Absolutely Truly

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  With that he returned to his paper. Now I was dismissed.

  And still left with more questions than answers.

  CHAPTER 31

  “You’re not planning on wearing that to church, are you?” My mother frowned at Danny, who’d pulled his wrestling sweatshirt on over his freshly washed and pressed button-down shirt and tie.

  “Fine,” he said and stomped back upstairs to take it off.

  This happens to at least one of us every time we go to church. Well, except for Pippa, who adores dressing up. This morning she was wearing her favorite pink velvet dress, and she’d added her pink tutu plus a tiara for good measure.

  We don’t always make it to church during wrestling and swim season, but on the Sundays that we do, I’m required to wear girl clothes. This morning I had on a turtleneck sweater and a skirt, beneath which I’d added wool tights and my sheepskin-lined boots. No point freezing to death up in the steeple.

  Dad came downstairs last. He’d traded the Terminator for Ken, I noticed. Church was almost the only place he ever wore it.

  It was too cold to walk, plus we were late, so we all piled into the minivan and headed down the hill toward town. The Paul Revere bell was pealing its Sunday welcome as we pulled into the parking lot. I glanced up and watched it swinging in the steeple. If everything went according to plan, I’d be up there soon too.

  Entire books have been written about the Pumpkin Falls First Parish Church steeple, thanks to the Paul Revere bell. The bell is the main reason the church is featured on so many postcards at the General Store, but the other reason is because the steeple is ridiculously picturesque. It looks like a squaretiered wedding cake. The bottom “layer” is the actual bell tower, which has arched openings on all four sides. Above that is the clock tower, which sports a giant round black disk of a clock face with gilt numbers and hands. Both of these layers are decorated within an inch of their lives with ornamental railings and little pillars and curlicues and stuff. Perched on top of the whole thing is the spire, which looks like an upside-down ice-cream cone, and on top of that is the weather vane.

  Lots of churches have weather vanes. I’ve seen some decorated with roosters and others with angels, stars, fish, and doves. What does the Pumpkin Falls First Parish Church have on its weather vane? A pumpkin, of course.

  The early church leaders clearly had a sense of humor.

  I wondered if Nathaniel Daniel was one of the ones responsible for the choice. From his portrait, he didn’t look like all that much fun, but you never know about people, I guess.

  Glancing up, I could see a trio of pigeons perched on top of the brass pumpkin weather vane, their feathers fluffed up against the cold. I hoped that was a good omen.

  “See you afterward, kids,” my mother said, handing Pippa over to me as we went inside. “Behave yourselves.”

  My brothers and sisters and I trooped downstairs to the Sunday School, where I was relieved to see that all of my friends had made it.

  “Um, I sorta kinda had to tell my brother,” Jasmine whispered as I slid into the seat next to her.

  “You what?!” Aghast, I looked across the table at Scooter, who bared his braces at me in a wide grin.

  Jasmine raised her hand and asked the teacher if we had time to visit the ladies’ room before class started, then grabbed my arm and towed me down the hall.

  “He knew something was up,” she told me, when we were safely out of earshot. “He saw the five of us heading to the movie a couple of weeks ago, and then he overheard Cha Cha and me talking last night in my room. He wouldn’t stop bugging me about it.”

  “So? You didn’t have to tell him anything!” I was furious.

  “He said he’d bring my underwear to school and run it up the flagpole if I didn’t,” Jasmine said miserably.

  I sighed. “Brothers,” I said in disgust. I’d probably have caved too.

  This was not good. Not good at all. No way did I want Scooter Sanchez tagging along. He would totally wreck everything!

  I didn’t have time to deal with him right now, though. Right now, I had to put our plan into action.

  Sunday School couldn’t be over soon enough. When class finally finished, I bolted for the fellowship hall. My friends—and Scooter—were right behind me. I spotted Reverend Quinn chatting with Aunt True, and trotted over to join them.

  “You’ve met my niece, haven’t you?” my aunt said to the minister.

  “Certainly,” Reverend Quinn replied warmly. “How is Pumpkin Falls treating you these days, young Truly?”

  “Fine,” I replied. “Except for one thing.”

  “And what is that?”

  “I’ve never seen the Paul Revere bell.” I tried to look super disappointed.

  “We need to remedy that, don’t we?” said the minister, and Cha Cha gave me a discreet thumbs-up. Then he added, “Tours of the steeple are given every weekend throughout the warmer months.”

  “I have to wait until spring?” I didn’t have to fake my disappointment now.

  “Isn’t there a way we could see it before that?” said Cha Cha. “I’ve never been up to the steeple either.”

  Jasmine and Lucas and Calhoun all nodded in agreement.

  “You kids can’t be serious!” said Reverend Quinn. “I know for a fact that every student at Daniel Webster School is given a tour.”

  “Yeah, but that was way back in kindergarten!” Lucas trotted out his most pathetic expression.

  Scooter, who was clearly enjoying this exchange, flashed his braces at me again. I tried to ignore him.

  “Looks like you have a captive audience,” said Aunt True.

  “Really? You all want to see the bell? In this weather?” Reverend Quinn frowned. “It’s terribly cold up there—there’s no insulation in the steeple, and the bell tower itself is completely open to the elements.”

  “We’ll put our jackets on,” I told him. “Please?”

  He sighed. “I’ll get my coat.” He turned to my aunt. “Would you like to come along, True?”

  I held my breath. Having my aunt along was a complication I hadn’t counted on.

  “Tempting,” she said. “I haven’t been up there since high school. But I think I’ll wait for warmer weather.”

  We grabbed our jackets and followed Reverend Quinn upstairs. Lucas was careful to avoid his mother, which was smart of him. She’d hyperventilate if she heard he was planning on going up into the steeple.

  Our destination was a small vestibule just beyond the church’s cloakroom. Two ropes hung from the ceiling; one was floor-length, the other dangled just above our heads. Reverend Quinn grabbed the one above our heads and tugged on it, pulling down a set of fold-up stairs.

  “What’s the other rope for?” Scooter asked.

  “Ringing the bell,” the minister told him. “Don’t touch it.” He pulled his wool hat down over his ears and started to climb. “Follow me, and mind your step.”

  I made the mistake of being first in line after him.

  “I see London, I see France,” whispered Scooter as I headed up the ladder. “I see Truly’s gigantic under—”

  “Scooter! ” I whisper-hollered down at him. At least he couldn’t really see my underpants. Which are absolutely truly not gigantic. I’d never been so grateful in my life for my wool tights.

  A moment later I emerged in the middle of an atticlike room.

  “Step to the wall, please,” said Reverend Quinn. “It’s going to be a little crowded up here.”

  I did as he asked, and something crunched beneath my feet. Looking down, I spotted frozen mouse droppings.

  “Eew,” I said, just as Scooter’s head emerged through the opening in the floor.

  “What did I do now?” he protested, scrambling to his feet. He looked around. “Cool!”

  “Very,” quipped Reverend Quinn, the word emerging in a puff of frost. He hadn’t been kidding; it was freezing up here. “Let’s make this snappy,” he said as the rest of my friends joined us. �
�Built in 1803, the Pumpkin Falls Parish Church steeple is one of the finest examples of Georgian architecture in all of New England.”

  I could tell that this was a speech he’d given to a zillion tourists over the years.

  “Steeples served several purposes for early settlers,” he continued. “First and foremost, they generally housed a bell inside. Bells can ring a warning, mark the passing of hours, celebrate, and call the congregation to worship. By pointing heavenward, the steeple also serves as a reminder of loftier things.” The minister paused a moment and raised his eyes toward the ceiling for effect. Jasmine stifled a giggle.

  Reverend Quinn cleared his throat sheepishly, then checked his watch. “Five minutes is all I can really spare today, kids,” he said. “Let’s go on up, shall we?”

  We followed him up the next ladder and through a trapdoor in the ceiling, emerging this time into the bright sunshine. The view from the bell tower was amazing. To the north, I could see the covered bridge. To the east, the village green spread like a carpet—a white one at the moment—toward the college campus; to the south I could just make out the rooftops of the houses up the hill along Maple Street, including Gramps and Lola’s, and to the west were the lower slopes of Lovejoy Mountain, bristling with spruces and pines.

  “And there it is in all its glory—our famous Paul Revere bell,” said Reverend Quinn, directing our attention overhead.

  He pointed out the inscription engraved around the top of it, which read REVERE & SON BOSTON 1804, then swung into his canned speech once again. “Cast in Revere’s foundry in Boston’s North End, this bronze bell has graced our church for more than two hundred years. It weighs over half a ton—one thousand and twelve pounds, to be exact, including the clapper, which weighs thirty-six pounds. Note the headstock—that’s the wooden beam or crosspiece, as it’s called, from which the bell hangs. And wrapped around that wooden wheel is its pull-rope.”

  Scooter inspected it closely. “Is that the same rope we saw downstairs?”

  Reverend Quinn nodded. “The very same. Pulleys guide it down through the steeple. The rope turns the wheel, which swings the headstock and sets the bell in motion. Most people don’t know that it’s the bell that swings, hitting the clapper, rather than the other way around.”

  “How often do you ring it?” I asked, curious.

  “At one o’clock every afternoon, before the church service on Sunday, for weddings, and at noon on New Year’s Day and the Fourth of July.”

  “Why not every hour?” asked Jasmine.

  “Our bell is in semiretirement,” the minister said drily. “Would you want to work all day if you were over two hundred years old?”

  “I’ll bet it’s loud up here when the bell rings,” said Scooter, reaching up to touch it.

  “Extremely. You wouldn’t want to be in close quarters without earplugs.” Reverend Quinn glanced at his watch again. “Okay, kids, feel free to snap some pictures if you’d like—do NOT lean over the railings, young man”—he was talking to Scooter, of course—“and then we’ll head back down.”

  “The envelope is up in the next level, with the clock, right?” whispered Cha Cha as we moved away.

  I nodded and took a picture of her and Jasmine with my cell phone. “Almost time,” I told them, then zipped the phone back into my jacket pocket.

  Reverend Quinn started down the ladder. “Make it snappy, kids. I’ll wait for you below.”

  This was the chance we’d been waiting for.

  “Time to distract him,” I whispered to my classmates. “I’m going after the clue.”

  “How come you get to go?” asked Scooter.

  “Because that’s the plan,” I told him. “I know what we’re looking for.” I started toward the wooden slats that were nailed to the wall and served as a crude ladder.

  Scooter shouldered past me. “It’s an envelope, duh,” he said. “Jasmine told me. How hard can that be to find?”

  “Get down from there!” I ordered as he stepped up onto the first slat.

  “Dude, do what she says,” said Calhoun.

  I looked over at him, surprised. Then I remembered the pact we’d made. Romeo was holding up his end of the bargain.

  “Hurry up now, kids,” Reverend Quinn called to us, and Calhoun jerked his thumb at Scooter, who reluctantly hopped down.

  “All I need is five minutes,” I told my friends and started up for the clock tower as they disappeared through the trapdoor in the floor.

  CHAPTER 32

  The platform of the clock tower was just like the one below, covered with frozen mouse droppings—and also pigeon poo. Piles and piles of pigeon poo. I knew this because I’d just stepped into one of them.

  Grimacing, I scraped my boot on a clean spot on the floor and looked around. It was darker here than in the bell tower below; there were no arched openings in the walls to let in light. Enough leaked in from the open trapdoor in the floor that I could see fairly well, though.

  I could hear fairly well too, and what I heard was a shriek. It sounded like Jasmine. The distraction we’d planned was under way.

  I examined the back of the clock—nothing. No hidden compartments, nothing taped to it, just a bunch of gears whirring and clicking away. The rafters above were empty too. I checked the walls, the floor, every inch of the clock tower. No envelope.

  I stood there, puzzled. It had to be here! I was certain of it. The second hand ticked loudly in the background as I searched again. I felt like Gary Cooper in High Noon. Time was running out. Reverend Quinn was bound to notice my absence soon.

  I searched again, but the envelope wasn’t here. And I had been so certain that it would be!

  The scavenger hunt was over.

  Discouraged, I went back over to the ladder. As I placed my foot onto the top slat, I caught a glimpse of something flapping on top of the thick piece of wood below—the one from which the bell hung. What had Reverend Quinn called it? The headstock?

  I climbed down closer for a better look. Sure enough, something was stuck to the headstock’s flat surface, and a corner of whatever it was had come loose and was flapping in the chilly breeze. It looked like a length of duct tape. Peering closer, I could see that it had been painted over with white to match the rest of the wood. It was nearly invisible, except for the telltale flash of silvery gray beneath the paint on the loose piece.

  I stretched out an arm to see if I could reach it. No such luck. I climbed all the way down to the bell platform below and stretched up, but I couldn’t reach it from there, either. There was only one option. I’d have to climb back up, scooch my way out onto the rafter directly above the headstock, then see if I could lean down and reach it from there.

  It wasn’t easy. The rafter was frosted as thickly as one of Dr. Calhoun’s cupcakes with everything that was icky in the steeple. Dirt, mouse droppings, and probably two hundred years’ worth of pigeon poo.

  Pulling off my wool hat, I smacked it against the wood, sending up a cloud of dust and scattering frozen mouse droppings in every direction. Still gross, but better. I hiked my skirt up and straddled the rafter. As I inched forward, I heard something rip. I’d snagged my tights. So much for wearing my Sunday best—I was going to have some explaining to do when I got home.

  Using my hat as a makeshift pigeon-poo snowplow, I continued inching my way out until I was directly above the flapping edge of duct tape. Then I leaned forward until I was lying flat on my stomach. Holding tight to the rafter with one arm, I cautiously extended the other. My fingertips grazed the upcurled edge of tape. I strained to grab it, but it was still too far away.

  Frustrated, I sat up again. The only way I was going to be able to do this was if I swung my knees over the rafter and lowered myself down backward, the way I used to do on the jungle gym when I was Pippa’s age.

  There was no other choice. And if I wasn’t quick, Reverend Quinn would be back up here looking for me. Before I could talk myself out of it, over I went. And suddenly I was really, really
glad Scooter wasn’t up here. He’d be singing “I see London” at the top of his lungs, because my skirt had flipped completely over my head. I swatted it away from my face, tucking the front part into the waistband of my tights. A gust of frigid wind found the open gap between my turtleneck sweater and my back as I did so, and I choked back a screech.

  I dangled there upside down like a frozen bat, face-to-face with Paul Revere’s bell. I was close enough to touch the inscription with my nose if I’d wanted to. Which I absolutely truly did not.

  I also didn’t want to be spotted. People were starting to leave the church, and I was in full view of anyone who might happen to look up at the steeple from the street. I needed to hurry.

  I pulled myself halfway up and grabbed hold of the head-stock with one hand, then reached for the loose corner of duct tape with the other. Grasping it, I tugged. And tugged again, harder. R-i-i-i-i-i-p! The duct tape parted ways with the paint and the wood, and sure enough, there was something stuck to the underside. An envelope! Clutching it tightly, I hauled myself back up on top of the rafter.

  I lay there for a second or two, panting. Suddenly, the big wooden wheel below me began to move. I scrambled for safety as the bell began to sway back and forth. And a moment later, all I could think about was covering my ears.

  CHAPTER 33

  I was partially deaf until Tuesday, thanks to Scooter Sanchez.

  Ringing the bell was not part of our plan. Jasmine was the one who was supposed to create a diversion by pretending to fall off the ladder and sprain her ankle. In the end, though, everything worked out okay. In all the fuss over the unauthorized ringing, as Reverend Quinn hauled Scooter off by his ear, I was able to come down from the steeple without being spotted.

  “What happened to you?” asked Cha Cha, staring at me wide-eyed as I climbed down the ladder into the vestibule behind the coat room.

  “WHAT?” I hollered. I could see her lips moving, but no sound was coming from them. Or if it was, it was drowned out by the ringing in my ears.