by TJ Klune
“So you’re not investigating Arthur?”
Linus started to shake his head but stopped. He sighed. “It’s not Arthur, Sal. Or, at least it’s not just Arthur. It’s the orphanage as a whole. I know you’ve had … less than desirable experiences in the past, but I swear to you this is different.” He didn’t know if he believed his own words or not.
Sal eyed him warily. “And what happens if you decide to make us leave? Won’t you be the same, then?”
“I don’t know,” Linus said quietly. “I hope if there is a reason for such an action, you would be aware it.”
Sal was quiet.
Linus thought he had overstayed his welcome. He stepped away from the closet door. Calliope glared at him. He didn’t blame her. He didn’t think this had gone as well as he’d hoped. And while he’d told Sal earlier that they had all the time in the world, that wasn’t true. Time, as always, moved more quickly than expected. In two weeks, he’d have to make his recommendation as he left the island behind.
He gave Sal a wide berth (or as wide a berth as the room allowed for two large people). He smiled at him and was about to walk through the doorway when Sal said, “Could you help me?”
“Yes,” Linus said immediately. Then, “With what?”
Sal looked down at Calliope, who wasn’t quite done receiving attention, purring as he scratched her ears. His lips twitched again. He glanced up at Linus. “Moving my desk. I could probably do it on my own, but I don’t want to scratch the walls or floor in my room.”
Linus kept a neutral expression on his face. “If that’s what you want.”
Sal shrugged as if indifferent, but Linus was good at what he did. He saw through the facade.
Linus unbuttoned the sleeves of his shirt, rolling them up to his elbows. “I assume it fits through the closet doorway since you got it in there in the first place.”
Sal nodded. “Barely. We just have to be careful. Chauncey got too excited and chipped the corner of the desk. He felt really bad about it, but I told him it was okay. Sometimes, things get chipped and broken, but there’s still good in them.”
“Adds character, I think,” Linus said. “And allows for a reminder of a memory. Ready?”
Sal was. He walked into the closet first, pulling out the chair and setting the typewriter carefully on the seat. He pushed it back near the chest of drawers. He stood on one end of the desk and waited for Linus to reach the other. The desk was small, but old. Linus expected it to be heavier than it looked.
After they bent over and Sal counted to three, he was proven right. It was heavy, and Linus remembered his mother saying, Lift with your knees, Linus, honestly! The small twinge in his back reminded him he wasn’t getting any younger, and he almost grinned ruefully at how little effort Sal appeared to exert. He probably could have moved it out by himself.
They were careful as they carried the desk through the closet doorway. Linus could see the chip on the far corner of the desk courtesy of Chauncey, and he shuffled back slowly. The desk fit through the doorway with an inch to spare on either side.
“There,” Linus huffed and puffed. “Right there. In front of the window.”
They set it down carefully, avoiding pinching fingers. Linus groaned rather theatrically as he stood upright, hands going to the small of his back. He heard Sal chuckle, but he didn’t acknowledge it outwardly. He wanted to hear such a sound again.
Linus stepped back, eyeing their work critically. He put his hands on his hips and cocked his head. “It’s missing something.”
Sal frowned. “It is?”
“Yes.” He went back to the closet and pushed the chair out. He lifted the typewriter and set it in the middle of the desk in front of the window. He tucked the chair back underneath the desk. “There. Now it’s finished. Well? What do you think?”
Sal reached out and traced a finger along the keys almost lovingly. “It’s perfect.”
“I think so too. I expect your creativity to flourish even more with the muse through the window. Though, if it proves to be a distraction, we can always move it back to where it was. There’s nothing wrong with that, so long as you remember that there is a big, wide world out there.”
Sal looked at him. “Do you know about the woman? In the kitchen?”
There was an … incident. At one of his previous orphanages. He was struck by a woman who worked in the kitchens for trying to take an apple. He retaliated in the only way he knew how. She underwent the change the following week.
Linus trod carefully. “Yes.”
Sal nodded and stared back down at the typewriter. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t … I didn’t know that would happen.”
“I know that too.”
Sal’s chest hitched. “I haven’t done it since. And I won’t do it again. I promise.”
Linus put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, much like he’d seen Arthur do. He shouldn’t have done it, but for once, he didn’t care what the RULES AND REGULATIONS said. “I believe you.”
And though it trembled, Sal’s smile was warm and bright.
TWELVE
There was a knock at the door to the guest house later that night. Linus frowned and glanced up from his report to look at the clock. It was almost ten, and he was about to call it a night. He was nearly finished, but his eyes were crossing, and the last yawn had been jaw-cracking. He’d decided to finish tomorrow, before having to mail off the report the day after.
He stood from his chair. Calliope barely acknowledged him from her perch in the windowsill. She blinked slowly before curling her face back under her paws.
Linus scrubbed a hand over his tired face as he went to the door. He was thankful he hadn’t yet put on his pajamas. He didn’t think it was proper to greet a late-night guest in sleep clothes, unless said guest was staying the night.
He opened the door to find Arthur standing on the porch, peacoat pulled tightly around him. The nights were growing cooler, the wind off the sea carrying a bite to it. Arthur’s hair was ruffled on his head, and Linus wondered what it felt like.
“Good evening,” Arthur said quietly.
Linus nodded. “Arthur. Is something wrong?”
“Quite the opposite.”
“Oh? What is it—”
“Do you mind?” Arthur asked, nodding toward the house. “I’ve brought you something.”
Linus squinted. “You have? I didn’t ask for anything.”
“I know. You wouldn’t.”
Before Linus could even begin to ask what that meant, Arthur bent over and picked up a wooden box that lay at his feet on the porch. Linus took a step back, and Arthur entered the guest house.
Linus closed the door behind him as Arthur went into the living room. He glanced down at the report sitting in the chair, but didn’t appear to try and read what was written upon it. “Working late?”
“I am,” Linus said slowly. “Finishing up, in fact. I hope you didn’t come here to ask me what I’ve written. You know I can’t tell you. The reports will be made available to you upon completion of the investigation as outlined in—”
“I didn’t come here to ask about your reports.”
That threw Linus off-kilter. “You didn’t? Then why are you here?”
“As I’ve said, I brought you something. A gift. Here. Let me show you.” He set the box he carried down on the little table next to Linus’s chair. He lifted the lid with his graceful fingers.
Linus was intrigued. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been given a gift. Back at the office, birthday cards were passed around each year for the caseworkers, each signing their name with an inauthentic Best Wishes! for whoever’s birthday it was. The cards were cheap and impersonal, but Linus supposed it was the thought that counted. And aside from the holiday luncheon that Extremely Upper Management put on—which was no gift at all—Linus hadn’t received anything from anyone in a long time. His mother had long since passed, and even then, s
he’d only given him socks or a wool hat or trousers that she told him he would have to grow into because they were dear, and money didn’t grow on trees, honestly, Linus.
“What is it?” he asked, more eager than he would have expected. He coughed. “What I meant to say was, I don’t need anything from you.”
Arthur arched an eyebrow. “It’s not about need, Linus. That’s not what gift giving is for. It’s about the joy that someone is thinking of you.”
Linus felt his skin warm. “You were … thinking about me?”
“Constantly. Though I can’t claim credit for this. No, this was Lucy’s idea.”
“Oh my,” Linus breathed. “I don’t know if I want a dead animal or some such thing.”
Arthur chuckled as he looked down at the opened box. “That’s good. If you should have wanted a dead animal, I am certainly going about this the wrong way. I’m thrilled to say that this isn’t something that used to be alive, though it can sound like it is.”
Linus wasn’t sure if he wanted to see what was in the box, exactly. Arthur was blocking it with his thin frame, and while Linus couldn’t smell anything off-putting, or hear anything squeaking such as an overgrown rat with beady eyes, he was still hesitant. “Well, then. What is it?”
“Why don’t you come over here and see?”
Linus took a deep breath and walked slowly toward Arthur. He cursed that the man was so tall. He would have to stand right next to him in order to be able to see what was inside.
He chided himself. He doubted Arthur would allow Lucy to do anything untoward. At dinner, Lucy had been grinning at Linus the whole time, and though it had the same devilish tinge to it, Linus didn’t think it was nefarious. Granted, Lucy was literally the son of the Devil and had probably perfected innocence long ago.
He hoped it wouldn’t explode. He didn’t like explosions, especially if he had to stand so close to one.
But it wasn’t a bomb. It wasn’t a rat, or a dead, rotting carcass.
It was a vintage portable record player. Across the inside of the lid of the box was the word ZENITH, the Z in the shape of a lightning bolt.
Linus gasped. “Look at this! It’s wonderful. Why, I don’t think I’ve seen such a thing in a very long time, and even then, it was only through store windows! The Victrola I have at home is much too large. And I know the sound isn’t as grand from these little portables, but I’ve always wondered what it would be like to take music with you wherever you went. Like perhaps on a picnic or something.” He was babbling, and he didn’t know why. He closed his mouth with an audible snap of his teeth.
Arthur smiled. “Lucy hoped you would react as such. He wanted to be here to give it to you himself, but decided it would be best coming from me.”
Linus shook his head. “It’s thoughtful. Please tell him thank you for— No. I can do it myself tomorrow. First thing. At breakfast!” Then another thought struck him. “Oh, but I don’t have any records to play. I didn’t even think to bring any from home. And even if I had, I probably wouldn’t have run the risk. They’re flimsy, and I wouldn’t like to see them break.”
“Ah,” Arthur said. “Lucy thought of that too.” He pressed his thumb against a latch on the underside of the lid, and a little compartment opened. Inside was a blank white sleeve with a black record inside.
“What a marvel,” Linus said, itching to reach out and touch the box. “Where did this come from? It looks brand new.”
“I assure you it’s not. Quite old, actually. I’m sure you saw the many boxes in the attic when you went to see Theodore’s nest.”
He had. They were stacked off in the corners in the shadows. He’d wondered at them, but figured they were just evidence of a life of an old house. Material possessions tended to grow unabated when you least expected it. “I did.”
Arthur nodded. “It sat in a box near the back for the longest time. We haven’t had need for it, seeing as how we already have three record players in the house in use. Lucy, as he’s wont to do, discovered it while snooping. It was dusty and in need of a polish, but he was careful. Sal helped.” He looked down at it. “To be honest, we probably should have tested it before I brought it over. I’m not even sure if this old thing works.”
“And the record?”
Arthur shrugged. “Lucy wouldn’t let me see what it was. Said it was a surprise, but that he thought you would like it.”
That set Linus a little on edge, but less so than it would have when he first arrived on the island. “Well, I suppose we should find out if he’s right.”
Arthur took a step back. “Would you like to do the honors?”
“Of course.” He took Arthur’s place and took the sleeve from the compartment. He slid the record out carefully. It too was blank, with no picture in the center frame. He set the sleeve aside as he placed the record on the platter, the small stacking spindle sticking up in the middle. He flipped the switch on the side of the player and was delighted when the record began to spin, crackling quietly. “I think we’re in business,” he murmured.
“It would appear so,” Arthur replied.
He lowered the needle. The speakers crackled a little louder. And then—
A man began to sing, saying darling, you send me, I know you send me.
“Sam Cooke,” Linus whispered. He dropped his hand back to his side. “Oh. Oh. That’s wonderful.”
He looked up to find Arthur staring at him just as Sam sang about how he thought it was infatuation, but that it had lasted so long.
Linus took a step back.
Arthur smiled. “Can we sit?”
Linus nodded, suddenly unsure of himself, which wasn’t anything new. The room felt stuffy, and he was light-headed. He was probably just tired. It’d been a long day.
He picked his report off the chair before sitting down. He set it on the table next to the record player as Sam continued on woo-wooing. Arthur sat in the remaining chair. Their feet were so close, Linus noticed, that if he extended his leg a little, the toes of their shoes would touch.
“I heard the strangest thing tonight,” Arthur said.
Linus looked up at him, hoping Arthur couldn’t read his thoughts on his face. “What would that be?”
“I was telling the children good night. I start in order, you know. From one end of the hall to the other. Lucy is always last, given that his room is in mine. But Sal is second to last. And before I knocked on his door, I heard some new, happy sounds that I did not expect.”
Linus fidgeted in his seat. “I’m sure it’s normal. He is a teenage boy, after all. They like to … explore. So long as you remind him that—”
“Oh my, no,” Arthur said, fighting a smile. “No, it wasn’t that.”
Linus’s eyes bulged. “Oh dear. That’s not—I didn’t mean—good heavens, what on earth is wrong with me?”
Arthur covered an obvious laugh with a cough. “I’m pleased to hear you’re so open-minded.”
Linus was sure he was terribly red. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
“I can’t either, to be honest. Who knew Linus Baker could be so … you.”
“Yes, well, I would appreciate if it never left this house. Not to Zoe. And especially not to the children. Sal, of course, is old enough to understand such things, but I think it would destroy Chauncey’s innocence.” He frowned. “Not that I’m sure how he could ever do—does he even—oh no. No, no, no.”
Arthur snorted. “Lucy is younger than Chauncey. Don’t you think we should worry about his innocence too?”
Linus rolled his eyes. “We both know that isn’t a problem for him.”
“Too right. But, as I’m sure you’re now aware, I wasn’t speaking about … that.” The last word came out delightfully low, as if it curled around his tongue and teeth before exiting between his lips. Linus was instantly sweating. “I was talking about the clack of typewriter keys.”
Linus blinked. “Oh. That … makes sense, now that I think about it.”
“I bet it
does. It was surprising, but not because it existed at all, but because it was much louder than usual. Most nights, it’s faintly muffled because he’s writing in his closet, the door shut.”
Linus understood now. “I didn’t—if I overstepped, I apologize.”
Arthur held up a hand as he shook his head. “Not at all. It was … more than I could have hoped for. I like to think it means he’s healing. And you played a part in that.”
Linus looked down at his hands. “Oh, I don’t think that’s true. He merely needed—”
“He needed to hear it spoken aloud,” Arthur said. “And I can imagine it coming from no better person.”
Linus jerked his head up. “That’s certainly not true. It should have come from you.” He winced. “That wasn’t an admonishment. I meant that it wasn’t my place to suggest such things.”
Arthur cocked his head. “And why not?”
“Because I’m not—I shouldn’t interact. At least not on such a personal level.”
“It’s against your RULES AND REGULATIONS.”
Linus nodded as Sam Cooke gave way to The Penguins, singing about their Earth Angel. It caused his heart to stumble in his chest. “It is.”
“Why is that, do you think?”
“It’s what’s required of someone in my position. Because it allows me to remain impartial. Unbiased.”
Arthur shook his head. “These children aren’t animals. You aren’t on a safari with binoculars, watching them from a distance. How are you supposed to evaluate the children if you don’t even take the time to know them? They’re people, Linus. Even if some of them look different.”
Linus bristled. “I never suggested such a thing.”
Arthur sighed. “That—I apologize. That was … an oversimplification. I’ve dealt with prejudice for a long time. I have to remind myself that not everyone thinks that way. My point is you did something remarkable for a boy who came to us only used to derision. He listened to you, Linus. He learned from you, and it was a lesson he needed to be taught. I don’t think he could have asked for a better teacher in that regard.”