“Do you like that story?” I asked now. The boy was so engrossed in it that he hadn’t heard me enter the room. He looked up quickly. “Do you think you’re like the Beggar Boy?”
He looked down at the book and then at me again. He didn’t answer, but there was no doubt in my mind that living here—with my grandfather laying on gifts and all the servants waiting on him—made him feel like a prince. I shouldn’t blame him for it, I thought.
“It’s better when you hear someone read it to you,” I said, and plucked it out of his hands. Then I sat on the bed and began. “Once upon a time, there lived a man who had only one son, a lazy, stupid boy, who would never do anything he was told . . .”
As I read, I kept an eye on him to see if anything I was reading was having a personal effect on him. He blinked a lot, but he didn’t smile or look sad. He looked more like Willie had when I read it to him, his eyes widening with amazement at some of the magic in the story.
I was so into it myself that I didn’t hear Dorian step up behind me at the foot of the bed. After a few moments, I sensed her presence and paused to look at her. She smiled, turned, and walked out. The boy stared at me, anxious for me to continue. I read to the end of the story and closed the book.
“That was one of my brother’s favorite fables,” I said. He nodded as if he had known. “Would you like me to read you another one sometime?”
This time, he smiled and nodded.
“Someone used to read to you, too, right?”
He blinked rapidly and then looked like he might cry or scream, so I got up quickly.
“I’m not going to call you William,” I said. “That’s not your name, and you know it’s not. It’s my brother’s name.” I looked at the fable I had just read to him. “I’m going to call you Count Piro.”
I thought he was smiling, although it wasn’t easy to tell. He also looked like he was about to cry.
“I’m going down to help with dinner,” I said, rising. “Are you getting hungry?”
He nodded.
I had an idea. “When you get better, do you want to go back to where you were?” I asked him.
His eyes widened, and he shook his head.
I smiled to myself. If anyone else had asked him that, he hadn’t replied. I was making a difference already.
At least I knew that he remembered where he’d been. And that he didn’t want any part of it anymore.
Now, if I could just get him to tell me where.
15
Myra was overseeing one of the recently hired maids setting the table for dinner when I entered the dining room. She paused in her instructing as soon as I came in and looked at me with a broad smile on her face, her jackpot smile, as she called it, but she said nothing. She didn’t have to. I knew that look well. It always came quickly when she was proud of me.
“I’ll help bring things out,” I said, and went into the kitchen to get some of the condiments. I often tried to do something helpful in the house, even though it seemed like we had an army of servants. As soon as I was old enough, I always did something to help my mother at breakfast and especially at dinner. Doing things now that I used to do with her helped keep my memories of her vivid and alive.
My Faith looked up from the large salad bowl and flashed her special smile at me, too. I was ashamed of myself for having been angry at both of them. They were the best cheerleaders any girl my age could hope to have. The condiments were already organized on a tray. I picked it up.
“This is like a Christmas dinner,” I said, seeing her elaborate preparations.
“My grandmother used to say, ‘Child, nothin’ cheers up the troubled soul like a good meal.’ And we have our share of troubled souls here,” she added.
I carried the tray to the dining room and set up the condiments on the table in exactly the places Myra wanted them to be. Under her scrutinizing gaze, it was like setting up a chessboard. I knew that even though she was instructing the new maid on how to set dishes and silverware on a table, she was watching me. Like a snapped rubber band, her full attention returned to the new maid. She had put the salad fork where the entrée fork was supposed to be. To Myra, that was a capital crime.
“No, no, no, can’t you see the difference in the size?”
“Sorry,” the young woman said. She couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty. Myra was also particular about how the napkins should be folded and placed in the Arnold monogram napkin rings. I watched the poor, flustered girl work at it until my grandfather entered.
He was smiling at me just the way Myra and My Faith had done. Obviously, Dorian had told everyone what I had been doing with the poisoned boy.
“I could eat a horse tonight,” he said, slapping his hands together and rubbing his palms.
“I believe it’s more like a pig,” Myra said, and he threw his head back and roared with laughter, an outburst I hadn’t heard since Willie’s death.
The new maid looked like she had come to work for the Mad Hatter in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Her head down, she quickly followed Myra into the kitchen. I went around and sat at my place. Grandpa took his seat and looked at me with those steely eyes he could bring out whenever he wanted to be stern.
“So where did you take your bike ride today?” he asked.
From the way he was waiting for my answer, I had the feeling that he already knew. Perhaps he had run into one of the women who had been with their children at the playground.
“I went to the children’s playground on Jefferson Street,” I said.
He said nothing, obviously waiting for me to continue. If he knew I had been there, then he knew whom I had been there with. I was going to tell him anyway.
“Where I met Aaron Podwell. His father took away his driving privileges for a week after you called him, but his friend drove him there. You didn’t say I couldn’t see him,” I quickly added.
“And if I did, would you listen?”
“No.” I held my breath, expecting him to go into another rage, but instead, those steely eyes softened into not so much a pleasing look as a look of quiet resignation.
“No doubt whose daughter you are. Between your grandmother and her, I was about as effective and in control as the driver of a twelve-wheeler dump truck without brakes going down Devil’s Run.”
Before either of us could speak, Dorian entered. Grandpa turned to her, smiling in a way I hadn’t seen him smile since Grandma Lucy passed away. There was a special look of appreciation in it, something much more than a man would give an employee.
“I’m going to prepare his dinner tray,” she said. “Better he eats upstairs tonight. I’ll eat with him.”
Grandpa nodded, but I thought he looked disappointed. Dorian flashed a smile at me and went into the kitchen. Moments later, with Myra looking over her shoulder, the maid began to serve our dinner.
“Well,” Grandpa said, starting on his salad, “since I have little to say in the matter, when Mr. Podwell gets his privileges reinstated, maybe I’ll have you bring him around for dinner one night.”
“Really?”
“Your grandmother used to tell me you can’t fight city hall. City hall is a piece of cake compared with a woman who makes up her mind about something or someone.”
I smiled. He was being more like the grandfather I knew, loved, and trusted.
“But don’t misunderstand me, Clara Sue,” he said, waving his salad fork at me. “I’m still your grandfather, in charge and responsible for your welfare. We follow rules here. No more of this gallivanting about without letting me know where you’re going, who you’re going with, and how long you intend to be away.”
“Okay, Grandpa,” I said. “It won’t happen again. I promise.”
He grunted and ate for a moment. “His father cheats at golf, you know,” he said, as if that was worse than murder. “I hope he’s made o
f better stuff,” he added, and then went into a speech about how he could understand a man’s true character by playing golf with him.
As I listened to him elaborate on the true natures of different business associates and lessons he had learned in his life, I felt we were back to the days before Willie’s death, even before Grandma Arnold had passed away. He could go on and on, and we’d always pretend we were glued to his every word, until Grandma finally would say, “Come up for air, William Arnold, before you wear out our ears.”
He came up for air tonight when his favorite baked ham was brought out on a platter. Everything was delicious. My Faith’s grandmother was right about the power of a good dinner when it came to restoring troubled souls.
Just before our dishes were being cleared away, Dorian brought down hers and the boy’s, pleased that he had eaten well.
“He’s putting weight back on quickly,” she told us. Usually, she directed herself solely to my grandfather when she talked about my Count Piro, but tonight she was including me. She reminded us that Dr. Patrick would be coming in the morning, and I reminded them both that I’d be at school.
“We might think about getting him a tutor,” Dorian suggested. “I brought it up with him tonight.”
I thought it was interesting how quickly Dorian Camden had become part of everything in our home. She acted and spoke as if she was more like a family member than hired help, but Grandpa was obviously pleased about it.
“Yes, that would be smart now,” he said. “Did he say anything about school? What grade he was in, anything?”
I perked up to hear her answer.
“Nothing that makes sense, except maybe . . .”
“Go on,” Grandpa told her.
“It sounds like he was homeschooled.” She looked at me. “Someone was often reading to him. That was about all I could gather.”
“Interesting,” Grandpa said. He turned to me. “You read him some of that children’s story?”
“I saw he was reading one of Willie’s favorite fables, ‘How the Beggar Boy Turned into Count Piro.’ ”
“Whatever. Could you tell if he could read well?”
“He could read. I don’t know how well. Probably not as well as Willie could for his age,” I said. “My brother loved to read and be read to,” I told Dorian. She smiled.
We were all quiet for a moment. The miniature grandfather clock in the living room tapped out the hour. Was it my imagination, or was the house raising its head which had been bowed in sorrow and mourning? Would deep shadows retreat? Could this ever really be a home again?
“I’ll look into a tutor tomorrow,” Grandpa told Dorian. “I’ll speak with the grade-school principal. His wife is a bookkeeper for Arnold Trucking.” Grandpa always referred to his business as Arnold Trucking instead of “my business.” It was as if he worked for some invisible owner besides himself.
“Great. The faster we get him doing regular things kids his age do, the faster he’ll recuperate.”
“Will he ever walk again?” I asked, wondering just how much he could recuperate.
She looked to Grandpa Arnold to respond.
“They don’t sound very hopeful about it,” he said.
“He’s getting stronger. We’ll see,” Dorian said. Maybe it was her job, but she seemed to like being more optimistic than most people. “I’ll just take this into the kitchen and go back up. Have to give him a bath tonight.”
Then My Faith surprised us with a peach pie. She made her pies from scratch, as Grandma Arnold would say.
“This is like a Thanksgiving dinner tonight,” I said.
“Oh, she’ll outdo this for Thanksgiving,” Grandpa assured me.
It was still difficult to get excited about that holiday, but it seemed wrong now to do anything that would darken the mood or block out the light that had come trickling into our world with the promise of a better tomorrow.
Later, feeling bad about how mean I had been to Lila, I called her and explained why I had been upset and how both Aaron and I had been punished. I didn’t mention what I had done with Count Piro, and she seemed to know not to bring him up in our conversation. We gossiped instead about the others at Audrey’s party, and I finished by promising to do more with her during the week, especially since Aaron wouldn’t have his car. I decided not to mention the possibility of my inviting him to dinner. She would wonder why I wasn’t inviting her, too.
Aaron was waiting for me in the lobby at school the following morning. Probably before we had reached my homeroom, the story about our “unauthorized” Saturday all-day date had spread with hurricane speed to all our classmates. I hadn’t sworn Lila to secrecy, and Aaron had told some of his friends, because he knew they’d be asking about his car and why he wasn’t driving it. Before the day ended, we had become the “hot couple.” I saw it in the expressions and heard it in the voices of my girlfriends. Apparently, no one needed my confirmation or would believe any denial concerning how intimate Aaron and I had become. For most of my girlfriends, I seemed to have grown in stature. I enjoyed the way they were treating me and decided to let them embellish my romance.
The rest of the week wasn’t going fast enough for either Aaron or me. We had to spend our time after school talking only on the phone, and a few times, I had to do it while Lila was visiting and doing homework or studying for a test. She pretended not to be listening closely, but I knew she was hanging on every word. Aaron was getting his car privileges back on Friday, and although Grandpa didn’t mention inviting him to dinner again, I began to drop hints with him that Friday would be nice, since the following week was Thanksgiving and we’d break for the holiday at midday on Tuesday. Grandpa didn’t say yes or no.
I thought that might be because he seemed to be having a busier week than usual, and his mind was occupied with other things. On top of what was happening at the trucking company, he was apparently meeting regularly with Dr. Patrick and had, with Dorian, arranged for a tutor, a Mrs. Crystal, who was a retired grade-school teacher. She was gone before I got home after school every day, but I saw how Count Piro was diligently working on what she had given him to do. She had brought him workbooks for vocabulary and English grammar, math and science, and reading. Dorian would be helping him, too. By Wednesday, I saw how alert he had become because of all this new interaction. He was sitting at the table again for dinner.
At Dr. Patrick’s request, no one pressured him with questions about his past or his identity. The first time I referred to him as Count Piro caught everyone’s attention. Looking right at him across the table, I explained how much he had enjoyed the fable and how, just like Willie liked to be called Batman sometimes, he didn’t mind being called Count Piro.
“Am I right, Count Piro?” I asked him.
He nodded. Grandpa looked at Dorian, and they both seemed pleased. I certainly was. I had found a way never to call him William.
I hadn’t realized it, but Grandpa was waiting to discuss with Dr. Patrick whether it was wise yet to invite a stranger to dinner, especially a teenage boy. On Thursday afternoon, as soon as I entered the house, Myra informed me that Dr. Patrick was waiting for me in the living room, the way she had been the first time we met.
“Hi,” she said immediately. I thought she looked more relaxed and friendlier.
“Hi.” I stood for a moment and then sat in Grandpa’s chair. “Anything wrong?”
“Oh, no. Just the opposite. I’m so happy to hear you’ve embraced the situation more. To me, that shows real maturity, Clara Sue. There’s so much in life that annoys us or disturbs us, and it’s how we handle those things that makes the difference in the end and helps balance our emotions.”
“You mean, like you’re handling me,” I said, and she laughed.
Then she put up her hands. “No more psychiatrist’s lingo. I promise.”
“Some of it I don’t mind,” I said with a
shrug. I had been doing some reading on the side to see if I could determine how much Count Piro was really suffering and how much was pretend. I even began to wonder if pursuing a career in psychotherapy was possible for me.
“Okay. I think you’ve broken through a little with him, and I think that will lead to some promising results. Your grandfather has told me that you want to invite a boy to dinner tomorrow night, and chances are, William . . . oh, what do you call him? Count . . .”
“Piro. After the fable I read him.”
“Right.” She smiled “Very clever.” She nodded at me. “I promise another thing, not to underestimate you. Anyway, getting back to exposing our Count to more people, especially a teenage boy. I think that could be very good. What I would like to see, however, is no one cross-examining him. For now, no direct questions about him or his past. Too much pressure on him can set him back. Can you explain that to . . .”
“Aaron, Aaron Podwell. He’s a senior, and he’s sensitive enough to understand, especially in the presence of my grandfather,” I added. “Anyway, it’s more of a truce dinner between him and my grandfather and me.”
“I heard.”
“Yes, I’m a real rebel. But with a cause,” I said, tucking in the corners of my mouth.
She nodded, obviously thinking about what to say next. “I’m not here to give you any personal advice, but . . .”
“But?”
“But I’m also a woman who has a history full of disappointments and successes, anger and elation.”
“You’re not going to tell me now that you’ve been to a psychiatrist, too?”
“Oh, yes. That’s part of our training, our education.”
“Really? Okay, what personal advice do you have for me, Dr. Patrick?” I challenged.
“Call me Katherine.”
“Katherine.”
She leaned forward. “When we’re unhappy with what we think is unfair treatment of us or simply angry at people we think don’t love us as much as they should, we sometimes do self-destructive things as a way of striking back. We do things we would not normally do and things we know in our hearts we shouldn’t. On the surface, it looks like we’re doing it to get even.”