He felt a snag on the back of his collar and suddenly he was propelled into the air; Sullivan had picked him up and heaved him close to the dirty yellow cloth of the carnival tent. Charles could feel his shirt buttons straining, and the huge, rough fingers against the flesh at the
back of his neck as Sullivan turned him so he was but inches from his mouth.
And then Sullivan whispered into Charles’s ear, “I should make you disappear, too, brat.” Sullivan’s hand flapped open and then closed into a fist the size of a turkey and Charles remembered a picture in
Tales for Tots
of a pearl diver engulfed by a deep-sea clam. He blubbered, and let out a low, awful moan, which seemed to startle the giant.
“Shhhh.” Sullivan looked toward the tent flap quickly. “I said ‘Shhhh.’” But Charles could not stop his crying. As if weighing several poor decisions, Sullivan lowered Charles a couple of feet, and then casually tossed him toward his brother like he was a softball. Charles hit the ground hard, and broke into a run, pulling James out of the tent.
Charles’s first impulse was to run to their father for help, but as they got closer to the auction, James’s chant of “You’re in trouble, you’re in trouble” began to get to him.
They stopped a hundred yards from the livestock pavilion. Charles felt his face, which was hot and stiff in places with dried tears. There was no way he could tell their father what had happened. So he attended to his brother, brushing at his clothing, rubbing the hand he’d pulled on so hard. “Do you want more taffy?”
“No!” James cried.
“Are you sure?”
James coughed, fingers by his mouth. “No.”
They found the taffy booth. Having something to do, someone to take care of, calmed Charles. He’d never heard of anyone disappearing, and he began to get mad at the giant. But where had the coin gone? There was no one he could ask. The adult world refused to give straight answers to so many questions, and this was sure to be one of them.
Charles didn’t know if James could actually keep a secret, and was convinced he would eventually have to thrash him for telling. But when they saw their father, James said nothing about the coin, and he was just as silent on the ferry ride. Charles, too, was quiet, as he was feeling awful. For a few brief moments, he’d felt the Midway Plaisance was going to welcome him, and then he’d been tricked. He spent the remainder of the carriage ride home imagining a gold coin tumbling in space, alone.
Their father, however, was bubbling with an excitement he didn’t explain.
Reins in hand, he exclaimed, “I shouldn’t jinx it,” which was so unusual for him to say that Charles remembered it on Christmas day, when his father explained what he meant.
It was a gloomy sort of Christmas. There were the usual laurel wreaths lining the walls, and candles burning in the front window, and bowls of penny candy left out for St. Nick, and James and Charles dutifully joined their father on the front stoop with brooms they used to sweep out the old year. But the atmosphere around the house was so still and ascetic that no amount of presents, and this year there were even more presents than usual, could fool James or Charles into believing they were having fun.
There were many parcels from Boston, with elaborate labels and ornaments from their mother. New catcher’s mitts. Sheet music (“Oh yes, you boys were supposed to be continuing your piano lessons,” Mr. Carter muttered. “I’ll catch whatfor from your mother. What’s next?”). Next was clothing for them to rough and tumble in. A kaleidoscope. A magic kit. Charles moped through the gifts, though, as he still felt guilty for having lost the nickel, and he tried several times to hug his father, who shooed him away so that the present opening could continue.
Mr. Carter was increasingly distracted, handing out presents quickly, saying “lovely” or “that’s a keeper” even as he reached for the next one. Charles wished he could arrest his father’s attention, even for a moment. He knew his mother had a reflective side, and she, even in her letters from Boston, was forever asking him questions about his inner self. Yet Charles had so far not found his father’s inner self. He wanted on Christmas morning to unlock the gates to that secret place, whatever it was, and in the process to be forgiven minor sins, such as losing a certain coin.
When the boys finished, Mr. Carter leaned forward in his chair. “Charles, James, do you know what a land forfeiture is?”
Charles shook his head, but James, admiring the gloss on a tin soldier he was turning end over end, nodded absently. Charles was about to punch him in the arm but then James said, “It’s when property goes up for auction before the end of the year.”
James was not yet seven years old. “It is not!” Charles shouted.
“Actually, that’s very close. Someone’s been paying attention,” Mr. Carter smiled. And then he explained it to them. “Boys, there’s a land forfeiture in Sonoma this Friday. A vineyard. Usually, the bank posts
notices at ninety days and sixty days before any auction to give prospective bidders time to prepare. But this land is owned by a down-at-their-heels family, and they’re considered a flight risk.” As he talked, he became more and more passionate, and Charles realized that unlike when he told their bedtime stories, if he cared about the subject matter, Mr. Carter could be a very good reader indeed.
In short, an incredible financial opportunity awaited him, but he had to travel to Sacramento immediately. He would be back in forty-eight hours, possibly as the owner of four thousand acres of prime vineyard land. They would all celebrate together when he came back, and until then they had Cook and Patsy to depend on, and it would be a great adventure for the boys, a maturing experience.
When the boys awoke the next morning, their father was gone. James, who seemed privy to areas of his father’s life that Charles couldn’t understand, was tranquil, and sure that all was right with the world.
For two days, Cook and Patsy, the laundress, were their caretakers in name. But Cook was given to hectoring them with stories she said were true that always ended with little boys going to hell, and Patsy was jittery and brittle, worried at every moment the boys would break like china, so the boys spent as little time as possible in the servants’ presence. They washed themselves and dressed for bed themselves and presented their fingernails for inspection to Patsy, who was so eager to be done with them she didn’t even rub their forearms to see if they squeaked with cleanliness.
Mr. Carter was due back at dusk on the twenty-eighth of December. That afternoon, Charles and James sat on the floor of the playroom to play Stealing Bundles with a deck of cards they’d fished out of one of their toy chests. It was frightfully cold; the boys were done up in layers of wool like Eskimos. Charles played with one eye on the clock, and an ear cocked for the sound of an approaching cab. James, who usually liked card games that he had a fair chance of winning, plummeted into a snit.
“You’re cheating!” he cried.
“I am not.”
“You aren’t playing fair.”
“James,” Charles said, “you can’t cheat at Stealing Bundles. That’s why it’s a game for babies.”
“Patsy!” James yelled. He stood up.
“We’re not supposed to bother Patsy. James!” Charles followed his brother as he raced out of the room.
“He’s cheating! Patsy, Charles is cheating!” With Charles in close pursuit, James ran up the back stairs, not even holding onto the banister.
The third floor, the servant’s quarters, was a narrow hallway lined with doors, all of which were closed. The amber lights of the wall sconces flickered gloomily. Charles felt uneasy. This was unfamiliar territory—the boys weren’t supposed to disturb the domestics in their private rooms.
James banged on Patsy’s door; Charles tried to restrain him, but James lurched away and banged again, yelling, “He’s a liar!”
“Fine,” Charles declared. “Let the baby cry, then!” He folded his arms and pretended interest in the wall, where there was an etching of a European city.
It was cold in the hallway. Charles tried to see his breath, but it wasn’t that cold. Still, he wondered why no one had thought to build a fire. Heavy clouds swelled outside the tiny window at the end of the hallway.
James went quiet. Biting at his knuckle, he looked up just as Charles frowned and looked down at him. They both knew how long they could carry on before someone, somewhere, hushed them. That time had passed.
James removed his finger from his mouth. “Cook! Cook!” And he bolted past Charles, to the stairs.
But there was no one in the kitchen, or the pantry, or even in Cook’s ready room, where she always sat and read while her stews simmered. In the parlor, they found a note from Cook, printed in her block lettering. She and Patsy had gone to a very important revival meeting and picnic just across the bay, and would be back before dark.
Charles pushed the buzzers on the wall, all of them, at once: they rang all the rooms on the third floor. When there was no response, he looked at the note again.
“They left?” James asked.
“Yes, they left,” Charles nodded. “They’ll get in trouble for that.”
“Why did they leave?”
“Religion,” Charles said, with the same sour expression their parents used when saying the word. “‘Please tell your father dinner will be ready by seven o’clock. If you have any trouble this afternoon, don’t worry, Mr. Jenks will look after you.’” Charles shuddered.
“We’re all alone,” James said. Charles could see James wasn’t sure what this meant: was it exciting? Or a nightmare?
“It’s the first time they’ve left us alone,” Charles said. He looked out the window; the sky was gloomy, darkening. “They’ll be back any minute.” He put his hand on James’s shoulder. “Where does Cook keep the Fry’s chocolate?”
. . .
The sky was dark for a remarkable reason. San Francisco was about to be blanketed with snow. When the first flakes fell, at 3:30, the Carter boys bolted out the front door and onto the street, where they twirled in a circle together, heads back, feeling for the first time ever snow on their faces.
It was like feathers on their skin, for the first minute, and then there was a violent shift in the winds. “Ouch!” Charles winced, for he had just discovered what hail felt like.
“Look!” James shouted, as he caught a pellet of hail on his hand. “It melts! It melts on you!”
The hailstones scattered as they hit the streets. It sounded like it was raining pennies. The boys ran inside and stood in the open doorway, watching in safety until the hail switched again to snow.
“It’s not melting anymore,” Charles cried. Before they knew it, there was an inch of snow on Washington Street. James dashed back into eddies of powder, kicking it around with his boots.
Charles was about to join, but held back. He needed to watch for just one moment—his brother, dancing a jig, scarf flying, in the white, as snow caught and stuck in the oak trees. There was no one else around. No children sharing in this miracle. Up and down Washington Street, all the families were gone for the holiday week, and servants were taking their leave. James was the only sign of life.
By dusk, there was almost a foot of snow on the ground. Charles and James had spent the afternoon in the parlor, noses pressed to the window, mostly delighted. But every hour, when the clocks chimed, they fell quiet, and Charles suddenly felt the need to be brave.
Patsy and Cook didn’t return that night. Nor did Mr. Carter. The boys silently ate cereal with milk for dinner, with more chocolate tablets for dessert.
“The snow is keeping them from coming back, right?” James asked.
Charles nodded. He had a better command of geography and transportation than James. “Daddy comes back from Sacramento on a train, and Cook and Patsy take the ferry, and it’s storming over the bay, so maybe they’re staying overnight in Oakland.”
They decided everyone would return the next day, and their only problem was staying warm until then. Neither one of them was allowed to touch the gas or the fireplaces.
“We could ask Mr. Jenks for help,” James said.
“That’s not a good idea,” Charles replied, folding his arms tightly around himself. In his universe of things to fear, Jenks outranked the
wolves, the mangler, and even Sullivan, whom Charles recognized as simply a bully. Jenks was something different, something unknowable.
They looked in all the fireplaces, discovering that each had already been prepared with wood. The one in their father’s study seemed most inviting, as it also contained kindling and old pieces of mail. Charles sent James to fill a bucket with water, in case there was a mishap, and then, after making sure the vent was open, he touched a match to the paper in the fireplace. The wood caught easily. “We’re explorers,” Charles said. “We’re on an island and we’ve gathered all the wreckage from our boat.”
“And we’re making a fire. So they can find us.”
“Right.”
Soon they had a splendid fire, which popped excitingly, and which they fed with extra wood stored in the benches that flanked the fireplace. James dashed to the windows of the study and waved his arms back and forth.
“What are you doing?”
“Signaling.”
Charles let his brother signal to their rescuers while he laid out some blankets for them to sleep on.
“It’s still snowing,” James announced.
Charles joined him. Pellets of snow made a kind of lace curtain through which they could see a light coming from Jenks’s cabin window. There was a single slender wire running from their house to Jenks’s; all Charles had to do was ring for him, and Jenks would come. It was a terrible idea, and Charles imagined going to the kitchen, pushing the button, opening the door, and waiting. He had the sudden urge to draw the blinds. “The snow is beautiful,” he said woodenly.
“When is everyone coming back?”
“By daylight, for sure.”
“But if it’s still snowing now, how will they get back?”
“They just will. They know we’re alone, they’ll come back.”
“Who knows we’re alone?” James looked at Charles, who normally would have smacked him for being so stubborn.