Time Windows (12 page)

 

GALWORTHY, Sigmund E., Attorney-at-Law
Wife: Lucinda Walker Galworthy
Children: Dorothy Arabella Galworthy

 

Miranda closed the book, trying to bring order to her tumbling thoughts. The information in the book only confirmed what Mrs. Wainwright had told her, but seeing the names of her dollhouse ghosts in print left Miranda with a creepy feeling.

She flopped onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. She could hardly see into the corners because the room had grown dark while she sat deep in thought. She heard footsteps climbing the attic stairs and then coming down again. Her father's voice called to her.

"I'm in here," she said, her voice flat and loud in the dim quiet of her bedroom.

Philip appeared in the doorway, Helen behind him. "Oh, there you are," he said. "I thought you'd be up in the attic." He did not add "as usual," but Miranda knew he was thinking it.

"No, I've been here," she said, sitting up. "Reading."

"In this light?" Helen pushed past Philip into the room.

"Well, it only just got dark."

Philip looked down at the green book on the floor. "What were you reading?"

Miranda reached over and handed it to him. "Mrs. Wainwright, my flute teacher, wrote it. She's historian of the Ladies' Guild."

"Ah," said Philip, leafing through the volume. "Is it interesting?"

"It's okay." She was noncommittal.

All three waited, uncomfortable around each other, not knowing what to say. The memory of the awful scene in the car still hung heavy in the muggy air. No one knew quite how to erase it.

"Well, I'm off to bed," Helen announced.

"Good night," mumbled Miranda.

"Good night, Helen," said Philip.

She left the room and Philip stared after her for a long moment. Then he looked down at Miranda. "Do you like it here?"

"It's okay."

"You wouldn't want to move?"

"No!" She tried to see his face in the dark room, but couldn't. She got up and turned on her desk light. "Why? Don't you like it here anymore?"

"I like it here very much."

"Then what's this about moving?"

"It's important to me that we can all be happy here. And right now we aren't a very merry group, I'd say."

Miranda considered this. "True. But I don't see how moving would help anything. It probably takes time to get used to a new place." She felt very mature saying that. "After all, we haven't been here long."

Philip smiled at her. "Good for you, honey!" Then he sighed. "But your mother wants to move—not back to New York, but to another house in Garnet."

Immediately the thought darted into her head: if they had to move, could she take the dollhouse along? She'd have to! "Dad, this house is the best part about living here!"

"I agree, Mandy. I'm hoping for a lot this year, now that I've got my health back. I'm trying to figure out what I want to do with my life—professionally, that is. I know I don't want to teach anymore. Fixing up this house is more or less therapy for me! It helps me think. But your mother is unhappy. She doesn't like the house anymore—we've been, ah,
discussing
it."

"So I heard." She searched his face. "Oh, Dad, what doesn't she like? What can we
do?
"

"In answer to both those questions—I'm not sure. It's a puzzle to me. She's become very moody. It's unlike her, but there you are. If it were you, we'd probably say it was just a stage! Maybe that's what Mither is going through." His arms closed around her in a big hug, and he spoke quietly. "But she'll come out of it. We'll be okay. Don't worry, little mouse." And then he was gone, shutting the bedroom door softly.

Little mouse?

So she wasn't crazy, and she wasn't imagining things. And it wasn't just the dollhouse that showed her the past. She saw it happening right here in her own house, like repeat performances of very old plays. A drama played out in three different times with three different casts, yet the same story unfolding in each, the same lines being spoken.

But who had written the script? And how did the story end?

Miranda awoke early the next morning when a clap of thunder shook the house and a strong gust of wind rattled the shade of the lamp on her bedside table. She sat up, confused. A golden glow filled the sky outside the window.

A New England summer storm was brewing, but to Miranda, accustomed to the dreary patter of gray city showers, the golden light and howling wind seemed to come from another world. Her alarm clock read 6:15—too early for her parents to be up. She stood by her window seat, looking out at the branches whipping the leaves of the magnolia tree back and forth. Then she slid the windows shut. She crept out into the hall past her parents' door and listened. Apparently they slept on, undisturbed by the storm. She slipped downstairs, her hand sliding over the smooth wooden banister as little Dorothy's hand, Lucinda's hand, and Sigmund's hand had done so long ago. Had the Kramer boys tried sitting at the top and sliding down the curve to the hallway below? Probably.

In the kitchen she poured herself a glass of milk and slid a piece of blueberry pie—left over from last night's dessert—onto a plate. She carried these carefully back up the stairs and then up the narrower, shadowy climb to the attic. Settled on the pillows behind the dollhouse, she ate her breakfast and waited. Outside, the treetops waved back and forth, creaking in the gale. The windowpanes rattled.

Suddenly the wind stopped, the trees became still, and the world seemed to pause. It was unnaturally quiet. Miranda set her plate on the floor and walked over to the windows. A quick volley of thunder burst forth like a series of gunshots. She drew back just as the rain, sounding like tennis balls on the roof, hurtled down.

A light spray gusted in through the windows. Miranda hastily closed them, but then opened them again, as the room immediately seemed too stuffy. She knew that rainstorms usually broke the heat and humidity, but this storm was doing nothing to make the attic more bearable. She returned to the dollhouse, finishing off the last bites of pie before ducking her head to see what was happening this morning.

 

It was midday on an autumn afternoon and Iris Kramer stood at the kitchen counter making bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches for lunch. She hummed as she removed the bacon from the frying pan and arranged it on the toasted slices of bread. The two small Kramer boys tumbled through the back door, their cheeks rosy from the brisk autumn air.

"Guess what, Mommy!"

"Let me tell! We saw—"

"I'm telling! I saw him first!"

"Boys!" The welcoming smile faded from her lips. "First get your coats off. And your hands need washing."

Soon the boys were seated and vying for her attention again. Their voices rose. "The Hootons have a dog, Mommy!" Jeff said excitedly.

"It's Eddie Hooton's new dog!"

"A big, shaggy black one, and he's only a puppy and he'll get lots bigger! Hey, can we have a dog?"

"Yeah, Mom, we want a dog, too!"

Iris leaned against the stove and wiped her hands on a towel, her forehead creased in a frown.

"Mom? Can we? Can we?"

"Oh please, oh please, Mommy?"

"No dog," she told them. "Who would end up feeding it? And housebreaking it? And keeping its paws off the furniture? And what about taking it for walks?"

"But Mom! It would be so great! We'd take care of it ourselves. You wouldn't have to do anything, honest!"

"Only very good boys get dogs. Now eat your lunches and go outside to play. I have a headache."

Iris always had headaches, reflected Miranda. Some of them were so bad that she had to lie down in a dark room with a compress on her forehead. When Miranda settled down to watch through the dollhouse windows she would encounter Iris again and again, lying down in various rooms with a cool compress on her forehead. And once or twice Miranda had seen Lucinda Galworthy in bed in a darkened room, with Hannah hovering over her. The maid had urged Lucinda to sip from a glass of water mixed with something Hannah called a "headache powder."

"We're good boys!" said Jeff.

"We won't say a single word," vowed Timmy.

"You won't even know we're here," cried Jeff, "because we'll be quiet as a mouse."

"As a
dog,
not a mouse!" shrieked Timmy with glee.

Iris put her hands to her head. "Boys!" They quieted instantly. "Not another word out of either of you." She looked momentarily surprised at the cold rage in her tone. Their silence lasted but a few seconds, then was broken by Timmy's sullen voice.

"
Yuck.
You put
tomatoes
in here." He threw down the offending sandwich.

"Of course I did, Timothy Kramer," she snapped. "Bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches always have tomatoes in them. Now
eat.
"

"I
hate
tomatoes!"

"Since when?" Iris flew from the stove, brandishing a wooden spoon. "Just be quiet and eat them!" she screamed, reaching for Timmy. He dodged her grasp and ran from the room.

"I said be
quiet!
" She lunged for the sobbing Jeff, but he, too, ran from the room. Iris stood there at the table, smacking her hand with the spoon, her face a mask of dark fury.

Miranda backed away from the dollhouse, looking up into her own attic as a clap of thunder rattled the windowpanes and shook the walls. Rain sprayed through the open windows, and Miranda jumped up to close them.

Angry torrents slashed the house, and winds tore small branches from the trees. She sat back down against the wall, her eyes closed. She hardly noticed the storm; her mind was busy trying to grasp the elusive memory that threatened to disappear the way dreams do upon awakening.

She was trembling, suddenly afraid but unable to pinpoint the fear. It had something to do with waiting—as if she were waiting for something to happen. She opened her eyes and ran downstairs.

 

Helen was still in bed when Miranda peered into the darkened bedroom.

"I'm sick," her mother said peevishly. "It's a gruesome day and I have a horrible headache."

"Can I get you some aspirin?"

"No." Helen pulled the sheet up to her chin and turned onto her side. "It's still raining."

Miranda walked to the window and drew back the curtain. "But not quite as hard as before."

"Oh, I can't bear it. This is awful. We never had weather like this in New York."

"Oh, come on, Mither! Don't you remember the power failure after that huge storm last year—and the elevators didn't work and Mrs. Rosenbaum got stuck and almost had her baby right there?"

Helen closed her eyes, and her lips hardened into a stern line. "I have a headache, Miranda."

"
Sorry!
" Miranda left the room, resisting the impulse to slam the door behind her. She trudged into her room and threw herself down onto her window seat, where she peered gloomily out at the rain. She watched two fat raindrops race each other down the pane. The one on the right seemed to be winning, but as Miranda watched, a gust of wind blew the drop on the left into its path, and the two droplets merged and slid down as one onto the windowsill.

She soon found herself, oddly, near tears. There was something about rain that made her feel lonely. She never felt like this on sunny days. But today she felt just like one of the raindrops, sliding down a path not of her own choosing, forced on by a storm raging all around her. She wished that she, like the raindrops on the windowpane, could melt into someone else, find someone to share the dollhouse compulsion and terror.

Miranda raised her eyes and stared out at the lights shining in the Hootons' house across the street. They seemed to beckon to her.

I suppose I could go visit,
she thought. She tugged a brush through her hair and went down to the kitchen to tell her father where she was going. The screen door slammed behind her as she ran out of the house, and Miranda heard Helen's voice all the way from the bedroom: "Can't that girl be
quiet?
"

Miranda paused a moment on the porch steps to open her umbrella, and ended up scrambling after it across the wild front garden as the wind whipped it off on a journey of its own.

Light shone out through the stained glass window of the Hootons' front door as Buddy opened it with a big smile. "Oh, good!" he said. "Come on in!"

"Hi." She stood with her bare arms held out stiffly from her sides as water droplets ran down them. "I've come to visit," she added, unnecessarily.

"And we're glad," said Virginia Hooton, entering the shadowy hallway from a door leading off into a room on the left. Her friendly face was all smiles. "Come get dried off."

She shook the water from Miranda's umbrella, then left it in the foyer to dry. Miranda was led into a cheerful dining room. The polished round table was laden with teacups and a plate of coffee cake. A huge bowl of pink roses dominated the center of the table. Dan, Mr. Hooton, and Mrs. Wainwright sat munching coffee cake and talking.

"Morning," mumbled Mr. Hooton, his mouth full.

"Miranda dear," exclaimed Mrs. Wainwright. "A lovely surprise!"

"Hello!" Miranda paused and looked at Mr. Hooton. "I didn't know you had company already..."

"Aunt Ellie wouldn't thank me to call her company," he smiled, wiping crumbs from his lip with a napkin.

"I should say not," said Mrs. Wainwright. "Have a seat, dear."

Mrs. Hooton offered tea, which Miranda declined, but she did accept a cup of hot chocolate and a towel to dry her hair and arms. She sat next to Dan, who raised an eyebrow at her. His expression was dour. She raised her brows back at him.

"Glad you could tear yourself away from your house," he said, as he passed her the coffee cake. Miranda selected a small piece. "We never thought we'd actually get the legendary Miranda Browne into our humble dwelling."

Mrs. Hooton smiled. "Dan's a tease," she said. Miranda would have called him sarcastic and rude, if anyone had asked her honest opinion.

She didn't bother to look at Dan Hooton again but passed the plate on to Mr. Hooton. "Is this your breakfast?" she asked.