Wait Till Helen Comes (4 page)

7

WHEN I GOT BACK to the church, I found Mom in the kitchen making sandwiches for herself and Heather.

"You're just in time for lunch, Molly," Mom said, but Heather merely glanced at me before returning her attention to the peanut butter she was smearing on a slice of bread.

"I'm not very hungry." I leaned against the counter, not knowing whether I should stay or leave. Just being around Heather was beginning to make me nervous. "Where's Michael?" I asked Mom.

"I suppose he's out in the woods somewhere." Mom held a bowl of tuna salad toward me. "Sure you don't want some?"

I shook my head. "Maybe later."

Without looking at Mom or me, Heather took her sandwich and opened the screen door.

"Where are you going, Heather?" Mom asked.

"I'm eating with Daddy," she said, letting the door bang shut behind her.

Silently Mom and I watched her walk across the yard and disappear into the carriage house.

"Where were you all morning?" Mom asked me. "Were you with Heather?"

Opening the refrigerator, I made a pretence of looking for the ice tea. When I found it, I poured myself a glass and offered some to Mom, still trying to think of an answer that wouldn't get me into trouble.

"We were out in the woods," I said finally, hoping she would assume that we were together. "There's an old house way down the creek, just ruins really, and a pond. Heather loves going there, but I think it's kind of dangerous."

"What do you mean, Molly?" Mom looked puzzled. "I didn't know there were any old houses nearby."

"Well, it's there. And the pond might be very-deep. Not only that, but the walls of the house look like they might fall down any minute. It's not a good place for a kid to play, Mom, and I think you or Dave should tell Heather not to go there."

Mom sipped her tea. "It doesn't sound very safe," she said, "but I'd love to see it. I might want to sketch it."

"But will you tell Heather she can't go there?"

"Of course." Mom gave me a long look. "You know, though, Molly, that Dave and I count on you and Michael to take care of Heather. It's up to you to make sure she doesn't run wild in the woods all day."

"I try to watch her, but she sneaks away from me the minute my back is turned. And Michael never even tries. He just packs up his binoculars and his other junk and disappears into the woods."

Mom carried her dishes to the sink and began rinsing them. "Molly, you are old enough to be responsible. We moved here so Dave and I would have time to work without worrying about you all." Putting her plate and glass on the counter to drain, she wiped her hands on the seat of her shorts and smiled at me. "Go on, now, and find something to do. I've got to get back to my painting."

"But I don't have anything to do!" I wailed.

"Go find Michael. He manages to keep himself very happy." With that, Mom was out the back door, across the drive, and into the church.

After spending a long, hot afternoon reading
Watership Down
and trying not to think about Helen or the ruins of her house, I was glad to see Michael stroll out of the woods just before dinner. Marking my place with a blade of grass, I ran to meet him.

"Look at the walking-stick I caught!" Michael brandished a jar in front of my face, but all I could see in it was a dead stick. "Isn't he great?"

All of a sudden I realized that the stick had legs and eyes. Backing away, I yelled, "Don't let that thing loose in the house!"

"It won't hurt you." Michael smiled at the creature in the jar. "They're real hard to see, but this old guy moved just when I was looking at him. He's a great example of natural camouflage."

"Good for him." Walking beside the great naturalist, but not too close, I told him about the old house. "Heather says Helen used to live there, Michael. And she has this chain around her neck with a locket on it. She says Helen gave it to her. You should have heard Heather talking to her—I don't think she's making it up; I think Helen really is there. I swear I almost saw her!"

All the things I hadn't been able to tell Mom came tumbling out while Michael listened, his face blank. Finally he interrupted me.

"Molly, cut it out," he said. "You should hear yourself! You're letting that kid make a fool of you."

"I am not!" I glared at him, furious. "You weren't there; you didn't see Heather or hear her! You didn't see her in the graveyard either."

Michael held up his jar and peered at the walking-stick. "Show me the house," he said.

"It's too late now. Dinner's almost ready, and by the time we finish, it will be dark."

"Tomorrow morning then. First thing." He grinned at me through the jar. "I've always wanted to explore a haunted house. Just think, a treasure could be buried in the cellar or something."

"I'm not going inside, and I don't think you should either. The walls are about to fall down."

"You are a scaredy-cat, you know that?" Michael waved the jar at me, and I jumped away. "Bugs, graveyards, old houses—you're scared of everything."

Before I could come back with a good retort, Mom stepped out on the back porch. "Dinner's ready, you two," she called.

As usual, Mom and Dave did most of the talking, but as we were finishing our dessert, Dave turned to Heather and said, "I hear that you and Molly discovered an old house in the woods."

Heather shot me a nasty look and nodded her head. "I found it, not Molly," she mumbled, her mouth full of cake.

"Well, it sounds like a dangerous place to play. How about you girls staying a little closer to the church?"

Heather shrugged her shoulders. "It's not dangerous. It's pretty." She gave her father one of her rare smiles. "You know how Molly is. She thinks everything is dangerous."

Dave laughed and Mom smiled. "She has a point there," he said to Mom.

"Well, it looks like it's going to fall down," I said, "and the pond is deep."

"So?" Heather stared at me. "I know how to swim. Nothing's going to happen to me there."

"Maybe we'll all take a walk and see it one day," Mom said, smiling at Heather and me. "In the meantime, though, why don't you play here?"

Heather hid her face behind her glass of milk, and I noticed a little bulge under her tee shirt. "How about the locket?" I asked her. "Did you tell your father about that?"

"What locket, honey?" Dave leaned across the table toward her, but Heather shrank away from him, her hand covering the bump the locket made under her shirt.

"It's just this old thing." She pulled the chain out of her shirt and held up a tarnished heart. "I found it in the weeds by the pond."

Michael looked at me, his eyebrows raised. I knew what he was thinking—poor old Molly, taken in again.

"Well, isn't that nice?" Dave smiled at Heather. "I bet Jean could polish it up so it would look like new."

Mom reached for the locket, but Heather dropped it back down inside her shirt. "I like it just the way it is," she said.

"Does it open?" Mom asked. "People used to keep pictures or locks of hair in those."

Heather shook her head. "It's bent, so it won't open anymore."

"Can I have another piece of cake?" Michael asked, and dinner went on, without any more comments about the house or the locket.

When I woke up the next morning, the first thing I saw were gray clouds and dripping leaves. It had rained hard during the night, and it looked like more showers were on the way. As I pulled on my jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, I told myself that I wouldn't have to take Michael to the house after all. Even he wouldn't want to go walking through wet grass and muddy fields.

But I was wrong. He was waiting for me at the kitchen table, the remains of his breakfast in front of him, his windbreaker on the back of the chair. "I thought you were going to sleep all day," he said accusingly.

"It's going to rain, Michael. You don't still want to go, do you?"

"The weather forecast says there's only a thirty percent chance of showers," he said. "You aren't scared of getting wet, too?"

I scowled at him as I poured milk on my cereal. "Where's Heather?"

"Beats me." He grinned at me. "Maybe she's gone on ahead to tell Helen we're coming."

"Very funny." I ate my cereal in silence while he read the comics. After washing the dishes, I pulled on my windbreaker and followed him outside. "We take the path down to the cow pasture, cross the creek, and go through the woods," I told him.

In silence, we waded through the water, higher now because of the rain. The cows watched us mournfully from the other side of the fence. One of them made a little snorting sound and ran clumsily up the hill away from us, and the others followed more slowly, mooing in chorus.

"They sound like they're auditioning for parts in some Great Dairyland TV Special," Michael said, as we entered the woods, still wet and smelling of rain.

Although I didn't say it, I was sorry to leave the cows behind. The woods seemed unfriendly this morning; lost in gloom, they brooded like giants on the verge of waking from bad dreams. The only sounds were the cawing of crows somewhere ahead of us, the gurgle of the creek behind us, and the swishing noise our feet made brushing against the damp weeds bordering the path.

When we reached the edge of the woods, we paused and I pointed toward the house. Against sky of ragged clouds, the ruins looked grim and desolate. Behind the house, the trees swayed in the wind, and at its feet the pond lay, its water dark gray, its surface wrinkled.

"Well, Molly," Michael said solemnly, "I don't see any face at the window. I guess Helen isn't home today. She must be staying underground where it's all dry and snug." He laughed, and I punched his arm.

"Shut up," I hissed at him. To me, the windows were full of hidden eyes watching us. The murmuring of the wind in the woods, the sighing sound it made in the weeds, seemed to speak to me, warning me to leave. I shivered. "Come on, Michael, let's go back. It's going to rain any minute." I edged away from him, back toward the path and the haven of the woods.

But Michael ignored me. Without waiting to see if I would follow, he began climbing the hill toward the house.

"You'd better not go inside!" I called after him.

Glancing back at me over his shoulder, he said, "Why not? Nobody's here. I don't even see a No Trespassing sign."

A gust of wind lifted the trailing vines on the house and sent them billowing toward us like outstretched arms. "Michael, come back!" I shouted, as the first drops of rain came pelting down out of the sky.

"There's still some roof on this side," he yelled. "Come on, Molly, we can stay dry."

As he disappeared through one of the windows, I ran after him, too scared to go home by myself. "Where are you?" I asked as I neared the house.

"Here." His face appeared in a window almost covered with honeysuckle. "You'll be dry in here."

My legs were shaking so hard, I could hardly manage to climb into the house. It was dark and cold; the floor beneath our feet creaked, and everything smelled of mold and decay and smoke. Huddling close to Michael, I glanced around fearfully, expecting to see something hideous in every shadow. But all I saw were spiderwebs and heaps of rusty beer cans and bottles, charred wood from bonfires, graffiti on the walls, discarded newspapers, and other assorted trash.

"See?" Michael said. "There's nothing here to be scared of. Looks like teenagers from Holwell come out here, and maybe bums. But no ghosts, Molly."

My teeth were chattering, but I nodded, pretending to believe him.

"This must have been a terrific house," Michael went on. "I bet the walls are more than two feet thick, all solid rock. The house was two or three stories high with a fireplace in every room. See?"

I looked up. We were standing in front of one fireplace and above our heads, jutting out of the wall, was another fireplace. Above that was what was left of the roof. Through the holes, rain fell, and I could see patches of gray sky.

"As soon as it stops raining, I'm going home," I told Michael. "You can stay here as long as you like."

Michael shrugged and began exploring the room. "I guess it burned down," he said, poking at a charred timber lying on the floor. "It must have been an incredible fire. Probably lit up the whole sky."

Without answering him, I went back to the window and looked out, hoping the rain had stopped. Down below me, I saw the pond. And something else.

"Michael!" I called to him, "Come here!"

"Why?" He had gone into the next room.

"It's Heather! She's down there by the pond!"

Michael joined me by the window, and we both stared at her, too surprised to move. She was standing by the water, her back to us, her hair swirling in the wind, absolutely soaked.

"What's she doing?" I whispered.

"I don't know, but she'll catch pneumonia if she stays there much longer." Michael pushed me aside and climbed out the window. "Heather," he yelled. "Get away from that water!"

She turned toward him, her mouth open in surprise, one hand clasping the locket. "Go away!" she shouted as he ran toward her.

I watched him grab her and try to drag her toward the house. She was doing her best to get away from him, twisting and turning, crying and screaming, begging him to leave her alone.

"Molly, help me!" Michael yelled, and I scrambled through the window, slipping and sliding as I ran down the hillside. Grabbing hold of Heather, I helped Michael drag her up the hill and into the house.

"What are you doing here?" she cried, still struggling to escape.

"Looking for you!" I shouted. "You know you aren't supposed to be here! Mom and Dave told you last night to stay closer to the church!"

"I'll go where I want to go!" Heather slumped suddenly, her eyes filled with tears, and she began to cry. "You're hurting my arms," she sobbed. "Let me go."

"Do you promise not to run away from us?" Michael scowled at her.

"Yes," Heather mumbled. "She's gone now anyway."

We let go of her, and she slumped on the floor between us, weeping, her face hidden in her hands. "You always make her go away," she wept, "but you'll be sorry. You'll be so sorry."