The Number 7 (10 page)

“Dad, there's so much you seem to know that you've never told us. What else did Grandpa say about Sweden?”

“Oh, not much. He didn't really talk about his family. Mom told me not to ask him, so I didn't.”

“And you never asked her why he didn't want to talk about it?”
What would you think about him if you knew the truth
? I silently asked.
I could tell you, Dad. I could tell you everything I know, but would you want to know?

“I guess I didn't think about it.
You
never really asked about Grandma and Grandpa before coming here. I was like that, I suppose.”

Ugh. He could be so frustrating when he was right.

We sat down to our warm, savory dinner. Greta said she wasn't hungry and stayed in her room. The wind whooshed against the windows at the back of the house, and we could hear a draft infiltrate the house somewhere along the frame of the kitchen door. I shook with a December chill.

Dad laid a meager spread of photos on the table as he sipped his soup. I watched him study the pictures carefully. Occasionally, he'd pick one up and then set it back down again. A couple times he smiled wistfully. I wanted so badly to ask him, to urge him to tell me what he was thinking, but I let him take his time. No good would come of me interrupting and rushing him. At last, he looked up at me. He seemed startled to see me, as if he'd forgotten I was sitting there.

“Here she is. This is my mom,” he pointed to a photo of a woman sitting at a typewriter.

I picked up the worn photograph and studied it intently. The picture was taken from the side; she was sitting and staring at her typing. Her ankles were crossed beneath her seat. She wore a button-down blouse and a kerchief tied tightly around her neck. Her hair was curled and pinned back. She looked lovely. In the background of the picture, an old Bavarian cuckoo clock hung on the wall.

“She liked writing poetry,” Dad continued. “She had elegant handwriting, but she was an amazing typist. She was beautiful, wasn't she?

“And this one,” Dad picked up a square, scalloped-edged photograph and handed it to me. He swiveled his chair so we could stare at the picture side by side. “
This
is your grandpa.”

The man in the photo had a furrowed brow and a long, clean-shaven face. He wore his light hair swept to the side. He had thick-rimmed glasses and a striped sweater. He was watching something intently off-camera, but he wasn't smiling.

Gerhard Gustav Magnusson. My grandfather, the murderer. At last, we meet.

I recalled all the questions I didn't have answers to, the anecdotes Grandmother relayed to me during my time in her house, and the mystery that surrounded this young man with the sad eyes.

“Good-looking guy, wasn't he?” Dad held the picture next to his own face. “Any resemblance?”

I looked fondly at the features of my grandfather and compared them to my dad's. Their chins were exactly the same square shape. Their noses were long, not short and upturned like mine. Their foreheads were also similar, wider than most. Dad's hair was graying and receding but lay in the same position as Grandpa's. The only distinct difference was in the eyes. Noticeably, Dad's eyes were full of life. In Dad's eyes there was light, whereas Grandpa's eyes looked lackluster. I discovered a lump in my throat that hadn't been there when we first sat down.

“He was very handsome,” I said matter-of-factly, clearing my throat. “Just like you, Dad.”

“I was thinking about going to Weaver's later,” Dad said, wiping up the last of his pea soup with a hunk of sourdough and taking a bite. “I thought you might . . . want to tag along?”

I couldn't tell if Dad was insinuating anything about Weaver's tall, handsome shelf-stocker, but I didn't care. The thought of a chance encounter with my attractive schoolmate enthralled me. Even if I'd already seen him in class that day.

“Would love to.”

Looking down at my meal, I realized I was carefully picking my slice of sourdough to little pieces, crumbling them into my empty bowl. Dad eyed me suspiciously while I laughed nervously and quickly got up from the table to clean up.

Dad and I walked to Weaver's even though the winter cold was biting. It wasn't far from the house, and Dad and I were getting used to walking downtown. There was something magical about the woods at night. I stole Greta's turquoise pashmina for the evening. Wrapping it tightly around my neck, I inhaled her perfume.
She even smells good
, I thought with slight jealousy. I thought briefly about asking Dad about her. Had he also noticed how she incessantly tugged at her long sleeves these days? Was he worried, too? But I couldn't bring myself to ask. In some stupid way, I felt as if talking to Dad about her would betray her trust. No, I couldn't ask him. I'd have to question her about it myself. So while Dad carried our folded canvas bags under his arm, we walked in silence. The two of us chose to conserve our energy; the thought of talking only made me colder. I shone the flashlight ahead of us.

Our journey took us off-pavement, and I couldn't help but notice the crunch of the frozen earth under our feet. I wondered if Sweden felt this cold all the time.

I thought more about Grandma and her decision to contact me. Why me? I wasn't special. I was a skeptical teenager, sometimes cynical, and constantly second-guessing myself. I did well in school and helped Dad around the house—though definitely not as much as I should. All in all, I considered myself pretty short of extraordinary.

Did Grandma want me to expose my grandfather for who he really was? Could I do that? What would that do to Dad?

Supernatural oddities like this usually fell upon weird people in movies: psychics, ghost hunters, outcasts. It was strange how Grandma never fully addressed me. If she
had
singled me out, decided
I
was the one she wanted to relate the story to, why didn't she ever speak directly to me? Maybe she couldn't. Maybe those were the rules of the ghostworld, or afterworld, or wherever she was calling me from. Suppose I had to prompt her? After all, I had my own questions regarding Grandpa.

I didn't immediately go to the garden section of Weaver's. That would have been too desperate. If Greta had taught me anything regarding the opposite sex, it was to act completely indifferent.
It drives them crazy
, she had explained as if we were talking about a pack of feral dogs.

It happened when I was standing over the yams again. I was placing one of the big, lumpy vegetables in my basket when he came up beside me, pretending to restack the pile of produce. He pushed himself so close to me our arms touched. I didn't jump. I just continued to inspect the produce as if he hadn't startled me. Even though, at that moment, something inside me dissolved.

“We've got to stop meeting like this, Mums.” He smiled, piling the yams into a pyramid.

“Do we?” I whispered.

He looked so pleased, and I wanted so badly for him to kiss me.

“You need a Christmas cactus? We've got the best cacti this side of Chester County.”

I turned to face him. “Seriously, what is it with you and your plants?”

“I dunno,” he shrugged. “I've got a green thumb. Everything I touch comes to life. See?” He reached out and grabbed my hand. Spinning around with our hands enclosed, I stared into his faultless eyes. This was a test. A battle of wits. How was I going to react? How did he want me to act?

I held on tightly and replied, “Your hand is freezing.”

A momentary glimmer of disappointment swept through his eyes. Whatever the test, I'd failed it. I didn't know what I was supposed to say. But before another second could pass, his familiar smile returned.

“You wanna hang out this Friday?”

Wait, what?

“Sure,” I dropped his hand.

Did that really just happen?

“I get off at six.”

Our eyes locked. Neither of us looked away, and I'm pretty sure we were standing closer than what was typical of friendly classmates.

“I was going to make cookies . . . ” I heard my voice trailing off, but I couldn't remember what else I was going to say.

“Could you use a hand? I mean, even if it is ‘freezing'?”

Finally, Gabe broke the eye contact to inspect the hand I'd just held. He turned it over, playfully offended.

“Are you as good in the kitchen as you are in the garden?” I teased.

“Lousy, actually.”

How could you be lousy at anything?

“Five October Hill Road. Do you know it?”

“I'll be there Friday at seven,” he held up both his hands and wiggled his fingers. “With . . .
gloves
—not bells—on.”

Then he winked and walked away. He was still on the clock, even though it seemed like he'd just spent an hour with me. I took a deep breath, smiled gleefully to myself, and ventured off to go find Dad.

Friday night, Dad had initially insisted on answering the door until Greta came to my defense. This was the first time I'd ever had a boy over to the house, and Dad was unsure how to handle his younger daughter dating.
So much for Greta paving the way for me
, I mused. Apparently there was a whole new set of worries Dad succumbed to when he realized I wasn't the boyish, ten-year-old daughter he thought I'd be forever. The transformation had even come upon
me
suddenly. I was learning as I went, like a paint-by-numbers for dating. I wanted to be cool like Greta, but more importantly I wanted to be cool like me.

“Isn't that sweater a little tight on you?” Dad had asked when I told him I was having a guy come over.

“Dad, it's not the sweater that's tight!” Greta laughed from where she lay reading a tabloid magazine on the couch in front of the fireplace. “She has boobs and a waist, you know.”

Dad eyed me anxiously. I held up my arms and shrugged. Greta had helped me pick out something to wear. It was her sweater.

“Maybe you could wear that soccer jersey I bought you? That's fun,” Dad said encouragingly, but I caught him gulping with trepidation. “Boys like soccer . . . ”

“That grungy thing from London?” Greta sat up and glared from her spot on the couch.
Was she really insulting something British?
“Dad, she looks fine! Louisa, you're perfect.” Her head fell back on the couch and I saw the magazine lift back into the air.

Dad stomped off into the kitchen while I stood in the hallway confused. When he returned, he held a piece of blue cloth bunched in his hands.

“You're making cookies, right?” He stuffed the bundle into my hand. “Wear this.”

I held up an oversized apron he usually wore when he grilled in the summer. I looked at Greta for some kind of defense, but I was on my own.

Dad was tinkering with Grandpa's toy train when there was a knock at the door. He must have found it upstairs. I'd left it on the hallway table, but did I leave it there intentionally, for him to find? Didn't I secretly want him to talk to me about it? If only he provided me the right opportunity to tell him the truth about Grandpa. If only I were brave enough to just come out and ask, “Dad, do you know who your dad
really
was? Let me tell you.”

Dad had spent the afternoon flipping every switch in the cellar, had followed wires through the walls, and had changed whatever batteries needed changing, trying to bring the train back to life. But it wouldn't run. It stayed dead. He'd at last resorted to taking the entire train apart and spreading its pieces out on the living room floor. I wanted to tell him I thought it was useless—that the train had already delivered its message—but Dad seemed intent on bringing it back to life. Why? How could it help?

When the knock sounded, I noticed he gripped the screwdriver a little too tightly. Was he more focused on my visitor or the train? Walking through the living room to the front door, I saw his eye arch to make sure I was keeping my end of the deal. The bulky blue apron hung around my neck and was tied at the waist. Dad chuckled, satisfied, as I passed him. I mockingly stopped in front of him to curtsy.

“Okay, okay,” Dad shooed me on to the door.

It was dark outside and the large fir wreath Dad had hung on the front door blocked the window. Out on the front step stood Gabe, his arms wrapped around a very large, and very red, poinsettia plant. But someone else stood there, too: Rosemary. Both faces greeted me eagerly.

“He accidently knocked on my house first,” Rosemary explained, thumbing toward Gabe. “And I just thought,” she shrugged, “I'd see if your dad wanted to come by for a cup of coffee?”

I ushered my guests into the mudroom, quickly shutting the door behind them. Rosemary unwrapped her black cashmere kerchief and let her red locks fall into place around her face. She shook her scarf free of stray snowflakes and stomped her rubber galoshes on our braided area rug. Gabe danced a balancing act while holding the large, potted plant and stepping out of his own soaked boots. He didn't seem nervous, only eager, but I was quivering inside.
Gabe Weaver was inside my house.

I graciously accepted the plant from Gabe so he could remove his coat. “It's gorgeous!”

“I love your portico! I haven't seen one like it in all of Brandywine,” Gabe replied enthusiastically, staring wide-eyed at the mudroom around him. I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Your doorway,” he motioned to the place he'd just stood. “I helped my dad restore our house a couple years ago. I've got a whole glossary of architectural jargon up here.” He tapped his temple with his index finger. He walked over to a wall and lightly rapped on it with his knuckle, “Horse hair plaster?”

I stared at him dumbfounded while he grinned. We entered the foyer, and Gabe's eyes moved delicately over the crown molding and the staircase: its banister, the decorative brackets, and the worn walnut steps.

Dad stood in the entry to the living room. He'd removed his reading glasses and was casually holding a model train car in his left hand, but I could tell he was nervous. As far as I knew, this was the first time he'd seen Rosemary since Thanksgiving.