Welcome to Camden Falls, Page 3

  Ruby surveyed this from the window of the dining room, where Min had set the table for breakfast. Then she turned to face Min and Flora, crossed her arms, and said, “Why are we eating in here?”

  “In the dining room?” said Min. “I just thought it would be nice to have a fancy breakfast on your first morning in Camden Falls.”

  Ruby’s eyes took in the plate of bacon, the dish of scrambled eggs, the toast, the orange juice, Min’s pot of coffee. “I hate eggs,” she said, and stomped out of the room.

  “Good night, nurse,” murmured Min, which made Flora smile. She didn’t know what all of Min’s expressions meant, but she liked hearing them.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Flora asked, feeling much better after a long and dreamless sleep.

  “Just crabby,” replied Min. “You know Ruby.”

  Flora nodded. When Flora was sad, she grew quiet. When Ruby was sad, she got crabby.

  Min and Flora ate breakfast with Daisy, who sat by Min’s chair, resting her golden chin on Min’s knee and following every forkful of food with pitiful brown eyes.

  “You look tragic, Daisy Dear,” said Min. “Truly tragic. No one would ever know you ate your own breakfast not ten minutes ago.”

  Flora and Min dawdled and chatted, and Min drank three cups of coffee. After breakfast, when the dishes had been cleared and Min had opened all the windows on the first floor in order to let in the soft summer smells, Flora went upstairs to tackle the boxes piled by her bed. She glanced into Ruby’s room. King Comma was curled up in an armchair, and Ruby, wearing a tutu, a tiara, and her tap shoes, was arranging china animals on her dresser. She looked quite cheerful.

  “I’m changing the goat’s name from Jennifer to Pilar,” she announced, and Flora just stared at her. The china animals, most of them, had been given to Ruby by their parents, who had picked them up on trips or in gift shops. Ruby treated each one as a member of her family, assigning them names and personalities and histories. How, Flora wondered now, could Ruby look at them and see them only as animals, instead of as gifts from their parents? Where was Ruby’s heart? But then Flora remembered Ruby’s earlier bad mood, so she said nothing, stepping into her own room and closing the door behind her.

  Two hours later, with help from Min, who had Sundays off from Needle and Thread, most of the unpacking had been finished. The former guest room and the former study now looked like bedrooms.

  “Let’s take a break,” said Min, and at that moment, the doorbell rang.

  Flora and Ruby dashed down the stairs.

  “Maybe it’s Olivia!” said Flora, but when she opened the door, she found Robby on the stoop.

  “Hi, Flora. Hi, Ruby,” said Robby, and before Flora could close the door, King slipped between her feet, shot outside, and hurtled across the lawn and into the Malones’ yard.

  “Hey!” shouted Ruby.

  “Help!” cried Robby.

  “Min, King’s out again!” Flora called.

  “Oh, dear,” said Min as she hurried downstairs.

  “Chase him!” said Ruby.

  Ruby, Flora, and Robby ran across the Malones’ lawn and into the Willets’ yard, calling, “King! King Comma! Come here, King!” But he was already out of sight.

  Margaret Malone poked her head around her front door. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Our cat got out,” said Flora, panting.

  “Your cat’s gone?” said Mr. Willet through his screen door.

  “Yes,” said Ruby. “King Comma.”

  “I can’t leave Mary Lou right now,” said Mr. Willet, “but I’ll be on the lookout.”

  “Hey, Flora! Ruby!” someone called, and Flora turned around to see Olivia running along the sidewalk. Behind her were Robby’s mother and Mrs. Fong.

  “Olivia, King’s gone!” cried Flora. “He just got out a minute ago, but we can’t see him anywhere.”

  “Okay,” said Olivia. She thought for a moment, then straightened up as tall as she was able and put her hand on her hip. “All right. Cats are fast. Everybody, spread out! Look in trees and under bushes.” She pointed to Ruby and Robby. “Ruby, you and Robby go get my brothers and the Morris kids. Tell them to look in the backyards and the garages. The grown-ups should look in the front yards and across the street. Flora, you come with me.”

  “Where are we going?” asked Flora, who felt breathless just listening to Olivia.

  “Around. We’d better fan out farther.”

  “Town is only two blocks away,” said Flora. “What if he’s in town? He’ll get killed there. It’s a busy street.”

  “It’s not that busy,” said Olivia. “Don’t worry yet. Just come on.”

  Flora and Olivia hurried down Aiken Avenue, calling, “King! King! King Comma!”

  They passed old New England homes set on wide lawns. They saw stones houses and saltbox houses and several houses that Flora knew her mother would have called gingerbread, with curlicues and fancy trim, painted bright colors. But no King.

  “This is just terrible,” said Flora, blinking back tears. “King has no idea where he is. What if he doesn’t come back? Did you ever read that book The Incredible Journey? About those pets who traveled across the country — I think it was across the country — to find their owners? Or what about all those stories about cats and dogs who walk hundreds of miles back to their old homes? What if King is already trying to find his way back to our old home?”

  “Flora, stop worrying,” said Olivia briskly as she wound through town. “I don’t think anything that dramatic is going to happen. Plus, you and Ruby are King’s owners and you’re right here. King won’t want to leave you. He’s probably just out exploring his new territory. I have a good feeling someone’s going to find him soon.” Olivia paused. She lowered her voice. “Hey, look where we are.”

  Flora’s eyes followed Olivia’s pointing finger to one of the strangest and loveliest homes she had ever seen.

  “What is that place?” she whispered.

  “It’s Mary Woolsey’s house.”

  Flora let her gaze linger on the yard. There was no grass in it, not even a teeny patch of lawn. Instead, the house was surrounded by nothing but gardens — gardens that meandered to the edges of the property and back to the walls of the house, and didn’t even stop there. From behind rosebushes and ferns and bleeding hearts, ivy and clematis twined up the house, covering every inch of it except the windows and the door.

  “It’s … beautiful,” said Flora.

  The gardens were lush and well tended. Everywhere she looked, Flora could see things in bloom — familiar flowers, plus lots of things she couldn’t identify. Yellows and pinks and reds and purples and blues, tall flowers and spiky flowers and delicate flowers and flowers with huge blossoms, flowers trailing and drooping and climbing. Neat brick paths wound through the gardens, and here and there a bench or a birdbath had been placed. Butterflies drifted from bloom to bloom, and Flora saw a hummingbird gathering nectar from a fuchsia blossom.

  The house nestled in the midst of these gardens was tiny, reminding Flora of a fairy cottage she had once seen in a picture book. One door, a window on either side of it, a low sloping roof. Flora guessed there were no more than four rooms inside.

  “Who’s Mary Woolsey?” asked Flora.

  “Mary Woolsey,” Olivia replied, her voice still low, “is a crazy woman. We call her Scary Mary. She lives here and she almost never comes out, except to go to Needle and Thread.”

  “Needle and Thread!” Flora cried, then clapped her hand over her mouth. “You’re kidding me, Olivia. Aren’t you?” she said more softly. “You’re just trying to scare me. She doesn’t go to Needle and Thread.”

  “Yes, she does. This is all true. Mary Woolsey has lived in this very house all her life, and she’s about eighty years old. She lives alone. She’s a … what do you call it when you hardly ever leave your home?”

  “A recluse?”

  “Yes, a recluse. She only leaves three times a week to go shoppin
g and then to Needle and Thread. That’s how she earns her money. At our store. She takes in mending and stuff. People drop off their sewing for her, and she brings most of it to her house, does the work, and returns it to the store. Then the people come and pick up their things.”

  “Min and your grandmother let her do that?” asked Flora.

  “It was Min and Gigi’s idea.” (Gigi was what Olivia called her grandmother, Mrs. Walter.)

  Flora was now standing still, trying to see into the windows of Scary Mary’s house.

  “Don’t stare!” hissed Olivia.

  Flora took a step back. “Why is she so scary?” she asked. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “She’s just crazy, that’s all. Has been forever and ever. Some people say she has stuff buried in those gardens, and only she knows where to find it.”

  “What kind of stuff ?”

  “I don’t know. Treasure. And other people say she has someone — a child, maybe — hidden in her house. In the basement, I think.”

  Flora shivered. Then she let out a small screech. “I think I see her in the window!”

  Olivia grabbed Flora’s hand. “Come on!” she cried.

  The girls turned and ran back to Aiken Avenue. When they reached the Row Houses, they were panting. They leaned over, hands on knees, gulping air.

  They were just catching their breath when Ruby found them and said, “No sign of King yet.”

  “Oh, no.” Flora straightened up. The Row House neighbors were still milling around, calling and searching.

  “All right. We’d better go into town then,” said Olivia. “We can go to the stores on Main Street — the ones that are open — and tell the owners to watch for King.”

  “I’m coming with you,” said Ruby.

  Main Street was busier than Flora had expected it would be.

  “Church just let out,” Olivia informed her. “After church, people stay in town for lunch or to run errands.”

  Ruby, trailing behind Flora and Olivia as they made their way along Main Street, looked in the shops they passed. She saw the ice-cream parlor that was called Dutch Haus and the dry cleaner that was called something like Very Best. They were closed, but next door was College Pizza, and that was open. Olivia poked her head inside and called to the woman behind the counter, “Hi, Beth! We’re looking for a lost cat. He’s black and white and his name is King. If you see him, would you call my grandmother? Or Flora and Ruby’s? Their grandmother is Mrs. Read.”

  “Oh! You’re the new girls,” said Beth. “Welcome to Camden Falls.”

  “Thank you,” said Flora and Ruby.

  As they were leaving, Ruby caught sight of a familiar-looking girl seated at a booth with two boys and another girl. Ruby tugged Olivia’s shirt. “Doesn’t she live next door to Min?” she asked.

  Olivia glanced at the booth, then hustled Ruby and Flora outside. “Yes,” she said. “That’s Lydia Malone. She’s Margaret’s younger sister. But don’t talk to her when you see her with her friends. She used to be nice, but now she isn’t, especially when she’s with those friends.”

  “They don’t look very nice, either,” said Flora.

  “They aren’t,” replied Olivia.

  Olivia and Ruby and Flora continued their way up and down Main Street, poking their heads in Ma Grand-mère, a bakery, and Cover to Cover, a bookstore. They met a very cranky woman who owned a shop called Stuff ’n’ Nonsense. And everywhere they went, Olivia told people about King.

  By the time they returned to Aiken Avenue and the Row Houses, Flora was exhausted and had almost given up on finding King Comma. So she was honestly surprised to be greeted by a very cheerful Robby, who ran down the sidewalk toward them, saying, “Guess what! We found King Comma. We found him way up high in Mr. Pennington’s garage. Mr. Morris got him down, and now he’s back at your house.”

  Flora was so relieved that she threw her arms around Robby and thanked him six times. She didn’t know what she would have done if King had been lost forever. Then she took Olivia by one hand and Ruby by the other, and the girls ran to Min’s house, Flora calling, “King! We’re back!” as they pushed through the door.

  When the Row Houses were built, which was more than fifty years before Min was born, they were some of the grandest homes in Camden Falls. Each was three stories high, topped off by an attic accessible by a ladder that dropped down into a hallway below. On the first floor were a large kitchen, a butler’s pantry, a dining room, and a living room. On the second floor were four bedrooms. And on the third floor were several smaller rooms, the sleeping quarters for maids. In 1882, the wealthy people who lived in the Row Houses all had maids who slept in the maids’ quarters, and butlers who used the butlers’ pantries. But now, 125 years later, while the Row Houses were still grand, the people who lived in them did not have maids and butlers, or chauffeurs and gardeners, for that matter. Many of the butlers’ pantries had been turned into breakfast nooks or mudrooms, and the rooms in the maids’ quarters were nurseries or playrooms or offices or dens or guest rooms. The backyards, which once boasted formal gardens, were now cluttered with basketball hoops and vegetable plots, jungle gyms and storage sheds and swing sets. Even Min’s yard, with her carefully tended flower beds, was home to a tire swing and a tree fort that Flora and Ruby’s mother had played with when she was their age. The twelve children who lived in the Row Houses these days (twelve if you counted Lydia, Margaret, and Robby, who were teenagers and did not consider themselves children) ran freely through the eight yards and in and out of the houses, comfortable with each of their neighbors, old and young.

  Now, if you were walking north along Aiken Avenue and came to the Row Houses on a warm Sunday evening in June, you would find most of the windows open to let in the summer air. And if you paused on the sidewalk, you might be able to take a peek in the windows and glimpse the lives of the people inside. In the house on the left end, you would find the Morris family, Elise and Paul, their four children, Lacey, Mathias, Travis, and Alyssa, and their hamsters and guinea pig. Supper is long over — the Morrises eat early — and Alyssa and Travis are already in their pajamas. Mrs. Morris is commenting to her husband that the children are growing up so fast. This fall Alyssa, who’s the youngest, will be in all-day preschool, and what will Mrs. Morris do with herself while the children are gone?

  In the next house you would find Bill and Mary Lou Willet. They’re nearly seventy-eight years old, both of them. Their birthdays are just a week apart in August. Mr. Willet is encouraging his wife to change out of her clothes and into her nightgown, but she won’t. She’s been wearing these same clothes for four days and four nights now, and Mr. Willet can’t convince her to put on anything else. He can’t convince her to take a shower, either, or to comb her hair or take her pills or brush her teeth.

  “Come on, honey,” he says. “You’ll feel so much better in a nice clean nightgown. Trust me.”

  But his wife, who’s patting their cat, Sweetie, replies, “You know, my sister was here again today and we had such a pleasant conversation.”

  Mrs. Willet’s sister has been dead for more than twenty years.

  Next door to the Willets are the Malones. There’s Margaret, sixteen now, drinking tea with her father, Dr. Malone, the dentist. They’re sitting at the kitchen table, their cats, Twinkle and Bandit, nearby, and Dr. Malone is laughing at something Margaret has said. Upstairs, Lydia, who’s fourteen, has shut herself in her bedroom and is sitting before her computer, instant messaging her friends. When her father calls upstairs to her, she ignores him.

  The house to the north of the Malones’ is Min’s. She was born in that house — she was Mindy Davis then — and has lived there for most of her life, first as a child with her parents and her brother and sister, later as a wife and mother, and now as a grandmother. On this evening, Min, Flora, Ruby, Daisy Dear, and King Comma are in the kitchen and Min is making dinner. Daisy and King are lying on the floor just inches apart, and this is one of the first times they have
been so close to each other without growling.

  “They’re finally getting along,” Ruby whispers, not wanting to break the spell. Then she adds, still whispering, “Min, is there a dance school in Camden Falls?”

  Next door in Olivia’s house, Mr. Walter closes up his home office on the third floor and leaves his computer and papers behind. He finds Olivia, her younger brothers, Henry and Jack, and his wife playing Clue on the living room floor. Olivia looks up when her father enters the room and thinks he looks not only tired but discouraged.

  In the next house is Mr. Pennington. He’s eighty-two years old, and Jacques, his cocker spaniel, is nearly as old in dog years. Mr. Pennington is peering in Jacques’s food dish, seeing lots of kibble there and trying to remember if it’s old kibble or new kibble.

  In the seventh house, the house belonging to the Edwards family, Robby and his parents are lingering over dessert, and Robby is talking about his beloved day camp.

  “When does it start, Mom?” he asks.

  “In two weeks,” replies his mother.

  Robby is grinning. “Swimming in the pool!” he says. “Basketball, nature walks, arts and crafts, swimming in the pool, snacktime when we make our own snacks. That’s what I like best. Making our own snacks. Except for swimming in the pool.”

  In the last house, the one at the right end, live Mr. and Mrs. Fong, artists who make furniture and jewelry. They have a studio in town, where they work and sell their pieces. At home they have turned the small rooms on the third floor into a second studio, and this evening they are there, working side by side, their puppies resting in the doorway.

  Now walk back to the fourth house, to Min’s, and take one last peek in the windows. Min is almost finished making dinner, and Flora is tossing a salad. It’s Ruby’s job to set the table.

  “Let’s use the good china,” says Ruby. “I know where it is. We can have a fancy dinner tonight.”