The Great Unexpected Page 5

  I had no recollection of my mother, of course, and only a faint one of my father. I do not remember the events of “the day of the dog,” but I do remember the fear. I know only what has been told to me.

  My father and I lived in a small cabin at the back of Joe and Nula’s property. I was three years old, playing in the yard, chasing a chicken. My father was sitting on the porch steps, stringing beans. From out of nowhere a stray dog bounded into the yard, sending the chickens flapping. Apparently I squealed, thinking this was a game, and ran toward the dog. The dog must have been spooked, or maybe it thought I was a big chicken. It lunged at me, catching my arm in its jaws and flinging me left and right.

  My father saved me from the dog but was badly bitten in the process. We both were hospitalized. I was released to Joe and Nula a week later, but my father never left the hospital. He died there.

  I once heard Nula explain this to one of my teachers. “She didn’t have anybody else, did she? We were going to look after her until somebody who might be related to her showed up, but nobody ever did.”

  I couldn’t tell how Nula felt about this arrangement. Nula didn’t sound happy and she didn’t sound angry, but from then on I wondered what would happen if someone showed up one day and claimed me. Would Nula and Joe have to—or want to—hand me over?

  For several years, there were photos of my parents in my bedroom. Nula used to say to me, “This is your mother, and this is your father,” and I could readily point to these photos and repeat “mother” and “father,” but that’s all the association I had. To me, “mother” and “father” were photographs. I could have clipped faces of two strangers from magazines and framed them. Mother. Father.

  A photograph in Nula’s room showed a young Nula, maybe seven years old, with an older sister. The two of them looked so much alike. They wore coarse dresses and were barefoot and had their arms wrapped around each other and smiled freely into the camera.

  “That was before I was sent away,” Nula once said.

  “Sent away? Why?”

  Nula’s face took on a hard look. “Because we had nothing,” she said, “and those who had nothing—no food, no milk, no clothing beyond what we had on, no money at all—those who had nothing could be sent, or given, away.”

  I worried over this information. “We have food, don’t we, Nula? We have some money, don’t we?”

  “Today we do, yes. Today we have food and a roof over our heads.”

  “And tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow,” Nula said, “is tomorrow.”

  Nula used to read to me. I remember especially a series of tales in which a boy and girl could become various beings—bear, fox, eagle—merely by wishing it so. One morning, Nula showed me a book of dinosaurs and other prehistoric creatures, the most appealing of which was a pteranodon, a flying reptile, and later that day I announced that I was going to become a pteranodon.

  “A pteranodon?” Nula said. “My, my. And how will that happen?”

  “I’ll wish it.”

  “You will, will you?”

  I closed my eyes and said, “I wish, I wish, with all my might, to be a pteranodon.”

  When I opened my eyes, Nula said, “Guess it didn’t work.”

  “Not yet. In the morning I will be a pteranodon. I will be able to fly. I will fly, fly—I wonder where I will live?”

  I must have gone on like that for some time because eventually Nula said, “Naomi, you know you won’t really wake up as a pteranodon, don’t you?”

  “But I will. I wish it with all my might.”

  “You can’t actually turn into a pteranodon—”

  “I can! I will! I wish, I wish, with all my might—”

  “You won’t. I’m sorry, but you won’t. You can wish it, but you will not be able to turn into a pteranodon.”

  I was inconsolable, as if it were Nula herself who was preventing me from obtaining my wish.

  When I woke the next morning and saw that I was not, in fact, a pteranodon, I felt as if I was also no longer the Naomi who had gone to bed the night before. I was different, Nula and Joe were different, the world was different. I think this is when I knew absolutely that I had no mother and no father and I would never have them again.

  A year or two later a teacher read a story about a young knight on a quest. I remember none of the story except that the description of the knight’s shining armor and his sturdy horse and the golden woods drew me in, and while the teacher read, I was the knight on the horse riding through the golden wood. I was that knight as surely as I was ever anyone else. I saw what he saw, felt what he felt, and when the teacher stopped reading I could not move because I was still in the book. Unable to rouse me from that dreamy state, the teacher sent for Nula.

  I told Nula the story of the knight and his glimmering armor and the golden woods. She said, “Naomi, you know that is a story, don’t you?”

  “But what is ‘a story’? It’s in here now”—I tapped my head—“with all the other stuff, so maybe everything is a story.”

  That night, I went to sleep supremely happy. If I could be a knight, then I could be a pteranodon, or I could be an eagle or a bear or a fox, or anything at all, and I could dwell where I pleased and do what I pleased, and if I wanted to have a mother, I could have a mother, and if I wanted to have a father, I could have a father. I could do and be and have all these things; I could be anywhere and everywhere.

  CHAPTER 20

  FINNS

  At dinner, we had sandwiches because the power was still out. “That Witch Wiggins,” Joe said. “Somebody must’ve riled her up good. Maybe it was that Finn boy of yours, that one who fell out of a tree. You seen any more of that boy?”

  “Yes, and you know what he wanted to know? He wanted to know where Elizabeth Scatterding lived. Elizabeth!”

  “That’s Lizzie’s full name?”

  “Yes. Elizabeth Scatterdinghead.”

  “My, my,” Nula said. “Am I hearing a wee bit of bother?”

  “What’s he doing calling her Elizabeth and how does he know that’s her real name and why does he want to know where she lives? Not that I care.”

  “No, no, why would you care?” Nula said. “Shall I tell you about the Finn I knew? He sounds like your Finn, he does. Do you know your Finn’s last name?”

  “He’s not my Finn, and no, I don’t know his last name.”

  The lights flickered; the power was back on. Nula did not seem to notice.

  “Let me tell you about my Finn, Finn McCoul, though Finn wasn’t even his real name, but that’s another story. So into Duffayn one bright summer’s day strolls a handsome young lad, calls himself Finn McCoul, and doesn’t he flatter me, and doesn’t he not notice me dirty smock or me bare feet? And doesn’t he bring the meadow flowers and doesn’t he say he will come into money when he is sixteen, so much money, and land, too? Doesn’t he say so?”

  Joe was nodding as if he had heard this before.

  Nula’s chin rested on the fingertips of one hand, daintily. “And doesn’t he notice me older sister, too, and doesn’t he flatter her, and doesn’t he bring her meadow flowers and tell her he will come into money and land in two years’ time, doesn’t he say so?”

  Joe says, “The charmer.”

  “The charmer indeed, indeed. I thought him such a fine young lad and I was blinkered.”

  “Blinkered?”

  “I could not see properly. He turned out not to be a fine young lad, didn’t he, that Finn McCoul, and his name was not even properly Finn.”

  “What was it?”

  “Paddy. Paddy McCoul.”

  The lights blinked; the power went out again.

  That night, after I’d gone to bed, Nula leaned into the room. “’Night, Naomi lass, and don’t think about that Finn boy. Put him out of your mind.”

  “Who? I don’t know who you are talking about.”

  “Good.”

  I closed my eyes and despite my best efforts, one word and one face swirled a
round my head: Finn, Finn, Finn, Finn, Finn, Finn, Finn.

  CHAPTER 21

  ACROSS THE OCEAN: THE BRIDGE

  MRS. KAVANAGH

  Pilpenny wheeled Mrs. Kavanagh’s chair to the edge of the Crooked Bridge, which crossed, in its zigzag fashion, a narrow river. Mrs. Kavanagh’s dogs, Sadie and Maddie, had run on ahead.

  “How clear the water is today, Pilpenny. So refreshing, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, ’tis. You can see every pebble, every minnow.”

  “Are you ready, Pilpenny? Faster than last time, if you can.”

  Pilpenny bent her knees and set off trotting behind the wheelchair, swerving at each sharp turn of the bridge. Left, right, right, left, right, left.

  “Whoopsie, don’t send me through the rails, Pilpenny.”

  “’Twould serve you right, you goose.”

  “Whoo!”

  Once on the other side, it took the women a few minutes to slow their breathing.

  “That silly old Master,” Mrs. Kavanagh said at last. “I don’t think this foolish bridge saved him from the evil spirits in the end, do you, Pilpenny? The evil spirits would have to be terribly dim to fall off the turns as he had hoped.”

  “The stars shone on his son, though, didn’t they, Sybil? Albert was nothing like the Master, thanks be.”

  “Ah. Albert. Sweet Albert.” Sybil raised her left hand, adorned only by a simple gold band. “Nothing like his father the Master. Sweet Albert.”

  At the entry to the orchard stood an elegant wrought-iron gate flanked by two tall iron pillars. Perched atop each pillar was a black iron rook. Pilpenny pushed the wheelchair along the center path, past the aged apple, plum, and pear trees, past the sundial and the fairy ring. The trees were in full leaf, the young fruit small. The dogs circled in and out, chasing squirrels and baying at trees.

  When the two women paused at the end of the path, Mrs. Kavanagh gestured toward the meadow beyond. “There, I think. That would be a good spot, don’t you agree, Pilpenny? If all goes well. I am eager to hear from Dingle. Perhaps tomorrow he will phone.”

  CHAPTER 22

  I DON’T CARE

  One of the first things I decided when I woke up on Monday morning was that I was not going over to Lizzie’s. She could come to me. I was not going to ask about Finn. She could tell me in her good old time. I was not going to appear interested. I didn’t care.

  I fed the chickens.

  I didn’t care.

  I told Nula that I was going to begin cleaning the barn.

  I didn’t care.

  I walked into the barn, turned around, went back to the house, told Nula I had a quick errand to do, and took off for Lizzie’s, running, until I was a block away, and then I slowed to a walk.

  Be calm, I told myself.

  Mr. Cupwright came to the door. He said Lizzie wasn’t home.

  “Where is she?”

  “Don’t know. None of my business.”

  “But she’s your …” I took a step backward. “I don’t suppose you happen to know if a boy named Finn came by here yesterday?”

  “Who?”

  “Finn.”

  “Thin?”

  “Finn. Ffff-inn.”

  “Don’t know. None of my business.”

  I stomped all the way home.

  I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care.

  As I passed Tebop’s store, I wondered why people had made such a fuss about the stranger Dangle Doodle but no one had mentioned the stranger boy Finn yet, at least not that I had heard.

  “Kids,” Mrs. Tebop liked to say, “are supposed to be invisible.”

  I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care.

  CHAPTER 23

  THE FIRST UNFORTUNATE SOUL

  For the assault on our first unfortunate soul, Lizzie and I met Mrs. Mudkin at her church and walked from there to old man Canner’s house on Elm Street. Lizzie had not said one word about Finn’s visiting her on Sunday, and I was getting mighty rattled. She acted as if nothing whatsoever were wrong.

  “Lar-de-dar,” she sang. “Mr. T. Canner, lar-de-dar, we are coming for you, lar-de-dar.”

  Lizzie was walking alongside frail Mrs. Mudkin to hold her upright.

  “Now girls,” Mrs. Mudkin said, “I will be right there with you until you get settled. Then I will be next door visiting—”

  “Wait. You’re leaving us alone here?” I asked.

  “If you need me, ring that bell I gave you.”

  I was carrying a clunky school bell, about as big as a sheep’s head and sporting a wooden handle with a chunk out of it from when Mrs. Mudkin must have clonked one of her students when she was a teacher back in the very old days.

  Mr. Canner sat in a musty chair with tufts of stuffing sticking out like a sloppy bird’s nest. He had a pinched face, like a dried-up olive, a pointy head, and tiny glittering eyes. I can’t hardly describe what he was wearing. It looked like a costume from an old-timey movie: a blue shirt with a stiff white collar, a gray vest, and plaid trousers with sharp pleats tucked into shiny brown lace-up boots. He was not big on pleasantries.

  “Lace up my boots,” he said, before we had been introduced.

  Mrs. Mudkin nodded at me, so I got down and started lacing up the boots.

  “Not too tight,” he warned. “Not too loose, neither.”

  When Mrs. Mudkin explained why we were there, Mr. Canner looked up at her as if she were a stray animal that had wandered in.

  “What would they want to do here?” he asked.

  “Why, I have explained that, Mr. Canner. Lizzie and Naomi are here to help you.”

  “I don’t need no help.”

  “They could read to you,” Mrs. Mudkin suggested.

  “I can’t hear nothin’.”

  “Now, now, Mr. Canner, you seem to hear me fine,” Mrs. Mudkin cooed.

  “What? What’s that you said?”

  “Mercy! These girls are here for an hour and they are going to help you whether you like it or not.” She turned to us. “There you go, girls. I’ll be right next door.”

  Mrs. Mudkin had no sooner closed the door behind her than Mr. Canner let out a loud belch. “That woman gives me indigestion.” He blinked at us for a few minutes and then said, “I suppose one of you could do up the breakfast dishes and the other could read a little, unless you’re those snotty kind of lazy kids.”

  Lizzie headed for the kitchen. I studied the bookshelves.

  “Anything in particular you want me to read?” I asked.

  He motioned toward the table nearest him. “One of these. You can choose.”

  I examined a leather volume with green etching on the cover: Short Tales from Around the World. The print was not too small and there was fair space between the lines and that suited me. For an hour I read while Mr. Canner leaned his head against the back of the chair and listened. In the kitchen, we could hear Lizzie clanking dishes and singing “Lar-de-dar, lar-de-dar.”

  We didn’t have to use Mrs. Mudkin’s bell to ring for help, and the time was up before I realized it, so caught up was I in the tale of an Irish ogre and then in the tale of a fox and some chickens, and such. We told Mr. Canner we’d be back the following Tuesday at the same time, and he nodded. I thought he’d be more excited about that, but if he was, he hid it well.

  As soon as we were outside, though, my first thought was Finn. Finn and Lizzie.

  “Lar-de-dar, that was easier than I thought it would be, don’t you think so, too, Naomi? And the poor, unfortunate soul, why, there were two days’ worth of dishes in that sink, all dried-up and crusty. He never would have been able to get them as clean as I did. Won’t he be surprised when he sees how I cleaned off the table and got rid of all those old papers and swept the floor, and I mopped it, too, Naomi, because truly, the poor, unfortunate soul would never be able to do that for himself, now, would he? And doesn’t it make your heart ache so for the poor, elderly people who are falling apart every which way, and—” />
  “Lizzie! Stop! Take a breath. Don’t you have something to tell me?”

  Lizzie crossed her hands over her chest. “Why, Naomi Deane, whatever do you mean? What is it? What do I have to tell you?” She beamed at me, as if I was going to tell her a secret.

  Sometimes, truly, I wanted to put a sack over Lizzie’s head.

  CHAPTER 24

  THE SECOND UNFORTUNATE SOUL

  Mrs. Mudkin called to us from the house next door to Mr. Canner’s. “Girls, come and give me a hand, we’re late, don’t you know, late! We have another unfortunate soul to attend to.”

  “Today?” I didn’t think we’d have to do two in one day. I felt as if my head would jump right off my neck if I couldn’t find out what happened with Finn and Lizzie.

  “Of course today. Lizzie, didn’t you make that clear to Neema?”

  “Naomi. Nay-oh-me.”

  Off we marched to Pork Street, where one-armed Farley lived in a room at the back of Mrs. Broadley’s boardinghouse. As we climbed the porch steps, the door swung open and the dapper Dangle Doodle man stepped out.

  “Ladies!” he said, bowing as he held the door open.

  Mrs. Mudkin pulled Lizzie inside and reached back to grab my arm. “Foreigner,” she whispered.

  The hallway smelled of mothballs.

  Crammed into one-armed Farley’s room was a tall four-poster bed draped with a green-and-white quilt; a blue velvet sofa and matching large armchair; an enormous glass-fronted cabinet filled with china and glassware; a tall dark dresser; two dining chairs and a round wooden table covered with a lace tablecloth; and fragile knickknacks: china figurines, glass paperweights, delicate bowls. We might as well have wandered into an antique shop.

  “Golly,” Lizzie said, “you surely have some beautiful things in here, don’t you, Mr. Farley? I never expected to see so many colorful, large things in this small space.”