“Oh, dear,” said Sylvia Breen, cast as the witch but
in real life assistant head teller at Central State Savings and Loan. “I’m no good at accents. No good at all.”

“You see the problem, Brucie,” Jill said.

“Nein,”
said Brucie.

“Either everybody does a German accent or nobody,” she said.

“Completely hopeless,” said Mrs. Breen.

“So we’re gonna take a vote?” Brucie said.

Ingrid Levin-Hill, sitting on a stool beside Mrs. Breen, script in her hand and all Gretel’s lines underlined in red, saw that Brucie’s right leg was doing that twitchy thing. Ingrid loved being in the Prescott Players, loved this beautiful little theater in Prescott Hall, loved everything about putting on plays—especially working with Jill. Jill was a real actress: She’d been in a Hollywood movie,
Tongue and Groove
, where she’d said, “Make it a double,” to the Eugene Levy character with this wicked look in her eye, best moment in the movie, in Ingrid’s opinion. She’d watched the video many times—the only way anyone had ever seen the movie, since there’d been no actual theatrical release. Working with Jill was a privilege.

But working with Brucie? Ingrid had known
Brucie most of her life. They had the very same birthday, a disturbing fact. She remembered Brucie on the playground, one of those kids—the only one, in her experience—who never tired of making himself dizzy. Now Brucie was the eighth-grade class clown at Ferrand Middle, taken seriously by no one. Until recently: about a month before, in fact, when his Xmas Revue performance of the wizard, in the scene where Oz is revealed to be a fraud, brought down the house—even though it wasn’t supposed to be funny, and in rehearsal Brucie had missed every cue and botched his lines. But something had happened in the live performance, something that had prompted Mr. Samuels, editor and publisher of the Echo Falls
Echo
, to write in his “Arts, Entertainment, and Things to Do” column: “Do not miss the hilarious youngster Bruce Berman as the wizard like you’ve never seen him.” Brucie carried the clipping in his pocket.

“I make a motion,” he said, “zat ve do German accents.”

The cast—Ingrid; Mrs. Breen; Meredith O’Malley (playing the woodcutter’s wife), who looked a bit like Marilyn Monroe if Marilyn had reached middle age and let herself go; and the woodcutter, Mr. Santos,
of Santos Texaco, who did a great wiseguy voice—all waited for Jill’s reaction.

“Who vill second ze motion?” said Brucie.

Jill turned to him. “Know what I’m afraid of, Brucie?” she said.

“Grizzly bears?” said Brucie.

Jill blinked, a single blink, long and slow. Ingrid had never seen her do that before; for just a second, Jill didn’t seem to be enjoying herself. “I’m afraid,” she said, “of any additional little touch that might tip us into parody.”

“Huh?” said Brucie.

“Parody,” said Jill. “Like
Monty Python and the Holy Grail
.”

“Monty Python?” said Brucie. “Three thumbs up.” He got off his stool, pranced around the stage, making clip-clop sounds and banging imaginary coconuts together. “Python rules.” Ingrid’s best friend, Stacy, would have smacked him; Ingrid herself came close.

“Siddown,” said Mr. Santos.

Brucie skidded to a stop and sat.

“Decisions like this always come back to understanding what the story is about,” said Jill.

Silence.

“These two kids get kicked out of the house,” said Mr. Santos.

“And meet up with a witch who lures them with a gingerbread house,” said Meredith O’Malley.

“Don’t forget the bread crumbs,” said Mrs. Breen.

“You’re giving me the plot,” Jill said. “But what’s it about? That’s the root of everything we’re going to do with this play.” Jill was back to normal. She had a lovely, expressive face; even under the dim houselights it was shining.

“Kids on their own,” Ingrid said.

Jill nodded. “Kids on their own,” she said. “Yes—and deep in a dark and dangerous place.”

“Ooo,” said Meredith, in her breathy voice. “I just got a shiver.”

“So—vote or no vote?” said Brucie.

Ingrid stood alone outside Prescott Hall—a huge old mansion with lots of towers and gargoyles, now mostly hidden by scaffolding. She waited for her ride. Nothing unusual about that: Mom and Dad had busy lives, were often late. Meanwhile a gray squirrel was running through the snow, a fast squirrel that kicked up tiny white puffs. Hey—it didn’t
really run, more like bounded along, the hind paws landing first. How come she’d never noticed that before? Like Sherlock Holmes, her favorite fictional character by far, Ingrid made a habit of observing small details. She took a close look at its tracks. Most were blurred because of how fast it had been going, but she found one clear set—the hind paws, landing first, had five toes; the front paws, actually landing behind, only four. People had the same number of fingers and toes, so why would—

Beep.

She turned, saw Dad’s TT parked in the circular drive behind her. The window slid down. “Ingrid,” Dad called, “I honked three times.”

Ingrid got in the car. It smelled of Dad’s after-shave—a nice smell.

“You really didn’t hear me?” he said.

“Sorry, Dad.”

“Got your head in the clouds these days,” he said.

And you’ve been crabby for months.
But Ingrid didn’t say it. Dad worked hard—he was vice president at the Ferrand Group, and Ingrid was starting to understand that Mr. Ferrand was a pretty demanding boss. In good light now, on days like this, for example, she could see tiny lines at the corners of Dad’s eyes; but
still the handsomest dad in Echo Falls.

“How was rehearsal?” he said.

“Okay.”

“What is it again?”

“Hansel and Gretel.”

“You’re Gretel?”

“Yeah.”

Dad nodded, drove down the long lane lined with old-fashioned lampposts. “Look in the glove compartment,” he said, turning onto the highway.

Ingrid looked in the glove compartment. “For me?” she said.

“Open it,” said Dad.

A present? Very small, but still…it wasn’t her birthday or Christmas, and besides, Mom bought all the presents. She glanced at Dad. He was watching the road, poker-faced. Ingrid removed the wrapping—silver paper with a gold bow—and folded it carefully, just the way Mom did, although the saved old wrapping paper never seemed to get reused and ended up in the trash anyway. Inside was a tiny box; inside that, nestled in cotton, lay a ring. Ingrid had never seen one like it.

“That’s a compass on top?” she said.

“So you always know the directions,” Dad said.
“They were selling them in the pro shop. I got the last one.”

“Oh,” said Ingrid. “Thanks.” It was a big ring, too loose for anything but her middle finger. She slid it on. The red needle quivered and pointed toward E. “We’re going east?”

Dad shook his head. “The needle always points north,” he said. “Magnetic north. You know the whole planet’s a big magnet, right?” First she’d heard of it, but Ingrid just nodded. Dad wasn’t like this very often, explaining things—things that didn’t have to do with sports, anyway. “Just shift your hand and it’ll line up.”

She shifted her hand. “North?”

“North to Grampy’s,” said Dad.

“Grampy’s?”

“He wants some help stacking wood. Didn’t Mom tell you?”

“What about Ty?” Ty was her fifteen-year-old brother, bigger and stronger, much better suited to stacking wood.

“He’s studying for a science test.”

Impossible. “It’s Saturday, Dad.”

“Ty’s starting to take his schoolwork more seriously,” Dad said.

“He is?” Were video games in the curriculum?

“In the nick of time,” Dad said.

“Huh?”

“Ninth-grade results go on the college apps, Ingrid, become part of your permanent record,” Dad said. “This is your last year for getting off scot-free.”

“I plan to go crazy,” Ingrid said.

He gave her a sharp look. She gave him back a poker face of her own.
College apps:
a hideous expression. And
permanent record
was pretty bad too. Ingrid never wanted to hear either of them again.

Dad drove up 392. At first the river ran toward their right—fast and black, narrowed by ice shelves creeping out from both banks—and the car headed straight toward N on the compass. Then 392 curved left, the river disappeared, and their route swung around toward W. Soon after that, Grampy’s farm—the last farm left inside the boundaries of Echo Falls—appeared on the right: fields snowy, trees bare in the apple orchard, and the sheds, barn, house, their red paint long faded to a rusty brown.

“Dad?” she said as they parked in front of the house.

“Yeah?”

“Grampy said we stole the farm from the Indians. He was joking, right?”

They got out of the car. Ingrid could see her breath. It just hung in the still air. Wood-chopping sounds, thunking and splintering, came from the back of the house.

“Grampy’s got his own sense of humor,” Dad said.

“So it’s not true?”

They walked around the house. Grampy came into view. He stood by the chopping block, his thick hair the exact same white as the fresh snow, ax held high and split logs all around. The ax flashed down.
Thwack
—and two more semicylinders of wood went flying.

“Hi, Dad,” said Dad; always a weird moment for Ingrid, when Dad called Grampy that.

Grampy, placing another log on the block, turned; his nose was running. “Mark,” he said. And to Ingrid, “Hi, kid.”

“Hi, Grampy.”

“Where’s your jacket?” Dad said.

Grampy wore a flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up, and old corduroys, torn at the knees. Even though he was almost seventy-nine, ropes of muscle stood
out in his forearms. “It’s not cold,” he said.

“I brought you some papers to sign,” said Dad.

“What kind of papers?”

“Just some minutes, but the accountant’s agitating for them.” Dad took a manila envelope from an inside pocket of his suede coat.

“Leave them with Ingrid,” said Grampy.

Dad handed the envelope to Ingrid, giving her a look that said,
Make sure he signs.
He buttoned his coat and walked back to the car.

“What are minutes, Grampy?”

“Paperwork,” said Grampy. “Had it up to here with paperwork.”

He chopped. Ingrid stacked, making nice even rows, each layer crosswise to the layer underneath, the way Grampy liked. The rows grew higher and higher. They didn’t talk.
Thwack thwack thwack.
Ingrid sensed he was in a bad mood, could feel it, like weather. Sweat started dripping off his chin.

“How about a break?” Ingrid said.

Grampy paused. “Getting tired?”

“A little,” Ingrid said. “Aren’t you?”

“Nope.”

“Not even your arms?”

“Arms got nothing to do with it,” Grampy said. “Chopping wood’s all about legs.”

“It is?”

“Arms just take care of the finishing touch, hog all the glory,” said Grampy. “C’mere.” He stood a log on the block, gave Ingrid the ax. The edge of the blade gleamed. “Hands like this,” he said, “and feet like so. Eyes on an imaginary vertical line right down the middle of that circle.”

“Like watching the soccer ball?” Ingrid said. She hadn’t played in weeks, was already starting to look forward to spring soccer.

“Yup. Now bend your knees, up with the blade, and swing it forward from the backs of your legs, little wrist snap at the end. And don’t forget your toes.”

“You mean not hit them, Grampy?”

“Why would you do a thing like that?” said Grampy. “I mean curling them at the right moment.”

Sounded odd, but Ingrid did what Grampy said, felt strength flowing up through her body from her legs, even curled her toes at what she thought might be the right moment. The blade came down, little wrist snap, and—
crack
. The log split in two,
so smoothly her hands felt nothing, as though she’d been chopping a loaf of bread.

“Hey!”

“Now you can be a lumberjack when you grow up,” Grampy said, in a better mood now; she could hear it in his voice. “How about a cup of something hot?”

They went in the back, Grampy carrying an armful of firewood, Ingrid holding the door. The phone was ringing. Grampy, busy at the wood box, ignored it; typical Grampy. It rang and rang. No answering machine picked up because Grampy didn’t have an answering machine.

“Grampy? It might be Mom or Dad.”

“Answer it then,” Grampy said, piling wood in the fireplace.

Ingrid picked up the phone. “Hello?”

A man, but not Dad. “Aylmer Hill, please,” he said. “This is Dr. Pillman.”

“For you,” Ingrid said.

Grampy took the phone. He listened for a moment, said, “Wrong number,” and hung up.

BOOK: Into the Dark

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