by Marina Cohen
Needles weren’t half as sharp as Kallie’s glare. She plunked herself beside him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Grandpa wrung his hands. Bits of dried dough crusted off. “Tell you what?”
“That she worked at the Dollar Basket.”
“Well, what was there to say?”
“I don’t know,” said Kallie. “But at least I’d know something about her.”
“Those weren’t good days. Your mother didn’t like working there. In fact, she hated it. Your father thought it would be good for her, though. To have some structure to her days. To help out financially.”
“He forced her?”
“Forced is such a harsh word, Kallie.”
“But she was unhappy.”
“It’s complicated. Life isn’t as neat and tidy as you’d like it to be. It’s not black and white. More like shades of gray.”
Grandpa Jess stood and went to the sink. He turned on the faucet and began washing his hands. “They were going to see a lawyer. In Plattsburgh.”
A lawyer, thought Kallie. It was all he needed to say. It could mean only one thing. Divorce. Her parents were going to divorce. And divorce usually meant a fight—a costly fight over property. Over money. Over children. But then her mother drowned. And a divorce was no longer necessary.
“I smell biscuits,” said Victor Jones, stepping into the kitchen. He put his arm around Kallie and gave her a squeeze. “Delicious, but loaded with fat.”
“Haven’t you heard?” said Kallie. “Fat is now the sixteenth food group.”
22
SHADES OF GRAY
The leaves had begun to turn, transforming the mountains from green to gold. In Vermont, the first sign of color change begins mid-September and runs through October, varying by elevation. It progresses from north to south, from higher to lower, until, with three-quarters of the land forest, it is as though the whole state has caught fire, exploding in red, orange, and yellow flames.
Kallie measured one-third cup of white paint and poured it into a plastic cup. She added just the right amount of black—not a drop more, not a drop less—and stirred.
She began painting the Styrofoam stalagmites and stalactites of her cave. With each layer, she added more black to the mixture until the whole interior was undulating shades of gray.
Before Kallie had received the puzzle box, her world had been in perfect order. In perfect balance. Everything had fit neatly into its own special space. Everything had been right or wrong. Black or white.
Kallie stared at the paint already crusting on her paintbrush. Nothing in her perfect world fit into its tidy compartment anymore. Her mother’s drowning. Anna. The box. Everything had overflowed and spilled out and mixed sloppily in her mind. Grandpa Jess was right. Kallie’s life was now murky shades of gray.
Anna placed Mr. Tumnus and the other objects inside the shoebox and set it proudly on a table at the back of the class. The project was finished.
Much to Kallie’s dismay, the other tables had been removed and the pillows had been dispersed about the room once again. Kallie grudgingly sat between Pole and Anna as Ms. Beausoleil picked up a stubby piece of chalk and etched one word on the blackboard.
Hero.
“It’s now your turn to write a story,” said Ms. Beausoleil. She wore a black lace catsuit under a full-length shawl belted in the center and trimmed in bluish-green peacock feathers. “A hero’s journey.”
Kallie cringed. “I can’t write … I’m not a writer.” She had meant to say it quietly, to Pole and Anna, but the words had come out a bit too loud.
“Nonsense, Kallie.” Ms. Beausoleil pounded her fist on a stack of old leather-bound books piled high on the ground beside her. The goose-fat-colored pages coughed dust with each assault. “Anyone can write, my dear. The trick is to write well.”
A feather entered her mouth. She blew it back out and began drawing a diagram on the board. It was a large circle divided into three parts, resembling a mathematical pie graph. It put Kallie slightly at ease.
The teacher labeled the three sections Act 1, 2, and 3. Then she divided each section into three more and gave those titles as well, things like Call to Action, Mentor, Temptation, and Dark Moment.
Kallie sighed. To her, the words may as well have been gibberish, but when Ms. Beausoleil began to show how the novel they had just read fit into the formula, she began to understand.
Formula, thought Kallie. Now there was a word she was comfortable with. But a narrative? She’d dodged that bullet over the years, figuring out ways around such assignments. She eyed the teacher, who grinned broadly at the class in her peacock outfit, and something told Kallie the woman would not be as easily dissuaded.
“You must begin with an interesting character,” said Ms. Beausoleil, “and you must know their deepest, darkest desires. What does your character want? What do they really desire?”
“To be left alone,” muttered Kallie.
“A fine desire. You can work with that,” said Ms. Beausoleil. “But you must have a solid plot. One that doesn’t meander. Or fizzle. Or crumble like brittle cheese.” She scrunched her hands in the air and then dusted them off.
Anna got out a piece of paper and a pen and began jotting down notes.
“You must put your heart into your story—your blood, sweat, and tears. Every character has bits and pieces of the writer in them to make them flesh and bone so they can walk off the page and live in the minds and hearts of readers.”
“Sounds painful,” said Pole.
“Oh, it is,” said Ms. Beausoleil, nodding fiercely. “Writing is very painful business, indeed. Not for the weak or fainthearted.”
“I’m writing about Champ,” said Anna proudly. She glanced at Kallie, then at Pole, and smiled.
“Lovely, dear,” said the teacher. “There are so many tired old tales. We could use a fresh one.”
“Champ is nothing more than a figment of people’s imagination,” said Kallie.
“He’s not,” insisted Anna. “He’s real.”
“He’s a tourist trap,” argued Kallie. “How could something that large elude capture for so long? Utter nonsense.”
“Yes, that’s it,” said Ms. Beausoleil. “I adore a good debate.”
Anna narrowed her eyes, determined. “What about frozen frogs?”
“Frozen frogs?” said Kallie. “What do frozen frogs have to do with anything?” Anna had a way of twisting a conversation so that the listener had to practically be an acrobat to keep up.
“I have a theory.”
“I love theories,” said Pole.
The whole class, including Kallie, listened intently as Anna explained.
“If the lake was formed from melting glaciers that carved it out as they moved along this area,” said Anna. “Then what if a prehistoric creature that had been frozen during the ice age ended up here—and then like a frozen frog it possessed the ability to rejuvenate itself once the temperature allowed. It thawed and has lived here ever since.” She raised her eyebrows and grinned victoriously.
Kallie rolled her eyes.
“A solid hypothesis,” said Pole. “Champ does resemble a plesiosaur.”
“Well said, Anna. But just be sure your story is thick and juicy,” said Ms. Beausoleil, “with plenty of fat for the readers to chew on. A story without meat is nothing but bone.”
A spidery shiver crawled up Kallie’s spine.
The final bell sounded, ending a most painful day. Kallie gathered her things and stood waiting for Grandpa Jess at their usual spot. Anna and Pole stood at the entrance passing out Support Periodic Table Day flyers.
Kallie observed them, checking her watch as each minute passed. She waited and waited, but Grandpa didn’t arrive.
23
THE COFFIN
Liah could endure the horror no longer. She sprang from behind the shrubs prepared to fight. She would battle the lot of them—the guards, the drunken guests, the Empress herself—but before she could make a
move, she met the bone carver’s gaze.
He startled at the sight of her, but his surprise quickly turned to fear. He shook his head, and, as always, Liah understood his gesture. Despite the rage and sorrow filling her insides, she knew then there was nothing she could do to help him. He had chosen his fate, and she could not alter it.
For a long while it seemed there was not enough air in the world to fill her lungs. She stood alone, small and unnoticed, gasping for breath. The sights and sounds and smells seemed to fade, and it was as though she were once again alone in the world.
Memories shifted like shadows in Liah’s mind. She had been very young when the bone carver had taken her in. She recalled little of that time. Though, what had never left her were the feelings—feelings of desperation and utter despair as she wandered the countryside, then feelings of safety and security when the bone carver discovered her. He had fed her, had given her shelter, had instructed her in the mystical skill of carving, and now, all she could do was stand idly by and watch him perish.
Suddenly, Liah’s eyes fell on the bone carver’s sack. She would not abandon that, too. While all attention was on the flaming cylinder, she crept toward it, gathered it up, and slipped back into the shadows. Clutching the cloth tightly to her chest, breathing in its familiar scent, she began to softly weep.
When at last the fire was extinguished, the Empress’s voice rang out. “Let the bones cool. Then place them in a box. Hang it for all to see. Their spirits shall know no rest.”
The cruel words startled Liah to her senses. She wiped the hot tears from her face as her anguish turned once again to anger. She would avenge her master. She would find a way to win back his bones. Only then could she perform the rituals to release his spirit and give him rest. As Liah waited, she devised a plan.
When a wooden box was placed before the Empress, Liah summoned her courage and stepped out from her hiding place once more. She walked calmly toward the Empress. Bowing low, she opened the sack and offered up the exquisite gifts.
Captivated by the unparalleled beauty of the carvings, the Empress requested a butterfly hairpin be brought to her. She held it gleaming in the waning light of dusk, its gossamer wings so light they might come alive and fly away.
“In exchange for these treasures, I ask only for the bones,” she said, pointing to the flaming cylinder.
“And what if I refuse?” said the Empress plainly. “I do not need your permission to keep these treasures. I offer payment out of kindness, not by command.”
“You may keep the carvings, it is true,” said Liah slyly. “But if you give me what I ask, I shall return with a most precious carving. One worthy of true greatness.”
The Empress gazed long and hard into Liah’s eyes. Liah thought it might be a pleasing face were it not for the severity in her eyes. Even her hair was pulled tightly off her face, stretching her skin to the limits of elasticity. Then the Empress smiled, but as she did, it was all the more frightening.
“Take the bones, if you so desire.”
Liah breathed a sigh of relief, but then the Empress added, “Only, do not disappoint me. If you fail to return, or if your gift is less pleasing than your promise, you and your entire village shall pay for the insult.”
Liah thought about all the women and children in her village. She wished them no harm. But she would not let the bone carver’s death go unchallenged. She accepted the Empress’s terms.
When at last the pyre had cooled, the guards began sifting through the ashes. But after a moment, they drew back, muttering excitedly among themselves. The Empress bade them explain.
“Something strange and unnatural is at work,” said one of the guards, “for in this ash is the bones of one man, not two. The other has disappeared.”
24
A MYSTERIOUS ILLNESS
A chilly gust of wind came out of nowhere, nearly knocking Kallie over. More than fifteen minutes had passed. The after-school crowd had dispersed. Only a few stragglers still milled about, waiting to be picked up.
Pole had left, and Anna waved to Kallie as she slung her backpack over her shoulder, tucked her chin against the wind, and headed up Main toward South Prospect.
Kallie checked her watch again. Seventeen minutes. It wasn’t at all like Grandpa to be late. She was growing more impatient and angry by the minute, but when her father’s old, reliable gray Malibu pulled up in front of the school, Kallie knew immediately something was wrong. Her father never left work early.
“Quickly,” he said, once the car came to a safe stop.
Kallie hopped into the front seat, yanked the door shut, and clicked in her seat belt. “What’s wrong? Where’s Grandpa Jess?”
Her father talked. She could see his lips moving. She heard the deep, familiar hum of his voice reverberate in her ears. Yet his words seemed to hover like a cloud in the air between them, refusing to sink into her brain. Only one word made its way through the haze.
Hospital.
“Is he…? Will he be…?” She barely choked out the words before hot tears spilled down her cheeks, dripping onto the satchel she clung to, leaking into the creases and ruts.
“I don’t know, honey,” said her father gravely. He was calm, but his hands gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turned pearly white. “Mrs. Shepherd saw him lying on the porch steps. She called an ambulance and then phoned me immediately.”
The Malibu made it to the hospital in no time at all. It was the first time Kallie had seen her father drive even slightly over the speed limit. That—plus the wind was at their back, giving them an extra nudge. They parked and raced side by side through the emergency doors.
The nurse at the desk gave Kallie’s father instructions as to where to locate Grandpa Jess. He turned to Kallie, held her shoulders firmly, and told her she had to stay in the waiting room until he assessed the situation. Kallie’s protests went unanswered as her father entered the large doors to the emergency-care unit, leaving her behind.
Minutes passed like hours as Kallie sat rigid in the cold hospital seats, eager for news. When her father finally reemerged from the metal doors, his expression was grave.
“He’s in intensive care.”
“H-he’s going to be all right, isn’t he?”
“The doctor isn’t sure,” said her father. “He’s checked him thoroughly but hasn’t determined exactly what’s wrong. Possibly a heart attack or stroke … but the doctor says it’s odd, because Grandpa has tested negative for both and his symptoms don’t seem to match any particular illness…”
Kallie scanned her memory files for information. A cerebral vascular accident—otherwise known as a stroke—occurred when poor blood flow resulted in the death of important brain cells. A heart attack was a blockage of blood flow to the heart. Both could be fatal.
“Can … Can I see him?” She fought back tears.
“The doctor has ordered several more tests to try to get to the bottom of things. When the tests are complete, we can both go in.”
“Why can’t they figure out what’s wrong?” she asked, but the answer was lying deep inside her, waiting for her consciousness to lift it to the surface.
When at last she was allowed in to see him, Kallie found Grandpa Jess lying on a stretcher surrounded by gray curtain walls. He was attached to several monitors that blipped and beeped intermittently. His eyes were closed.
Kallie’s tongue felt as heavy as stone when she tried to speak. There was so much she wanted to say. “Oh, Grandpa.”
At the sound of her voice, his eyes opened slightly. They were dull. Their usual spark was barely a flicker.
Kallie wanted to throw her arms around his neck and hug him tightly, but she was afraid she’d disturb the various wires and tubes connecting him to the machines. He looked like a tangled puppet. All she could do was slip her hand gently into his and squeeze.
She took a deep breath and frowned. “You were late,” she said firmly. Though his eyes closed again, she thought she saw his lips c
url into a faint smile.
Kallie and her father stayed at Grandpa Jess’s side until the nurse came and told them visiting hours were over long ago. She said there was nothing they could do for Grandpa Jess but let him rest. She reassured them she would take very good care of him.
“Please, Grandpa,” Kallie whispered in his ear before she left. “You need to get better. I need those recipes.”
Kallie’s stomach rumbled loudly in the car as they headed home. She hadn’t eaten anything since lunch. Her father offered to stop and pick up a burger—he never bought her fast food—but she declined. No matter what her stomach was saying, she couldn’t eat a bite.
It was very late when Kallie got into her pajamas. She was about to turn out the lights when she saw the box sitting on her desk. The waxing crescent moon was on the bottom, and the two stars were on top. It now looked like a sad face.
Kallie trembled as she reached for it. The next piece had been a coffin. “This is all my fault…”
“What’s all your fault?” her father said, entering the room and startling her. His gaze swung like a metronome between Kallie and the box.
“Grandpa Jess. It’s all my fault. You were right. I should never have opened this box.”
“I don’t see how opening the box has anything to do with Grandpa Jess.”
Like a crumbling dam that could no longer hold, Kallie’s words rushed out of her in a deluge of battered syllables and raw emotion. Her father’s eyes grew tighter and narrower as she spoke.
“Are you quite finished?” he snapped. “Honestly, Kallie. Get a hold of yourself. I’ve never known you to be so foolish. Grandpa Jess is sick. It has nothing to do with that box.”
Kallie swiped at her eyes. “I didn’t believe it at first, either … but now…” If only she had listened to Anna and done something about the box before it had gone this far.
“Nonsense.” His voice was growing in strength and velocity. His words crackled like fireworks. “Nothing that has happened has anything to do with that box. All it’s done is put irrational ideas into your head.”