Falling Stars (8 page)

she had gone mad and then, we all laughed so hard I
was sure, thick walls or not, we would bring the boys
back out to see what was happening.
No one came.
We said good night and I began to prepare for
my first night in a strange house, sleeping in a strange
bed,

After I washed and put on my nightgown, a brand-new one Mommy had bought me. I sat at my vanity table and brushed my hair, just as I always did. For most of my life, my Uncle Simon lived across from my room at home, above the barn in a makeshift apartment. Sometimes, he would sit at his window and watch and listen to me practice my violin before I went to bed. For him. I suppose my window resembled a television screen. When I was older. I realized I had to pull down my shades when I was dressing and undressing, of course. although I never saw or felt him looking at me in any lustful way. He was always so protective of me, doing my chores for me, especially if he thought Grandad had given me something to do that was too hard. It was almost as if I had a second father, or maybe an older brother watching over me, giving me a sense of security.

I surely could use him here. I thought, and then suddenly realized that my thoughts had gone to him because I had the strangest feeling I was being watched right now. I gazed in the mirror and shifted to the left a bit. My heart stopped and started. There was a shadow in the window behind me.. I was sure of it, because a moment later, it was gone.

For a long moment, my heart was pounding so hard. I didn't think my legs would support me. I rose slowly and, after taking a deep breath, walked to the window. My hands were clenched into small fists at my side. My stomach felt as tight as a drum.

Inching myself to the glass. I looked out at the fire escape. There was no one there.
Breathing with relief. I stepped back. Had it been a shadow cast by the moonlight and the clouds sliding across the inky night sky? I waited to see if there was any sign of anyone and then, satisfied, returned to my table, finished my hair, and went to bed.
After I turned out the lights. I listened keenly for the sounds in the house. Back home, I had long ago become acquainted with every moan in our pipes, every whistle of the wind through loose shingles or over a shutter. I had expected we would hear the city traffic, but we were so isolated on these grounds, there were no sounds of cars and trucks. How would I have known without having been here before, of course? Occasionally, the scream of police, ambulance, or fire sirens did find its way over the iron gates, up the grounds, and into my room, but it was so muffled, it sounded like something coming from someone's television set.
No, I thought, it was far quieter than I had anticipated. The house was so firm, so solid, almost as if it had to obey the rules of etiquette. too. Every groan or burp in the pipes had to be subdued. Respect for the inhabitants required silence, or at least keeping noises to little more than a rustle and a swish.
I concentrated. Was that someone whispering, or was that part of my ever-growing imagination?
My eves shifted toward the window again. The shadow had returned, resembling someone in a hood and a cape. I stared at it and waited. It's only the moon and the clouds, I told myself. I didn't move. I didn't breathe. After a while the shadow was gone again. The whispering ended. too. Darkness fell even thicker around the fire escape. Clouds had joined above like a curtain closing. The moon was shut away. Night had taken full control of the stage.
I closed my eyes.
For a while, despite my deep fatigue, sleep seemed impossible. I was simply overtired. nervous. I had underestimated how tiring and how much of an emotional strain the day had been for me. When sleep finally came, it was like a welcomed surprise, drifting in and washing over me, resembling another blanket.
But soon I tossed and turned, fretting in and out of shadows and tunnels, hearing voices, footsteps, and strange childlike singing.
I
woke once or twice but immediately fell back to sleep, and finally slept so well that when the sunlight opened my eyes again, it was early in the morning.
I quickly turned to my window. The sunshine glittered on the metal fire escape that had been the platform for the dance of those strange, dark shadows.
Surely what I had seen the night before. thought I had heard outside my door and windows, and my parade of distorted dreams were products of my overworked imagination.
I
thought.
Be happy, I told myself. Be hopeful. Be as proud as Mommy and Daddy were for me.
Today is truly the beginning of the rest of your life.

"She did it deliberately!" Howard exclaimed as soon as he came through the dining room door to have breakfast. "Just because I expressed some
unhappiness about it."

"Who did what?" I asked. The rest of us were long since there.
"Dracula's daughter gave yours truly the first work detail. And it's a week at a time!" he added.
"What do you actually have to do?" I asked.
Steven was sipping his coffee, his eyes barely open. Ice and Rose had bowls of cereal and Cinnamon had toast and jam. I was the only one eating eggs and a bagel.
"For one thing, clean off this table, so don't make any more mess than necessary, and then I have to set the table for dinner. Lunch is more or less staggered, depending on our personal schedules, so we're all individually responsible for that. and I'm to look after the parlor and be the last one up at night to be sure none of us has left it untidy. Next thing you know, I'll be running a vacuum cleaner."
"What of it? I have," Ice said.
"So have I," I said.
"Guilty." Cinnamon added, raising her hand.
"You're all used to that sort of menial labor. I'm not!"
"Why don't you put an ad in the newspaper and see if you can hire a part-time worker?" Steven asked facetiously.
Howard considered the suggestion. "You think they would let me do that?"
"Of course not." Cinnamon said. "You heard Lady Fairchild expound on Madame Senetsky's opinions of ostentatious wealth yesterday, didn't you?"
Howard stared quietly a moment and then nodded.
"Don't take any more dishes than you absolutely need," he advised Steven. Then he went to get himself breakfast, pausing at the door. "How did you all get down here before me anyway?" he asked, suddenly realizing.
"We spent less time in front of our vanity mirrors," Cinnamon said.
Howard smirked and went into the kitchen. He returned with a cup of coffee and a bagel with cream cheese. Grumbling to himself, he sat.
"How did y'all sleep?" Rose asked. The way she asked caught my attention. She was asking as if she was fishing for something.
"I was out before my head hit the pillow." Steven said.
"Okay," Ice said. Cinnamon said the same. Howard only grunted, so Rose waited for me.
"I suppose it was only my imagination," I began, "but I kept seeing a shadow on the fire escape, and for a while that kept me awake."
"A shadow?" Howard asked. "So? What are you, afraid of a shadow?"
"It seemed to be a shadow cast by someone there," I added. His sarcasm brought tears to my eyes.
Steven buttered a piece of toast vigorously, ignoring me, but the girls all stared. Rose the most intensely. After a beat she said, "Me, too."
"Me, too? What me too?" Howard crossexamined.
"A shadow, something, on my fire escape."
"Your room is on the same side as Honey's," Howard said. "Whatever cast her shadow might have cast yours. Big deal. Moonlight, clouds. What's the mystery?"
Neither Rose nor I replied. Then Cinnamon, who had continued staring my way, said. "There was no moonlight last night"
"Yes, there was."
I
said quickly. Cinnamon shook her head.
"If you don't believe me, check the newspaper."
"But I saw light, a glow..."
"So you saw starlight." Howard said. "Or the light from other rooms or the lights from the grounds below. I repeat, what's the big deal here?"
"Starlight, casting shadows?" Rose asked.
"It happens. What else is it, the ghost of Mr. Senetsky? I was just kidding about that. Save your imaginations for the stage," he advised. "Listen, it's getting late." He looked at Rose. "Can't you clean up after yourselves, please?"
"All right." Rose said. "'here's a proposal. Forget Ms. Fairchild's work roster. One for all and all for one. We all do the work duty all the time."
"Great," Howard said quickly.
"But that means all of us. Howard," Cinnamon emphasized. "When your duty is over, you don't disappear or leave it for anyone else. All!" she emphasized.
"Okay. okay. It's a good idea. Teamwork." She gazed at him skeptically.
"The moment one of us fails to do his or her share, we go back to the roster." Cinnamon
threatened, "Agreed?"
"Fine with me," Steven said. "However. I've got to protect my fingers, remember? I can't develop any calluses."
"Then stop licking the cream cheese off them," Ice snapped at him sharply.
All of us laughed.
We finished our breakfast and cleaned up. Then we left, breaking into our specialty classes. On the way out. Rose stepped up beside me.
"I didn't want to say anything about last night" she whispered. "but when you did..."
"What did you actually see?" I asked.
"Nothing more than you said," she replied. "I feel silly now. I'm not afraid of any shadows and I certainly don't believe in ghosts."
She continued walking quickly to catch up with Cinnamon and Howard, heading to their first drama session with Brock Marlowe, I stood there watching. Ice, who had overheard, looked at me, her eves full of confusion. Steven poked me.
"I don't think we can be a second late for Mr. Bergman. He doesn't look like the tolerant type."
I caught up with him quickly, glancing back at Ice, who turned and headed for her vocal lesson. Rose was already at the dance studio door.
I wasn't afraid of any shadow and I didn't believe in ghosts or spirits either, but there was something else here, something that was not described in our orientation booklets, something in the heart of this old house, like a secret of the heart long forgotten, trying to be remembered, calling to anyone who would listen.
Maybe I was the first who would,

Mr. Bergman began with a thorough evaluation of our musical abilities and knowledge. He had Steven play some pieces and then he had me play my violin. He listened and watched us and then gave us other pieces to try. Before our session ended, he had us play a duet.

When I first had my duet lessons with Chandler Maxwell at Mr. Wengrow"s, I thought Chandler was the most brilliant pianist I had ever heard, but I had to admit. Steven was truly exceptionally gifted. His fingers floated over the keys as if they each had a mind of their own, and when he played, all the impishness in his face, all of his lackadaisical expression disappeared. It was truly a wonder to watch his body metamorphose into someone so different from the carefree boy I was getting to know away from the piano. The instrument, the notes he played invaded his body and even his soul. When my Uncle. Peter had said the violin played me and not vice versa, he was really talking about someone like Steven. I thought.

Since he went ahead of me. I was sure Mr. Bergman would see how special he was and how ordinary I was, but he didn't react that way. He didn't change expression or make any negative comments, nor did his voice take on any displeasure when I played.

He kept us at it for nearly three hours, and when our session ended, he sat silently for a long moment. I glanced at Steven, who raised his eyebrows in a question mark. Was Mr. Bergman about to tell us we weren't good enough?