Time Windows (8 page)

Early the next morning the visitors prepared to leave. Uncle Willy sat in the driver's seat looking drawn; Anni and Simon sat quietly in the back. Uncharacteristically, Anni sucked her thumb. Aunt Belle was still in the house with Helen. Uncle Willy honked his horn for her to hurry.

Miranda walked over to the window on Uncle Willy's side. "Have a good trip," she said, not knowing what else to say. No one seemed to know what to say this morning.

"Thanks, honey." His voice was distant.

"The geysers should be fantastic." It was terrible the way no one met anyone else's eyes.

Uncle Willy tapped the horn again shortly and looked toward the house. Helen and Aunt Belle were coming down the porch steps, Helen's arm around Aunt Belle's waist. Miranda moved away from the camper, closer to her mother and Aunt Belle.

"I don't think you should let yourself get too upset about it," Helen was murmuring. "It happened, but no one was hurt, and it isn't so bad you all won't get over it."

"How can I face them, Helen? I'm a monster." Aunt Belle's voice sounded hollow. "Oh, Helen, please believe me. I have never—I never even spanked one of them! You can ask Anni and Simon! What kind of mother would try to do what I wanted to do—and I wanted to, Helen. That's the part I don't understand—I wanted to hurt her! Only a monster would act that way."

"Calm down, Belle. You're no more a monster than I am!"

Aunt Belle did not seem to hear. She spoke listlessly. "It was as if
I
weren't even really saying those things—it was as if I were listening to a stranger..." Her voice trailed off as they reached Miranda. Aunt Belle looked down at the ground, and Miranda suddenly felt sorry for her. Aunt Belle climbed into the camper next to Uncle Willy.

The bustle of good-byes began, but they were hushed, not the boisterous good wishes that usually accompanied departing members of the family.

"Thank you so much, Helen."

"Give our love to Phil—I'm sorry we can't wait till he comes home." The big vehicle lurched backward ever so slightly as Uncle Willy shifted into gear.

"Helen!" Aunt Belle unceremoniously leaned across him in an attempt to reach the window. "Helen, please listen to me. What I told you last night—it's true! It's the
house
"

"Belle! What are you talking about?" Uncle Willy stomped on the brake pedal and pushed her back against the seat. "What's
wrong
with you?" he fairly hissed. "First that outrageous scene last night, and now we're treated to more of your theatrics!"

"Willy," she began, touching his arm helplessly, leaning across him again to the window where Helen and Miranda stood. "Helen, I'm sorry. I am
so
sorry. I don't know what happened to me, I never—"

Anni and Simon glanced at each other, then bent down to search for a game to play on the trip.

"Enough, Belle!" Uncle Willy backed the camper slowly. "Bye, Mandy; bye, Helen. Belle! Sit down, for God's sake!"

The camper swung out onto the road. Helen and Miranda raised their arms to wave, and Belle's last broken cry reached their ears: "It's the house—!"

 

As the camper disappeared around the bend, Helen and Miranda dropped their arms. Helen's shoulders sagged.

"Mither? What did she mean about the house?"

"I don't know, Mandy. She stayed in our room with me all night. She said she was afraid."

"Afraid of what? Of Uncle Willy?"

"N-no." Helen hesitated. "I think she was afraid of—of herself."

"Herself?" Miranda pondered this for a moment. "Afraid that she might try to hurt someone else, you mean?"

They spoke quietly, hesitantly, as if afraid voicing such thoughts would bring back the trauma of the previous night. Helen ran her hands through her curly hair.

"She didn't sleep all night. Every time I woke up and looked at her, she was just staring at the ceiling. I asked her what was wrong—and she said we should get out of here."

"Get out?"

"Move out of this house. She said she felt it wasn't safe."

"But,
why,
Mither?"

Helen turned an anguished face to Miranda. "Oh, Mandy, you saw what happened to Belle last night. You saw what she tried to do to Anni! Belle is the most gentle person in the world—you know that as well as I do. She would never lift a finger to one of her own children. I don't understand. It wasn't like Belle. It doesn't make sense."

"But why did she say our house isn't safe?" Miranda continued to probe.

Helen touched Miranda's cheek. "Belle thinks the
house
wanted her to beat Anni. And she thinks we should move so that the house won't make us hurt each other."

Miranda shivered in the hot morning sun. "I don't get it. That sounds crazy."

Helen bit her lip and stared at the house. The sun glinted gold off the attic windows. "I don't get it, either," she said and turned to go inside.

 

That night Philip arrived home with Nicole. After exuberant rejoicing in the downstairs hall, the two girls carried Nicole's suitcase up to Miranda's bedroom.

"I can't believe this! I demand a tour of your mansion right this second," said Nicole. "Our whole apartment would fit in your bedroom!"

They set off through the rooms. Nicole's excited exclamations—"Oh, it's beautiful! What a huge fireplace! How cool. A garden with real trees ... and all those flowers!"—made Miranda feel proud, as if she herself were personally responsible for the spaciousness of the rooms and the wild abundance of the garden. As they returned to Miranda's room, they passed the attic door. Nicole stopped, her hand on the knob. "What's in here?"

"Oh, that's just to the storage area." She felt the same reluctance now that she'd felt with Anni and Simon. No one must go into the attic. It was hers alone.

Nicole flung open the door. "Oh! Storage! This goes to the attic." She started up the steps. "Let's see."

"Well, we do store stuff up here...," Miranda muttered hesitantly, following along behind her. Then, suddenly, the lure of the attic reached out to Miranda, practically pulling her up the stairs. But Nicole stopped abruptly at the top.

"Never mind! Let's forget it."

"What?"

"Let's go down."

"Why? What's the matter?"

"Nothing." Nicole shrugged her shoulders and mustered a careless tone. "It's just—dark."

Miranda flicked on the light. "Begone, spooks!"

Nicole stepped cautiously into the attic and peered around the big room. "Not much to see. Let's go back downstairs."

But Miranda moved across the room to the dollhouse as if pulled by a string. Nicole followed. "Oh!" she cried. "It's an exact copy of
this
house, isn't it?"

Miranda crouched behind the house and looked into the dollhouse attic without answering. Nicole was standing directly on the other side, marveling at the tiny details of brick and ornate porch railings, panes of glass, the brass door knocker. But through the attic windows Miranda could not see her. Instead she was looking into the whitewashed attic playroom of the little girl. Miranda felt the Tightness of being back with the house, and she sank slowly onto her knees, keeping her eyes riveted on the tiny attic. Snow fell outside the windows in thick flakes. The room was empty, but Miranda heard footsteps clattering up the stairs and the shrill sound of a child's wailing.

"Nicole," whispered Miranda. "Come look at this!"

The attic door was thrown open, and the regal-looking woman Miranda remembered from the 1904 kitchen stormed into the room trailing an overpowering scent of magnolia perfume and dragging little Dorothy by the arm. The girl wore only a thin white petticoat and was shivering from cold as well as fear.

"Oh!" gasped Miranda as the sickening terror washed over her, pounding at her temples. She clenched her teeth and did not turn away.

"Mandy!" Nicole's voice, sharp and worried, reached her ears. "Hey! What's wrong with you?"

"Ssshhh!" hissed Miranda, fighting down nausea and not taking her eyes from the scene. "Wait a minute and watch!"

"Watch
what?
What are you doing?"

"I'll just be a minute."

Dorothy fell to the floor as her mother shoved her into the room. "Mama!" she shrieked.

"I've had it with you." Lucinda's cold voice made Miranda shiver. "I don't want any more nonsense. Now stay up here until you can be a pleasant, well-mannered child."

"I'm going down, Mandy." Nicole's voice came from far away. She sounded angry. "I'm going to have your dad take me back to New York tonight—right away!"

"Oh, wait, Nicole! Look through the attic windows—"

"What's
wrong
with you?"

"Sssshhh! Shut up!"

Lucinda stepped back from the crying child and smoothed her hands over the skirt of her dressing gown. "Dorothy," she said to the crumpled child at her feet. "You will stay here until you can learn deportment. I will not have a clumsy, disobedient child in this house!" She stalked across to the door, the heavy robe swishing behind her. A moment later she was out of the room, pulling the door shut. An iron key grated in the lock. In a flash Dorothy was on her feet, flying to the door.

"Mama, Mama!" she screamed, kicking the heavy door with her small, bare feet. "Let me out!"

At that moment Miranda was wrenched sharply away from the dolllhouse. Nicole glared at her, one hand tight on Miranda's T-shirted shoulder.

"Miranda Browne, you are the
worst
hostess in the world!" she shouted. "I come all the way from New York to visit you and instead of talking to me, you sit up in a spooky old attic and stare into a stupid dollhouse!"

"Nicole, I'm sorry..." Miranda felt a bright flush start up her cheeks. "I was just—"

"Just
nothing!
You were totally ignoring me!"

"No, I was watching—" She stopped and lowered her head. "I'm really sorry, Nicole."

"I thought we were still best friends, Mandy!" Nicole stormed out of the attic and clattered down the stairs.

Miranda hesitated, hating herself for having been rude, yet wanting to stay at the dollhouse to learn what happened to poor little Dorothy. She stooped for one last look but encountered only the black curtained attic windows of the other family. Sighing, she brushed off her shorts and hurried down the steps after Nicole.

She found her friend in the living room. Helen and Philip looked up when Miranda entered the room, and Philip put aside the magazine he had been reading. "Mandy," he began, "Nicole is very upset—"

"Please don't go," Miranda begged. "I was just—daydreaming! I'm sorry. I
said
I was sorry."

"You looked like you were watching television or something," Nicole said in a small voice.

"Please stay, dear," said Helen. "Mandy has apologized, and I'm sure she didn't mean to be rude. I know—why don't you come with me to the kitchen, and we'll make everyone a snack. Then you and Mandy can start catching up on each other's news."

Nicole followed her out of the room, looking back once at Miranda.

Philip shut the living-room door. "What's up, Mandy?"

Miranda shrugged.

"You've been spending an awful lot of time up in that attic," he pressed. "Why?"

"I just like it."

"Well, look. We've invited Nicole for the whole week—and I'm going to ask you to stay out of the attic until she's gone. How about it? You two must be able to find plenty to do around here without having to sit up in the attic."

She couldn't let him see how great a sacrifice it would be to stay away from the dollhouse that long. She shrugged again. "Sure, Dad. Don't worry." But she knew she'd have to go to the attic. It was like an addiction, this fascination of hers. Forbidden or not, she must watch.

In the kitchen, Miranda pulled out a chair at the table and plucked a grape from Helen's edible centerpiece. Nicole kept her back to Miranda and stood at the stove watching Helen fry cheese sandwiches in the heavy skillet. Philip sat across the table from Miranda; just above his head was the exact place where the 1904 calendar hung.
Had hung,
Miranda corrected herself mentally. Past tense. An uncomfortable silence filled the kitchen; no one spoke until the smell of burning bread wafted through the room and Helen exclaimed, "Damn! I've burned yours, Mandy!"

The stove stood in the same corner of the kitchen where Lucinda's cast-iron "monster" had stood. The smell of burning bread was the same smell that permeated this same kitchen almost eighty-five years ago. The sense of déjà vu left Miranda feeling giddy. "What do you mean, you burned 'mine.' Do I get a special one?"

"Yours doesn't have any tomatoes, of course."

"It doesn't? Why not?"

"You don't like tomatoes. You know that, Mandy."

"What are you talking about, Mither?" Miranda stared at Helen. "I love tomatoes!"

Helen glanced over her shoulder. "Nonsense. You've always hated tomatoes."

Miranda's eyes widened. Tomatoes were her very favorite vegetable. Helen had, in fact, bought extra tomato plants for the garden just to satisfy Miranda. If Helen had said Miranda didn't like chocolate cake or flute music, Miranda could not have been more surprised. "Mither," she said softly. "I've always
loved
tomatoes. Spaghetti with your homemade Bolognese sauce is my favorite dinner." She turned to Philip. "Right, Dad?"

He nodded.

There was another long silence in the kitchen. Miranda looked at her mother's stony face and her father's clouded one. She wasn't sure what made her say what she said next: "Dad, do you think old houses keep the personalities of people who once lived in them?"

"Like ghosts, you mean?" asked Nicole.

"No, not exactly. I mean, do you think an old house can have a special atmosphere?"

Philip smiled slightly. "I suppose so, Mandy, but I don't know how the house would get the atmosphere in the first place. I mean, through the years so many people live in a single house before it falls to pieces—you couldn't have impressions left of all of them ... or could you? I don't know."

"Well, have you noticed that our house has an atmosphere?" Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Helen had grown quite pale.