The Other Page 3

  Silence. Niles stole a glance at Holland. What was he thinking about, with that same strange, almost glazed expression on his face? Hardly to be heard in the abandoned emptiness came the sound of a field mouse, scurrying somewhere in the hay, the acoustics of the barn amplifying each shy rustle.

  “Eee-yaiee! I’m the King of the Mountain!”

  When Russell began climbing the ladder again, Niles stepped into the light, a wide pillar of gold surrounding his figure in the cathedral-like spaces of the barn, his hands clasped thoughtfully under his raised chin. He looked like an acolyte assisting at Mass. Then he turned and, his eyes on Holland’s back, crossed to the great sliding door let into the side of the barn.

  Through that door, on that November day last fall, Father had come, bringing the apple baskets to store below. A dark sullen day, he remembered, not bright as today was, though all the rest was as it should have been. He had been down in the cellar with the lantern, looking up at the patch of light through the trap. With one foot over the edge, Father started down with a basket. Both feet now, and he was halfway down when, hearing a noise, he looked up to see the door, the heavy, iron-bound trapdoor, come crashing down onto his head—the screech of the hinges, the explosion of iron and wood—slamming him down onto the stone floor. Cries of agony. And when the door was raised he lay there at the foot of the ladder, spilled fruit all around, and blood . . . oh, the blood . . .

  “Eee-yaiee!” On the other side of the threshing floor Russell bounced in the haymow. Exchanging a look with Holland, Niles followed him outside. He stood in the small yard outside the granary, and ferreted out the tobacco tin, unconsciously rubbing his thumb over the face of Prince Albert. What was it? He could not get the niggling worry out of his mind; it buzzed around in there like a bee. Apprehensively he recalled his cousin’s face in the apple cellar. It spelled trouble. Well, if it came to that, then tell the truth. But who would believe him if he did? He having come to Holland’s aid, who would come to his? No one. It was all too far-fetched, too grotesque. And that feeling in his stomach, he knew, was fear.

  The granary, a ramshackle attachment to the main barn, overhung a forebay under the cupola, which was the highest point anywhere around, and on its small peaked roof perched the peregrine weathervane.

  Coo-coo-coo-eee. Niles could hear the melancholy sounds of the birds and the brisk rustling of their wings. “Coo-coo-ee,” he answered through cupped hands. Entering the granary, Niles ran up the rickety stairs and stepped into the four-windowed cupola; about him from all sides fell the soft contralto cooing of the fantail pigeons and the brush and spread of their ashy feathers as they waddled about on coral-colored feet.

  He raised a window and looked out. In the upper meadow Mr. Angelini, the hired man, a patch of burnt umber against the yellow grass, was tossing hay into the back of a wagon, his pitchfork catching the sun on its tines. Sally and Old Crow, farm horses older than himself, stood in the field, switching tails against ropy flanks.

  It was premature for haying, but spring had come early this year, billowing up through the valley, melting the snow on the stubble, the ice in the cove, greening the shoots as fast as they popped through the March-thawed earth. And what a spring, the color of lettuce, with early birds everywhere, generous with song. April came dripping forsythia and pussywillow, May saw pink dogwood and the orchard surfeited with bloom, by June the grass was already high and ready for first cutting.

  Niles looked down beyond the orchard to the river, which reflected the clear span of vernal sky. At the bank, under a parasol, a familiar figure bent, gathering flowers into a basket. Along the water’s edge were the cattails, bending to meet their reflections. He thought what an exciting prospect the Winter Kingdom was, if they could just pull it off—and they could, he was sure. Snow in July, snow all summer long, right through until school, when the apples would be put down again. A secret snow. Secret by necessity.

  “I hate to think how many it’ll take.” Holland, lolling at another window, humming on his harmonica, and it was as though he had read his mind.

  “What?”

  “Cattails. Isn’t that what you were thinking, little brother?” His grin was wide and crooked.

  Bravo, Holland—mind reader! Great feats of legerdemain! Niles wasn’t surprised. Holland could more often than not tell what he was thinking; and vice versa. But when would they start, he wondered? With the cattails? As in all things, he would defer to Holland’s decision (Shall we—? Will we—? Want to—? Holland, Columbus, Niles the crew; Holland, Fu Manchu, Niles, trusty henchman; Holland, Charlemagne, Niles, never Roland, but the groomsman, the page, the varlet). Niles stole a look at him surveying something out the window, once tapping the spit from his harmonica into his hand and wiping it on the seat of his pants. Holland? Nothing doing; he was riveted. Niles rambled on by himself. Sure, it’d take a lot, and they’d have to sneak them in, but it’d be worth it: Winter Kingdom in the apple cellar. And all from shredded cattails.

  Holland? What was he thinking? Funny, he hadn’t noticed before, but this year he’d lost that chubby look. His face had narrowed—wolf? No, fox? The chin line had a sculpted flow, the skin turned in flat spare planes over the thin cheekbones, across the broad forehead, the mouth curved and curly, faintly smiling. What’s the joke, Holland?

  Still no reply. Niles made a face to himself and knocked his chin to his shoulder. He went and opened the wire cage that housed Russell Perry’s family of pets, gently lifting one of the white rats into the palm of his hand. He could feel the warm creature quiver as he held it up to the window and lightly fingered the soft downy fur on its back, tickling the pink nose until the whiskers twitched.

  “What about it, Holland, the cattails, I mean?” No; Niles could see he wasn’t really interested, not in that, anyway. Something else was on his mind. Strange, because (watching Holland step across the floor and relieve him of the rat, hold it close to his face, fondle it) usually any new idea would provoke the utmost of his imagination, take Rasputin and the Czar for example. After hypnotizing the Czar (Niles), Rasputin (Russell, enlisted especially and given the starring role) had been dispatched by a Russian noble (Holland), a happy homicide entailing not only pistols but clubs and poisoned cakes as well; poor old Russell had to run and upchuck, but that was the whole idea, wasn’t it, of letting him play? And summer in the apple cellar always saw some such drama. It was good to let young people act out such gruesome pageants; it assured calmer, more healthy minds—or at least so the doctor had declared—that same doctor they had sent Holland to. Murder most foul? By all means, the fouler the better.

  Fascinated, Niles observed the brown hand stroking the furry white rat, then slipping into a pocket to produce a tidbit for it to nibble on. What was he feeding it? Oh, vitamins? He was joking. Yes, just a joke—Gro-Rite pellets, actually. Gro-Rite for stronger healthier rats. Haw haw. Feed ’em, step back, and Bam! A woolly mammoth at least. Russell would be getting 4-H ribbons for his rats. Well, Niles said, he’d never heard of that. Gro-Rite? Oh sure, he’d found it next door at Old Lady Rowe’s. A whole bag, in her garage. Only she caught him crooking it, chased him out; Holland called her a dirty name.

  He chuckled wryly. “And she says she’s going to tell Father—how about that.” He tossed an amused look over his shoulder, down to the meadow where Mr. Angelini was haying.

  “But what about the cattails?” Niles persisted, his mind on the Winter Kingdom. “You said it was a good idea.”

  “It’s good,” Holland said laconically. “But—” He cocked an ear. From down in the hayloft came the cry of Russell Perry at play. Eee-yaiee! I’m the King of the Mountain! “How do we sneak cattails in with him jumping around down there? If he sees us—”

  “—He’ll squeal.” Niles nodded, ruminating. “We could bring them in through the wagon room. We’ll open the Slave Door from the outside.”

  No reply. The rat continued feeding. Niles gave up. Holland was preoccupied. And stubborn—if he didn’t want
, he didn’t want, and that was the end of it. In a while the rat stopped nibbling and lay faintly panting, as though exhausted from its meal. Idly Holland watched it. The pigeons were quieter. Niles tried to dream up something of greater interest than picking cattails. Fishing was no good—Holland got bored sitting around waiting for perch to bite. Was the root beer all gone? Maybe Winnie would let them bring out the enamel tub and mix a batch in the kitchen sink. Or churn some ice cream. But, jeeze, that was work, Holland would say; besides, ice cream was Sunday treat. Or they could go up in the storeroom and play Granddaddy Perry’s old records on the Victrola. Or practice some more magic tricks. Though that morning had already seen secret practice in this regard. Next month was the Firemen’s Fourth of July Carnival. Chan Yu the Disappearing Marvel. With who knew what latest feat of prestidigitation!

  “What’s a hermaphrodite?” Niles asked out of the blue.

  “What?” Holland, who collected big words as others collect stamps or money (though there were collections of these as well), was a million miles away.

  “A hermaphrodite. There was this poster at the drugstore this morning that said they’re going to have a real live hermaphrodite this year. All the way from Malta.”

  “I don’t know what that means. Look it up.” Holland stooped and opened his hands out onto the floor. The rat crawled from his palm, dragging itself to the center of a panel of light where it lay beside a knothole, belly down, tall limply curled, quiescent and scarcely breathing. What was wrong with it? Niles looked down at the lime-speckled planking where the sun melted in a syrupy flow of red and gold around his feet and around the still, white form. Bending, he gently and carefully lifted it up, feeling the faintly throbbing heartbeat across the palm of his hand and wondering, cripes, what could be the matter with it. Water . . . it must need a drink . . . the water in the pan in the cage was stale. Turning to bear the rat away to the pump, he stopped in the doorway, struck by Holland’s cryptic smile. Then his brother had turned his back, stood idly staring out the window, watching where Mr. Angelini worked among the windrows of fallen hay, gathering them onto his fork and tossing them into the wagon. Niles left then, cradling the rat between spread fingers and, a dry whirring of feathers behind him, ran quickly down the stairway, his heart in his mouth; but even before he reached the bottom he felt quite certain that however much water might be provided, it would not be sufficient to restore the rat. The animal would never touch water again.

  Poor rat.

  3

  God damn you, Holland.

  He slammed across the granary yard to the breezeway. In the tool shed he found a Sunshine Biscuit box in the trash can. He laid the rat inside and put the lid on, then took a trowel from a nail on the wall—the one hanging between Mr. Angelini’s red-handled rose shears and the rubber hip boots Father used to fish in—and went to the kitchen garden. Close by, an outside stairway with wooden steps and a white railing rose to the house’s second story. With the trowel he dug a hole, buried the box, and, meditating, slowly covered it over. Oh Holland, you bastard. What a heartless thing to do. Those pellets from Mrs. Rowe’s garage—they weren’t Gro-Rite at all. It was as bad as the cat. Involuntarily his look shifted to the well across the drive. The pulley gear under the peaked roof was rusted with disuse, the bucket hung cracked and leached. Inside, the spring had long ago dried up and there were only puddles around the mossy rocks at the bottom. That and blackness, for now it was covered with a cement slab where toads would sun themselves and garter snakes slough their skins undisturbed, where summer weeds grew tall around it and clover sprang in patches of bright lavender. It looked like an ancient tomb, decaying.

  He thought a moment. Yes—he knew what was needed?—flowers for the grave, a memorial for the dead rat. Quickly he ran and gathered a suitable bunch of clover. He had started back to the tool shed to find a jar to put them in when his eye was attracted by a movement at an upstairs window. A curtain fluttered. Behind it he glimpsed a figure partially hidden by the shadow of the half-raised window; two dark eyes in a dim face peered indistinctly back at him. Like a pale lily a hand bloomed there for an instant, then wilted, a gesture as gossamer as the curtain immediately obscuring it.

  Raising the clover bouquet in front of him, he made a low comic-courtly bow and presented the flowers to the window. Then he started across the lawn to the stairway. At the bottom he looked up to the screen door on the landing above and saw the same lily hand. A figure darted out. Bright slippers of embroidered silk flashed overhead as a slender figure hurried down, looking above and below, now eagerly rushing, now hanging back, reluctant, trembling a little, a light, lilac-colored dressing-gown trailing as she descended to sweep into her arms the astonished boy and to bury her face in the clover he offered.

  “Niles.” Tremulously Alexandra Perry raised her wet eyes from the blossoms to receive her son’s kiss.

  “Oh Mother,” he said, smiling and gently touching the tip of a finger to a tear as it rolled downward, “don’t cry.”

  “Oh darling, I’m not crying!” Chestnut hair becomingly framed the pallor of her face, a spot of color brightening each cheek. The heavy eye makeup was not unattractive and he delighted in her cool fragrance. A bittersweet, will-o’-the-wisp light flickered in her expression, a faintly gleaming mixture of pain and pleasure as she repeated his name, her red lips brushed with a smile. “Are these for me?”

  “Yes,” he lied bravely with scarcely a glance at the newly covered hole in the kitchen garden. “Clover for you.” He touched her cheek, lingering a while in her embrace, making the most of their closeness. He set his head back and looked at her. “Mother!” he exclaimed delightedly, “you came down! You came downstairs again.”

  She laughed. “Yes, darling. It’s not—not so terribly difficult. I was watching you, so busy you were with your trowel, I know, don’t tell me, another bird, wasn’t it, another of your funerals, a robin or an oriole maybe? And then when I saw you picking the clover—”

  Clover, he thought, clover for the rat. He felt like a rat himself, a dirty rat. He looked at the flowers clasped in her trembling hand. If that was all that was needed to bring her from her room, she could have all the clover he could find, bushels of it, bales, wagonloads.

  “How are you, Mother?”

  “Fine, darling, I’m fine.” Putting a finger to her lips she took him by the hand. Together they stole under the horse-chestnut tree where a double-seated glider stood, sheltered by a tattered bit of awning, she sinking languidly onto a creaking slatted seat, he taking the one opposite and leaning in order to hold her hand, his gray eyes fastened on her brown ones, already restless travelers up and down the drive, her mouth moving in nervous, disjointed sentences, her mind veering from subject to subject.

  “What have you been doing today?” he asked, trying to stroke her hand to calmness.

  “Oh.” She waved vaguely. “Reading.”

  “Did you start The Good Earth?”

  “Yes. Pearl Buck. It’s all about China.”

  He nodded. “Miss Shedd thought you might like it. And she’ll be sure to save Anthony Adverse for you next time it comes back. She said it’ll take you a month to read.” When he paused to smile again she adored his sweet, shining look.

  “Niles dear, you’re so thoughtful to be going to the library for me all the time.” There was a huskiness in her voice which he found pleasing, a hoarse, rather actressy sound, quite different from that of most mothers.

  “I don’t mind,” he said. “I like doing it. Miss Shedd says we do more reading in this family than any other in town.”

  “What is Ada reading?” Ada, her mother, his grandmother, was never called anything but Ada by anyone in the family.

  “She’s not, this week. Until she gets the cherries canned. I got another Agatha Christie for Torrie.” Torrie, his wonderful sister, lived here at home with Rider Gannon, her husband of less than one year, and both read a lot of books each month, she addicted to mystery novels while she awai
ted the birth of her first baby, he studying methods of agriculture with an eye to rejuvenating the family onion business.

  “And you, darling, what are you reading now? Still Richard Halliburton?”

  “Yes. I took Royal Road to Romance back and got The Glorious Adventure. But, Mother, Miss Shedd says—” He bit his lip.

  “Yes, dear?”

  “She says, please, if you wouldn’t tear off the corners of the pages as you read them.”

  Her look faltered. “I don’t do that. No one should treat books like that. It’s destructive. Sometimes—sometimes I’m a little nervous, I imagine.” Her eyes darted to the drive, where the cement slab blocked the mouth of the well, where the weeds were tasseling like ears of corn and the clover rioted. “‘A good book is the best of friends, the same today and for ever.’ As the poet says,” she laughed, embarrassed; and in her lap her hand flitted like a caged thing.

  “Come into the kitchen,” he suggested, “we could have some root beer if there’s any left, or Winnie could make some iced tea.”

  “That’s all right, dear, Winnie has enough to do.” She looked up to the washline. “Well, I imagine I must go up again now—”

  “Wait—” He thought quickly, grasping at straws, anything to keep her from running back upstairs. “When are the aunts coming?” he asked conversationally, speaking of his grandmother’s younger sisters who arrived each summer from New York for a country visit.

  “Oh ye-e-s-s,” Alexandra answered, thinking, “now what did Ada tell me? I think they plan to come just after the Fourth of July. And it will be so good to see them, won’t it? Who can that be, so noisy in the barn? Such a rowdy voice.” Botticelli, she was saying to herself, her mind veering again as she looked at his face. Botticelli angel. She brushed his hair back from his eyes. Incredible. They made her catch her breath every now and again. Had she really produced such a child? She leaned to kiss him. “Niles, if you don’t stay out of the sun, I swear your hair is going to go pure platinum, like Jean Harlow’s.” She laughed at the notion and for an instant he glimpsed a flash of her old gaiety.