Time Windows (18 page)

In Loving Memory
LUCINDA WALKER GALWORTHY
Nov 1873–Jan 1904
and
DOROTHY ARABELLA GALWORTHY
July 1896–Jan 1904
Beloved Wife and Daughter of Sigmund Galworthy
"
THE LORD GIVETH AND THE LORD TAKETH AWAY
"

 

"But the Lord didn't take Dorothy away!" Miranda exclaimed aloud. "At least not
then!
Poor Dorothy didn't die in the train wreck with Lucinda—she
couldn't
have! Or else how could she have died in the attic?"

"A very good question," said a low voice at her side. Miranda screamed, leaping up from the grass as if a whole army of ghosts had materialized before her.

"Take it easy," drawled Dan. "I was only agreeing with you!"

She clutched him with relief and buried her face on his shoulder. "God, Dan! That's the second time You've snuck up on me!"

He wrapped his arms around her. "Hey, anything for a hug!"

She pulled away and dropped onto the grass in front of the gravestone. "I was just wishing I'd asked you to come with me! And here you are."

"Your wish is my command." He sat cross-legged next to her and picked a long spear of grass.

"How did you know where I was?"

"I called your house, and your dad said you'd come up here." He stuck the blade of grass in his mouth and spoke around it. "He's worried you're being morbid."

"Do you think I am?"

"We have good reason to be." He examined the gravestone. "Mandy! Don't tell me these are the people from the dollhouse!"

"They are. But, Dan—" She told him about recognizing Dorothy's hair and about Chief Patterson's phone call. "See? I knew it was Dorothy when I saw her—but what the chief says proves it. That girl died at the turn of the century. The calendar in the Galworthys' kitchen said January 1904!"

Dan traced the dates on the stone. "That's when she was killed in the train wreck, right?"

"But we know she didn't really die in the wreck!" Miranda stared at Dan, her thoughts tumbling to be expressed. "Oh, God, do you think
that's
why the dollhouse is magic—? I mean, do you think Dorothy has been haunting the dollhouse because she was trying to tell me she was in the hidden room and wanted to be buried properly?"

Dan lay back and flung an arm over his eyes. "What was she doing in that little room, anyway? I can't believe any of this."

"You've got to believe it! I know, Dan—let's try to ask her."

"
Ask
Dorothy? What are you talking about?" He sat up and glared at Miranda.

"Don't look at me like this is all my fault," she scowled back at him. "It's just an idea."

"You mean sit here in the graveyard and have a séance?"

"Sort of! We'll just try to reach her and ask her how she came to be in that hiding place and what we can do to help her now." She smiled encouragingly. "Come on. How can it hurt?"

He groaned. "I'm beginning to see why you were a social recluse. You were trying to protect your poor neighbors from total weirdness!"

"Listen, nothing was ever weird in my life until the day I moved to Garnet," she retorted. "You've lived here forever, so You've got to help me!"

"I don't follow the logic on that one," he said. "But okay. What do we do first? Light a candle? Find a crystal ball?"

"We hold hands." She had never done anything like this before. Was it even possible to contact spirits? Were there really such things?

"Hey, great!" He grabbed her hands.

"Come on, be serious."

"Right. Sorry. What next?"

"Well—we close our eyes and think about her. You just be quiet now, and let me do the talking."

"Be my guest!" But he held her hands firmly and closed his eyes. Miranda closed hers, too, and sat for a long moment. Somehow, as they sat there, she could feel the teasing draining right out of Dan. She knew he
was
trying now, trying to reach Dorothy. She pictured little Dorothy in her old-fashioned dress, with her long blonde curls tumbling over her shoulders, playing with her ball.

"Dorothy?" she whispered.

But then the image of the withered little body she'd found the day before intruded. She opened her eyes to find Dan looking at her.

"I keep seeing the body," he whispered.

"Me, too," she murmured. "But let's try again."

She closed her eyes, gripped Dan's hands, and drew a deep breath. "Dorothy? Dorothy?" Her voice was louder now. "We want to help you, Dorothy. We know you didn't die in that train wreck. We found you in that awful little room. Can you tell us what we should do now? Shall we have you buried properly here with your mother and father?"

The wind picked up and whispered through the stalks of corn in the fields. The birds sitting on the stone wall took flight, chirping as they flew overhead. Did Miranda imagine it, or was the still, summer air suddenly cooler, alive with—something? She felt Dan try to pull his hands away, but she held his fingers tightly.

"Dorothy? Tell us what to do." But it was hard to picture Dorothy, and hard to concentrate with all the sounds stirring up the old graveyard.

A squirrel chattered at them from the top of a stone in a nearby row. Two bees buzzed past, their hum loud in Miranda's ear. Dan pulled back and opened his eyes, and Miranda opened hers. The whole cemetery seemed alive with the buzzing and humming of insects, the chatter of the squirrels, the chirps of the birds. The wind blew harder, rustling the long grass around the stones.

"She didn't answer," said Dan loudly above the sudden cacophony. "See? End of experiment!" He jumped to his feet.

Miranda stood up and wiped her hands on the seat of her shorts. She walked silently next to Dan, back to their bikes by the stone wall. She couldn't stop gazing all around her at the scolding squirrels, at the birds hopping from stone to stone.

"Sounds like the whole place has come to life!" said Dan, mounting his bike. "I bet we're in for some more rain."

Miranda rode down the hill with the wind in her face, her ponytail flying behind like a long ribbon, her mind in a tangle. She had almost grasped something there in the graveyard, something that slipped away. "End of experiment," Dan had said. But was it? Or had Dorothy answered after all?

The notes Miranda played that afternoon at her flute lesson were not crisp and clear, but blurred and faltering. The lilting piece she was to have learned by heart came out sounding choppy, off-key, with the end forgotten entirely. Miranda found herself blinking back tears. Mrs. Wainwright stopped her and placed a wrinkled hand on Miranda's shoulder. "I don't blame you, my dear," she said. "There's been a lot of excitement up at your house—and not very pleasant excitement, from what I hear. You shouldn't expect yourself to be in top form after such a shock."

At the gentle touch, Miranda's tears flowed, and she put down her flute and sobbed openly. Mrs. Wainwright had her arms around Miranda in a second, patting her on the back. "There, there, let it out now."

"It was awful! I didn't even see the face, but the hair—I just keep seeing it in my mind!"

Mrs. Wainwright sat with her until she stopped crying. "I—I'm sorry," Miranda said finally. "I didn't practice very much this past week, and I meant to work really hard yesterday. But then we found—it. And I forgot all about playing."

"I understand perfectly," said Mrs. Wainwright, her old face creased in sympathy. "Let's just forget about it for now. But I'm hoping to have you ready to play in the autumn concert—you know, that's Garnet's big fund-raiser for the library. So how about if you work on your piece all weekend, and we'll see at our next lesson how you're doing. I want you to be note perfect by this time next week, my dear!"

"I will be," Miranda assured her, feeling much better. Then she said good-bye and left the house. She pedaled down the street as fast as she could, then up the hill toward home.

 

No one had been in the attic since the day before. Miranda hesitated at the top of the stairs, breathing in the hot, foul air that had been released from the tiny chamber. Two fans whirred on high speed; they had been left on all night to air out the attic room. But as far as Miranda could tell, the smell was as strong and as sickening as ever. She tried to push the memory of yesterday's discovery out of her mind. Her throat felt dry.

The atmosphere in the attic had changed. Miranda could now sense the
waiting
that had so repelled her mother. And yet, rather than sending Miranda running away, the dollhouse seemed to be beckoning to her. Once she was behind the dollhouse, in another time, she knew the awful smell would disappear. She would try to find Dorothy, try somehow to ask her how they could help. She settled herself on the cushions and looked through the kitchen windows, hoping for the sugary-spice smell of Hannah's oatmeal cookies.

But what she saw was Iris Kramer chopping onions at the kitchen table. Usually Iris wore soft cotton print dresses with cap sleeves and demure collars, but now she was wearing a dark blue skirt and suit jacket. The jacket fit snugly over her white tailored blouse, and the whole effect was that of a uniform. She chopped the onions into a pile, then reached for a heavy black frying pan crackling on the stove and slid the pile into the hot fat. Andrew stepped into the room, scowling. Timmy and Jeff pushed in behind him.

"Iris?"

"What?" She placed the pan back on the stove and turned to him. "Oh, you brought the boys home?"

"Obviously. I saw them in the front yard playing with the Hooton kids, and they told me Timmy and Jeff couldn't go home until you were home. I asked where you were and was told you'd left the boys with Betty Hooton while you went out to work!" He eyed her suit. "What's going on?"

"Well, I was just about to go over and get the boys myself. I came home only a few minutes ago and wanted to get supper on the stove." She pulled out a chair for him at the table. "Andrew, honey, sit down." The boys grabbed apples from the centerpiece bowl and ran out of the room. "I've been meaning to tell you, dear. I've got a job."

"Iris! Without telling me?"

"I only started just the other day. And it's only three days a week." Her voice tightened. "I should think you'd want me to be happy."

"Iris, of course I want you to be happy. But what is this job? Where do you work?"

"It's right in town. At the bank. I'm a secretary!"

Andrew sat back in his chair and adjusted his glasses. "A secretary! Iris, I didn't know you could type or take shorthand, or that you had any interest at all in office work. We don't need the money, dear. I would really rather you stayed home with the boys."

She glared at him. "Well, I'll have you know I can type very well! And we can always use more money. With this war, who knows when even you might be called up, and then I'd be here without any means of support."

"It's hardly likely I'll be called, Iris. You know how bad my eyesight is." He sighed. "Listen, why the secrecy? What's happening with you?"

She lowered her eyes. Her voice was very soft. "I can't stand it, any of it. This house ... the boys ... I have to get out."

"This doesn't sound like you!" he exclaimed. "You've always told me how delighted you are with our life, with our children. You always used to go on about what a little homebody you are! Honestly, Iris, I sometimes wonder—" he broke off at the sight of her face.

Her eyes were narrowed in fury. Red blotches of color stained her cheeks. She slammed the pan of onions down on the table, narrowly missing Andrew's hand. She hissed at him, "You try to stifle me—to hold me down—but I won't let you. You can't keep me here! I am not your chattel! I
will
work, Andrew Kramer, and you just try to stop me!"

 

Miranda moved back from the dollhouse and leaned against the wall. She felt bone-tired. She rubbed her scalp. Even her hair, she thought, felt tired. This wasn't helping Dorothy at all. Miranda wished she knew what Dorothy wanted from her.

She went downstairs and sat outside on the porch swing. As she rocked, she stared into the darkness of the bushes and listened to the tree frogs. They sounded louder than usual. She remembered the insects and birds and squirrels at the cemetery that morning—remembered, too, her feeling as they left. Maybe Dorothy had given her a message after all. But what could it be?

She had tried to reach Dorothy, tried to ask what she wanted. She had suggested they find a way to have Dorothy buried with her parents. It was then, just then, that all the rustling and buzzing and chirping and humming started. Could Dorothy have caused that to happen?

She looked at her watch. It wasn't too late, really; she would call Dan. Funny how she'd come to rely on him in the past few days. She went inside to the kitchen phone, pausing to stare at the stovetop where, only moments before—or so it seemed to her—Iris Kramer had been stirring onions.

"Can you come over for a few minutes?" she asked Dan. "I need to talk to you. I've been thinking about the cemetery."

"Uh-oh," said Dan. "Sounds like a very
grave
situation."

"Just get over here!" Nothing was funny anymore. She hung up.

On her way back out to the porch to wait, Miranda was stopped by the sounds of quarreling. She closed the screen door gently and sidled back into the front hall. Her parents' voices rang out from behind the closed door of the living room.

Philip sounded exasperated. "Helen, what the hell is wrong with you?
I'm
the one who is currently unemployed, not you! If anyone is going to sit around whining about wanting a fulfilling career, it should be me! You're not making any sense—you don't sound like yourself at all!"

Helen's voice, when it came, was so low and biting that Miranda doubted for a moment that it was her mother in there. "I know what you're trying to do, Phil! You're trying to keep me under your thumb! You think you own me! You try to stifle me—to hold me down—but I won't let you. You can't keep me here! I am not your chattel!"

Miranda backed away, her heart knocking in her chest. Talk about repeat performances! She raced out onto the porch, straight into Dan.