Me and Fat Glenda (4 page)

Now Mom was crouching down, her eyes level with the top of Mr. Creasey's desk (she had spotted a terrific cobweb that looped across from one of the big ledgers to the top of an inkwell) when there was a sharp, crunching noise from behind the file cabinets.

Drew stiffened and said, “Mr. Creasey?” in an extremely loud voice. It was the kind of voice a person uses when he thinks there are burglars in the house and hopes there aren't. I just stood there with my knees turning to jelly and my fingers to ice. I didn't know if Drew or Inez had seen it but, along the tops of the file cabinets, I distinctly saw something very peculiar and very much alive bobbing up and down, and slowly moving toward us

A second later, a man stepped out from behind the
file cabinets. He was tall with sloping shoulders, a long wrinkled white face, ash-colored hair, and horn-rimmed eyeglasses. On his head he wore a dark-green eyeshade, like a baseball cap with no top.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting so long,” he said in a deep mellow voice, as though it was the most natural thing in the world to step into a room from behind a row of filing cabinets. “Won't you all sit down. I am afraid I was occupied down below. You know what it's like to try to get a shop assistant these days.”

I was relieved that he hadn't been hiding behind those cabinets the whole time we were there. There must have been a staircase, directly behind the file cabinets, leading up from the hardware store to the office.

Pop and Mr. Creasey (it was Mr. Creasey) introduced themselves to each other, and Mr. Creasey sat down at his desk, reached under it for a moment, and came up with a dusty gray rag with which he began to flick at the papers and ledgers on top.

Inez leaped forward. “Oh don't do
that
.”

Mr. Creasey looked up startled. The lenses of his glasses caught whatever light there was in the room, and you could see how thick they were.

“You've got some lovely cobwebs there. I was just about to sketch one of them.”

Mr. Creasey cleared his throat, nodded, and put the dust rag away. “Yes, of course,” he said, as though that,
too, was one of the most natural things in the world.

“Now,” he said, clasping his hands on the edge of his desk so as not to disturb any of the dust or spider webs, “how may I be of service to you?”

Drew came right to the point. “We want to lease that house you have up ‘for sale or rent' here in Havenhurst.”

Mr. Creasey cleared his throat again. “Ah, which house would that be?”

I suddenly realized we didn't even know the name of the street it was on and I couldn't remember seeing a number on the front door at all.

“Why, the gray clapboard one with the turret,” Inez said, as though Mr. Creasey should have known that all along and not be asking silly questions.

“Ah,” Mr. Creasey said, and leaned back in his chair.

Everybody sat silently waiting for somebody else to speak. Even Inez sat back and stopped sketching the cobweb. I really couldn't stand it anymore. I kept thinking of Glenda and of school starting in less than a week, and somehow I kept seeing Glenda's house with the picture window and the carefully tipped Venetian blinds. I just had to get settled.

“Could you tell us what the rent would be?” I heard myself saying. Mr. Creasey dipped his head sharply in my direction as though he was surprised to learn I had a voice at all.

There was another long silence. Then, turning his
lens on me so that once again they caught the light and gave him that blind but all-seeing look, he said, “My dear young lady, you don't really want that house.”

Mom and Pop leaned forward and opened their mouths to speak. “But we do,” I said quickly. “We do. I know it's pretty dilapidated, but it's the perfect house for us, because you see. . .”

Pop interrupted and I realized I was doing what he had warned Mom not to do. I was being too anxious.

“Is the house for rent or is it not?” Drew wanted to know.

Some more throat-clearing and Mr. Creasey said in his mellowest tones yet, “It is, of course. Yes, it is. But only for certain purposes. For ordinary domestic use, you understand. We can't have any more of that spiritualist activity there. No, oh dear, no. No séances, no table-rapping, no crystal-gazing, or fortune-telling.”

“Séances!” Inez exclaimed. “Spiritualism? Whatever gave you that idea? What in the world could you be thinking of?”

Mr. Creasey pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Why, excuse me if I am wrong. But aren't you?”

“Aren't we what?”

“Why, spiritualists, mediums, communicators with the spirits of the dead, fortune-casters. Or astrologers, perhaps.”

“No,” Drew said. “I don't think you understand at all.
I'm a professor of social anthropology and I'm also an archaeologist. I've got a year's teaching contract at the State University College at Mill River. As I explained before, this is my wife and this is my daughter, Sara. Our son—he's sixteen—is living, for the time, with friends back in California. My wife here is just, uh . . . just an . . . ordinary housewife . . . with a few, uh, interesting hobbies. None of them have anything at all to do with the spirits of the dead . . .”

“I'm awfully curious,” Inez said, leaning forward. “What made you think we were spiritualists, Mr. Creasey?”

Mr. Creasey put his glasses back on and ran his fingers across the brim of his green eyeshade. “Well, ah, to be frank, your appearance. It is a trifle unconventional. Oh, not for the college over at Mill River, I admit. But that's a good fifteen miles from here. Havenhurst is a very, ah, conservative community, as you have no doubt observed. They like things to stay just so over here.”

Inez kept her eyes fastened on Mr. Creasey as he spoke. I wondered if she'd noticed Glenda's house or any of the others as we drove through Havenhurst. Some of them were big like Glenda's, but nearly all of them were what Inez would call “boxes.”

“And then there's another point,” Mr. Creasey went on. “They're all very house-proud people here in Havenhurst. Now, I'm willing to lease this house to you
at a very nominal sum, but I'm not prepared to make any improvements in the property. It rents as is and I must tell you honestiy that it requires a good deal of work....”

“Oh, that's quite all right,” Inez said with a faint smile. “We have plans for it.”

“Ah, do you? Well, that's good. That's very good. I'm relieved to hear it.”

Since I knew Inez' and Drew's plans better than Mr. Creasey did, I interrupted again. “What other houses have you got for rent around here, Mr. Creasey?”

Mr. Creasey looked surprised and leaned back with his hands clasped at the edge of the desk again. He blinked behind his lenses. “Other houses?”

“Yes.”

“There are no others.”

“Oh, I thought you said . . .”

“Never mind, Sara,” Pop said. “This is the one we want.”

Just looking for any excuse to keep us from moving into a whole lot of trouble, I said, “But what about the spirits of the dead. Maybe there are still some hanging around. Maybe on that winding stairway up to that pointy room at the top . . .” The minute I said that, I realized my mistake. Inez and Drew looked at me sharply.

Mr. Creasey gasped gently. “Then you've been inside the house,” he said. But he didn't seem really angry about that. “Never mind,” he went on, “I know that the neighborhood
children often frolic about the place and have discovered a means of access.”

I began to realize that Mr. Creasey was really much kinder than he looked. I decided to ask him another question.

“Is it because of the spiritualists who used to live there that the people in the neighborhood wanted to get the house torn down?”

Mr. Creasey seemed to know all about this, too. “That's what they've said. Of course, it did give the area an undesirable tone, having people come there for séances and readings all the time. In a way, I suppose you can't really blame them for having—ah—coerced Madame Cecilia and the others to remove themselves from the neighborhood. There is a town edict, you know, prohibiting anyone from operating a commercial enterprise in that section of town.”

“Madame Cecilia?” I asked.

“Yes, that was the lady's name. She was the leader of the spiritualist group.”

“What's this about the neighbors wanting the house tom down?” Inez interrupted.

I told Mom what Glenda had told Drew and me, and about Glenda's mother being chairman of the committee. But I didn't say anything about what Glenda had told me later on, about the fear of “coloreds” moving in.

Mr. Creasey rose. “Never fear, dear lady.
Condemnation proceedings have not yet begun. It will take the better part of a year to accomplish anything of that nature and by then, I am sure, your neighbors will be so delighted with your demonstrations of good will and your improvements to the house that they will banish all such thoughts.

“Of course, as I have said,” Mr. Creasey continued, “I can offer very little in the way of improvements to the property. But, as to the rent, I would suggest the following sum. . . .” Drew and Mr. Creasey were walking toward the office door now, and I heard Mr. Creasey mutter something to Drew. I saw Pop nod in agreement almost immediately. So the question of the rent seemed to be okay.

“Oh dear, I'm forgetting all about the keys. You'll want those, won't you?” Mr. Creasey hurried back to his desk and rummaged in one of the top drawers. After a while he came up with a bunch of very large keys, all covered with splotches of rust.

“Here we are,” he said happily. He spread them out like the spokes of a wheel in the palm of his hand. “Front door, back door, side door, porch door, cellar door, hatch door, shed door. . . Or perhaps it's the other way around. I'm afraid I've quite forgotten. Oh well, you'll sort them out in due time, I'm sure.”

Drew put the keys in the pocket of his blue denim jacket.

“Move in any time you like,” Mr. Creasey said cheerily. “You can drop the rent in here or at the shop,” he pointed directly below, “at the first of the month. Good luck.”

We had been back in the truck about five minutes when I clapped my hand to my forehead and Inez and Drew both looked at me.

“What's up, baby?” Pop asked.

“The number, the address. Of the house. We still don't know it. I wanted to write a letter to Toby right away, tonight, and to some of my friends back home.”

Inez snapped her fingers. “That's easy,” she said. “Let's go and look.”

We hadn't gone much out of the way yet. Drew turned the truck around and we headed for the house, just sort of following our noses like when we'd brought Inez to see it.

As we drove into the street, it seemed even quieter than before. It was about four o'clock in the afternoon now and you'd expect a
few
kids to be out playing. But no one. I decided it must be one of those blocks with nothing but middle-aged people living on it. That was probably why Glenda was lonely and seemed anxious to have a friend in the neighborhood. And thinking of Glenda, where was she anyway?

We stopped in front of the house. The street sign on
the corner said Dangerfield Road. So that was the name of the street anyhow. But what was the number of the house? I jumped down from the truck and went slowly up the walk toward the front door. The weeds on both sides of the cracked pavement were so long they tickled my ankles.

There was a small square porch at the entrance. It had wooden posts to support it and an arched wooden top. But there was no house number on the posts, on the arch above them, or on the front door. Then something else caught my eye. It was a small bundle of black and white fur nestled up against the front door.

A kitten for sure. I dashed up the three steps to the little porch. Nice, I thought. Nice to find a kitten waiting for you at the door.

I got up to it and kneeled down. Right away I realized it wasn't a kitten at all. It was more of a cat, only curled up in a funny way. I reached down to stroke it, but my hand stopped in mid-air. I knew why, too. Something was all wrong. It was a cat all right. But it was dead.

“Very amusing, I'm sure.” It was Inez' voice, crackling with sarcasm. She was standing just behind me. “I wonder if they're trying to tell us something.”

Drew was standing there, too. “No, I. It's just a neighborhood prank, I'm sure.” Pop reached down, picked the poor cat up, and wrapped it in a piece of burlap from the truck.

I stood up feeling funny in the pit of my stomach. Who could have done it? And why?

Mom put her arm around me. “Don't brood about it, Sara. Oh, by the way, we spotted the house number.”

“Where?”

“On the step.”

As we walked to the truck, I looked back. There it was, very scuffed and faded-looking, on the riser of the middle porch step. Number 13.

So now we knew the full address of the house. It was certainly an odd address for a town that had such a cozy, homey-sounding name as Havenhurst. . . 13 Dangerfield Road.