Time for Andrew (7 page)

"I wish you'd socked Edward today," Theo said suddenly. "He was asking for a trouncing."

Hannah put her arm around me. "For heaven's sake, Theo, this is Andrew's first day out of bed. Give him time. He'll get his spunk back soon enough."

Theo leaned around his sister to study my face in the moonlight. "I hope so. Before you got sick, you never let Edward insult you."

I slid a little closer to Hannah and rested my head against her shoulder. This near, I could smell the rose water she sprinkled on her face and neck. Lucky Andrew, I thought, lucky Theo. I'd have given anything to be her real brother.

"Theo's right, Andrew," Hannah said. "Edward was testing you, seeing how far he could push you. If you don't take up for yourself, matters will get worse. Think of Frank Merriwell—he never fought unless he was pushed into it, but he always defeated his foes. Frank would have despised
a bully like Edward as much as I do." As she spoke, Hannah clenched her fists as if she wanted to punch him herself.

I shrank back from Hannah's fierce face. What would she think if I said I'd never hit anyone in my life? The very idea of fighting Edward scared me half to death. He was even bigger than Martin.

Needing to know more about my new enemy, I grabbed Hannah's arm. "Why does Edward hate me so much? What did Andrew—I mean, what did
I
do to him?"

Luckily, the words had tumbled out of my mouth so fast nobody noticed my blunder.

"Land sakes," Hannah said, "Edward doesn't hate you any more than he hates the rest of us."

"It's all because of the house," Theo butted in. "Isn't that right, Hannah? Grandfather left it to Papa, and Uncle Ned got mad, and now they don't speak to each other except at church."

Hannah put her finger to her lips. "Hush, Theo," she whispered. "We're not supposed to know about the will." Glancing behind her to make sure no one was listening, she whispered, "Poor Papa. It must be awful to despise your own brother."

"Uncle Ned took him to court," Theo said. "If Andrew did something like that to me, I'd most certainly hate him."

Hannah sighed and gazed at the sky. "Those stars will be shining long after we're gone and forgotten. Just think—in a hundred years, who'll care about this house? Or Papa and Uncle Ned? Or any of us?"

I stared at her. "I'll care, I'll always care, I'll—"

"Don't be silly. By 2010, we'll be dead and gone, Andrew. Strangers will be living here—if the house is still standing, that is. More than likely it'll be a pile of rubble."

"No, Hannah," I whispered, "no, don't say that. You'll live forever. And the house—I'll fix it up, I'll..."

But Hannah was too busy swatting mosquitoes to listen. Getting to her feet, she seized Theo's and my hands and led us to the door. "We'd better go inside before we're eaten alive."

A week passed, then another. Every night I went to the attic looking for Andrew, but he never came. In the daytime, I went on playing my part. It wasn't easy. First of all, I had to be careful not to mention things like television or radio or computers or just about any modern event. These people hadn't even had World War One yet—what would they think if I started talking about atom bombs and nuclear submarines?

The telephone was a box on the wall. It didn't have a dial. I had no idea how it worked. I knew nothing about gaslights either—when I blew one out, Mrs. Tyler was so upset she could hardly speak. I might have asphyxiated all of us, she said.

Luckily for me, the Tylers had indoor plumbing, apparently something to brag about in those days. But they kept food cold in a wooden icebox like the one my father used as a stereo cabinet. A man delivered a huge block of ice once a week. I learned to look forward to his arrival because he always gave Theo and me little pieces to suck on—a real treat on a hot day.

The Tylers didn't own a car—not many people did. The few I saw were Fords. All black. All noisy. You could hear one coming miles away.

Although the gas jet was my most spectacular mistake, I made plenty of others. Mrs. Tyler would send me to fetch
something, and I wouldn't know where it was—or
what
it was. She'd ask me take a turn at the little organ in the parlor and I'd just sit there, crimson-faced, unable to play the simplest tune.

I didn't know the words to "In My Merry Oldsmobile" or "Yip-I-Addy-I-Ay"—my favorite songs, according to Hannah. I couldn't remember going to the World's Fair in St. Louis, though everyone assured me I ate so much I got sick on the train coming home and threw up in a stranger's lap. Mrs. Tyler said I was blessed to forget that as well as the time I blew up the Armigers' outhouse with a firecracker.

Everyone blamed my forgetfulness on the fever. Mrs. Tyler claimed it had left holes in my memory.

Only Buster knew the truth—I really wasn't the boy I used to be. Although he stopped barking and growling, he avoided me whenever possible. He'd look at me, his fur would bristle, and he'd walk away, stiff-legged with hostility.

One night, I went to the attic feeling more unhappy than usual. It had been a steamy-hot summer day, the land I once spent in air-conditioned places, and I'd made one stupid mistake after another. To top it all off, Mr. Tyler had scolded me at dinner for talking with my mouth full. He wanted to know if I'd forgotten my manners as well as everything else.

The weather had put him in a temper, Mrs. Tyler said, but it hurt my feelings when he yelled at me. Dad never raised his voice, never made me feel dumb, never ranted and raved like a tyrant.

Alone in the dark attic, I broke down and cried. I just couldn't help it. I missed my parents, I wanted to go home, I was sick and tired of being Andrew.

A sudden silence made the hair on the back of my neck rise. A few feet away, a boy appeared at the top of the attic steps. Wearing my rocket-print pajamas, he stared at me, frowning and rubbing his eyes.

"Good grief, Drew," he said. "How's a fellow supposed to sleep with the racket you're making up here?"

I didn't know whether to be happy to see Andrew or mad because he'd taken so long to show up. "Where have you been?" I asked. "Haven't you heard me calling you every single night?"

"Believe me, you've made enough noise to raise the dead—which I very nearly was, in spite of your modern medicine and hospitals and such."

Eyeing me glumly, Andrew sat down on a trunk. "I hope you haven't called me up here to switch places."

Taken by surprise, I stared at him. "What do you mean? Don't you want to go home?"

"Not yet, not till I'm stronger." He pulled up his pajama sleeve and showed me his arm. "See that? I'm just skin and bones. I look like death warmed over."

He shuddered at the image, but I was too upset to feel sorry for him. "I don't want to be you anymore," I said. "I want to be me, I want to go home."

"Give me more time," Andrew begged. "Please, Drew."

"You've had three weeks," I said. "That's long enough."

He fidgeted with the trunk's lock, flipping it up and down. "Couldn't we swap for keeps?"

I stared at him. "You aren't serious," I whispered, "you can't be."

Andrew huddled on the trunk, his arms wrapped around his knees, his face hidden. "What if it's my fate to die in 1910?"

"They gave you medicine, they cured you," I said. "You don't have diphtheria anymore."

Without raising his head, Andrew muttered, "I could fall, drown, be struck by lightning, get blood poisoning, catch measles, freeze in a snowstorm. There's plenty of ways to die besides diphtheria."

Andrew waited for me to say something, but I hardened my heart against him. I'd saved his life once—that was all I was going to do. Now he'd just have to take his chances like everyone else.

Finally, he raised his head and looked at me. "Suppose we make a bargain, a gentleman's agreement."

I stared at Andrew, worried by the sharp edge in his voice. He wasn't begging now. "What sort of bargain?"

He eyed me coldly. "I challenge you to a game of marbles. Ringer, to be exact. As long as I win, I stay in your time and you stay in mine. If I lose, we switch places."

"That's not fair," I said. "I don't know anything about marbles."

Andrew leaned toward me, his face pale and earnest. "It wasn't fair of you to take what belonged to me. I warned you, I said you'd be sorry. Have you forgotten?"

I opened my mouth to blame Aunt Blythe, but Andrew stopped me. "Don't tell me it was your aunt's fault," he said. "A true gent never blames a lady."

When I tried to argue, Andrew refused to listen. "We'll be like knights in the olden days," he said, "fighting for our honor."

Sliding off the trunk, he seized my hand and shook it firmly. "Meet me here tomorrow at midnight," he said.

I followed him to the top of the steps. Below was my room. I saw the electric lamp beside the bed, my posters on the blue walls, my shoes on the floor. I even heard a pop song playing faintly on the radio.

I started to run downstairs behind him, but the moment my foot touched the step, Andrew vanished, and the light went out.

"Andrew," I cried, "Andrew, come back!"

Someone gasped. Hannah was standing at the bottom of the steps, staring at me. "What are you doing in the attic at this time of night? You woke me up."

"Where is he? You must have seen him. He was right there."

"Who are you talking about?"

"Andrew," I shouted. "He ran past you. Where did he go?"

Hannah rushed up the steps. "Dear Lord, are you sick again? Is the fever back?" , „

She took my hand and tried to lead me downstairs. No, I shouted. It's not my room, it's his. I don't want to stay here, let me go home."

Hannah was stronger than I was, and in a few minutes, she had me tucked under the quilt. "Must I fetch Papa?' she asked. "Or will you lie still and behave?"

"Your father can't help. Only Andrew can, just Andrew, but he's gone, and so are the marbles. He has them."

Hannah shook me. Her face was inches from mine. "Wake up," she said, "you're dreaming, talking in your sleep."

The fear in her voice brought me to my senses. I stopped
thrashing and gazed into her eyes. "Marbles," I mumbled, "I was looking for my marbles."

Slowly, she released me. Watching me closely, she said, "You frightened me out of my wits, Andrew."

"Bad dream," I mumbled, "nightmare."

Hannah stroked my forehead. "Your eyes were so strange," she murmured. "Nothing you said made sense. It was all gibberish."

"I just wanted my marbles." I turned my head, trying to hide my tears. What would Hannah think—a boy my age crying because he couldn't find a bag of marbles.

"You're as forgetful as a squirrel," she said. "If you promise to go to sleep, I'll give you mine."

Hannah tiptoed down the hall to her room. When she came back, she was holding a bag like Andrew's. Sitting beside me, she poured the marbles onto the quilt.

"Do you know how to play?" I asked.

Hannah gave me one of her vexed looks. "Goodness, Andrew, if it weren't for me you wouldn't know the first thing about marbles. Your brain is a regular sieve these days."

I tapped my forehead to remind her I'd been sick. She looked so contrite I felt guilty. "Will you teach me all over again?"

Hannah poured her marbles onto the quilt and sighed. Without raising her eyes, she said, "Girls my age are supposed to be ladies, but sometimes I get mighty tired of trying to be what I'm not."

Cradling an aggie almost as shiny as Andrew's red bull's-eye, she cocked her head, studied her targets, and shot. The aggie hit a glass marble and sent it spinning off the bed. Hannah grinned and tried again.

When all the marbles except the aggie were scattered on the floor, Hannah seized my chin and tipped my face up to hers. Looking me in the eye, she said, "If you promise not to tell a soul, I'll give you as many lessons as you want. No matter what Papa thinks, I'd rather play marbles than be a lady, and that's the truth."

"Ringer," I said sleepily. "Do you know how to play ringer?"

Hannah ruffled my hair. "You must be pulling my leg, Andrew. That's what we always play. It's your favorite game."

I yawned. "Starting tomorrow, we'll practice every day till I get even better than I used to be."

"When I'm finished with you, you'll be the all-time marble champion of Missouri." Hannah gave me a quick lass and slid off the bed.

In the doorway, she paused and looked back at me. "No more sleepwalking," she whispered.

When Hannah was gone, I slid the bag of marbles under my pillow. From their frame above the bureau, the three horses watched. Staring into their wild eyes, I made a promise. Sooner or later, I'd beat Andrew. Maybe not tomorrow night or the night after, but, before summer ended, I'd sleep in my room again and Andrew would sleep in his.

The next morning, the minute we finished our chores, Hannah said it was time for my marbles lesson. Urging me to hurry, she whispered, "Don't let Theo see where we're going. He might tell Papa."

She ran out the back door, and I went chasing after her. The marbles clicked and bounced in my pocket, and my heart pounded in rhythm with my feet—I'll beat you Andrew, beat you, beat you, they seemed to say.

I followed Hannah under a rose trellis and came to a stop so quickly I almost tripped over my own feet. I was standing on the edge of a small graveyard. No one had told me people were buried behind the house. Maybe Aunt Blythe didn't even know they were there. Her lawn was so overgrown anything could be hidden in the weeds and brambles.

Hannah stared at me. "What's the matter? We've always played here, Andrew. Don't you remember?"

To avoid answering, I bent down to retie my shoelace. I didn't want Hannah to know I was so scared of cemeteries that I hid my face and held my breath every time I passed one.

"Surely you're not afraid of our dead." Hannah came closer.

"Of course I'm not." I tried to sound brave, but Hannah wasn't fooled.

Taking my hand, she held it tight. "You came so close to dying," she whispered. "It must make a body see things differently."

Hannah gazed at the five headstones, gathered in a group like old friends. "Grandfather, Grandmother, their son Andrew, their daughter Susan. And our sister Lucy." Her eyes lingered on the last grave, and her grip on my hand tightened. "Thank the Lord, you're not lying here beside her, Andrew."