Chasing Secrets (8 page)

N
o lights are on at the Sweeting house. Not even the rooster is out of bed yet. I creep down to the kitchen to put together a plate of fried potatoes from last night, two oranges, what's left of the bread, and a jar of water. With a full basket, I sneak halfway up the servants' stairs, far enough down that Maggy or Noah will not see me. Everybody in the world has to pee first thing in the morning. Noah will steal down to the second-floor bathroom, and I'll catch him. If Maggy comes down or Aunt Hortense comes up, I'll tell them…its backward day and I'm bringing Maggy her breakfast instead of the other way around.

I wait so long that I doze off on the stairs, waking with a start when I hear Juliet whinny. Up above I hear the
click-flap, click-flap
of Maggy's loose-soled boots. A door closes,
then opens. I sneak up the last few stairs to see what's happening.

Out the hall window, the sun is rising, a bright orange ball between fluffy gray clouds. Inside, it's just the same as it always is, except a white chamber pot is outside Maggy's door. Is it Noah's? Is Maggy emptying it? But Maggy doesn't know about Noah.

Maggy must put hers outside her door while she gets dressed, and then I'm betting Noah pours his into hers.

I try to imagine what it's like to have to be so careful that you can't smack your lips, talk in your sleep, or hop out of bed. No coughing, laughing, or stepping on a creaky board. You can't breathe too loudly, open the window, or pee too much.

I decide not to leave the food now. I should wait until Maggy comes down first. I'm carrying the basket down the stairs when I trip on the last step and fall flat on my face.

Before I can get up, Billy appears, his hair uncombed, his chin unshaved.

He surveys the spilled potatoes, watches as I chase after the orange that rolls across the floor. “What are you doing?”

“It's backward day. I was bringing Maggy breakfast.”

“Didn't she want it?”

“Oh. Um. She ate some of it already,” I say, cleaning up the mess, throwing it all haphazardly back in the basket.

Billy's left shoulder is wrapped in a towel, held tight with his right hand.

“What happened?” I ask.

He unwraps the towel. His shoulder is badly bruised, and there's crusty brown blood making it hard to see the wound.

I reach out, but he steps back. “How'd you do it?”

“Just woke up this way.” He winks with his good eye.

I survey his clothes. He hasn't been to bed yet.

“Let's get it cleaned up.”

Billy follows me into my room and sits on my bed. I set the basket down on my dresser doily, pour water from the pitcher onto a towel, and gently pat the dried blood away. After the cleaning, it doesn't look so bad. Just one snaggly wound line and some bruising and swelling.

“Needs stitches,” I observe. I've never done sutures by myself. I bet I could, though.

“I'll do it,” Billy says.

“On yourself?”

“Sure. Could you get the suture kit?”

I run down to get the kit, along with ice, a clean rag, towels, and a bandage roll. Jing stacks the clean rolls in a tin box. I never realized just how much Jing does for us, until now. Does he know how much we miss him?

“Thanks,” Billy says when I bring the supplies back to my room. He lays a towel on the bed. I watch him clean the wound area with a rag. He ices the skin around the cut and then threads the suture needle. He takes a deep breath, his needle hand wavering, then sticks it into the skin and pulls through.

I can't watch this anymore. I sit down next to him on my bed and take the needle from him. “Can you cough?”

He nods. He's seen Papa do this trick as many times as I have. A cough distracts a patient from the pain.

“On the count of three. One, two, three.” He coughs, and I stick the needle in.

I pull the thread through and tie it off. “How was that?”

“Not bad.”

He breathes in, I count, he coughs, and I stick the needle in. I'm glad he needs only five stitches. When I'm done, he takes the thread from me, cuts it, splits it in half, and ties it off—all with one hand.

He could be a doctor if he wanted to.

“Do you want me to bandage it?” I ask.

He nods, and I begin to wind Jing's bandage around the stitches.

“Not so tight,” he whispers.

I loosen the wrap.

When I'm done, he shoots me one of his glittering Billy smiles, and I hope, hope, hope the old Billy is back.

Gently, I inspect his black eye. It's healing nicely. “Billy? Why are you so angry?”

“Why are you sneaking around the third floor?”

I swallow hard. “I'm not.” I try to keep my expression neutral.

“Okay, then,” he whispers. “I'm not angry, and you're not hiding something on the third floor.”

“I'm not hiding anything.”

“Uncle Karl thinks you are.”

My stomach drops. “He does?”

Billy nods. “There's a cat with kittens up there, right?” He stands up, ready to leave.

“Right.”

Billy laughs. “Orange Tom has been busy.”

I nod too enthusiastically.

“Everybody has secrets…even Orange Tom.”

“Papa doesn't believe in secrets,” I say.

“Papa is a good man.”

“Why are you so mad at him all the time, then?”

Billy shrugs. “He expects too much. I'm not like him.”

“I'm not like him, either.”

“You're more like him than I am. I'm like Mama. She liked to have fun. With Papa you have to do the right thing every minute of every day. He never lets up.”

After Billy leaves, I wait until Maggy comes down. Then I put the food out. Noah will get it before Maggy goes back up to her room. But even if he doesn't, I've already explained that this is backward day. I'll say I left the food for her. It's worth the risk. Noah has to eat.

The Sweetings' stable boy, Ho, drives me to school, but drops me off in the wrong place and I have to go back around. Jing always knows the right way to do everything. Strange how you assume everybody does, and then you realize, no, it's just Jing.

By the time I get there, Gemma is sitting with Hattie like always. If I go back to my old table, everything will be the way it always has been. I'll never have to worry that I've said the wrong thing or that Gemma likes Hattie better than me. My feet walk me back to my old spot. I am a big chicken.

“Lizzie!” Gemma hops over, not bothering with her crutches, and plunks down in the chair beside me. Hattie does an arabesque and then slides into the seat on my other side.

“We're going to Ocean Beach after school. Can you come?” Gemma asks.

I open my mouth to say no. I have other things to do.

“Pretty please.” She puts her hands together like she's praying. The other girls watch me, not sure why Gemma's acting this way.

“You'll ride with me,” Gemma announces, as if I've agreed. “We'll pick you up at three.”

How will I spend the whole afternoon with them? What will we talk about? I can't do this, but my head is nodding yes and my mouth is saying “Thank you.”

When I get home, I head for the Sweeting house to find Uncle Karl. It's been three days. He must have found out something about Jing by now. I can't tell Noah there's no news again.

Uncle Karl is out, but Aunt Hortense is here working her arithmometer.

She looks up from the brown box. “You need something?”

“Has Uncle Karl found Jing?”

“Not that I know of. But, honey, don't you think Jing would have gotten word to us if he were stuck in the quarantine?”

“How could he? They won't let anyone out.”

“Jing is a resourceful man. He'd have found a way. I'm just wondering if he got another job.”

“Another job? Not Jing!”

“It happens,” Aunt Hortense says.

“You don't want him to come back. You think he's infectious.”

“Of course I want Jing back.”

I watch her as she flips the page in the ledger.

“Is it okay if I go to Ocean Beach this afternoon? The girls from Miss Barstow's are all going. Gemma Trotter's papa is driving us in their horseless carriage.”

Aunt Hortense looks up in surprise. A smiles sneaks across her lips. “That would be fine. Have fun, Elizabeth.”

M
r. Trotter beams as I climb into his motorcar. He wipes down the dust that accumulated on his drive to my house. Motorcars are stinky, slow, and unreliable. Horses will get you where you want to go, safely and on time. They won't run you into a brick wall the way a brainless hunk of metal will.

I sit in the back between Gemma and her twin brother, Gus. Gus has the same red-blond hair as Gemma, but he's tall and thin, with a prominent Adam's apple. I can't help grinning. Gemma chose me to drive with! Hattie isn't even here. Gemma chatters the whole way there, but I can hardly hear over the racket of the motorcar.

At the Cliff House, the big restaurant above the beach, Mr. Trotter jumps out to check the tires, and we pile out.

“Gus?” Mr. Trotter stands up, one eye still on the tire. “I thought you were coming with me?”

Gus's eyes are glued to his bootlaces. He blushes a splotchy red.

Mr. Trotter looks from Gus to me, then to Gus again. “Look after the girls, would you, Son? Meet me at the front entrance at half past four.”

Gemma is so excited, she races on her crutches. “Wait until you see this! Just wait!” When she gets to the stairs, she places her crutches cautiously on each step, then hops down.

Gus follows, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

Down on the boardwalk, we walk by match peddlers, bootblacks, singing newsboys, and the rows of cages of Johnnie-the-Birdman. Johnnie-the-Birdman has singing birds and a canary that pulls a tiny cannon string, which makes a popgun sound. Another bird pretends to fall over dead. Gus and I laugh, but Gemma pulls us along. She has something else in mind.

The wind whips my hat, my boots sink into the sand, the Cliff House band
oom-pah-pah
s behind us as a purse-size dog chases a rat under the boardwalk. Gemma stays on the wooden walkway, as far from the rat as possible. Rat or no rat, she can't manage sand with her crutches.

Up ahead, a small crowd forms around a tall man with dark hair and a long nose, who is standing on a makeshift stage. Hattie and a few of the other girls from Miss Barstow's stand near the front.

astral dog, the sign says, between pictures of celestial planets and shooting stars.

“He's here!” Gemma hops on her one good foot.

The man on the stage is wearing a purple velvet suit, a blue plaid vest, and shiny pointy-toed blue shoes. An ill-fitted bowler hat is perched on his head. “Come see the world's only matchmaking canine,” he calls.

Astral Dog is a small brown-and-white terrier dressed in a blue cape and a blue turban with cutouts for his small furry folded-over ears.

“If your true love is among us, Astral Dog will find him.” The little dog dances on his hind legs. “He, and only he, will recognize your future betrothed.

“But sometimes, sadly, your true love is not here.” Astral Dog's head sinks low, his tail goes down between his legs, his dog shoulders slump.

“If you are not lonely—if you have never been lonely—walk on by, sir. Walk on by.” Astral Dog jumps off the stage to work the crowd, standing on his hind legs, his turban held in place with a ribbon strap. The velvet man follows behind, collecting nickels.

Gemma's eyes are on a boy with a thick blond thatch of hair, blue eyes, and big white teeth.

Hattie hurries over to where we stand on the boardwalk. “Spencer,” Hattie whispers to me as the boy drops his nickel into the velvet man's hat.

Gemma grabs my arm. “We have to get tickets,” she whispers.

“I already have,” Hattie says, and does a pirouette.

“You go ahead,” I tell Gemma. They can get tickets. I'll just watch.

“But more often than not, lonely people are brought together and two hearts become one.” Astral Dog and the velvet man return to the stage. He brings his arms together, forming a heart with his hands, and I slink back into the crowd away from Hattie and Gemma.

The dog sits up, one ear cocked to the sky. “If you wish to meet your soul's match, your heart's companion, it costs but a nickel. Think of it….A nickel, little lady, can alter the course of your entire life.”

Astral Dog jumps down and begins to dance in front of Gemma Trotter.

Gemma's cheeks flush. She unties a corner of her hankie and takes out two nickels. “For us.” She looks around, then points me out to the velvet man.

“Gemma!” I cry.

Too late. The nickels are in the hat and the man has moved on. “The list of happy couples, matches divined by Astral Dog.” He unfurls a long scroll of names in wildly intricate handwriting.

Gemma motions for me to come back. I'm standing next to her now. “Don't you want to dance?” she whispers.

I think I'm going to be sick.

“How are
you
going to dance?” I whisper. I'm worried about Gemma, but I'm more worried about me. Everyone will see. Hattie will make fun of me. Gemma won't want to be friends after that.

“I'll be fine,” Gemma says.

More people crowd forward. Even the balloon man offers up a nickel, balloons dipping and bobbing as he digs it
out. The velvet man's hat clinks with coins. “Yes, the time has come, ladies and gentleman. The celestial bodies are in alignment.”

With a dramatic flourish, the velvet man produces a tiny dog-size desk and a mini crystal ball from a large velvet bag. He sets the ball on the desk and places the dog's red throne front center of the stage.

Astral Dog hops onto his throne to peer at the crystal ball, and the audience cheers, thrilled the show is beginning.

Having seen the match in the crystal ball, Astral Dog winds his way among us, sniffing our boots. He stops in front of a lady with a hat the size of a small house, but when she offers the dog her ticket, he moves on without taking it and heads straight for Gemma.

“What is your name, please?” the velvet man asks.

“But I don't want to be first!”

“The acts of providence are beyond our control.”

“Gemma Trotter,” she whispers.

“Gem-ma! Gem-ma!” Hattie and the other girls clap and chant. The whole crowd is calling.

Gemma screws up her face like she's swallowing bad medicine. She takes a big brave breath, opens her eyes, and offers her ticket to Astral Dog. The little dog takes it delicately between his teeth, and then follows the velvet man back to the desk, watching the man as he describes the difficult process of divining celestial matches. Then the man and the dog walk up and down the line of boys with tickets in their hands.

When Astral Dog reaches Spencer, the dog sits, cocks his head, and waits for Spencer to take the ticket.

Aha! Gemma's secret looks in the direction of Spencer have not gone unnoticed.

The velvet man plays his harmonica, but Spencer doesn't take Gemma's hand.

“He don't know what to do,” someone shouts.

“Dance around her,” the balloon man suggests.

“Take her hand.”

“Go on, now. Just dance!” The calls come from all around.

But Spencer stands, as stupid as a hitching post.

The crowd begins to murmur. Nobody likes this. Finally the velvet man signals the dog, who does a dance around Gemma. When the harmonica stops, Spencer can't get off the stage fast enough.

Gemma's eyes fill up. She bites her lip and stares at her boots.

I leap onto the stage to give Gemma her crutches, but just as I do, Astral Dog turns to me, his tail wagging so hard, it drags his bottom with it.

“Astral Dog has found his next happy couple.” The velvet man is eager to move on. No one will pay for more tickets after a match like Gemma and Spencer's.

“Lizzie.” Gemma blinks back her tears and grabs my hand. “That's you.”

My face flushes. I'm too tall for the boys. My feet are larger than theirs are.

“But, Gemma,” I whisper. “I can't dance.”

Gus glances at me. Gemma frowns. “Don't be silly.” She snatches my ticket and offers it to Astral Dog—who chomps it happily, then works his way through the paying
customers and stops in front of Gus. Gus steals a look in my direction and then motions to the velvet man.

The two confer in whispers, and then the velvet man's head pops up. “Sadly,” he says, “the dance cannot occur due to unforeseen circumstances.” The crowd begins to boo, but the velvet man cries, “And yet the match remains strong.” Gus bows to me, saluting with his hat. I try to curtsy as Gemma claps.

Gus's manner is polite and kind, and the crowd's boos turn to whistles and claps. Astral Dog does his dance, and the velvet man moves on to the next match.

Gemma points her crutch at her brother. “What was that about?”

Gus's eyes find mine, then dart away. “I didn't feel like dancing, and neither did she,” he mutters, pink all the way down his long neck.

We walk back to the Cliff House, where men in straw boater hats are drinking and laughing. While we're waiting for Mr. Trotter, a lady dressed in pink bursts out the door of the restaurant, followed by a small sour man. Her face is flushed. She fans herself wildly. “Air. A little fresh air and I'll be fine.” She tries to smile. Then suddenly she rushes over to a potted palm and throws up.

Stomach flu? Food poisoning? An allergic reaction? If only Papa were here. He'd know what to do. I'm trying to think how to help, when Mr. Trotter comes out. He takes in the scene with his quick eyes. “Let's get out of here,” he barks.