Octagon Magic (9 page)

“You girls there—time to get out.” It was Mr. Haskins, the janitor, shouting at them down the hall. Lorrie slammed shut her locker.

Why, it must be late. Everyone else had gone. She looked
up to the big clock at the end of the hall just as its minute hand made a full sweep—ten after four!

“Look here,” Lizabeth said, “Mother's calling for me. I'm supposed to go to the dentist. We can let you off at the end of Ash and you don't have far to go from there, do you?”

“Mother,” Lizabeth announced as they reached the waiting car, “we can drop Lorrie off at the corner of Ash, can't we? It's late.”

“As I was just about to observe. What kept you, Lizabeth? Of course, Lorrie, hop in.”

Lizabeth wriggled into the middle of the front seat. “Mother, Lorrie's been in the Octagon House, she knows Miss Ashemeade. And they had a Christmas tree with gingerbread people.”

“So you know Miss Ashemeade, Lorrie?” Mrs. Ross's voice cut through her daughter's excited speech. “That is a privilege, Lorrie.”

“Do you know her, too, Mrs. Ross?”

“When I was a little girl, I went there twice with my aunt. Her father's aunt lived there—Hallie Standish.”

“Hallie's still there!” said Lorrie eagerly. “She made the gingerbread people for the tree and all the little candies.”

“But—” Mrs. Ross looked startled. “But she can't be! Why, Auntie would be in her late eighties if she were still living. And Hallie—why Hallie Standish would have to be over a hundred! It must be her daughter. Though,” Mrs. Ross looked thoughtful, “I didn't know she had a daughter. But I do remember my visits there and Miss Ashemeade—she must be very old now.”

“Mrs. Ross, what will happen to Miss Ashemeade and
Hallie if they tear down Octagon House? And can't they save the house? Aunt Margaret says it is like a museum.”

“Nothing is decided, it won't be until after the Commissioners’ meeting. Most of the people will be represented by lawyers. Surely Miss Ashemeade will. Oh, here's your corner, Lorrie.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Ross.” Lorrie watched the car draw away and then she started down Ash Street. When she reached the fence about Octagon House she slowed. She could see the deer, who had snow piled high about the base on which he stood but none now on his back, and the shuttered front windows, the closed door. She put her hand to the gate, and tried to work the catch. But it did not give under her fingers and somehow she knew this was not the time to climb into territory closed against her. Unhappily Lorrie went on toward the apartment house a block away.

Kathy—she must explain to Kathy, Lorrie thought as she went down the hall, though she was uncomfortable as she pressed the button of the Lockner doorbell. Rob answered.

“Kathy? No, she's over at Bess Calder's for supper. She's really flipped over this Valentine Fair. Valentines!” he laughed. “They're for girls.”

“Tell her I want to see her,” Lorrie said. She was sure, though, that if she did see Kathy it would be by her own efforts, with no help from Kathy.

And her fears proved true. The next morning she lingered, waiting for Kathy, not quite daring to go to the Lockner apartment again. But no Kathy appeared and Lorrie was almost tardy, making her desk only a second or two before
Mrs. Raymond closed the door. Kathy was in her place but Lorrie had no time to speak to her.

Recess was just as bad. When the bell rang, Kathy asked permission to hold a committee meeting in the room and Lorrie had to go out with the others, leaving Kathy and her friends in a group about Mrs. Raymond's desk. Toward the end of the day, as Kathy continued to avoid every attempt Lorrie made, Lorrie lost her temper. So, let her think what she wanted to! She, Lorrie, was through trying to explain! She had more important things to think about and today she was going to stop at Octagon House. If the gate was shut, why she would just climb over it! But she had to see Miss Ashemeade—she had to.

However the gate did swing open slowly and gratingly under her push. Lorrie was breathing fast, as she had run most of the way from school in order to have time for this visit. But surely Aunt Margaret would understand if she were a little late getting home. Aunt Margaret was concerned too. The meeting with the Commissioners was this week, and Miss Ashemeade must have some way to make them understand the importance of Octagon House.

Lorrie ran around the house and knocked on the back door. For the first time Hallie did not answer. A little frightend, Lorrie tried the latch and it lifted. She came slowly into the hall.

“Hallie?” she called.

The door to the kitchen was shut, but the one to Miss Ashemeade's room a little ajar.

“We are in here, Lorrie.”

Lorrie tugged at zippers, pulled off at top speed the ski
suit to hang pants and coat on the wall pegs and set her boots under. Then she went in, only to stop just inside the door and look ahead with startled eyes. Hallie was working by the long table. She was flanked by tall cartons with detergent advertisements stamped on their sides (they looked as out of place in this room as a pile of dirty boards).

Sabina stood on her hind legs scraping her front claws down the side of one box, trying vainly to see into its interior. Into the next one Hallie was carefully packing all the rolls of material and ribbon that had lain undisturbed on that end of the table ever since Lorrie had first come here. There was the rustle of tissue paper as she rolled each one in that covering before fitting it into the carton.

Packing—Hallie was packing things away! Was—had Miss Ashemeade given up? Was she planning to move? But there was nowhere else for Miss Ashemeade, and Hallie, and all the treasures of Octagon House. This was where they belonged. They could not live anywhere else and be the same!

“Housecleaning, Lorrie.” Miss Ashemeade was busy, too. The length of tapestry that had been in the frame, for which Lorrie had threaded so many needles of wool, lay across her lap, and she was folding it carefully in a piece of protecting muslin. “Things accumulate so, and every once in a while they must be put to rights. It is an offense against thrift to hold onto what one cannot use to any profit. Hallie's box is going to the Ladies Aid of the Gordon Street Church. They can put all those pieces to good use, better use than they will be here, attracting dust and getting creased and faded. Why, what is the matter, my dear?”

“You're—you're not packing to move? You're not leaving Octagon House—”

Miss Ashemeade raised her hands and held them out, and Lorrie was drawn to her as if those hands had reached clear across the long room to her. When she stood beside Miss Ashemeade's chair, they came to rest on her shoulders.

“You need never fear, Lorrie, about that. I shall not leave Octagon House, nor shall the house—the real house—ever leave me.”

“The real house—”

But Miss Ashemeade was shaking her head. “The time will come, Lorrie, when you shall understand that. So, you thought we were moving, not cleaning up a bit? Ah, Lorrie, were we to move, I am afraid we would have to pull up roots so long and deep set that there would be a major disturbance in the world. Is that not so, Halllie?”

“'Deed so, Mis’ Charlotta, ‘deed so.” Hallie chuckled. “Cleanin’ up, that ain't movin’, Mis’ Lorrie. Now, looky heah, Sabina, you take's your claws outa that right smart. Them fixings was never meant for pullin’ about thataway.”

Sabina was backing across the carpet, pulling after her a long trail of golden ribbon that uncoiled as she went. She tried to jerk it free from Hallie's fingers when Hallie caught the other end. But Hallie won that tug of war and rewound the ribbon, to put it in the carton.

“Housecleaning is an excellent occupation for at least once a year,” Miss Ashemeade continued. “And not only houses need cleaning. But, Lorrie, you are still troubled. Now tell me what it is.”

“Tomorrow night is the meeting with the Commissioners, Miss Ashemeade, about the thruway.”

“And you are wondering if I shall be represented there. Yes, there is a Mr. Thruston who will see to my interests.”

“I've been thinking, if people wrote letters to the papers, maybe talked on the TV and the radio—Aunt Margaret said this house was a museum. Museums are important, they can't go knocking those down. Maybe Octagon House might be a museum if people wanted it.”

Miss Ashemeade smiled slowly. “A museum, yes, that is what it has become through the years, Lorrie, but not one that everyone can enjoy. Museums have no real life, they are full of things frozen in time, so stand always as they are. There are those who enjoy visiting them to see the past, but those who feel true kinship with the past grow fewer and fewer.”

She looked about the room. “There are treasures here, Lorrie, as your aunt saw, which perhaps do belong in a place where they may be cared for and shown to those who appreciate them for their history and their beauty. But this house holds other treasures that cannot be reckoned by the measurements of the world outside its walls. No, good as your plan is in its way, my dear, it cannot be used to protest Octagon House. Now"—again she looked at Lorrie—"do not carry this worry as a burden, my dear. There is a solution, believe me there is. You have nothing to fear for Octagon House, nothing at all.”

And Lorrie believed. She gave a sigh of relief. Mr. Thruston must be an extra-special lawyer.

“Now, Lorrie, how goes the world with you? You may put these wools to rights while you tell me.”

Lorrie sat down on her old place on the stool and began to untangle and rewind the odds and ends of wools left from the tapestry, tucking the loose ends under neatly. She found herself talking about Kathy and the trouble her own absent-mindedness had caused.

“Valentines,” Miss Ashemeade said. “A Valentine Fair to raise money for the school. Lorrie, see that large scrapbook over there, on the bottom shelf of the case? Bring it here, child.”

Lorrie brought over the large book. It was bound in leather of dark red, embossed and stamped with a design that combined small, plump hearts and wreaths of flowers. And in the creases of the design there were still faint lines of gold.

“Take it with you, Lorrie. And tonight tell Kathy you have something very special to show her. Tell her also, that if she is interested, to do what comes into her mind and that you will help her.”

“What—?” Lorrie started to open the book, but Miss Ashemeade shook her head.

“No. Open it with Kathy, my dear. And remember—tell her you can help her. That is all. Now, perhaps you had better go, it is getting late. Let Sabina out for her run as you leave. Do not worry about us, Lorrie. We are going to manage splendidly.”

She was so certain that she made Lorrie certain of that, too.

Charles

The book was big, too big to put into Lorrie's bag, and she had been afraid she would drop it in the snow, so she gave a sigh of relief when she reached the apartment lobby.

“Then I'll see about the cookies—”

Lorrie halted just inside the door. Kathy and Bess were there. They both turned around to look at her as she came in.

“Hello, Lorrie,” Bess said, as if she did not know just what to say and chose the easiest words.

“Hello.” Lorrie marched straight for Kathy. Maybe Kathy would turn and go upstairs, with Bess seeing and listening to everything. But this was the best chance she had had since the unfortunate class meeting to talk to Kathy. “This time, Kathy, you have to listen.”

“I don't have to,” Kathy interrupted. But Lorrie stood right in front of her now, and her refusal trailed into silence.

“I wasn't trying to be mean, Kathy, when I didn't second your nomination at the meeting. I was thinking about something
else, something important, and I really forgot what was going on.”

“Forgot!” Kathy looked unconvinced. “As if you could—”

“I did, and that's the truth, Kathy Lockner, the whole truth!”

“I don't see what could be so important that you'd forget like that.” Kathy's protest sounded less certain.

“It was important to me, Kathy. Now"—she held out the book—"I have something for you to see. Miss Ashemeade said you should.”

“Who's Miss Ashemeade?” Kathy demanded, but she was looking at the scrapbook.

‘The lady who lives in Octagon House.”

“She means the old witch!” broke in Bess.

Lorrie spun around. “You take that back, Bess Calder— right now you take that back! Miss Ashemeade's nice. She had Aunt Margaret and me there for Christmas, and it was wonderful. And Octagon House is beautiful.”

“It's an old eyesore, my father says so,” shrilled Bess. “And the city's going to tear it down and put a street right over it, so there, Lorrie Mallard! You'd better take your old witch's book and get out. Kathy and me's talking committee business and you're not on the committee. Kathy wouldn't have you after what you did!”

But Kathy was still looking at the book Lorrie held. “What is it?” she wanted to know.

“A scrapbook. I haven't looked in it either. Miss Ashemeade said to wait for you. Come on up"—she hesitated and then added to Bess—"both of you and let's see.”

“All right,” Kathy agreed. “You, too, Bess. Call your mother and stay for supper if she lets you. It's almost five anyway.”

“But what right's Lorrie got pushing in? She isn't on the committee.”

“Who said anything about this being for the fair? Miss Ashemeade said to show it to Kathy.”

“How did she know about me?”

“I told her about what happened and how sorry I was that I forgot. And I am sorry, Kathy, but you wouldn't let me say so before.”

“All right. Come on, Bess, let's see—won't hurt us.”

Lorrie unlocked the door and went to lay the book on the coffee table. A moment later she turned the thick leather cover to the first page.

“Valentines!” Bess exclaimed.

Valentines they were, fastened to each page, but such valentines!

“See this round one!” Kathy touched with a finger tip. “Those flowers, they're really embroidered in silk! And look at the darling little cupid holding up the wreath of roses!”

“And that one. It must be a paper doll, isn't it, Lorrie?” Bess added her voice to Kathy's. “But the dress—it's so old-fashioned!”

“Look at this one! The center is satin and the lady's painted on—with the butterflies.” Kathy had found another wonder. “Why, Lorrie, I never knew they once had valentines like these—all lace and flowers, with birds and butter flies.”

“They're a lot prettier than the kind we have now. Oh, here's one that's an open fan with a lot of pictures at the top and a cord and tassel at the bottom!”

“They're old,” Lorrie said thoughtfully. “But that lace, it's rather like the lace you see now in paper mats. Aunt Margaret has some for cake plates.”

“These flowers and birds.” Bess touched one bluebird. “Don't they have little books at the bookshop—the gummed-stamp ones? Some are flowers and some are birds. You know, the first graders get them pasted on good papers at school.”

“This one has real lace on it.” Kathy bent closer. “I've seen edging at the fabric shop that looks like these tiny pink roses.”

“Did you see Lizabeth's Christmas cards? Wait a minute, let me show you.” Lorrie put down the book and went to get a card from the desk drawer. “She made them herself. I asked her where she got the pictures for them, and these gold stars and leaves, and she told me about a store that has all kinds of these. They come from Germany. Now, doesn't this little angel look a lot like the cupid on that card?”

Kathy took the Christmas card to make a careful comparison.

“It does,” she admitted, but Lorrie thought she did so reluctantly.

“Lizabeth could show us the store.”

“You and Lizabeth are not on the committee!” Bess sat back on the couch. “Kathy?” She looked to her in appeal.

Kathy was still studying the pages before her. “See here,
Bess, we want to make money for the senior gift, don't we? Well, we have a cooky table, just as always, and a candy table. But this kind of thing, we've never tried before. And I'll bet it would be something even the grownups would like. You know, Mother and I went to visit a friend of hers, a Mrs. Lacy who lives up on Lakeland Heights. And she had a cof fee table with a glass top. Under that were some valentines like these.”

“But those were real old ones, like those in this book,” Bess pointed out, “not like those made today.”

“But they were pretty, so people saved them. Listen, Bess, how many valentines from last year did you save more'n a few weeks?”

Bess thought. “A couple.”

“Because someone special sent them to you, not because they were so pretty. Now isn't that so?”

“I guess so.”

“All right. But you offer some copies of these old ones for sale and perhaps people would keep them longer.”

“We can't use these.”

“No, I said copies.” Kathy studied Lizabeth's card again. “Lorrie, you say Lizabeth knows a store that sells these cutouts. Could you ask her where it is?”

“You ask her, Kathy,” Lorrie answered calmly. “Lizabeth made that card, so she must know a lot about such work.” She thought Kathy looked flushed and a little ill at ease. Then the committee chairman lifted her head with a little toss.

“All right, I will! As of now, Bess, we are going to expand the committee. Lorrie comes in and Lizabeth, if they will.”

“The rest of the girls aren't going to like it,” Bess protested.

“Why not? We want to have the best Valentine Fair ever, don't we? And here's something no other class ever had be fore. The boys are going to put on a puppet show and run the pop booth, and Jimmy Purvis will show his animal slides. But they've always had something like that—as they always had the candy and cooky sales. Now, this is something new and I think it's good!”

“But asking Lizabeth—”

Kathy turned sharply. “All right, Bess, just go on and say it! Say you don't want to be on a committee with her.”

“You said it, too, and other things—” Bess stopped short under Lorrie's accusing stare. Kathy was very flushed.

“Yes,” Kathy admitted in a low voice, “I did.”

“And now—just because you think she can do something for your old committee, you're ready to ask her!” Bess re turned.

Lorrie looked from Bess to Kathy, who was very red now. Maybe that was the truth. But she remembered what Aunt Margaret had said—walls rose because people did not really know each other. If they did get to know, the walls began to crumble.

“Lizabeth's nice,” she said, “and she's clever. She's one of the smartest girls in the class and you both know it. She should be on the committee anyway and, I think if Kathy asks her in the right way, she will.”

“And what's the ‘right way'?” Bess wanted to know.

“Tell her that she has something the class needs,” Lorrie said slowly. “That's really what a committee is, isn't it. People
all working together, each doing what he can, even if they don't all do the same things?”

Kathy nodded. “All right, I'm going to ask her. Maybe it's because she can work. But some people don't care for Sandra Tottrell very much, and we asked her because she makes super fudge. Isn't that so, Bess?”

Bess was frowning. “It's your committee.” She sounded grudging.

“It's our fair,” Kathy returned. “Lorrie, would Miss Ashemeade let us borrow this book for a while, so we could copy ideas from it? We would promise you could take charge of it and we would be very careful.”

“I'll ask.”

“You might go through it tonight,” Kathy continued, “and make a list of things we need, lace paper and flower seals and ribbon. Then maybe Saturday we could see about buy ing them. And tomorrow at recess, if you could bring the book, Lorrie, we'll show the girls and decide.”

“I'll see if Miss Ashemeade will let me.”

“Come on, Bess, you have supper with us, and then we'll do some phoning to the committee. Thanks, Lorrie, and thank Miss Ashemeade too.”

But when Aunt Margaret came home and Lorrie showed her the scrapbook and explained, Aunt Margaret shook her head.

“Lorrie, these old valentines are what they term ‘collectors’ items’ now and are undoubtedly worth a great deal of money. I don't like your bringing them here, and certainly you should not take them to school tomorrow.”

“But Miss Ashemeade gave me the book, told me to show Kathy—”

“To show Kathy in our home, not to carry it to school where an accident might happen. No, Lorrie. And I do not think we should keep it here. As it happens I have some of the Christmas pictures back from the developer and I want to give Miss Ashemeade a set. So, after supper, we shall re turn the book. It is far too precious to be handled carelessly. Miss Ashemeade may not realize its value.”

Hurriedly Lorrie leafed through the pages and tried to list the supplies Kathy wanted. But could they do anything with out the samples in the book to copy? Maybe she had made Kathy believe something that now could not be carried out.

The front of Octagon House was very dark when she and Aunt Margaret arrived before the gate. But the latch gave under Lorrie's push and, as they took the walk around the house, they saw the gleam of lamp and candlelight in the windows of the red room. Also it seemed that they might have been expected, for Hallie opened the back door at their first knock.

“Come in, come in. This is a chill night!” She welcomed them heartily. “Go right in with you now. An’ git close to the fire, toast your fingers and toes!”

Aunt Margaret knocked on Miss Ashemeade's door and, at her low call went in, the scrapbook in her hand. She had carried it from the apartment in a plastic bag, as if she feared something would happen to it. But when Lorrie would have followed her, Hallie set her old wrinkled hand on her shoulder and gave her a little push toward the kitchen instead.

Surprised, Lorrie went. This room was warm and welcoming also. Sabina sat upright in the chair by the stove. Hallie moved to the table and lifted a hot cookie from a sheet on the tip of a turner.

“Seems like I was jus’ knowin’ someone would be along tonight. Now you wraps your tongue about this, child, an’ then you lets me know how it does taste.”

Lorrie obediently tasted, until the cookie was all gone. “Mmmmmm, extra, special good! That's what it is, Hal-lie!”

“You ain't th’ furst as has said that, Mis’ Lorrie. You, Sabina, what is you up to now?”

Sabina had jumped from her chair and was crying by the other kitchen door, the one that led to the hallway.

“Let her out, child. She has her own night ways, an’ they ain't ours.”

Lorrie opened the door. But somehow she already knew what Sabina wanted. The doll-house room—Sabina was leading her to the doll-house room. Licking the last crumbs from her fingers, Lorrie followed.

Moonlight fell very bright and clear on the house, made Bevis’ hide coat silvery. Lorrie moved around the doll house. Oddly enough she could see illumination in the rooms. There were faint glows from the small lamps and candles, though she could not see any flames. And she was so intent upon peeking in an upper window that she struck her shin against an unnoticed, half-open drawer in the base.

This was a smaller drawer, set just under the room with the painted floor. Unlike the other two she had opened, this
one held a single doll. Lorrie lifted it out and held it into the moonlight.

It was a man doll and it wore a uniform with a small sword at the belt. Lorrie saw a gray jacket with an upstanding tight collar, and scrolls of very fine gold on the sleeves. A Confederate soldier! He had a thin face with prominent cheekbones and rather long dark hair, and his eyes seemed alive, as if he were looking intently back at her.

Lorrie tried the back section of the house, supposing it would swing open as it always had before. But this time it was firmly set. She walked around to try the other side. That gave, pulling out to show the parlor, the front hall, and the dining room, which was now Miss Ashemeade's day room.

In the parlor no cloths covered the furniture, the fire was built up in the grate. Carefuly Lorrie set the soldier beside the fireplace, and knew that was where he belonged. She swung the side of the house back into place and went to Be-vis. But this time she did not climb into the saddle, because that curious whirlabout came before she had time to. She heard Bevis’ snort by her ear and turned her head. She had been in a moonlit room and she was still in moonlight. But this was outside and the moon was bright on snow. Bevis stamped and snorted again.

They were by the stable and there was a lantern there, hung over the main door.

“Miss Lotta, they're out beatin’ th’ river banks. You ain't goin’ down there!” The voice in the stable was raised in hot protest.

“Not by the river, no, Phineas. I am going to the village.”

“But you'll have to pass them, Miss Lotta. An’ they're a rough lot. Let me go, I can take a note t’ the rector.”

“Phineas, what if I hadn't gone on a night we remember, or on another night Chole tries hard to forget?”