Down the Rabbit Hole (17 page)

E
VERY FALL BEFORE THE
weather got too cold, the whole school ran the Turkey Trot, a two-mile course across the back fields, up the hill to the filtration plant, around Schoolhouse Pond where the town's water supply came from, and back. The Turkey Trot was supposed to be a race, but years ago—no one knew when, but long before Ingrid or Ty got to Ferrand Middle—it had become uncool to win or even to try very hard. The gym teachers were always psyched about the Turkey Trot, sprinting back and forth among the kids, hopping up and down, yelling, “Pick it up, pick it up,” and “C'mon—you're way faster than that.” But the kids,
even the fast ones like Ingrid, just loped along. To actually win and get handed the brass turkey trophy up on the auditorium stage was uncoolest of all. No surprise that Brucie Berman—one leg doing a funny sideways thing with every stride—was in the lead.

Near the back, Ingrid and Stacy trotted side by side. A cold, windy day, but way better than being inside the building, even kind of nice. Dead leaves crunched underfoot, and the sun, more silver than gold, shone between the bare tree branches.

“Hear you're doing a scene with Chloe Ferrand,” Stacy said.

“Uh-huh,” Ingrid said. “Got any more gum?”

Stacy handed her a stick. “What's that like?” she said. “Doing a scene with Chloe.”

“Heaven,” Ingrid said.

Stacy snapped her gum. “My dad's doing some work over at their house,” she said. “Did you know they've got an indoor pool?”

“Yeah.”

“Been in it?”

“No.”

“Mrs. Ferrand swims a mile every morning. Nude.”

“Your dad saw that?”

Stacy shook her head. “That's what my mom asked, first thing.” Ingrid could imagine that scene. Stacy's mom had a temper and was built like a truck. “He's supposed to be installing this chandelier over the pool,” Stacy said. “It comes from France or something, costs like the earth. Mrs. Ferrand told him not to come before nine because that's when she does the nudie thing.”

They ran in silence for a minute or so.

“Money doesn't buy happiness,” Stacy said.

“Please God let me test that out for myself,” Ingrid said.

“You're rich already,” Stacy said.

“Huh?”

“Living on Maple Lane,” said Stacy. “And that car your dad drives.”

Ingrid glanced at her oldest friend. Did Stacy really think she was rich? Maple Lane was nothing; Mr. Ferrand had made that clear. And the TT, a cool car, yes, but Ingrid remembered the fights between Mom and Dad about whether they could make the payments.

“Rich isn't having stuff,” Ingrid said. “It's having the kind of stuff that brings in money, twenty-four seven.”

“I guess you're right,” Stacy said. “The Ferrands own a bunch of houses in the Flats. My dad's hoping that if they like the chandelier job, they'll give him more work on those.”

“Houses in the Flats?” Ingrid said.

“My dad says one of them was Cracked-Up Katie's,” Stacy said.

Ingrid didn't get it. “They owned it together?”

“Huh?” said Stacy. “Cracked-Up Katie was renting, of course. Some people rent, princess.”

Ingrid gave her an elbow. Stacy gave her a harder one back. Ingrid gave her another, hardest of all. “Take that back,” said.

“I take it back,” Stacy said. “Your majesty.”

 

“Listen up,” said Coach Ringer at soccer practice that afternoon. “Better think again if you think Turkey Trot means I go easy today. No way, José. I know all about the trot. From way back. American kids are the fattest since the ancient Visigoths. Absolute fact. It's a disgrace. We fought wars. Big game coming up—Rocky Hill. Win, we make the play-offs. Lose, I run your tails from here to smithereens.” He blew his whistle. “Three laps.”

Sometimes Coach Ringer was like poetry.

The A team ran three laps around the soccer field above the hospital. Three fast laps: Assistant Coach Trimble always ran in front. Coach Ringer watched from the sidelines. Maybe you couldn't call him grossly obese, but he looked pretty lumpy in his Towne Hardware jacket. Sometimes while they ran laps, like now, he snuck a cigarette.

Coach Trimble running was a thing of beauty, and the amount of ground that flashed by with every stride—amazing. Ingrid caught up to her, churning just about her fastest.

“Coach Trimble?”

“Hi, Ingrid.”

“Is that true about the Visigoths? Being fat?”

Coach Trimble gazed straight ahead. “I didn't take much history,” she said.

“But they were vandals,” Ingrid said. “Pillaging and stuff. They got a lot of exercise.”

Coach Trimble didn't reply at first, then said, “Keep working on that left foot.” Then she stepped up the pace, not by making any visible effort, more just shifting gears and letting some motor inside do the work. She was as smooth as Mr. Ferrand's Mercedes. Ingrid couldn't stay with her, not close.

Halfway through practice they had a water break.
Coach Ringer came from the old school, didn't like water breaks, but league rules were strict on that. While he doled it out in paper cups, the smallest you could get, like for rinsing at the dentist, Ingrid saw Joey ride up on his bike.

Ingrid took her water, went over to him, five or ten yards from the team.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.” He was looking at her feet. “Those your soccer cleats?” he said.

Uh-oh. Out of the blue, or left field, or wherever totally unexpected things came from. Ingrid glanced down to confirm what she already knew, that she was wearing the slightly too-tight black ones. “Yeah,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady but aware she wasn't doing a good job. “Who else's would they be?”

Joey looked at her real funny. Something was very wrong. “How come you told my dad you were working on a project about littering on the bike path?”

“I was ditching,” Ingrid said. “You knew that.”

“But I thought you were ditching at home,” Joey said. “What were you up to, anyway?”

“Up to?” said Ingrid. “Riding around. I got bored.”
Lying to Joey made her feel bad. She even felt a little nausea in her stomach. This whole rickety thing was going to make her sick. Plus he was still looking at her funny, like he was seeing her in a new way, not good. It made Ingrid afraid and angry at the same time. “And what's any of this got to do with my cleats?”

“I don't know,” Joey said. She could see in his eyes that he knew something. “But—”

Coach Ringer blew his whistle.

“But what?” Ingrid said.

Coach Ringer blew it again, louder. “Any interest in being on this team, Ingrid?” he called.

She went back to practice.

“No ‘I' in ‘team,'” Coach Ringer said as she walked by.

“But there are two of them in Visigoth,” Ingrid said, a remark she regretted right away.

“Take a lap,” said Coach Ringer. “Make it two.”

Ingrid ran two laps. Practice went bad. She lost all control over the ball. Her legs got heavier and heavier. Ingrid looked around for Joey, but he was gone.

 

That night Grampy came to dinner. This hardly ever happened, but whenever it did, Mom served
the exact same meal—shrimp cocktail, steak with roast potatoes and a tomato-and-onion salad, and pecan pie for dessert—because that was Grampy's favorite. Ingrid's too.

“Freshen your drink, Pop?” Dad said.

“Don't mind if you do,” said Grampy. He always wore a tie when he came to dinner—even if it didn't go with his shirt, like the orange-and-green flannel one he had on now—and had his face shaved smooth and his thick snowy hair combed and wetted down.

Dad poured VO in Grampy's glass. Mom and Dad were drinking wine, Ty milk, and Ingrid Fresca.

“What's this?” Grampy said.

“Our new dog,” said Ingrid. “Nigel.”

“I knew a Nigel,” Grampy said.

“Who was he, Pop?” said Mom. Calling him Pop again, which she never did: Ingrid started to get an inkling of what this dinner might be about.

“Brit,” said Grampy. “Spring of forty-three.” They waited for more, but no more came. Grampy sliced his steak into bite-sized pieces and went after them one by one. Then he happened to see that Ty was watching him. “Better eat up, young fella,” he said. That meant he and Ty would be arm wrestling after dessert, a little ritual they had that Ty hated.
He never won. Ty started eating up.

Ingrid remembered something. “Hey, Grampy,” she said, “do you know Mr. Sidney?”

Grampy looked up, roast potato half mushed in his mouth. “Myron Sidney?”

“I don't know his first name. He drives the school bus and wears a hat that says
BATTLE OF THE CORAL SEA
.”

“That's Myron. What's he doing driving the school bus?”

“I think it's his job, Grampy.”

Grampy looked puzzled, and for a moment not his normal strong self, more like other guys his age.

“Do you get together with him?” Mom said.

Grampy's strength returned fast. “Why would I get together with Myron Sidney?”

“But weren't you old friends?” Ingrid said. “At Corregidor?”

“Has Myron been running his mouth?” Grampy said. “Nothing changes.”

Sometimes best to answer a question with a question. “What was Corregidor all about?” Ingrid said.

Grampy got a faraway look in his eyes, gone so fast you had to be watching like a hawk, and Ingrid was. She would have bet anything he was thinking
about that place beyond the point of fear.
Him or you.
Then he shook his head, had a big drink of his VO, and went back to eating.

 

After dessert—Grampy had seconds—came the arm wrestling. Grampy and Ty, his face already pink and they hadn't even started, sat at one corner of the table, their sleeves rolled up. Hey! Ty's forearm was just about as big as Grampy's. That was new and should have been a good thing, but Ingrid couldn't help thinking about the acne on Ty's back.

Dad got their elbows positioned fairly and said, “One, two, three, go.” Usually it took Grampy about fifteen seconds to win, but not this time. This time it went on and on, their faces purpling up, plus all these grunts and groans and bared teeth. Ty got Grampy's arm down, down, down, almost there, only two inches or so, but no more. Grampy's face got fierce. He panted. Mom opened her mouth to say something, but Dad made a little sign to shush her. Grampy's arm came up, inch by inch, back up to the top. They stayed like that for an unbearable amount of time. Ingrid saw a look in Ty's eye that said “I can beat him.” Then Ty's arm started going down. And when it did, it went down faster and faster. Boom.

“Whew,” said Grampy, slugging back the rest of his drink. Ty rolled down his sleeve, eyes on the floor. Grampy reached out, rumpled Ty's hair. “Last time we do that,” said Grampy.

Ty looked shocked. “You're not going to give me a chance to beat you?” he said.

“What sense would that make?” Grampy said. “From now on I'll take my chances with Ingrid.”

“What have you been smoking?” said Ingrid, glad, oh so glad, to be a girl.

 

Ingrid and Ty started cleaning up, Ingrid clearing the table, Ty loading the dishwasher. Mom and Dad stayed in the dining room with Grampy. Dad took a folder from his briefcase. As Ingrid went into the kitchen with a stack of dessert plates, Grampy reached for the VO bottle and refilled his glass. Then she heard him say, “What's this?”

“A little proposal we printed up,” Dad said. “For you to take a look at.”

“In your own good time, of course,” said Mom.

“Who is ‘we'?” Grampy said.

“A brand-new entity,” said Dad. “Still in the planning stages, depending on whether…just depending.”

“Entity?” said Grampy.

Ingrid went back into the dining room for the salad bowl. Mom and Dad sat on either side of Grampy, down at Dad's end of the table.

“FHL Development Company,” Dad said.

“
H
for Hill?” said Grampy.

“Yes,” Dad said, with an encouraging smile.

“And
F
?” said Grampy. “What's that
F
stand for?”

Ingrid paused at the other end of the table, salad bowl in hand. No one seemed to notice her.

“It's a partnership with Tim,” Dad said. “Carol knows the architect who did the Negresco condominiums in Old Saybrook.”

“Understated,” said Mom. “Unobtrusive.”

“Didn't they win some big award?” Dad said. “The thing is, Pop—”

“Who put that
F
right beside the
H
?” said Grampy.

Mom and Dad exchanged a glance behind Grampy's back. “We could change the order,” Mom said.

“Put Carol in the middle,” said Dad.

Grampy was gazing at the first page of the proposal. He hadn't even opened it. Ingrid could make out what looked like a watercolor of big white
buildings backed into a hillside with tennis courts and golf course down below. “Condos,” Grampy said.

“Nicer than almost any houses in Echo Falls,” said Dad.

“You want to put condos on my land.”

“For a price,” said Dad. “Enough so you won't have to worry about money anymore.”

“Who says I worry about money?” said Grampy.

“For God's sake, I do the taxes on the place,” Dad said, his voice rising. “If you're not worried about money, you damn well should—”

Mom interrupted, “What if you had a share, Pop?”

“A share?”

“In the partnership,” said Mom. “So you'd be selling to yourself, in a way.”

Mom was smart.

But it didn't do her much good, because Grampy said, “Partners with the Ferrands?”

“That's where the money comes from,” said Dad. “Tim's the only one who can get the bank to back something this big.”