The House with a Clock In Its Walls (2 page)

Jonathan hefted the suitcase and started down the steps of the bus.

“Good Lord, what a monster! It ought to have wheels on the bottom. Unh! Did you pack some of the bricks from your house?”

Lewis looked so sad at the mention of his house that Jonathan decided to change the subject. He cleared his throat and said, “Well, now! As I was saying, welcome to Capharnaum County and beautiful, historic New Zebedee. Population six thousand, not counting . . . ”

A bell overhead began to strike the hour.

Jonathan stopped talking. He froze on the spot. He dropped the suitcase, and his arms hung limp at his sides. Lewis, frightened, looked up at him. Jonathan’s eyes were glazed.

The bell continued to toll. Lewis looked up. The sound was coming from a tall brick steeple across the street. The arches of the belfry made a howling mouth and two gaping eyes; below the mouth was a large, glowing clock face with iron numerals.

Clang.
Another stroke. It was a deep-throated iron bell, and its sound made Lewis feel hopeless and helpless. Bells like that always did. But what was wrong with Uncle Jonathan?

The tolling stopped. Jonathan broke out of his trance. He shook his head convulsively, and with a jerky motion raised his hand to his face. He was sweating profusely now. He mopped his forehead and his streaming cheeks.

“Hmh . . . hah! Hrumph! Ooh! Sorry, Lewis, I . . . I just remembered that I had . . . that I had left a kettle boiling on the stove. I always phase out like that when I remember something I’ve forgotten, or vicy versy. Bottom of the pot’s probably ruined by now. C’mon. Let’s get moving.”

Lewis looked hard at his uncle, but he said nothing. Together, the two of them started to walk.

They left the brightly lit Main Street, and before long they were trotting briskly down a long, tree-lined avenue called Mansion Street. The overhanging boughs made Mansion Street into a long rustling tunnel. Pools of lamplight stretched off into the distance. As they walked, Jonathan asked Lewis how his schoolwork was coming,
and whether he knew what George Kell’s batting average was this year. He told him that he would have to become a Tiger fan now that he lived in Michigan. Jonathan did not complain any more about the suitcase, but he did stop frequently to set it down and flex his reddened hand.

It seemed to Lewis that Jonathan talked more loudly in the darkness between the streetlights, though why he did this Lewis couldn’t say. Grownups were not supposed to be afraid of the dark, and anyway this was not a dark, lonely street. There were lights on in most of the houses, and Lewis could hear people laughing and talking and slamming doors. His uncle was certainly a strange person, but he was strange in a likable way.

At the corner of Mansion and High, Jonathan stopped. He set down the suitcase in front of a mailbox that said:
FOR DEPOSIT OF MAIL ONLY.

“I live at the top of the hill,” said Jonathan, pointing up.

High Street was well named. Up they went, leaning forward and plodding slowly. Lewis asked Jonathan several times if he could carry the suitcase, but each time Jonathan said, no, thanks, he could manage it. Lewis began to be sorry that he had packed all those books and lead soldiers.

When they got to the top of the hill, Jonathan set down the suitcase. He took out a red bandanna handkerchief and mopped his face with it.

“Well, there it is, Lewis. Barnavelt’s Folly. What do you think of it?”

Lewis looked.

He saw a three-story stone mansion with a tall turret on the front. The whole house was lit up, downstairs, upstairs, and upper upstairs. There was even a light in the little oval window that was set, like an eye, in the bank of shingles at the top of the turret. In the front yard grew a large chestnut tree. Its leaves rustled in the warm summer breeze.

Jonathan was standing at parade rest, his hands behind him, his legs wide apart. Again he said, “What do you think of it, Lewis? Eh?”

“I love it, Uncle Jonathan! I’ve always wanted to live in a mansion, and this is sure some mansion!”

Lewis walked up to the frilly fence and touched one of the iron pompons that ran in a row along the top. He stared at the sign that spelled out “100” in red glass reflectors.

“Is it real, Uncle Jonathan? The house, I mean.”

Jonathan glanced at him strangely. “Yes . . . yes . . . yes, of course it is. It’s real. Let’s go inside.”

Jonathan lifted the loop of shoestring that held the gate shut. The gate squeaked open, and Lewis started up the walk. Jonathan followed close behind, lugging the suitcase. Up the front steps they went. The front hall was dark but there was a light at the far end of it. Jonathan set down the suitcase and put his arm around Lewis.

“Come on. Let’s go in. Don’t be bashful. It’s your house now.”

Lewis walked down the long hall. It seemed to take forever. At the other end he emerged into a room full of yellow light. There were pictures in heavy gilt frames on the walls; there was a mantelpiece covered with a wild assortment of junk; there was a big round table in the middle of the room, and over in the corner was a gray-haired woman in a baggy purple dress. She was standing with her ear to the wall, listening.

Lewis stopped and stared. He felt embarrassed. It was as if he had walked in on someone who was doing something he shouldn’t be doing. He thought that he and Jonathan had made a good deal of noise coming in, but it was very apparent that the lady, whoever she was, had been surprised when he entered the room. Surprised and embarrassed, like himself.

Now she straightened up, smoothed her dress, and said cheerfully, “Hi there. I’m Mrs. Zimmermann. I live next door.”

Lewis found himself staring into one of the wrinkliest faces he had ever seen. But the eyes were friendly, and all the wrinkles were drawn up into smile lines. He shook hands.

“This is Lewis, Florence,” said Jonathan. “You remember Charlie writing about him. The bus was on time for a change. They must have gotten the driver drunk. Hey! Have you been stealing any of my coins?”

Jonathan walked over to the table. Now Lewis noticed that the red checkered tablecloth was covered with heaps and stacks of coins. All kinds of coins, most of them foreign. Doughnut-shaped Arabian coins with Boy Scout knots all over them; a heap of dark-brown copper coins, all of which were stamped with the picture of a bald man who wore a handlebar moustache. There were big heavy English pennies that showed Queen Victoria in various states of chinniness, and there were tiny silver coins no thicker than your fingernail. There was an egg-shaped Mexican silver dollar and a genuine Roman coin, covered with green rust. But most of all, in shiny golden stacks, were brass coins with
Bon Pour Un Franc
printed on them. Lewis liked the phrase, and since he didn’t know any French, it got twisted around in his mind till it came out
Bon Sour One Frank.

“No, I have not been stealing any of your precious Brasher doubloons,” said Mrs. Zimmermann in an irritated voice. “I was just straightening up the stacks. Okay, Brush Mush?”

“Straightening up the stacks. I’ve heard
that
one before, Hag Face. But it doesn’t matter, because we’re going to have to divvy up the coins three ways. You play poker, don’t you, Lewis?”

“Yes, but my dad won’t . . . ” He stopped. Jonathan saw tears in his eyes. Lewis choked down a sob and went on, “My . . . my dad wouldn’t have let me play for money.”

“Oh, we don’t play for money,” said Mrs. Zimmermann, laughing. “If we did, this house and everything in it would belong to me.”

“Poop, it would,” said Jonathan, shuffling the cards and puffing clouds of smoke from his pipe. “Poop, it would. Get ’em all divided up, Frumpy? No? Well, when you’re ready it’s going to be dealer’s choice, and I’m the first dealer. No ladies’ games, like Spit-out-the-Window or Johnny’s Nightshirt. Straight five-card draw. Nothing wild.” He puffed some more and was about to deal the first hand when he stopped and looked at Mrs. Zimmermann with a mischievous smile.

“Oh, by the way,” he said, “you might bring Lewis a glass of iced tea, and get me a refill. No sugar. And bring out another plate of chocolate-chip cookies.”

Mrs. Zimmermann stood up and clasped her hands subserviently in front of her. “How would you like your cookies, sir? Stuffed down your throat one by one, or crumbled up and sifted into your shirt collar?”

Jonathan stuck out his tongue at her. “Ignore her, Lewis. She thinks she’s smart because she’s got more college degrees than I have.”

“I would be smarter than you in any case, Weird Beard. Excuse me, folks. I’ll be back in a minute.” She turned and walked to the kitchen.

Jonathan dealt a practice hand while she was gone. When Lewis picked his cards up, he noticed that they were old and worn. Most of the corners were missing.
But on each faded blue back was a round golden seal with an Aladdin’s lamp in the middle. Above and below the seal were the words:

Mrs. Zimmermann returned with the cookies and iced tea, and the game began in earnest. Jonathan gathered up the cards and cut them together with a very professional
zzzzzit!
He shuffled and started to deal. Lewis sipped his iced tea and felt very comfortable, very at home.

They played until midnight, by which time Lewis had red and black spots in front of his eyes. Pipe smoke hung in layers over the table and rose in a column from the shade of the floor lamp. It made the lamp seem magic, like the one on the playing cards. And there was something else magic about the game. Lewis won. He won a lot. Usually he had rotten luck, but in this game he got straight flushes, royal flushes, four of a kind. Not all of the time, but enough to keep winning steadily.

Maybe it was because Jonathan was such a lousy poker player. What Mrs. Zimmermann had said was certainly true. Whenever Jonathan had a good hand, he snortled and chortled and blew smoke out of both corners of his mouth. When he had a bad hand, he sulked and chewed his pipestem impatiently. Mrs. Zimmermann was a crafty player who could bluff you under the table with
a pair of deuces, but that night she just wasn’t getting the cards. Maybe that’s why Lewis was winning. Maybe. But he had his doubts.

For one thing, he could have sworn that once or twice when he was reaching out to turn over a card that had been dealt to him, the card had changed. It had changed—just like that—while he was picking it up. This never happened when Lewis was dealing, but it did happen when Jonathan or Mrs. Zimmermann was dealing. And more than once he had been about to throw in a hand when, after a second look, he discovered that the hand was a good one. It was odd.

The mantel clock cleared its throat with a
whirr
and started to chime midnight.

Lewis shot a quick glance at Uncle Jonathan, who was sitting there perfectly composed, puffing his pipe. Or was he composed? He seemed to be listening for something.

The other clocks all over the house joined in. Lewis sat entranced, listening to high-pitched dings, tinny whangs, melodious electric doorbell sounds, cuckoos from cuckoo clocks, and deep sinister Chinese gongs roaring
bwaoww! bwaoww!
These and many other clock sounds echoed through the house. Now and then during this concert Lewis looked at Jonathan. Jonathan did not look back. He was staring at the wall, and his eyes had that glazed look again. Mrs. Zimmermann sat through the whole thing with her eyes fixed on the tablecloth.

The last clock to strike was the grandfather clock in the study. It made a noise like a steamer trunk full of tin plates falling slowly and solemnly down a flight of stairs. When it stopped striking, Jonathan looked up.

“Hm. Yes. Where were we? Well, Lewis, it’s midnight, isn’t it? Game’s over. Time for bed.”

Jonathan cleared the table briskly. He gathered up the playing cards, stacked them, and put a rubber band around them. Snap! Then he reached under the table and came up with a red tin candy box with a picture of the New Zebedee County Courthouse on the lid. He scraped the clattering coins into the box, snapped the lid shut, pushed back his chair, rapped out his pipe into a saucer, and folded his hands in his lap.

“Well! And what do you think of 100 High Street, Lewis?”

“I think it’s wonderful, Uncle Jonathan. I like the house, and I like the town, and I like you two an awful lot.”

Lewis wasn’t lying. In spite of Jonathan’s strange behavior and the eavesdropping habits of Mrs. Zimmermann, he had had a very good time during his first evening in New Zebedee. In fact, for most of the evening, he had had a great deal of trouble keeping himself from jumping up and down in his seat. He had been told that it was a bad thing to do in company.

Jonathan took Lewis’s suitcase upstairs, and Lewis got his first look at his new room. There was a tall black bed
with battlements at the top of the headboard and footboard. In the corner was a black mirror that matched the bed, and near it was a black marble fireplace with a coffin-like black clock on its mantelpiece. Up against one wall was a tall glazed bookcase full of old books, and on top of the bookcase was a vase with cattails in it. In the middle of the floor was a large hooked rug. The pattern reminded Lewis of a map of the United States—a map of the U.S. done by a crazy person. Many children might have been put off by the dark woodwork of the old room, but Lewis loved it. He imagined that this was the sort of room Sherlock Holmes would have slept in.