Falling into Place

by Stephanie Greene

  “Me?” Roy said. He took a step back. He was afraid to take the letter, Margaret realized, and hurt by the sarcastic tone in Gran’s voice. “Why me?” he said helplessly.

  For Margaret, it was the final straw. Here they were, trying their best to cheer Gran up and make her happy, and Mrs. Nightingale and Mrs. Tudley, full of sympathy and understanding for a person they didn’t even know, and here was Gran, being mean and sarcastic about them all. Worst of all, she was deliberately being horrible to Roy, her own grandson, who was gentle and kind and never said a mean word to anyone.

  Margaret snatched the envelope out of Gran’s hand. She knew she was being rude, but she didn’t care.

  “I’ll take it to him,” she said abruptly, turning on her heel. “Come on, Roy.”

  He waited until they were outside to speak.

  “Why can’t we just put it in the mailbox?” he said, scurrying after her. “Why do we have to take it all the way to him? Mr. Whiting hates Gran. What if he yells at us?”

  “So? Haven’t you ever heard anyone yell before?” Margaret pushed the gate open with such energy, it flew back and hit Roy in the stomach.

  “Hey! What are you mad at me for?” he said.

  “She’s brooding,” said Margaret. She was stomping her feet so hard that little pieces of gravel were shooting out to either side like sparks. “She’s sitting around like a chicken all day long, brooding.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “You saw her!” said Margaret. “Everyone’s trying as hard as they can, and all she does is act tired, and look out the window, and say ‘I don’t know’ all the time. She’s being mean about people she doesn’t even know, and she’s being mean to us. Her own grandchildren.”

  “No, I mean the chicken part,” said Roy. “I mean, I think chickens are hens, but I don’t think they brood. I think hens brood, but—”

  “For heaven’s sake, Roy! Who cares?” Margaret shouted. She halted and whirled around to face him so fast that he almost ran right into her. “I’m talking about Gran’s attitude. There are lots of things to do around here, if she’d give them a chance. And the people are nice. No one’s talking about their aches and pains like she said. They’re all doing things. Everyone except Gran.”

  “I feel sorry for her,” said Roy.

  “Feeling sorry isn’t doing her any good,” said Margaret. “It’s only making her feel more sorry for herself.”

  “Maybe she’s scared.”

  “Of what?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she’s afraid she’s next.”

  “Next for what?”

  “Next to die.”

  “What?” The word was so unexpected, Margaret shook her head slightly, as if she wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly. “What are you talking about? Gran’s not dying.”

  “She might feel like she is,” he said. “Tad died, didn’t he? They were almost the same age. Maybe Gran thinks she’s next.”

  “But Gran’s in perfect health.”

  “Tad was, too, until he got sick.”

  Margaret couldn’t think of a thing to say. Roy kind of had a point. Maybe Gran was afraid. Margaret was afraid sometimes, too. But she couldn’t go around being afraid for the rest of her life, could she? That would be horrible.

  Gran couldn’t either.

  “I don’t care.” She started to walk again. “She’s got to try harder.”

  Roy walked along beside her. “When are we going to tell her she’s having them over for a party?” he said.

  “I don’t know. Maybe we won’t even have the stupid party.” She stopped in front of the last house on the block and looked from the letter in her hand to the front door. “One-sixty. This is it.”

  “Let’s slip it under the door and run,” said Roy.

  “Why should we run? We haven’t done anything.”

  “We’re related to Gran, that’s why.”

  “Mr. Whiting doesn’t know that,” said Margaret. “We’ll tell him a grouchy old lady we never saw before made us deliver it.”

  “And then we’ll run?”

  But they didn’t have time to do anything. Before they even got to the door, it was flung open wide and a shrill voice shouted, “Get lost!”

  Chapter 7

  “Now, now, Rolly, mind your manners.” Mr. Whiting reached up and smoothed the feathers of the large gray bird on his shoulder. “That’s no way to greet our visitors.”

  He wasn’t at all what Margaret had expected. He was wearing a pale gray cardigan, a bow tie, and slippers. His thin white hair was slicked back from his face, and his curly eyebrows stuck out over his gentle eyes like wings. This was the mean, horrible Mr. Whiting?

  “We’re not visiting,” she said. She held out Gran’s letter. “We came to bring you this.”

  “Is that a parrot?” said Roy. He looked as if he had dropped any idea of fleeing, and was gazing up at Mr. Whiting’s bird admiringly. “I’ve always wanted a parrot.”

  “Rolly is a cockatiel,” said Mr. Whiting. He held Gran’s letter in the air and squinted. “How nice. A letter from Mrs. Mack. At long last.”

  “How do you know who it’s from?” said Margaret.

  “I have to confess, I saw you coming,” he said. He held up the binoculars that were hanging around his neck on a cord.

  Margaret’s eyes widened in shock. “You were spying on us!” she said indignantly.

  “Actually, I was watching a flock of warblers,” said Mr. Whiting. “But I did catch you in my sight, › yes.

  “Spying’s sneaky,” she said.

  “In this case, it was strictly by accident, I assure you. I didn’t mean to be sneaky. Just as I’m sure you didn’t mean to litter when you threw your half-eaten Popsicle over your shoulder onto my lawn.”

  When Margaret’s face fell, Mr. Whiting laughed gleefully. His laugh was almost as shocking as his spying. Mr. Whiting wasn’t mean, he was sweet.

  “Your sister’s very fierce, isn’t she?” he said to Roy.

  “He’s not my brother, he’s my cousin,” said Margaret. “And you’re being mean to our grandmother.”

  “Mean to your grandmother?” said Mr. Whiting. “Why, we haven’t even met. I knocked on her door two or three times, but she wasn’t in, and she never attends our monthly Steering Committee meetings. How on earth have I been mean to her?”

  “You sent her mean letters about your dumb old rules.”

  “But my dear young lady,” he said. “Those were form letters. We send them to all the new residents when they seem to be doing something in violation of our rules. Surely, your grandmother doesn’t think they’re my rules.

  “Tell them, Rolly,” he said, turning to the bird and scratching its chest with his finger. “Tell them what a nice man I am.”

  “Come in! Come in!” Rolly shrieked. He stretched up to his full length and ruffled his feathers, as if preparing for liftoff.

  “Does he bite?” said Roy.

  “Absolutely not,” said Mr. Whiting. “And neither do I. Rolly’s right—come in. We need to clear this thing up.”

  “No, thank you,” said Margaret. “We have to go.”

  “Nonsense. Roy wants to see my goldfish pond and my Siamese fighting fish.” He looked at Roy and winked. “Don’t you, Roy?”

  “Oh, yes, please,” said Roy. He slipped eagerly into Mr. Whiting’s hall before Margaret could stop him. “Siamese fighting fish are beautiful.”

  “Roy,” she said meaningfully, but it was no use. He was already trotting down the hall behind Mr. Whiting like an obedient puppy. Margaret could hear his high voice asking questions as they disappeared.

  By the time she caught up with them, they were in a sunny, humid room filled with plants. There was a wicker birdcage in one corner, and a tall perch next to a raised pond in the middle of the room. The pond had a fountain at one end, and lily pads. Roy was leaning on the edge, peering eagerly into its depths.

  “Look at that one—it’s huge,” he said, pointing. “And
that one.” He looked at Mr. Whiting. “Is the Siamese fighting fish in there, too?”

  “Just a moment.” Mr. Whiting bent down so that his shoulder was on a level with the perch and said, “Rolly?”

  Rolly gave another shocking squawk, stepped nimbly onto the perch, and immediately started preening his feathers with his beak.

  “Ethel is over here,” said Mr. Whiting. From the edge of the pond he picked up a small bowl that had an iridescent blue fish floating inside. The fish had a huge, feathery tail like a fan, and fins that extended from one side of the bowl to the other.

  “Is that where it lives?” said Margaret. “That bowl is much too small.”

  “Ethel is a ‘she,’ not an ‘it,’” said Mr. Whiting.

  “There’s no room for her to swim,” said Margaret stubbornly. “What does she do all day?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mr. Whiting. He looked thoughtful. “What does any fish do all day, except dart around?”

  “Ethel couldn’t dart if she wanted to,” said Margaret. “That looks like a horrible life.”

  “She’s perfectly happy, I assure you,” said Mr. Whiting, but he peered into the bowl with anxious eyes. “You are happy in there, aren’t you, Ethel? That’s my girl.”

  It was funny to see a grown man talking to a fish in a voice like the one people use to talk to babies. In spite of herself, Margaret smiled.

  “They come in other colors, don’t they?” said Roy. “I saw one once that was red and green.”

  “Each one is different,” said Mr. Whiting. He put the bowl back down on the edge of the pond. “Wait just a moment. I want to show you something.”

  Roy turned to Margaret with a shining face when he left. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

  “How could you?” she said.

  “What did I do?”

  “We weren’t even going to come in here, remember?” She turned her hot gaze to Ethel. “Look at her. How would you like to live like that?”

  “But I think Mr. Whiting’s right, Margaret,” said Roy. “I’ve seen lots of Siamese fighting fish in pet stores. They’re always in small bowls like that.”

  Margaret grabbed his arm. “When he comes back, we’re leaving, do you hear me?”

  “Bossy lady! Bossy lady! Awwwwwwk!” Rolly flapped his wings furiously and lifted awkwardly off his perch. Margaret and Roy jumped back as he hurtled through the air and landed on the edge of Ethel’s bowl, tipping it over. Ethel shot out onto the edge of the pond and Rolly flew back up onto his perch, then sat there calmly craning his neck around to fuss with the feathers on his back as if nothing had happened.

  Margaret and Roy were left with their mouths hanging open and water all over their feet, watching Ethel plastered to the edge of the pond, trying to breathe. The only part of her that was moving was her mouth.

  It was opening and closing, opening and closing. “She’s going to die like that,” Roy said frantically. “What should we do?”

  “Get her back into the water, quick,” said Margaret. She darted a look over her shoulder. “Hurry! He’s coming.”

  “You do it. I’m afraid.”

  Margaret bent down. With both hands cradled together, she flipped Ethel’s body up off its deathbed into the life-preserving waters below. There was a furious roiling commotion as twenty massive goldfish raced to eat at the same time.

  When Mr. Whiting came back into the room waving a book in the air, she and Roy were staring at the calm, empty surface of the pond.

  “If you like Ethel, my boy,” he called, “wait until you see this!”

  Roy took one look at the empty fishbowl lying on its side, then at Mr. Whiting coming toward them, and burst into tears.

  Chapter 8

  “What’s this?” said Mr. Whiting, stopping short. He looked from Roy, in tears, to the guilty expression on Margaret’s face, to the bowl on the floor, and finally at Rolly. “Rolly,” he said in a stern voice, “look what you’ve done. You’ve upset our poor guests, just when we were starting to get along.”

  He pulled a snowy white handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to Roy. “Please don’t be upset, or you’ll make me feel even worse.”

  Margaret was still getting over the shock of Ethel. Now she looked at Mr. Whiting. “How did you know it was Rolly?” she said.

  “I’m sorry to say that it’s happened before,” he said. His eyes under his bushy brows were so sad, she immediately felt sorry for him. “And it’s all my fault. I should simply stop buying them, but I can’t.”

  “What do you mean?” said Roy.

  Mr. Whiting slowly picked up the bowl and put it back on the edge of the pond. He went and sat down on a chair, and patted the book in his lap. “Come take a look at this.”

  They stood on either side of him as he opened it. It was a photograph album. The page Mr. Whiting had opened to was covered with photographs of fish.

  Siamese fighting fish. In bowls. Each one was slightly different from the one next to it. The following page was filled with fish, too. And the one after that. Margaret stared at them in amazement. There must have been twenty pictures of Siamese fighting fish, each in its tiny bowl, suspended forever, side by side.

  And under every photograph, in faint, spidery letters, someone had written the same name. Ethel.

  “I started it when she was so sick, you see,” Mr. Whiting was saying. “She couldn’t get out of bed, and she wanted something pretty to look at. One day when I was out buying her some flowers, I saw this one in a store window.” He flipped back to the first page and pointed to the first picture. “Ethel number one. My wife was delighted. I put it on her bedside table, and she watched it all the time. After Ethel died, I just couldn’t seem to stop buying them.”

  “Ethel the fish?” said Margaret.

  “Ethel my wife.”

  “Oh.” Margaret looked at him. “You named them all after your wife.”

  “You must think I’m a silly old man,” he said. “You children are probably too young to understand what it’s like to miss someone as much as I miss my wife.”

  Margaret thought about her dad. “A person doesn’t have to be dead for you to miss them,” she said.

  “You’re so right, Margaret.” He looked at her approvingly and a glimmer of his good humor came back into his eyes. “I can see that you’re as wise as you are strict.”

  “Gran misses Tad. She was used to being part of a couple, and I don’t think she feels as if she fits in.” She was surprised at how right the words felt. “That’s why she hasn’t come to any of your meetings.”

  “That’s a pretty normal reaction,” Mr. Whiting said sympathetically. “A lot of people in Carol Woods have recently lost someone, I’m afraid. That’s why many of them live in a retirement community. But most of us adjust. Don’t you worry, Margaret,” he patted her hand. “I think your grandmother will recover. From what I’ve seen of all the rules she has broken, she’s a feisty woman. When she feels better, I hope she joins the rest of us folks. We manage to have a pretty good time.”

  “Is Rolly short for Roland?” Roy piped in.

  It was just like Roy to bring up a totally different subject, but this time Margaret was glad. Her eyes were suddenly stinging with tears.

  “Yes, isn’t that silly? It’s a good thing my wife and I got along better than the fish and the bird, wouldn’t you say?” When Mr. Whiting laughed, so did Roy and Margaret. “I’m a sentimental old fool, that’s what I am. It’s been two years now. I think maybe the time has come for me to stop sacrificing poor, defenseless fish, don’t you?”

  “Maybe you could get another kind of pet and name it Ethel,” said Margaret. “Something Rolly can’t kill.”

  “A cat, perhaps?” said Mr. Whiting.

  “How about a ferret?” said Roy. “They’re nice pets.”

  “Now, there’s a picture for you.” Mr. Whiting slapped his knee. “I’ll have to show you a photograph of my wife sometime, Roy. She was a rather big woman. Boy, if she saw a
skinny, wiggly thing like a ferret running around with her name, she’d have a good laugh.”

  He closed the book decisively. “No, the time has come. No more pets named Ethel. Now, can I offer you children a snack of some sort?”

  “We’d better get home before Gran thinks you had us arrested,” said Roy.

  “It’s that bad, is it?” said Mr. Whiting, opening his front door.

  “Gran’s a lot like Margaret,” said Roy.

  The expression on his face was so funny that Margaret had to laugh. Mr. Whiting laughed, too. “It’s been kind of tough, being around the two of them, huh?” he said to Roy.

  “You can say that again,” said Roy glumly.

  “I think maybe their barks are worse than their bites most of the time, don’t you?” said Mr. Whiting.

  “Yeah, but their barks can be pretty bad,” said Roy. “Especially Margaret’s.”

  “Roy,” Margaret protested, but she didn’t really mind. She was suddenly very happy. She had a bark, and she never even knew it. She growled at Roy all the way down the street.

  …

  “Are you going to tell Gran how nice he is?” said Roy, as they got near Gran’s.

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “She won’t believe me.” Margaret turned into Gran’s yard. “I’m going to let her find out for herself.”

  “How can she, if she keeps on hiding?”

  “She can’t hide at her own party.”

  “You invited him?”

  “When you were in the bathroom.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he looked forward to changing Gran’s opinion of him.”

  “Oh, brother,” said Roy.

  “Am I really a lot like Gran?” she said, opening the front door.

  Roy rolled his eyes and went in past her.

  “How did it go?” Gran called. They found her in the kitchen, baking. The entire house smelled of gingerbread. “I was thinking of sending out the troops,” she said. “You were gone for a long time.”

  “It didn’t seem long,” said Roy. He slid into a chair.

  “It seemed short,” said Margaret, sitting down across from him.