Getting Back to Normal

by Marilyn Levinson

  Wednesday afternoon I make up excuses to leave the cottage at sundown and race over to the pond. “Archie! Archie!” I call, but he doesn’t respond.

  Where can he be? Why isn’t he here? The ducks look at me quizzically, then tuck their beaks deeper into their feathers and go back to sleep.

  That evening, Dad asks me to toss the garbage into the dumpster at the edge of the woods about twenty feet behind our house. I make a face as I crumple up the wrappings from our chicken nugget sandwiches and shove them in the plastic bag before carrying it outside. Dad goes straight to his computer. Robby switches on the TV in the living room.

  I toss the plastic bag into the dumpster and I’m heading back to the cottage when Archie calls to me.

  “Vanessa. I’m over by the large beech tree.”

  My heart is thumping wildly as I turn and see him, barely visible against one of the largest trees, whose branches dip to the ground. I hurry toward him, bubbling over with questions.

  “Hi, Archie. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “Lovely to be sought after.” He smiles, but even in the dark I sense his sudden wariness. “How did your dinner turn out?”

  For a moment I don’t know what he’s talking about. Then I remember. “Great. Robby loved your recipe. He named it the spaghetti-cheese omelet, though Mayda said it reminded her of a dish her father used to make.”

  He gives me a broad grin. “Did she now?”

  “Yes, she said it was an old family recipe. Did you—?”

  “Would you like another recipe?” he asks, interrupting me.

  “Only if it’s as easy as the spaghetti-cheese omelet.”

  “It’s easy, all right. But never fear. Something tells me you’ve the makings of a really good cook.”

  I smile. “Maybe I inherited it from my mom. She was a caterer. I used to help her a bit, only I never bothered to learn to make anything important.” I scrunch up my face. “The other night I ruined a perfectly good chicken. I should have let it defrost before I tried to roast it.”

  “I’ll give you a simple recipe for chicken breasts. All you have to do is remember the three Ds: dip them in egg batter, dredge them in seasoned bread crumbs, then drizzle them with butter. Bake in a preheated oven at 325 degrees for forty-five minutes, and, voilà, they’re done and ready to eat.”

  I repeat his instructions. “Sounds easy enough. Are you sure that’s all there is to it?”

  He puts his hand over his heart. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  We both laugh. I open my mouth to ask him how he’s related to Mayda, when he asks, “How is Mayda? Is she stepping out with anyone?”

  Stepping out? An expression from the Stone Age. Now I’m wary. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “In that case, perhaps you could inquire and inform me if she is.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m concerned about her welfare.”

  Two can play the question game. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re a ghost?”

  “Ah.” After a pause, he adds, “I didn’t want to alarm you.”

  “So kind of you. How do you know Mayda? Are you—were you her relative?”

  I must be getting to him because Archie does three backward flips in a row. I’m not impressed. When I catch up to him, I sigh noisily.

  “You want me to spy on Mayda, but when I ask you a question, you behave like a clown.”

  “An acrobat,” he corrects me softly.

  “Whatever.” I start to walk away.

  Archie clears his throat. “I hope you haven’t mentioned my—er—presence to your father.”

  I turn to him. “My father!” I laugh. “He’d think I was making up a story to get him to move out of the cottage. No one else seems to know that a ghost roams Merrymount Gardens.”

  “Really?” Archie sounds a bit disappointed to hear this.

  “Not even Aunt Mayda.” I stare at him, watching for his reaction.

  Archie sighs. “Don’t I know it. I’ve tried to make myself known to her countless times, but Mayda’s extremely practical. Not imaginative like her cousins, Perry and Steve, when they were young.”

  “Am I imaginative?” I ask. “Is that why I can see you and others can’t?”

  “You’re compassionate to your fellow human beings. Which is why I decided to make your acquaintance and to ask for your help. You’re my final chance to right a wrong.”

  I shiver. “That sounds real heavy, Archie. I hope you don’t expect me to avenge your death or have to duel with anyone.”

  He smiles, amused. “Certainly not.” The smile turns into a grimace. “No one did me in. The truth is, I died a foolish death.”

  I’ve no idea what he’s talking about, and I won’t ask, either. I cross my arms over my chest. “What exactly do you want me to do?”

  He clears his throat. “I’m afraid you’ll find my request for assistance rather unusual.”

  “I find this conversation unusual. Why do you worry about Mayda? She’s capable of taking care of herself.”

  “Vannie, where are you?” Robby’s plaintive cry comes from the front of the cottage.

  “You’d better go,” Archie advises. “We’ll talk another time.”

  “Only if you tell me what you want me to do, and why you’re so interested in Mayda.”

  “Vannie!”

  We watch Robby peer into my father’s car. In another minute he’s bound to see me.

  “Go for it, Archie,” I urge. Recklessly, I add, “If you can’t trust me, how do you expect me to help?”

  Robby sees me and comes running. Archie, I notice, is fading fast. So much for my powers of persuasion. But then I hear his answer, so soft, later I wonder if I imagined it.

  “Mayda’s my granddaughter. With your assistance I intend to make sure she lives happily ever after.”

  I stand still, too stunned to move. Nobody lives happily ever after. And Archie, who’s already dead, should know that better than anyone. Robby runs up to me and tugs at my arm.

  “Why are you standing out here talking to yourself?”

  I’m suddenly so happy to see him, I grab hold of his arms and swing him around. Robby giggles and asks me to do it again, which I do. Then I take his hand and we walk back toward the cottage.

  He turns to look behind us and shudders. “The woods are scary at night.”

  “Don’t worry. There’s no bogeyman or monsters lurking about.”

  “Theodore wouldn’t be afraid,” he says proudly.

  “I’m sure Theodore’s fine where he is right now.”

  Robby says nothing, but lets out a deep sigh.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The next morning, Tammy and I meet at our usual place in the hall between our two classrooms. Her lips and nose quiver with excitement as I tell her about my second encounter with Archie.

  “He sounds like the cat’s meow.”

  “Think goofy and you’ll be on target.”

  “I absolutely can’t wait to meet him,” she gushes.

  “I don’t know that you’ll be able to.”

  She gives me a sly smile. “I forgot, Vannie. You can see him because he expects big doings from you.”

  “Shut up, Tammy!” I warn her.

  “Shut up? In that case, I won’t say a word about this cool idea I just got.”

  “What idea?” I ask, curious in spite of myself.

  Tammy walks backwards and waves. “Tell you at lunch.”

  In the cafeteria, Tammy and I eat our sandwiches as quickly as we can without choking, then we hurry outside to talk where no one can hear us. We head for the bench beside the tennis courts, which is the farthest sixth graders are allowed to go.

  “What’s your idea?” I ask.

  “Let’s go to the library after school and do some research. They have an entire section devoted to local history.”

  “There must be something about Archie! Oh, Tammy!” I grab her arm. “Now why didn’t I think of that?”

  �
��That’s why you have me for a best friend,” Tammy says, her face a rosy red.

  “They must have old newspapers that carry the story of how he died.”

  “Natch. Call your dad and ask if you can come over after school. I have a piano lesson, but not till after dinner.”

  We start walking back to the building. “It should be okay since he has to pick up Robby at Kevin’s anyway.”

  I call Daddy on my cell phone. He says it’s okay for me to go home with Tammy, and he’ll come by for me around five fifteen. Tammy and I grab onto each other and jump up and down with joy.

  “Don’t worry, Vannie,” she tells me. “We’ll solve the mystery of Archie, the long-legged ghost.”

  *

  After school, Tammy and I have a snack at her house. Her three cats—Peter, Max, and Flossie—come into the kitchen and demand a snack, too. Tammy gives them some special treats, which they gobble up, then they disappear somewhere in the house. Tammy’s mom, Rebecca, comes home and tells us a few of the funny things her little second graders did during the day. We tell Rebecca that we’re going to the library. She offers us a lift, as she’s going out to run some errands, but we tell her we’d rather walk.

  “Good. You’ll get your daily exercise,” Rebecca says, her eyes going from Tammy’s waist to the box of cookies we’ve just finished off.

  “Mo-om,” Tammy says. “I only had a few, and they were small.”

  “Let’s go, Tam,” I say before they get into one of their diet arguments.

  We walk up the hill to the library, disputing the best way to gain access to the local history section. Tammy insists we tell the librarian we’re writing historical articles for school. My idea is to say that Daddy asked me to look something up about the history of Merrymount Gardens for a new brochure.

  It turns out we don’t have to make up a story at all, because Mrs. Ploughwright, the research librarian, is more than happy to help us.

  “If you’ll tell me what you’re interested in, I’ll find the materials for you,” she says as sweetly as can be. “All I ask is that you be careful handling them, as some of our documents date back to the 1800s.”

  Tammy and I smile at each other. This is easier than we’d expected.

  “We’d like to see everything you have about Merrymount Gardens,” I tell the librarian, “from a long time ago.”

  “How long ago?” Mrs. Ploughwright is busy opening a drawer in one of the metal cabinets.

  I start figuring out years on my fingers. “Between sixty and seventy years ago,” I say. Then add, for no reason I can think of, “Greystone was built in 1914, before the start of World War One.”

  “My, yes. That’s quite correct.” Mrs. Ploughwright beams at me as if I’ve recited the list of American presidents in their proper order.

  “Vanessa’s father’s the director of Merrymount Gardens,” Tammy says.

  The beam brightens. “Is that so? How very interesting.”

  I move closer to Tammy and pinch her arm as the librarian thumbs through folders in the drawer. I wasn’t planning on announcing who I was. Just in case.

  Just in case what? I start to babble. “Actually, my family and I are living at Merrymount Gardens, and so I kind of got interested in its history. Do you have anything about the family when it was first built?”

  “Let’s see.” Mrs. Ploughwright puts the folders back into the drawer. “I was going to show you pictures of how the house and gardens looked when they were first created, but I’ve something I think you’ll enjoy more.”

  I feel a tingle between my shoulder blades. Tammy’s lips quiver with excitement. Our eyes are glued to Mrs. Ploughwright as she sits down at the large desk and unlocks the deep bottom drawer.

  “I’ve three old family albums that Miss Shipley brought to the library when the trust took over the running of Merrymount Gardens. She thought the library would be the best place to keep them until a museum or archives room was set up at the estate.”

  My heart is beating so hard and furious, I’ve barely the breath to speak.

  “We’d love to look at the albums, if we may,” Tammy says for me.

  This time, what she says is so perfect, I want to throw my arms around her and hug her. Instead I ask Mrs. Ploughwright, “Where can we look through them?”

  “Why don’t you girls sit yourselves down at a table, and I’ll bring them over.”

  The only empty table is in the distant corner, which suits us just fine. Mrs. Ploughwright comes over to us a few minutes later, carrying three large albums in her arms.

  “Please handle these carefully, as they’re quite old. We’ve put the pages in plastic sleeves to protect the photographs. They might crumble if you were to touch them.”

  “Shall we bring them back to you when we’re done?” Tammy asks.

  “No, dear. Let me know when you’re finished and I’ll come and put them in their proper place. Oh,” she adds as she’s turning away, “and do remember to sign our Visitors’ Book.”

  My fingers tremble as I reach for the albums. “Let’s look at them in chronological order. They’re marked according to years: 1916-21, 1925-34, 1936-42.”

  “What happened to 1914 and ’15?” Tammy wonders. “And the other missing years?”

  I shrug. “Maybe they were too busy decorating the house and working on the gardens to take pictures.”

  Tammy giggles. “Or the dogs chewed up the photos.”

  “Or anything,” I say impatiently. “Let’s begin.”

  The pictures in the first album are a reddish-brown color. There are lots of outdoor photos of the house and gardens, and of people, of course, dressed in old-fashioned clothes. Someone’s been kind enough to make a list of who’s who in each photo. Naturally, most of them are of Mayda’s great-grandparents, Jonathan and Margaret Shipley, who had Greystone built after they moved here from England, and of Elizabeth as an infant.

  In the second book, Jonathan and Margaret’s hair has turned gray and they’ve put on some weight. Most of the photos are of a young Elizabeth—riding a horse, playing tennis, and smiling in group photos with other kids her age.

  By the third album, Elizabeth has turned into a beautiful young woman. There are many photos of formal dances, boating parties, and polo matches.

  “She led a fairy-tale life,” I muse. I think of Archie because that’s exactly what he wants for his granddaughter, Mayda.

  Tammy holds up the album. “Wow, look at that gorgeous gown! And get that tiara! I wonder if the stones are real.”

  “Forget clothes for a minute and concentrate on Archie!” I tell her.

  “I would, Vannie,” she complains, “but I’ve no idea what he looks like.”

  “Tall and skinny, with a long face,” I remind her.

  We’re halfway through the album when I spot him in a group picture. “There he is, lounging against a car! See? The one in tennis whites.”

  Tammy thrusts her head forward until her nose practically touches the picture. “Wow, he’s gorgeous! You didn’t tell me Archie was good-looking, Vannie.”

  I shrug my shoulders. “He’s so quirky, I never really noticed.”

  Tammy stares at me as if I’m an idiot. “How can you not have noticed?” she demands. “He looks like Len Wicket!”

  I look again. “He does a bit, around the eyes. Let’s see if he’s in any other photographs.”

  The rest of the photos are mostly of Archie and Elizabeth. There are pictures of Elizabeth in her wedding gown, and a formal picture of them both. Then come photos taken in Paris and in Switzerland.

  “Their honeymoon,” Tammy says. She lets out a deep sigh. “They were so much in love.”

  She’s right. In every picture they’re gazing at each other with love and adoration. After the honeymoon come several photos of an infant, then of the child taking his first steps.

  “Must be Mayda’s father,” I say.

  Tammy turns to the last page. “Here they are again. Elizabeth’s in a long satin gow
n and get that necklace! It looks like the crown jewels of England.”

  I stare at the picture. “And Archie’s in a tuxedo! Do you think that’s the day he died?”

  “Could be,” Tammy says. “Hey, where are you going?” she calls after me.

  “To tell Mrs. Ploughwright we want to check out some really old newspapers.”

  *

  Ten minutes later I’m zipping through microfiche. I have to scan pages and pages of a local weekly newspaper until I find what I’m after:

  TALENTED YOUNG ARCHITECT DIES IN FREAK ACCIDENT

  A tragic accident has taken the life of one of our most promising architects. Twenty-five-year-old Archibald Heatherton Shipley drowned last night on the grounds of his wife’s parents’ estate, Merrymount Gardens. Mr. Shipley was pursuing a thief who, only minutes earlier, had snatched his wife’s valuable new necklace. Doctors conclude that he tripped and struck his head, then slid unconscious into the water. Mr. Shipley, his wife, and their son, Christopher, were at Merrymount Gardens for the gala celebration of Christopher’s first birthday.

  I print out the newspaper article and hand it to Tammy. She makes low whimpering sounds as she reads.

  “Poor Archie,” she says when she’s done.

  “Poor Elizabeth and poor Christopher,” I add. “The end of happily ever after.”

  I put the film away and shut off the machine. Tammy goes to tell Mrs. Ploughwright that we’re finished.

  “I hope you’ve found all the information you were looking for,” she says as she gathers up the three photo albums.

  “We sure did,” Tammy says.

  “I’m glad,” Mrs. Ploughwright answers, but she sounds puzzled, probably wondering why we’re suddenly so gloomy.

  “It’s so sad,” Tammy comments as we walk back to her house.

  “I wonder what Archie meant when he said he died a foolish death.”

  “The article didn’t say, so you’ll have to ask him.”