Winter Door (4 page)

“Go on, Rage,” the teacher said.

Rage began. She had planned to stumble and mumble so badly that Mrs. Gosford would get impatient and take over reading herself. Instead, once she started reading the words aloud, she was struck by how much easier it was to understand them when you did that. She imagined that she was the Puck she knew from Valley, with his devotion to the witch Mother, declaiming in the grove in the Place of Shining Waters.

“Bravo!” the teacher cried when Rage came to the end of the speech, and applauded rapturously. The other kids clapped, too, and Rage felt the blood rise to her cheeks, realizing that she had made a spectacle of herself—and in front of Logan Ryder. She did not need even to look at him to feel his hatred.

There was a knock at the door and Rage was infinitely relieved—until she saw with dismay that the longed-for visitor was awful Mrs. Somersby. She had disliked the woman since she had tried to bully the Johnsons into putting Rage into a state children’s home after Mam’s accident. Rage sank deep into her seat, hiding herself behind Harry Galloway.

“Class,” Mrs. Gosford said after a quiet word with Mrs. Somersby, “I am afraid we have to end the session a fraction early. I’d like you now to give your attention to Mrs. Somersby, who is the community liaison with the child welfare agency for Hopeton.”

Mrs. Somersby began to speak in her commanding voice about, of all things, the weather. “Class, I do not need to tell you that the dreadful weather this winter has brought this part of the country to its knees. Many of the public bus routes are out of use, and several school buses have been cancelled. Parents have been keeping their children home several days each week, or driving them in the most hazardous conditions. The council, the school committee, and the child welfare organization for our region have sought other means of enabling children from remote parts to attend school.”

Mrs. Somersby held up a piece of green paper. “This sheet is to be taken home by students who live outside the town limits. It explains that a program is being set up to allow these children to live in town during the week and, in some cases, for the remainder of the winter. All other students should take home the pink sheet, which explains the aims of the program in the hope that parents in town will consider offering space in their homes to rural students. The forms on the bottom of both notes should be returned tomorrow. I know it is short notice, but the situation is grave. If there are any questions, your parents or guardians”—her eyes touched on Rage and her mouth twitched in distaste—“can call me using the number at the bottom of the sheet. I will be home this evening and tomorrow morning, and there will be a parents’ meeting before the weekend.”

Mrs. Somersby nodded to Mrs. Gosford, who began to distribute green and pink sheets. As Rage ran her eyes over her own green sheet, she could feel Mrs. Somersby’s eyes boring into her. Of course, there was no way that she would show the notice to her uncle, because he might be glad of the chance to hand responsibility for her over to someone else.

After everything that had happened in English, Mrs. Marren’s news that Anabel was staying in town that night was such a relief that Rage had to fight not to smile as she climbed into the car. It meant a peaceful trip home and again the next morning. Or as peaceful as a trip could be with the twins at one another’s throats.

Only when she was inside did she see that Mrs. Johnson was in the front seat. The old woman greeted Rage fondly and explained that Mrs. Marren was giving her a lift home to save Mr. Johnson the trip down to town when he was feeling poorly. Rage was delighted. Not only would Mrs. Marren be too busy gossiping to ask her usual questions, but she would be bound to take them right up to the top of the hill road.

Tuning out the bickering of the twins, Rage gazed out the window. Her ears pricked up when Mrs. Marren said that if the roads got any worse, she would keep the twins home the next day. Rage hoped the weather would be bad because Uncle Samuel would surely let her stay home if Mrs. Marren was keeping the twins home. She liked school usually, but the thought of not having to see Anabel, Mrs. Marren, the twins, or Logan Ryder and curling up all day by the fire reading, cuddled up with Billy, made her hope for a blizzard. Then she thought that if the weather really turned worse, she and her uncle might be unable to see Mam on the weekend. Rage crossed her fingers hastily to cancel out the previous wish and substituted one for clear, perfect weather for the next four days.

Rage helped Mrs. Johnson from the car when they arrived. She thanked Mrs. Marren, hoping that she would offer to come up to the top of the road in the morning, but Mrs. Marren merely reminded Rage to make sure she was down in time. “I’ll call your uncle if the weather is too bad to go in,” she added.

The wind had dropped, and on their way up the Johnsons’ path, Mrs. Johnson said, “I visited your mam this morning, Rage. Poor thing looks so weak even after all this time.” The wind gave a shriek as they came onto the verandah, and Mrs. Johnson shuddered. “It fair chills my blood to hear the wind moan like that. Sometimes you could swear it was something alive.”

She opened the door and held it ajar for Rage, who was carrying Mrs. Johnson’s overnight case and grocery bags as well as her own schoolbag. Entering the familiar, dim-lit hallway with its faded cherry carpet and striped wallpaper, Rage was startled how small and shabby it looked. Nevertheless, she had a strong impulse to turn up the hall and go into the little bedroom she had stayed in when Mam had first been in hospital. Instead, she set down the case and her schoolbag and took the shopping bag into the kitchen, where she began automatically to unpack it.

“No need to do that, dear,” Mrs. Johnson said, looking pleased and plugging in the teakettle. “Oh well, you do that for me, and I’ll make us a nice cup of tea and butter some scones. I don’t suppose your house will be warm with your poor uncle out mending the fences. Mr. Johnson said on the phone that he went out this morning, even though the weather was so bad.”

“He puts the oil heater in my bedroom on, and the fire will be ready to light,” Rage assured her.

“Oh, I know your uncle takes fine care of you, no matter what anybody says to the contrary. But I just want to remind you that you are welcome here any time. Truth to tell, I missed you something awful when you left, though you only went back next door. The house felt a mite emptier. Even Mr. Johnson said so.”

Rage was touched by the thought that the bad-tempered old farmer might have missed her. On the other hand, his missing her could just as easily be something that Mrs. Johnson had dreamed up. Smiling a little, Rage put the milk in the fridge and the apples in a bowl, just as she had done in the past. Then she sat down and gladly wrapped her cold hands around a mug of tea as Mrs. Johnson carried a tray to Mr. Johnson, who was sick in bed.

Left alone, Rage dug into her pocket and took out Mrs. Somersby’s green form. If she didn’t take it back tomorrow, signed by Uncle Samuel, Mrs. Somersby would telephone. That was the sort of woman she was. If
Rage
signed it for her uncle, saying they were not interested, there was still a possibility that Mrs. Somersby would ring to argue. Uncle Samuel almost never answered the telephone, but if he was in the kitchen when the call came, it might be awkward saying he wasn’t around.

Her head began to ache as it always did when her thoughts went in circles for too long. She was glad to have them interrupted by Mrs. Johnson returning and preparing a plate of scones and jam. “It just came to me, Rage, dear. Why don’t you stay for dinner tonight if your uncle is out? I have a nice pie from the bakery in town, and it will be more than enough since poor Henry says he doesn’t feel up to more than broth.”

Rage hesitated, then shook her head. “I had better not tonight, Mrs. Johnson. I have a lot of homework to do, and Uncle Samuel said he would leave something out for me.”

“You are a good girl, Rage,” Mrs. Johnson said, passing the scones. “So mature and considerate of other people. You’ve grown up such a lot since you stayed with us. Of course, kiddies do grow up fast when they have to cope with such awful things as you have had to bear, and you
were
very young for your age.” She blinked and dabbed at the corner of her eyes with her apron. “Let me wrap up some of those scones for your uncle, then. Skin and bone is all he is and that’s a shame in a man. Of course, he would be better fed with a wife, but I suppose he didn’t meet many likely young ladies in the jungle?”

Rage smiled at Mrs. Johnson’s old-fashioned ideas about men and women and shrugged.

“You’ll be going down to see poor Mary this weekend as usual?” Mrs. Johnson asked.

Mary was Mam’s name, and Rage had to swallow a hard lump before she could speak. “It will depend on the weather.”

“How terrible to have to deal with this winter on top of all of your troubles, my dear!” Mrs. Johnson crooned. “I really thought that poor Mary would heal once she woke from that coma, but they do say these things take time.”

Rage rose to go home, thanking the older woman for her hospitality. She pulled on her thin coat and collected her bag before slipping out into a cold, dark night. It was swirling with wind and wet snow, but Rage was too busy thinking about Mrs. Johnson’s observation that she had grown up a lot to notice.

Rage opened the door of Winnoway homestead to find Billy waiting inside the door. She knelt and put her arms around him, hugging him for a long moment and nuzzling her cold face into his silky fur. Then she stood and flicked on the hall light. Billy followed closely when she padded along to the door leading to the kitchen and sitting room. It was freezing cold in the kitchen, but the fire was set up and it caught at once when she put a match to it. She watched the flame lick along the edges of the crumpled newspapers as she sank to the floor and pulled an old shawl of Grandmother Reny’s around her shoulders. Billy came and sat beside her, radiating his usual warmth. She thought of Anabel Marren and Logan Ryder and wondered what it was about her that so provoked them. Mrs. Somersby seemed to dislike her, too. Was she really so weird?

A picture came into her mind of Mam, who had never fitted anyone’s idea of a mother. Very slight, and younger than most of the other mothers, she had seemed more like an older sister. She wore her glossy black hair short and spiky, and she dressed in dark clothes and flat shoes. People could never imagine that Rage was her daughter because Rage was so blond. The only thing they had in common was their amber-colored eyes. Winnoway eyes—the same color as Uncle Samuel’s eyes and the wizard’s.

Billy licked her, dragging her out of her memories. Then he trotted to the door and gave her a meaningful look over his shoulder. She laughed shakily, remembering that he needed to go out after being locked inside for half the day. Once she opened the back door and Billy trotted out, Rage went back to the kitchen. Her uncle had left a casserole out on the sideboard. One prod at it told her that it was still more than half frozen. Shrugging, she put the casserole into the oven on a low temperature. Then she switched on the radio and set about ironing her shirt for school the next day.

The wind was howling again, and snow flew hard against the window glass by the time she sat down to eat. Despite the delicious smell, she found that she had little hunger. In the end, she scraped most of the food into Billy’s dish. She switched the radio off while she did math homework, and then on again as she washed the dishes. Rage barely heard what was being said until someone began to speak about the death of an expensive stud mare on a farm in the next valley.

“…Initial reports suggest a wolf pack is responsible, but there are some inconsistencies…police are investigating a number of…” The voice crackled into gibberish and Rage threw down the tea towel and hurried to adjust the antenna. “…the weather conditions…,” an older man said suddenly.
An expert,
Rage supposed. A long crackle of static smothered his voice, and then another man’s voice came on, slow and uncertain.
A farmer,
Rage thought. “…telling you them things I saw warn’t no wolves…never seen no wolf with…have you, mister?”

The announcer came back. “That was Mr. Edmund Brewster from Brewster Fresh Eggs, who claims that…” Again the crackle drowned his voice, and then the radio fell silent. Seconds later the phone rang. Rage answered, one hand pressed against her chest to feel her heart knocking against her ribs. It was Mrs. Marren ringing to confirm that she would be driving in the morning, as she had just heard that the weather would clear the next day. Rage thanked her and rang off. She had barely replaced the receiver when it rang again.

“Mrs. Marren?” she asked.

The voice that answered was a male voice. “Can I speak to Rebecca Jane Winnoway?”

“I’m Rebecca Jane,” Rage said, mystified. “Who is this?”

“Ah’m Rebeccah-jay-ne?” A voice echoed her words and puzzled tone, but the mockery underneath was familiar.

“Logan?” Rage asked incredulously.

“Ah well, that would be telling. But let me give you a warning. Watch your back.” She almost laughed, hearing such stupid gangster movie dialogue in Logan Ryder’s voice, except there was nothing funny about being hated.

“What is the matter with you?” she whispered.

“Me?”
Logan snarled, going back to his own voice. “There’s nothing wrong with me.
I’m
normal. You’re the one! Never talking to anyone and reading Shakespeare in your prissy little voice. What a suck! Making that stupid fat cow of an English teacher clap. Making me look like an idiot. You think you’re so special!”

Rage was astounded both by the viciousness in his voice and upon hearing again that she thought herself better than other people. “I don’t—” she began, but the phone on the other end of the line slammed down. As she replaced the receiver, she noticed that her hands were shaking. “I
don’t
think I’m special!” she said aloud.

But the words of the witch Mother floated through her mind.
“There is one here among us…. Child you are, Rage Winnoway, and more than that, too…I did not speak idly before when I said that upon you rests our only hope.”