was hoping for and, sure enough, no more than an hour later, voices were heard ascending the stairs.

  “And this, Henry, is our—” Mr. Helmsley stopped. “Where’s the polar bear?”

  Mrs. Helmsley shook her head. “What polar bear?” she asked.

  “There was a polar bear here.”

  “I never noticed a polar bear.”

  Henry nodded. “Polar bears are like that sometimes.”

  “Enough with the polar bears!” Mrs. Murkley demanded. “If it found these living arrangements half as disturbing as I do, it’s likely that creature took the first bus out of here. Now please, I’ve seen far more than I care to see and it’s time we returned home.”

  Mrs. Murkley marched back to the stairs, but Mrs. Helmsley stopped her retreat. She had only dragged Mrs. Murkley along because she wanted Archer to apologize for his behavior in the dining room and for leaving her coat in a heap on the floor. Mrs. Murkley sighed and made the universal gesture for let’s get on with it then. She pushed her way to the front of the group and pointed to a door. Mrs. Helmsley nodded.

  “Right,” huffed Mrs. Murkley, and she threw it open.

  Revenge is a dish best served cold, but you mustn’t go too cold. Archer went too cold. After waiting an hour, Archer had fallen asleep. What’s worse, he had fallen asleep in the very trap he’d set for Mrs. Murkley. That is to say, he fell asleep with his head inside the gaping jaws of the retired polar bear. His body drooped on a chair.

  When Mrs. Murkley threw open the door, it collided with the wall, jolting Archer from his dream and into a situation he didn’t remember. He saw teeth. He felt fur. He panicked.

  Archer shouted. The glass eye fell from the bear’s mouth and rolled across the floor. It bounced off Mrs. Murkley’s shoe and looked up at her. Mrs. Murkley’s shriek was of such a pitch and volume that it would have buried them all beneath an avalanche had they been living in the Himalayas. Henry fell backward down the stairs. Mr. Helmsley failed to grab him. Mrs. Helmsley was a blank slate (likely saving her expressions for later). Archer braced, thinking the walls were about to implode. Fortunately, Mrs. Murkley imploded first.

  ♦ ONE PART HAND & TWO PARTS BUTTER ♦

  Archer stood on the front steps, watching as the paramedics carried Mrs. Murkley out of the house on a stretcher. He was still foggy as to what had just happened.

  “A criminal,” she mumbled as she passed. “That’s what you are! That’s what you’ve raised!”

  “I can’t apologize to you enough for this dinner,” his mother said.

  “No need for that,” said Henry, hoisting himself into the back of the ambulance. He tapped at his chest where presumably a heart was located. “Bad ticker,” he said. “She’s had a bad one ever since she was little. Nothing to worry about.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “She’s a little dramatic about it.”

  “Stand clear,” said a paramedic as he slammed the doors. “Stand clear.”

  With sirens blaring, the ambulance sped off down Willow Street bound for Rosewood Hospital. Whatever remaining hope Archer had of seeing anything but the inside of Helmsley House that summer was also rushed off to the hospital. Unlike Mrs. Murkley, such hope would not survive the night.

  Archer stuck his hands in his blazer pockets.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I fell asleep.”

  “And it’s time you wake up!” Mrs. Helmsley demanded. “You’re buttering your grip on reality!”

  “I guess the best foot was the right foot,” Mr. Helmsley mumbled. “Well, nowhere to go except up. I suppose there’s always sideways, but I think up would be preferable. Regardless, I think we’ll agree that she was a little, you know, out there.”

  “That’s no excuse!”

  Archer could feel the heat pouring off his mother. He’d seen her angry before, but not like this. You could probably fry an egg on her head, but now wasn’t a good time to attempt such a thing. Archer had wanted to drive Mrs. Murkley out of Helmsley House. He didn’t intend to do so with an ambulance. But that’s what had happened. And after he followed his parents back inside, the swift arm of justice fell and it fell hard.

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  ♦ A CHANGE OF SCENERY ♦

  Helmsley House was never a loud place, but it was especially quiet in the weeks that followed the polar bear incident. There are always exceptions, but in general, sending someone to the hospital is frowned upon in a civil society.

  During those weeks, the door to Archer’s room was locked except when a tray of food was brought in. For a while, that tray contained leftovers from the Murkley dinner party, forcing Archer to relive that night over and over again. Why had he been so foolish? Archer stretched out across his bed and tried reading his grandfather’s journals, but he kept putting them down. Oliver stopped by one morning and convinced Archer to sneak over to his house. Archer was glad he did.

  “He’s innocent!” cried Claire.

  “Of course he is,” said Mr. Glub, placing his hands on Archer’s shoulders. “Perhaps not in the classical sense, but she had no right to come into your house and insult your grandparents as she did. I’ve never met anyone who had something bad to say about Ralph and Rachel.”

  “I think she likes to argue,” said Oliver.

  Mrs. Glub agreed and slid an apple cider turnover in front of Archer. “You’ll always find trouble if you go looking for it.”

  Archer was glad to have the Glubs’ support, but he wished his parents would take a similar stance. They didn’t.

  One evening, when the door to his room was finally unlocked, Archer joined his parents for dinner, but there was little chewing of
the fat. Everyone was chewing on something else. Mrs. Helmsley looked at him with an expression similar to the one she made while smelling the milk to see if it was still safe to drink.

  “You’ll be putting all of this nonsense behind you,” she said. “One more incident like that—I do mean one more—and I’ll be contacting Raven Wood. These outbursts—these tendencies—they’re dangerous! And they end now!”

  Even Mr. Helmsley didn’t argue.

  Archer didn’t know much about Raven Wood except that it was a boarding school three hours north of Rosewood by train. To one side, the school was shrouded in thick pines and to the other was a rocky beach and the same sea that bordered Rosewood. Archer told Oliver Raven Wood was the school Mrs. Murkley had left. And though she never said why, both agreed it didn’t say much about the institution.

  “I’ll bet all the teachers there are like her,” said Oliver.

  Archer tried his best to be extra careful around his mother. It’s a curious thing, however, that when you’re trying to be extra careful, you always end up doing something careless. Archer was no exception. And one day, Archer did something careless. He left his secret bookshelf uncovered when his mother came in with freshly ironed shirts and socks.

  “What are all of these boxes?” she asked.

  Archer jumped to his feet with such haste that his heart ended up somewhere around his left ankle.

  “Nothing!” he said, trying to usher her out. “They’re nothing!”

  Mrs. Helmsley wouldn’t budge. She bent down and removed a box.

  “Are these from . . . ? But how did you . . . ? How did they . . . ?”

  Archer paled. “Those aren’t mine,” he said, not sure what else to say.

  His mother eyed him. “They have your name on them.”

  Archer slumped down on the edge of his bed. Mrs. Helmsley began grabbing packages left and right and didn’t stop till her arms were full and the shelves were empty. She took the journals, too. Only the glass eye dared an escape. When she reached the door, it fell from the stack and rolled over to Archer’s foot. He kicked it under the bed.

  “We’ll talk about this later,” she said. But days went by and it was never mentioned again.

  There was only one time Archer could remember feeling more miserable and that was the morning he discovered the iceberg headline. But there was a small reprieve in the midst of all this. Construction began on the house just opposite him. And it began very early one morning.

  ♦ MINOR ALTERATIONS ♦

  Archer leaned against his balcony railing in his pajamas and stared across the way. For the first time, he didn’t recognize his view. The house across the gardens (the house where he’d seen the flowery woman and the tall, well-groomed man) was now covered in scaffolding. Workers climbed up and down ladders at a frantic pace shouting:

  “Be careful.” “Lift with your back.” “That’s it.”

  “That can’t be right.” “Is it supposed to look like that?”

  Oliver jumped out on his own balcony and yelled, “What’s going on!”

  Archer couldn’t hear him over the noise. He motioned and Oliver climbed the ladder to join him.

  “Good morning,” Archer mumbled.

  “This is not a good morning,” said Oliver, who just moments before had leaped from his bed thinking the world was coming to an end.

  Down below, Mrs. Murkley stormed out through the garden door followed by Henry, who was carrying a ladder. It was clear she’d made a full recovery from the polar bear incident and was back to her cheery self. Archer boiled just looking at her. She snatched the ladder from her husband, propped it up against the wall, and when she reached the top, began barking at the workers. Henry, who was still in his bathrobe and slippers, disappeared back inside.

  “What’s the meaning of all this!” Mrs. Murkley growled.

  The construction stopped. A man approached the wall and handed her what looked like a business card.

  “Good morning,” he said cheerfully. “My name is Pierre.”

  A second man approached and handed her a second business card.

  “My name is also Pierre,” he said.

  After that, they spoke in unison.

  “We’re the brothers Pierre, home remodelers at your service.”

  Mrs. Murkley studied one Pierre and then the other. “You’re a circus act is what you are,” she said, and threw the cards over their heads. “Have you any idea what time it is?”

  One Pierre looked up at the sun. The other Pierre looked down at his watch. They reached the same conclusion.

  “Seven in the morning,” both said.

  “But the sooner we’re here,” said Pierre number one.

  “The sooner we can leave,” said Pierre number two.

  “This is weird,” said Oliver.

  Archer agreed.

  Mrs. Murkley pointed at the scaffolding. “If even so much as one little piece of anything falls into my garden . . . I’ll make sure the police are ready for you! Henry, get the phone! Henry?” She turned but Henry was gone. “Useless man!” The workers laughed. “Keep laughing, you fools! You’ll see what happens!”

  The construction lasted a number of weeks and while the noise was constant, Archer didn’t mind because it muffled his sorrows. He stood near the balcony door with his binoculars raised, watching as Mrs. Murkley checked for garden debris. She was rather like a mole popping its head from its subterranean lair to gander at the happenings of the aboveground dwellers. There was no debris. But there was a great deal of dust. And that dust ruined the summer flower festival. Mrs. Helmsley was furious when her flowers bloomed a chalky white.

  A few weeks later, when the construction came to an end and the scaffolding was removed, Archer stared up from the Glubs’ garden at a house unlike any he’d ever seen. It was tall and skinny like all of the houses on Willow Street, but that’s all it had in common.

  “What is it?” asked Archer.

  “I think it’s French,” said Mr. Glub. “Parisian, to be precise.”

  “Whatever it is, it’s beautiful,” said Mrs. Glub, who couldn’t help but compare it to the garden they were standing in.

  Archer was leaning against the garden wall so his mother wouldn’t see him. Mrs. Helmsley was also staring out the windows at this most unusual home.

  “Well,” said Mr. Glub. “It might be beautiful, but I’ll bet they don’t have—” He stopped and searched the garden. “Where’s my flamingo?”

  Archer and Oliver slipped inside.

  The movers arrived a few days later. Archer and Oliver watched with the binoculars as furniture and boxes and all manner of odds and ends were carried throughout the house. It was quite the production. When the movers finished, the quiet of Willow Street was restored and with it, Archer’s thoughts, which were now more dismal than ever. The boxes were gone. The journals were gone. His grandparents were gone. He had nothing except Helmsley House, which he would not be leaving for the foreseeable future.

  If you’ve ever spent as much time in your house as Archer had, you might find yourself, as he did, growing pale and your spirits even paler. What hope did he have of restoring the Helmsley Golden Age from inside his house? What could he do in there that would make his grandparents proud? There was nothing he could do—nothing except feel very small while surrounded by their greatness. Archer shook his head. He wasn’t like his grandfather. He was just a boy who fell asleep with his head inside a polar bear.

  One week after the movers left, Archer and Oliver met on the rooftop as they did almost every night. Only this night was unlike other nights. In fact, this night would change everything in Archer’s world. But Archer didn’t know that yet. No, as he climbed the ladder to join Oliver, he was certain nothing in his world would ever change unless his grandparents returned.

  ♦ ICEBERGS CHANGE EVERYTHING ♦

  It was a cool, crisp evening. Archer licked his finger and held it above his head. “A slight south by southwest breeze?” he said.
>
  “I think so,” said Oliver, looking north by northeast.

  The stars waited patiently for the sun to disappear behind the houses, then assumed their positions one by one, till the stage was set and the night began.

  Archer was poking a stick in the gutter when he spotted a beetle crawling atop a leaf. He picked it up. He’d never seen one like this before. It was blue with yellow spots and looked quite special, but he wasn’t interested. He flicked it down into the gardens. Oliver watched the beetle whiz by.

  “I guess we’ll find out if Mrs. Murkley really eats them,” he said, hoping it would make Archer smile. It didn’t.

  Archer sat down next to him and dangled his legs over the edge.

  “I used to think I was lucky to be a Helmsley,” he said. “But it turned into a curse after the iceberg.”

  Archer was certain everything would be different had that not happened. But it had. And it seemed like a long time ago. More than two years now. That made it worse.

  “They’re not coming back,” he admitted.

  Archer had spent a considerable amount of time trying to figure out the life expectancy of an iceberg dweller and what he had concluded was troubling. He frequently ran the numbers, but the results were always the same. The main problem was fire.

  “You couldn’t survive without a fire,” he said. “But you can’t start one on an iceberg.”

  Oliver agreed, but after a moment, offered his own idea.

  “Maybe they dug,” he said.

  “That doesn’t make any sense. Where would you dig?”

  “To the center of the iceberg,” said Oliver with a shrug. “At least, that’s what I would do.”

  Oliver had also given considerable thought to the situation. Oliver would dig. He would dig to the center of the iceberg because a small hole deep inside would be warm enough to keep him from freezing, but not be so warm as to melt the iceberg. And in the mornings, when the sun rose over the ocean, it would glisten through the thick walls of ice and that would be a beautiful sight to wake up to.