Time for Andrew (16 page)

"Hannah," I cried. "Is that you?"

No one answered. Leaves shifted and shimmered in the sunlight, tricking my eyes with shadows, bushes rustled and shook. Arrowing toward me, Binky plunged out of the honeysuckle. In his mouth was an old croquet ball. He dropped it at my feet and wagged his tail.

Under the dirt and moss clinging to it, I saw a faded red stripe. Binky had found one of the balls Buster had buried so long ago. Perhaps the very one I'd once whacked into the poison ivy.

"Whuff," Binky said, "whuff." He wanted me to throw the ball, but I held it tightly.

"No," I said, "you can't have this one, old boy."

"Drew," Aunt Blythe called, "come out of those weeds. Do you want a good dose of poison ivy?"

I ran to my aunt. "Did you know there's an old family burial ground here?"

"Goodness, yes. One of these days I plan to pull the weeds, but I've had so much else to do I haven't gotten around to it yet."

"I'll help you. I don't want to forget—" I closed my mouth just in time to keep myself from saying
Mama and Papa.

Aunt Blythe looked at me closely. "You've been in the heat too long, Drew. Just look at you, you're all tired out. Come inside and lie down for a while."

Taking my arm, she led me toward the house. Great-grandfather sat on the porch, head thrust out like a hungry bird waiting to be fed, mumbling to himself. He scowled at me but said nothing.

When she'd settled me on the living room couch, my aunt noticed the croquet ball. "Where did you find that dirty old thing?"

She reached out to take it, but I clung to it. "Let me
keep it," I said. "It reminds me, reminds me..." Without finishing the sentence, I closed my eyes, too weary to explain.

Aunt Blythe stroked my hair. "Of course you can keep it, Drew."

After she left, I lay still. I was in the old parlor, the very room I'd rested in once before. Although most of the Tylers' furniture was gone, the same clock ticked on the mantel. Outside, birds sang and cicadas hummed and buzzed just as they had that afternoon. Even though I couldn't see her, I was sure Mama was nearby, humming old hymns while she dusted the furniture, pausing now and then to scold Theo, calling to Hannah, ordering Buster outside. With the memory of her voice in my ears, I fell asleep.

An hour or so later, Aunt Blythe woke me. "This came for you in the mail, Drew."

I took the postcard—a night view of the Eiffel Tower sparkling with lights. On the back was a note from Mom and Dad. The work on the dig was finished, they were enjoying Paris, they'd see me soon.

Beside me, Aunt Blythe drew in her breath sharply. "Why, I never!" Waving a letter covered with spidery handwriting, she said, "What a surprise! After all these years, Hannah wants to pay me a visit. She'd love to see the house she grew up in."

At the sound of Hannah's name, my heart beat faster. Speechless with happiness, I listened to my aunt chatter excitedly.

"She says John died last winter and she's staving in Riverview to straighten out his estate." Aunt Blythe paused to scrutinize the letter. "Listen to this, Drew: 'You'll find me a bit long in the tooth, Blythe, but, never fear, I still have
my wits about me. You might warn Edward I'm not a jot sweeter than I was the last time we met!'"

Aunt Blythe laughed. "In other words, Hannah hasn't changed a bit!"

"When is she coming?"

"Tomorrow afternoon." Aunt Blythe clapped her hands. "Oh, I can't wait to see her!"

"Me either!"

Aunt Blythe smiled. "Fancy your being so pleased. I didn't think you'd be interested in an old lady like Hannah."

Old? I stared at my aunt. I'd seen Hannah less than twenty-four hours ago—dark hair piled on her head, laughing, teasing, challenging me to a game of marbles or a race to the top of a tree.

Beside me, Aunt Blythe sighed. "Well, Hannah won't find
me
a kid, will she?" Getting to her feet, she smiled at me. "Rest a little longer if you like. Lunch will be ready in about fifteen minutes."

Alone in the living room, I studied the flowered wallpaper, searching for the young girl's face I'd once seen in the roses. Yes, she was still there, but faded and dim, much harder to find than the day Mama had made me rest on the parlor sofa. Looking at her, I remembered a famous drawing my father had once shown me. "Look closely," he'd said. "Tell me what you see."

"An ugly old woman with a big nose."

"Is that all?" Dad asked.

Like magic, the lines shifted. The old woman's nose became a young girl's profile, her eye became the girl's ear, her chin the girl's throat. Two images in the same space, wavering back and forth, changing from old to young and back again, fooling your eyes. An optical illusion,
Dad said, proof there was more than one way to look at things.

But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't see the old woman in Hannah's face any more than I could see the boy in Great-grandfather's face. I didn't want to. Surely Hannah would step out of the past unchanged, as young and beautiful as ever.

The next afternoon, Aunt Blythe and I sat on the front porch waiting for Hannah. It was a hot August day, loud with the hum and drone of insects. Sunlight bounced off the windshields of cars on the highway. Every time one slowed down, I held my breath, expecting to see an old Model T chug up the driveway to the house.

"I hope Father sleeps right through Hannah's visit," Aunt Blythe said. "There's no telling what he'd say or do. At his age, too much excitement is bad for the heart."

I glanced at my aunt. She was gazing at the fields across the highway, smiling to herself. "I'll never forget the day Hannah and Father got into an argument about President Roosevelt. She was an ardent Democrat and Father—well, you can imagine. He must have been the stodgiest Republican ever born. They went at politics hammer and tongs."

Just then a big blue Buick slowed to turn into the driveway. "That must be Hannah now," Aunt Blythe said.

There were two people in the car. An old man was behind the wheel and an even older woman was sitting beside him.

"No," I said, "that's not her. It can't be."

But Aunt Blythe wasn't listening. She was hurrying toward the Buick, waving.

Speechless, I watched the man open the driver's door and get out. The sun shone on his white hair and bent back.

Aunt Blythe was helping the old woman. "Hannah," she cried, "I'm so happy to see you."

While the women embraced, the man hobbled toward me. The hand clasping the cane was roped with veins, the eyes were deepset and hooded, but clear and bright. He stopped a few feet away and smiled.

"Hello, Drew," he said. "I told you we'd meet again."

Before I could say a word, the old woman joined us. She wore a pale-gray dress. White hair slipped out of her topknot, her shoulders curved under the weight of years. Clutching Aunt Blythe's arm with a clawlike hand, she said, "I don't believe you've met my brother Andrew. I should have told you he was coming, but he insisted on surprising you."

When she smiled, I saw the young girl in the old woman's face. It was Hannah after all, really and truly Hannah. Not the way I remembered her, not even the way I wanted her to be, but still alive, still laughing.

"This is my great-nephew Drew," Aunt Blythe said.

Seizing my hands, Hannah said, "I would have recognized him anywhere." Turning to her brother, she added, "He's the spitting image of you when you were his age."

"Indeed he is." From under bushy white eyebrows, Andrew winked at me. "Except for one thing—I never had a shiner as magnificent as the one he's sporting."

Hannah peered at my eye. Turning to her brother, she said, "My word, Andrew, have you forgotten? Edward once gave you a shiner every bit as impressive as that." She shot her brother one of the teasing looks I remembered so well.
"The odd thing was it vanished overnight. Maybe that's why you don't remember."

Aunt Blythe looked from one to the other, but it was clear she didn't understand why Hannah and Andrew were laughing. "Would you like to come inside?" she asked. "I've made lemonade and cookies."

"You two go on." Andrew rested his hand on my shoulder. "I'd like to borrow my young cousin for a few minutes. We'll join you later."

I watched Aunt Blythe help Hannah up the stairs. "She moves a mite slower now," Andrew said, "and so do I."

Keeping his hand on my shoulder to steady himself, he walked across the grass. We'd only gone a few steps when Binky tore around the side of the house, barking and growling at the sight of a stranger.

"Binky!" I yelled.

I needn't have worried. Andrew held out his hand and called the dog's name. Immediately, Binky hushed. Wagging his tail, he jumped up to lick his friend's nose.

"You remember me, don't you, fellow?" Andrew scratched Binky behind his ears. "No matter how old a body gets, I reckon you smell the same to a dog."

In the backyard, Andrew and I sat down in a pair of wooden lawn chairs. Binky lay beside us and rested his nose on Andrew's shoes. For a while, neither of us spoke. The day that stretched between us had turned into a lifetime for my old friend.

Andrew lit his pipe, took a few puffs, and sighed contentedly. "I don't know how to thank you for the time you gave me, Drew. The life I've had, the things I've seen and done. If it hadn't been for you, I'd be pushing up the weeds over there with Mama and Papa and Lucy."

For a moment we contemplated the tangled vines and brambles hiding the tombstones. "The first thing I did yesterday was look for your grave," I said. "I sure was glad not to find it."

"You couldn't be a jot gladder than I am." Andrew smiled and blew a smoke ring. We watched it float away, round and perfect against the blue sky.

Leaning closer, he said, "I must admit you had a good influence on me, Drew. Mama always thought the fever sweetened me up, but I know it was you. Not that I turned into a danged sissy or anything like that. Just got a little less prickly."

He chuckled and patted my knee. "I hope you got some of the pepper I lost. As I recall, you sorely needed it."

"When I jumped off the trestle, I felt like you," I admitted. "I'm still not sure who hit Edward—you or me. But I do know one thing. There's this boy named Martin back in Chicago. All my life he's been picking on me. The next time he tries anything, he sure is going to be surprised." Grinning at Andrew, I raised my fists and boxed the air between us.

"Now, now," he said, "Let's not get carried away, Drew. You don't want to be as cocky as I used to be."

At that moment, the back door opened, and Great-grandfather wheeled himself outside. Slowly and carefully, Hannah stepped through the door behind him. Aunt Blythe followed, balancing a tray loaded with a pitcher of lemonade and five glasses.

"Come along, you two," Hannah called.

"Tarnation," Andrew muttered. "Am I going to have to see that jackass today?" Without letting me help, he levered himself out of the chair with his cane. "I bet Hannah woke the old coot up just to make me miserable."

When we joined the others on the porch, Great-grandfather refused to look at us. Keeping his head down, he fidgeted with the blanket on his lap.

"This is a fine way to greet me," Andrew said.

"Maybe he doesn't recognize you." Aunt Blythe bent down to peer into Great-grandfather's face. "Your cousins are here, Father. Can you say hello to Hannah and Andrew?"

"It's my house," he mumbled. "They can't have it."

Andrew looked as if he wanted to give his cousin a punch in the nose, but Hannah intervened. "We know the house is yours, Edward," she said. "Don't worry, we haven't come to take it back. Andrew and I have our own home."

Great-grandfather raised his head and stared at Hannah. "You never liked me. Neither did your brothers. I wasn't welcome in this house when you lived here. Now it's mine and
you're
not welcome."

Ignoring Aunt Blythe's protests, Great-grandfather wheeled himself toward the back door. "You and your Roosevelt," he muttered before he disappeared. "Too bad you women ever got the vote."

"Please excuse Father," Aunt Blythe said. "He's having one of his bad days."

Andrew snorted. "All of Edward's days have been bad, every blasted one of them."

Hannah rapped his fingers. "Don't be so ornery, Andrew. What will Blythe think of you?"

"I say what's on my mind. Always have." Andrew shot me a grin. "Isn't that right, Drew?"

Hannah frowned at her brother. "How on earth can Drew answer a question like that?"

My aunt didn't notice the warning tone in her cousin's voice, but I did. From the look she gave Andrew, I was sure Hannah knew everything.

To break the tension, Aunt Blythe smiled at Andrew. "Hannah tells me you're an archeologist," she said. "Drew's father has followed in your footsteps. He spent the whole summer in France, excavating a Roman ruin."

A spark of mischief flared in Andrew's eyes. "Why, it could be the other way around," he said. "Perhaps I got the idea from
him.
"

Hannah gave Andrew a sharp poke with her cane. Luckily, Aunt Blythe didn't notice that either.

"You have the oddest sense of humor," she said to Andrew. "It's a pity you spent most of your life overseas. I'm sure I would have enjoyed knowing you."

To escape his sister's reach, Andrew shifted his position. "It's strange," he said to my aunt, "but I feel like I
do
know you."

"Isn't that funny?" Aunt Blythe stared at him. "Even though I've never set eyes on you before, I feel the same way."

With a little guidance from Hannah, the conversation changed to Andrew's years in South America. For at least an hour he entertained us with his adventures, which Hannah claimed were highly exaggerated.

"He never tells a story the same way twice," she told me. "You wouldn't believe how much more exciting they've gotten since the first time I heard them."

"You didn't marry?" Aunt Blythe asked Andrew.

He glanced at me. "When I was a boy no older than Drew, I had a close brush with death. It always seemed to me a miracle that I lived."

Once more Hannah made an attempt to stop her brother with a poke of her cane, but Andrew went on talking, his eyes on my face, his voice solemn. "I often thought I'd been
meant to die, so I decided to lead a solitary life. There's no way of telling what one person might do to change the history of the world."