Chasing Secrets (7 page)

“What about that crazy aunt locked in the attic?” Gemma asks. “Every family has one.”

Hattie with the pouty lips is watching. She can't believe Gemma is sharing secrets with me.

Miss Barstow is back. “Dr. Roumalade is here for our annual health examinations. Gemma, you're first. Please go to my office.”

Hattie leaps across the room to hold the door open. Two other girls walk with Gemma.

Miss Annabelle is running the class now. We're learning a new dance. I write down the instructions in my notebook to appear to be paying attention—a technique I use often.

When Gemma comes back, I've faded into the wall. She heads straight for me. “Your turn,” she says.

Why would I need an examination? My father's a doctor. Still, I'm stupidly happy Gemma chose me.

Dr. Roumalade has powdery hands, a round head, cheeks as red as raw steak, and a slender mustache. He smiles pleasantly. “Jules Kennedy's daughter, if I'm not mistaken. And how is your father?”

“Fine, sir.”

He slips his stethoscope around his neck. “I understand you've been accompanying him on his calls.” The flat metal disk presses against my chest as he listens to my heart through the connecting tube.

“Yes, sir.” How does he know this?

“He doesn't have an assistant?”

“No, sir.”

“I couldn't handle my practice without one.”

I bristle.

He's inspecting my ears now. I can feel his finger and hear a
whoosh
sound inside my ear. He looks into my eyes and peers down my throat. “Interested in nursing, are you?”

“No, sir. I'm going to be a scientist.”

He snorts. “You mean you'll marry a scientist. Any persistent coughing, diarrhea, fever, headaches?”

“No, sir.”

He washes his hands in the bowl Miss Barstow has provided. His examination isn't as thorough as Papa's. “You, my dear, are as healthy as a horse. I will let your aunt and uncle know.”

“The Sweetings? Why?”

“Going hither and yon with all manner of clientele.”

“What does that have to do with Aunt Hortense and Uncle Karl?”

“With you accompanying your father the way you have, he puts you at risk.”

“No, he doesn't!”

“Certainly you understand contagion, my dear.”

My fingers curl into a fist. “My father does not put me at risk.”

“You think you know everything, do you?” Dr. Roumalade presses the tips of his fingers together. “But you don't. The dangers are real.”

“Papa takes good care of me.”

Dr. Roumalade presses his lips together. “Well…thank you for calming Gemma Trotter down. She has quite the imagination.”

“She's doing fine.”

“Yes. Now, you say hello to your father for me. He's a good doctor. It's a shame he doesn't have a busier practice.”

My cheeks burn. “My father is doing very well.”

“I always try to refer patients to him.”

Right. If a patient isn't able to pay. A lot of help that is.

I count backward from ten to keep from saying what I shouldn't.

“All right, then, Lizzie. We're done here.”

Miss Barstow must be listening at the door, because she comes right in. “Go tell Kathryn she's next. Quickly, please.”

I'm just turning the corner when I hear Dr. Roumalade tell Miss Barstow:

“You've got your work cut out for you with that one, Sarah.”

“It's the age.”

“I suppose.”

When I get back to class, Gemma is in a huddle with Hattie and the other girls. Do I dare stand with her?

It's better to choose to be alone than to try to be friends with someone who doesn't want to be your friend. I go to my usual spot, six feet from everyone else, though a tiny part of me knows that I'm taking the chicken's way out.

“Lizzie!” Gemma waves me over. “Why are you over there? C'mon with us,” she says.

W
hen I get home, I run to the front yard, where I have a clear view of Noah's window. The blind is down, the window a uniform gray. No gold cord hangs over the top.

If only I could wish that stupid cord down.

“Peanut.”

I jump, Uncle Karl is leaning against a tree, cigar smoke swirling around him. Is he watching me?

“What's so interesting up there?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing, huh?” He leans his chin on his hand.

“What are you doing out here?” I try to turn the tables.

“Waiting for Billy,” he says. “And you?”

“Looking for the cat.”

“The cat?” Uncle Karl's eyes cut through me.

My hands are shaking as I search for Orange Tom. Uncle Karl is never in our yard. Does he know something?

On the way back from the barn, I spot a dead rat under the hedge, so Orange Tom must be around. I go up to my room. I don't want to run into Uncle Karl again.

Upstairs, I begin thinking about Gemma Trotter. Why was she nice to me today? Is she the person Noah said I should look for, the one I like better than the rest? I can't wait to tell Noah what happened. I won't say anything about Uncle Karl, though. I don't want to scare him. I focus on finding words that rhyme with “Gemma.”

Today a girl named Gemma

Had quite a big dilemma.

She barked like a dog with babies,

On account of she thought she had rabies.

At nine o'clock they talked to the doc.

“It's all in her head” is what he said.

I run down to see if the cord is visible. Still no.

In the pantry, I collect as much food as possible, in case I can't get back up there for a while. I fill a basket with mason jars of pears, peaches, applesauce, and olives, a hunk of cheese, a roll of salami, and half a loaf of French bread.

And water. I fill a pitcher, but it won't fit in the basket. I make two trips to my room to get it all up there. Just as I'm carrying the pitcher filled to the brim, Aunt Hortense appears. In her hand is a wad of dollar bills.

“Maggy, dear!” she calls down the stairs. “Can you iron
these for me? I can't stand to carry those filthy things all bunched up like that. Elizabeth? What are you doing? Maggy filled that this morning.”

“I wanted more…in case of fire,” I add lamely.

“Fire? Goodness gracious, child, what makes you worry about that?”

“We talked about it at Miss Barstow's.”

She nods. “Speaking of worrying, I talked to Mr. Sweeting. He's working on finding Jing.”

“Thank you,” I say.

She shimmies her hands into her gloves.

“You're going out?”

“Try not to sound so happy. Mrs. Luther Cumberbatch is taking me out driving in her very own motorcar. A woman with a driver's license—can you imagine? Yang Sun will bring your supper over.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“And, Lizzie…no trouble while I'm gone.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She takes my chin in her gloved hand. “Don't just move your lips.”

I look her straight in the eye. “No trouble,” I say.

I carry the pitcher into my room and close the door, then watch out the window. I hear the motorcar before I see it. It roars into the driveway, then spits and gasps to a stop. Aunt Hortense climbs in, decked out in a pale green driving dress edged in velvet, her dark hair glistening under her green wide-brimmed hat tightly secured with a white veil. Mrs. Cumberbatch is wearing a plaid driving coat and matching hat. Aunt Hortense waves to her butler,
who cranks the motor again. The car sputters forward, lurching through the gate.

When they're gone, I run outside and check for the cord. It's finally down! Noah must have seen her leave, too.

Maggy is on the side porch in a cloud of dust, beating a rug and grunting. The parrot is on her shoulder. “Dirty work. Dirty work,” Mr. P. chirps. Billy has gone off with Uncle Karl.

Nobody notices me as I make my stealthy trips, bringing supplies to Noah.

When we get everything inside and the door closed, we smile at each other. “How long do you think we have?” he asks.

“Hard to say.”

I sit on the chair. He sits on the bed.

I fill him in on what happened at Chinatown. “We tried to get Jing out.”

“You and Billy?”

I nod. “I talked to a policeman. He was no help. But Uncle Karl is working on it. Aunt Hortense said.”

Noah sighs, his brow furrowed. “I know he's there.”

“Does he do magic shows for people in Chinatown?” I ask.

He frowns at me. “No.”

Jing does magic shows for Billy and me. Why wouldn't he do them for the people in Chinatown?

“Leaders don't do magic tricks,” Noah explains.

I try to imagine Jing as a leader of people in Chinatown. This is not the Jing I know.

“I thought you said he was a translator.”

He nods. “It's a powerful position. Hardly anyone understands the language and customs of both sides. Chinese don't understand Americans. Americans don't understand Chinese. Nobody trusts anyone. It's a big mess.”

“What did you mean, ‘The monkey has a secret'?”

“Baba must have told you his stories.”

“About animals?”

He nods. “Whenever there's a monkey, he's a trickster with secrets up his sleeve. You never know if his secrets will help the good guys or the bad ones.”

“Are there any real monkeys in Chinatown?”

He shakes his head. “There's a year of the monkey, but that was a while ago. This year is the year of the rat.”

“The year of the rat. Who picks these animals?”

He shrugs. “Somebody made a calendar a thousand years ago.”

“Hey,” I say. “I wrote a poem. Want to see?”

I hand him Gemma's poem. He reads it carefully. “She thought she had rabies? That's crazy.”

“Yes.”

“But you like her better than the others?”

I suck my lip, considering.

“You do.” He nods, then leans forward. “Have you written a poem about me?”

“Not yet.” He wants me to write him a poem! What will I say? I get up and begin poking around his room. “What do you do in here all day?”

“Read, mostly. Watch out the window. Sew the buttonhole strips. When Orange Tom comes up, we play a game with a ball of thread.”

“You play with the cat?”

“Sure. Don't you?”

“No. I don't like the cat. Hey,” I whisper. “How do you…you know? We're not allowed to use the second-floor toilet. It's only for guests and Aunt Hortense.”

His face turns just slightly red. “I know that.”

“Do you sneak out at night to empty your chamber pot?”

“No.”

“Pour it out the window?” I stand up and slide across to the window to peek under the blind. What will the pee fall on?

“Disgusting.”

“Store it up?” I turn back around to sniff the air.

“Are you always this nosey?”

I grin at him. “Pretty much.”

He sighs. “It's none of your business.”

“Well, then I'll have to find out, won't I?”

“How are you going to do that? Follow me everywhere?”

I walk around the room inspecting tea cups, bowls, a vase.

He grins. “You don't think I go in there, do you?”

“You'll have to go eventually,” I say.

“Nope. I'm special.”

“You know I'm going to find out.”

He crosses his arms and juts out his chin. “You are not.”

We both burst out laughing.

“For a girl, you sure are pushy.”

“But you like me. We're friends now.” I grin at him.

He nods, his brown eyes serious. “You know we're not
allowed to be friends. Not out there.” He points to the window.

“We decide if we're going to be friends. Not them,” I insist, though inside I'm not so sure. The world seems more complicated than it ever has before.