Time Windows (3 page)

"Does it seem all work and no play?" Helen asked sympathetically. "I know. But once we get this place cleaned up, it will really feel like home. You'll have time to meet the neighbors after lunch, I promise."

Miranda shined a window with crumpled newspaper. The windows looked out onto the large expanse of pine woods that bordered their property. The trees on that side were quite dense; she could barely see the house across the street through them.

While Miranda worked on the windows, Helen stacked boxes under the eaves. She brought up a broom and swept the cobwebs and dirt from the beams. Soon the large attic room grew lighter and less gloomy. It smelled fresher from the cleaning.

"I'll go down and make lunch," Helen said after a while. "Can you finish up here and come down in about ten minutes?"

"Sure. I'm starving." And then Miranda was alone in the attic.

She finished the last window quickly, then blew the heavy curls off her forehead. It was stuffy even with the windows open. She stood up and shuffled around the attic, stopping to straighten a pile of blankets in plastic bags, and then she wandered over to the dollhouse.

In the light of day now streaming though the clear windows, she saw the little house was older than she had thought and some of the tiny porch railings were loose. She walked behind the house and knelt on the floor so she could see into the rooms. When she raised herself onto her knees, her eyes were just level with the dollhouse attic. She examined the black-crayoned writing on the floor. WATER. She puzzled over that for a moment. Then she peered out through the dollhouse attic windows into her own attic—at the suitcases now lined up under the eaves, the stack of lamp shades, the dressmaker's dummy...

The dressmaker's dummy!

Miranda jumped to her feet and stared over the roof of the house.
There was no dressmaker's dummy!
She sucked in her breath. It must be the heat in the attic. It was making her see things. But when she crouched down again and peered out into the big attic through the little windows, the dressmaker's dummy was standing there in the corner by the windows, next to a large, old-fashioned wooden trunk. She did not have to stand up and look over the house again to know that her family had brought no such trunk with them. She would have tripped over that trunk, if it had been there, when she stood in that same corner cleaning the windows...

The windows. The windows she saw in the dressmaker's dummy's attic were dark. They were covered with black cloth. And the rags and crumpled newspaper and the bucket of ammonia water she'd left on the floor—where were they? The low bookcases beneath the windows—the ones she had just washed clean—were draped in cobwebs, their shelves filled with musty books and toys.

Miranda closed her eyes. "When I open my eyes," she thought desperately, "everything will be okay. Please,
please
, let everything be okay."

She opened her eyes and peered through the little windows again. And there in the big attic stood the dressmaker's dummy.

"Help," whispered Miranda. She suddenly felt afraid, too afraid to stand up and run out of the attic. No way could she cross the floor, walk past the dummy that shouldn't be there at all ... She sat back on her heels, eyes tightly shut again. "Please, please..."

"Mandy!"

Her eyes flew open and she held her hands to her mouth, stifling a gasp.

"Mandy, lunch is ready!" Helen's voice wound up the stairs, reaching out to her as she cowered behind the old dollhouse.

"Mither?" Miranda's voice was unsteady. She stood up, ready now to run.

As she stepped away from the dollhouse, the room came back into focus. Normal. Okay. There were the clean windows. The stack of blankets. There were the rags and crumpled newspapers and the pail of ammonia water. Miranda stood poised for flight, and then she stopped. Was she crazy? She held her breath, ducked once more behind the dollhouse, and closed her eyes. "I dare you," she said aloud. "I
double
dare you!" Then she opened her eyes and stared out through the little windows. There were the dressmaker's dummy, the wooden trunk, the windows covered in black cloth. She stood up again. Normal!

 

"You've been a big help," said Helen. "Go on out for that bike ride. Maybe you'll meet the neighbors."

Somehow the neighborhood held less promise now. Miranda couldn't take her mind off the dollhouse up in the attic, waiting for her as she ate her sandwich.

"It's getting too hot up there," protested Helen.

But Miranda carried the fan upstairs and set it to work stirring the heavy air around. She wanted to be alone in the attic. She knelt at first in front of the house and looked through the windows into the tiny rooms. Nothing unusual there; just the inside of the house and, beyond it, the corner walls of her own life-sized attic room. Then she picked up some of the crumpled newspapers and stuffed them into the dollhouse attic. She knelt in front of the house again and looked in through the little windows. Okay, nothing weird there; the balls of paper lay in the dollhouse exactly where she'd put them.

But now for the real test. She removed the papers from the house and arranged them carefully on the floor about three feet from the front of the structure. Then she stationed herself behind the house and lowered herself onto her knees. "It was only the heat before," she assured herself, resting her arms on the dollhouse attic floor and peering out through the tiny windows at the spot on the floor where she had put the balls of crumpled paper.

She drew back with a sharp exclamation of horror. Instead of the wads of paper, a little girl stood in front of the dollhouse, bouncing a red-and-blue ball and trying to hit it with a small wooden bat. Miranda flung herself backward, her heart pounding. A wave of terror washed over her and pulled at her stomach like a salty undertow.

I'm going to die!
screamed a voice in Miranda's head. Was that her voice? The terror was pure, unadulterated. She wrenched her eyes away from the dollhouse windows, and her own attic swam once again before her eyes. She rose shakily to her feet. The wads of paper were in front of the little house just where she had placed them.

Miranda was sweating, but her mouth felt parched. She kicked the paper across the floor. It was true! Somehow, it was true. When she looked outward through the little windows of the dollhouse attic, her own attic disappeared. The place she saw was another place, a different attic. Even with her back to the little house now, she could feel it there. She felt compelled to turn back to the dollhouse, to walk behind it. The terror was still churning in her stomach, but it was milder now. She forced it down and rested her elbows again on the ledge of the dollhouse attic. She looked out through its tiny windows.

In the big attic the little girl tossed the ball into the air and lunged after it with the bat. She appeared to be seven or eight years old, and she wore a striped blue dress with long puffed sleeves and a starched blue sash tied in an oversized bow at the back. Her long blonde hair was pulled into two pert braids tied at the ends with blue ribbons. On her feet she wore shiny black shoes that covered her ankles and were fastened with a long row of tiny black buttons. Miranda drank in all these small details with the same sudden thirst with which she'd taken in the details of the room beyond. The terror was gone now. In its place Miranda felt a need to see everything.

The walls were bright with whitewash. The low bookcases lining the walls under the windows were also white and filled with toys. The little girl swatted at the ball, and this time she managed to hit it with her bat—
thwap!
— and went running after it, squealing with laughter.

Miranda found herself smiling and standing up to go over to the girl, her lips forming the question: "Who are you?"

But her question fell on an empty attic. As soon as she stood up, she was alone in the attic once again. And the attic was her own.

She crouched again, but when she looked back out through the little windows the child was gone. And the attic she saw was dim and dusty. The dressmaker's dummy stood sentry in the far corner under the eaves, draped in cobwebs. The low bookcases were filled with the child's toys, but now they were grimy and mildewed. Miranda recognized the ball and bat on the top shelf. Outside the tiny attic windows, it was raining. Miranda listened to the pattering drops for a moment, then cautiously peeked around the side of the house. The day outside
her
newly scrubbed attic windows gleamed fresh and bright in the summer sun. She focused back through the dollhouse.

Through its little windows she could see the larger windows of a different attic—another one? She could see rain pelting the glass, droplets running in rivulets down the panes. Where was the little girl? How many attics could there be?

Someone was climbing up the attic stairs. Miranda heard the footsteps and watched as the knob on the stairway door turned. Left. Right. Then she heard a piping voice. "Mommy, it's locked."

She didn't need to glance over the top of the dollhouse to know that the attic door in
her
attic stood open. And the latch was broken. The doorknob rattled. Someone on the other side coughed. "There's no key," said a woman's voice, not Miranda's mother's. "Run down and tell Daddy to bring up a crowbar."

"Will we have to break down the door? Will we, Mommy?" asked a child's excited voice.

"No, Timmy. Just the lock."

More footsteps on the stairs, and a man's low voice. Then banging, and the scrape of metal. Miranda pressed her hands down on the dollhouse attic floor. They were going to break in! Whoever they were, they would be in the attic in another minute.

The door flew open and two little boys about four and five years old tumbled into the room, followed by a slender, gentle-looking woman with soft brown hair waved around her face and a tall, thin man with black hair. Miranda stared in astonishment, but these ghosts—if that's what they were—induced no terror at all.

"Look, Mommy!" called the younger boy as he raced around the room. "What a mess!"

"I'll bet there are loads of spiders and stuff," called the other boy, beaming a large flashlight into the corners.

"Ugh, what filth!" said the woman. "Don't touch anything, boys." She looked around with distaste, then turned to the man. "This looks like it was a playroom once. I can't imagine why it was left locked up. Can you?"

He shook his head. "No, but I'm beginning to think old Uncle Sigmund was pretty eccentric. His lawyer said he locked the place up and just left everything to rot, and he wouldn't even hear of selling anything or letting anyone else move in."

"It's sad," she murmured. "He must have really become disturbed after his wife and child died."

"Apparently he never got over it. Just became a recluse—lived all alone in a rooming house in Boston. Even my own mother didn't see him for years, and she had always been his favorite sister. I can't imagine why he decided to leave the house to me in his will."

"Probably because you're his favorite sister's son!" she said, crossing to the windows. "It's so lucky for us! Look at the garden—all that space! Such a perfect place for the boys."

He looked out over her shoulder. "Lots of room for that vegetable garden you've always wanted."

"True—but we've got to make the house habitable first," She turned back to survey the room. "Imagine letting everything just decay!"

"Can this be our playroom, Mommy? There are lots of funny toys!" The older boy held up a tin figure. "What does this do?"

The man crossed the room to him. "It's an old penny bank!" he exclaimed. "An organ grinder with a monkey. They were popular when I was a boy."

The smaller boy was still rummaging through the shelves. "Look at this!" he crowed, holding up the dusty bat and the red-and-blue ball. "Can we play with this stuff?"

"Yes, Timmy," said his mother. "But we have to take it down and wash it first." She looked at the man. "What about these windows? Do you think light might shine out them from the hallway downstairs?"

"Probably not. Not if we close the doors at the top and bottom of the stairs."

She hesitated. "Well—I've got a lot of cloth. Maybe I should make up some curtains. Just to be safe."

"How come we have to have black curtains all over the place?" asked Timmy. "They're so ugly!"

"There's a war on, stupid!" answered his brother scornfully.

"No name calling, Jeff," warned their father. "Timmy, when the windows are dark at night, then any planes flying overhead won't see the lights from houses. They won't know there's a town down here and won't bother dropping any bombs. The planes fly at night so we won't see them, and we want to make sure they can't see us, either."

Timmy's voice quavered. "But why do people want to drop bombs on us?"

"Because they're the enemy, dopeface!" said Jeff. "Enemies always try to kill everybody!"

"I said, no name calling," repeated the man.

"But why is there a war?" Timmy persisted.

"Boys, come look at this big dollhouse," said the woman. Miranda cringed as she saw them coming. They came closer and closer until she could see the chocolate ice cream stain on the smaller one's shirt. The older boy stood on tiptoe to look in the attic windows, and suddenly his brown eyes were centimeters away from Miranda's own. She froze, petrified. She could see the freckles across the bridge of his nose, but he didn't seem to see her at all.

"Hey, look!" he called to his father. "It's just like our house, only little!"

He disappeared suddenly from Miranda's range of vision.

"Let's see the inside," said the woman. Miranda watched as the woman's skirt moved outside the attic windows. When the skirt disappeared, Miranda caught her breath. They must have gone behind the house—must be standing right where she was kneeling, looking right down at her

Trembling, Miranda raised her eyes—and saw no one.

When she looked back through the little attic windows, the real attic was empty and the windows were covered by black curtains. "I missed it," she said to herself. "They made the curtains and hung them up and went away in just the second it took me to look up!" She leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. The energy that had held her to the dollhouse windows, kept her an avid observer, was gone. She felt drained.