Far Far Away (17 page)

“That’s helpful.”

“Let me put it this way. When you need to know, you’ll know.” Then she coated her voice in honey. “Bye-ya, Jeremy Jeremy,” she said, and her words lingered in the air like a sweet scent after she was gone.

The next week brought a series of thunderstorms and several more notices from the bank, which Jeremy put away without opening. Under my direction, he had commenced a summer’s reading list of classic literature, beginning with
Beowulf
.

When Ginger stopped by to visit, she picked up the book, flipped through a few pages, put it back down, and said, “You know, you don’t have to read weird books like this. You’re already the honorary mayor of Nerdsville.”

She stared at the shelves filled with his grandfather’s autobiography. “That’s a lot of copies of the same book.” She glanced at him. “Is it any good?”

“Not really sure,” Jeremy said. “I was ten and did a lot of skimming.”

On the stiles of the old bookcases, Jeremy’s grandfather had
mounted a number of his ancient tools—adzes, mallets, baling hooks, those sorts of things. As Ginger bent close to look at a brass level, she said, “I was in the bakery today. Mr. Blix said McRaven had been in to talk to him about employing us.”

“You’re kidding! For one day? What did McRaven say?”

“He said that the good people of Never Better would feel obliged to boycott the baker if they found out he was giving us work.”

“
Us
? They don’t want
you
to earn anything, either?”

“Ever since I got spotted leaving your attic …” Ginger shrugged. “Anyway, Mr. Blix was great about it. He just laughed and told me that we’d have to be a little less conspicuous next time.” She glanced out the window. “The baker’s one of the good ones,” she said, “and believe me, there aren’t that many.”

She sat down at the old desk and began going through its drawers.

“You’re kind of snoopy, aren’t you?” Jeremy said, a question Ginger did not bother answering. By then, she was waving the recent letters from the bank. “What
are
these?”

“Letters not addressed to you.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. But what
are
they?”

Jeremy flopped down sideways in the big chair. “Take a wild guess.”

“Don’t you think you should open them?”

Jeremy said nothing.

“Can I open them?”

“Sure. But what’s the point?”

After going through them, Ginger said nothing, but her expression hardened. She put the notices back into the drawer and slid it closed. For a few seconds, she pressed several strands
of hair between her lips, and then suddenly, decisively, she said, “Okay. That’s it. We’re doing it.”

Well. These words alarmed me. They seemed to worry Jeremy as well.

“Doing what?”

She barely looked at him. She was striding for the front door. Over her shoulder, she said, “You’ll see.”

A day passed, and another. Ginger did not visit, Jeremy read
Beowulf
, and I was content.

After Beowulf
, I said,
comes El Cid
.

“After
Beowulf
,” Jeremy said, “comes my investigation into the most painless method of suicide.”

When Jenny Applegarth telephoned that afternoon to ask Jeremy if he could help her with a painting project, he threw
Beowulf
down and leapt for the door.

A half hour later, he was sitting on her front porch helping her paint a set of brown chairs green. Jeremy’s mood, for once, was tranquil, and why not? The sky was blue, Jenny Applegarth sang prettily under her breath as she worked, and through the trees, dappled sunlight fell on her brown arms and legs.

Once she interrupted her singing to ask if Jeremy’s father was doing any better.

“Not really. I keep telling him what you said—you know, that we need a plan?—and he keeps saying he’s waiting for inspiration.” Jeremy issued a small, mirthless laugh. “I think the only inspiration we’re going to get is an eviction notice.”

Two elderly women—the Downs sisters—were passing on the sidewalk. They paused to stare pointedly at Jeremy and Jenny at their work. After the women had moved on, Jeremy said, “They’re going to try to get you not to hire me anymore.”

Jenny Applegarth smiled. “Already have. You’d be amazed how my tips have gone down in the last week or so.”

At this, Jeremy stilled his paintbrush. “That’s what McRaven told Mr. Blix after he hired Ginger and me—that if he did it again, the town would boycott his bakery.” He stood up abruptly. “Really, I should go.”

“Oh, don’t be foolish,” Jenny said. “Sit down and keep painting.” She pushed up her streaky blond hair with the back of her hand. “You can’t let buffoons run your life.” She glanced down the street at the Downs sisters, who were almost to the corner. “Especially cranky old buffoons.”

For several minutes, she brushed long, smooth ribbons of green across the chair, but then she looked suddenly up. “Know what? I have the feeling that things are going to get better soon.”

Jeremy’s smile was dubious. “Yeah? Based on what?”

“Who knows? Gut feeling … Cockeyed optimism.” She smiled. “Applegarth intuition.”

Jeremy laughed and said, “What about ‘none of the above’?”

Jenny Applegarth shrugged and smiled. “You’ll see I’m right,” she said.

And for a time, it seemed as if she was.

“Guess what?” Ginger said.

Three days had quietly passed without a word from the girl, but now she stood at the door of Jeremy’s small garage, beaming.

“What?” he said. To his right, the circular grindstone he had been using to sharpen the blade of his mowing machine still spun.

“Well,” she said, “I want to tell you, but I can’t when you’re wearing those extremely weird safety goggles.”

He took them off. “Okay. What?”

“I’m taking you someplace tomorrow and we’re going to do something you’ve never done before and it’s going to be really fun.” She snapped her cinnamon-scented gum. “It’s a surprise.”

“I don’t really like surprises,” Jeremy said. “In fact, I hate surprises.”

That is correct, Jeremy. We hate surprises. What is more, you need to know exactly where it is she wants to go, and what it is she wants you to do once you get there
.

Jeremy said, “So what would we be doing?”

Ginger held the back of her hand to her nose. “Those hot springs are
evil
. If there’s ever a Totally Gross Smell Contest, I’m putting all my money on the hot springs.”

Jeremy closed the garage door and turned on the fan. “Okay. I repeat: What kind of surprise?”

“We leave early,” she said. “Be ready by six a.m. Eat a good
breakfast and wear clean, comfortable clothes.” She unfolded a paper from her hip pocket and glanced down at it. “A solid blue shirt will be good or a solid pastel color, but don’t wear white or black. And no patterns or stripes.”

“I don’t get it. What are we doing?”

She was still looking at the paper. So, in fact, was I, but the writing was messy enough that I could not decipher it. “And be wrinkle-free,” she said.

Jeremy!
I said.
Agree to nothing
, and for once he seemed to listen.

“It’s a simple question really,” he said.
“What are we doing
?”

She smiled demurely. “Can’t tell.” She put the paper back into her pocket. “Except it’s nothing illegal. That much I can tell you. And it’s a happy surprise.”

“Yeah,” Jeremy said, “but I really need to know what the surprise is.”

She laughed. “Wish I could help. Really, really do.”

She smiled, touched the tip of her finger to the tip of his nose, and left.

That night, against my warnings, Jeremy ironed a blue shirt, laid out his other clothes, and set his alarm clock for 5:30. Then, in the midst of a final plea that he go nowhere at all with this girl, he interrupted to say, quite firmly, “Good night, Jacob.”

Well, then, what could I do?
Good night, Jeremy
, I said,
and sweet repose
.

The evening was pleasant and the town was quiet, except for occasional laughter spinning into the night from the Intrepid Bar & Grill. All of the other businesses were dark. I drifted through the streets of the village, and when I heard a distant wistful melody, I recognized the voice as Jenny Applegarth’s and found her sitting alone in a chair on her patio, softly singing an old folk tune.

She sang so prettily that I lingered until she finally rose and went indoors. Even then I carried her melody with me as I drifted toward the church belfry.

I could never sing. And on this night, gazing from the belfry, I remembered a time when my failure to sing caused discomfort not just to me but to those I loved.

It was my little nephew’s fourth birthday, and he came up to my study to entreat me to join the celebration. Perhaps Wilhelm sent him, or Dortchen, for they knew there was little I could deny the boy. I went down and smiled as best I could, but when the singing began, I remained mute. Wilhelm spied me standing silent. Between choruses, he called out to me. “Come, Jacob, join us in the singing,” he said, and when I demurred, he prompted my nephew. “Please, Uncle Jacob,” the boy said in his sweet voice, “won’t you sing?” Something brittle within me
snapped, and I shook my head so furiously that the boy in confusion and dismay dropped his eyes and his lips began to tremble. He was saved from crying only by the commencement of the next merry tune. Through all of the song, he did not glance at me and I stood in a state of suppressed chaotic rage at this conspiracy to have me do what I would not, and—oh, my senses worked at high pitch!—nothing brought greater offense than that my brother, my own brother, would use this small, kind boy as a weapon in the onslaught! When the song was over, they all laughed as one and I began to take my leave. “Jacob?” Wilhelm called to me as I reached the doorway. “Where do you go?” “To our study,” I told him, “to work with doubled effort to compensate for your absence!” They all pretended to take this as a joke and laughed heartily. And so with burning ears I strode off to my solitary desk to do my work. Then, as now, in the dark night of the
Zwischenraum
, I felt the full weight of my solitude.