Us and Uncle Fraud (2 page)

Tom and Father had settled down in the living room with the evening paper. If the President of the United States had come for a visit, Tom and Father would have settled down in the living room with the evening paper.

"Louise," Mother said, "and Marcus. Take Uncle Claude's things up to his room. Claude, I've put you in Louise's room—she'll sleep in with her brother."

"I don't mind," I told him quickly.

Claude indicated a shabby suitcase on the hall floor. "You'd better take that one, Marcus, because it's extremely heavy and I can see that you have exceptional muscles. This other one, Louise—" he indicated a small box beside it, encircled with a leather strap—"is not heavy, but the contents are priceless and fragile, so I hope you'll take excruciating care with it when you transport it to my room."

I picked it up very carefully. It was so light it felt empty.

Marcus tugged at the suitcase, but looked at the box I was holding. "What's in it?" he asked.

Uncle Claude had turned to go into the living room. "I admire that kind of direct questioning," he said to Marcus. "But you'll understand, I'm sure,
that some direct questions just can't be given direct answers. The box contains secrets."

Marcus nodded importantly. "Oh," he said.

"And surprises," Claude continued, looking at me. I was still holding the box gingerly. "For certain children."

"Priceless and fragile?" I repeated, weighing the seemingly weightless box in my hands. "For
us?
"

"For certain children," Uncle Claude said again, very meaningfully. "More I cannot say."

From the living room, I could hear Father give a cynical snort as he turned a page of the paper. Marcus and I scurried up the stairs with Claude's things and laid them carefully on my bed. I went to my Life Saver hoard a second time and chose a red one—reds were my favorites. I placed it beside the green one on the pillow. My Life Savers were neither priceless nor particularly fragile; but if Uncle Claude had brought me a gift—and I was sure he had, there in the mysterious box—I wanted to offer something in return. Suddenly he seemed like an extraordinary uncle.

"My feet are cold," I whispered to Marcus, after we had curled up in the twin beds and turned out the light. "I wonder why only babies like Stephie get to have pajamas with feet in them. I could sure use some."

"What do you think's in that box?" Marcus asked, ignoring my feet.

I had been wondering the same thing, of course. "It doesn't weigh anything. Maybe money? Money's light, if it's dollar bills."

Marcus yawned. "Claude doesn't have any money. Father said he was down-and-out, as usual."

"He didn't say that to Claude, did he?" Father's hearty rudeness was notorious, and usually I was delighted by it. But I liked Uncle Claude; I didn't want him to be shamed by Father.

"No," Marcus said sleepily. "He said it to Mother. He asked Mother what Claude was doing
here, and Mother said that he's just passing through, and Father said"—here Marcus assumed Father's gruff, deep voice—"'Just passing through looking for a handout again. He's down-and-out, as usual.'"

I snuggled deep into the bed with my arms around the pillow. "Well, so what?" I said. "He still has secret stuff in the box, and he said it's priceless and fragile. Probably he's been carrying it around for a long time, waiting to bring it to us, and even if he's down-and-out, he wouldn't sell it because it was for us."

Marcus didn't answer.

"Right?" I asked, after a moment's silence.

But he still didn't answer.

"Marcus?" I whispered. I lifted my head to peer through the darkness at him. He was asleep, his mouth open, his breathing soft and deep.

I heard footsteps on the stairs. Mother and Father were coming up to bed; I could hear them talking quietly to each other. The door to Marcus's room opened and a stream of light from the hall cut a strip across the rug. I closed my eyes and forced my breathing into a regular, slow rhythm.

Mother pulled the blankets up around our shoulders and tucked them in. I heard her move away and check the window—open a bit to the cool early April air—and then the door closed quietly again.

I heard her go to Stephie's room, and I could imagine the same ritual, the rearranging of the blanket over my sister in her crib, the adjustment of the window, the tiptoeing away.

She didn't check on Tom. After a certain age, Mother said, people didn't like to be looked at while they slept. I still did. It was reassuring, pretending to be asleep and hearing her slippered feet pad through the room for a final check on my comfort.

I heard Mother and Father's door close, and after a few minutes, I heard the snap of their light switch and knew that now, too, their room was dark.

I listened. I wanted to hear Uncle Claude come upstairs. My room shared a wall with Marcus's, and I knew that through the wall I would hear him find the Life Savers on his pillow. Maybe I would hear him unfasten the strap on the small box and check its priceless, fragile contents.

But he didn't come. I could hear footsteps downstairs; I heard the refrigerator door open; I heard ice cubes being shaken from their tray and emptied into a glass. A faucet ran briefly. The footsteps came from the kitchen and went back into the living room. I heard the creak as Uncle Claude settled into Father's leather chair.

Marcus turned and sighed in his sleep. I stared at the ceiling, not at all tired, and wondered what Claude was doing downstairs.

Finally I turned the covers back and climbed out of bed. Marcus didn't stir. Barefoot, I crossed the room and went out into the dark hall. In the bathroom, a small nightlight glowed. I shivered in my flannel nightgown, blinked in the dim light, and tiptoed down the stairs.

At the foot of the stairs, I made my footsteps
heavier on purpose, so that I wouldn't startle Uncle Claude. I didn't want him to think that I was a sneak.

But he wasn't startled at all. He glanced over, lifting his eyes from a magazine in his lap, and smiled.

"Louise Amanda," he said. "You're a night owl, just like me. I could tell that the minute I met you."

"How?"

"Large pupils in your eyes," he explained gravely. "And those are a sign that you can travel in dim light. I have the same characteristic."

I peered into his eyes, and he was right. His eyes were brown, like mine, with large black pupils.

"Nocturnal beasts we are," he said.

"How did you know my middle name?" I asked him. "I never tell it to anybody."

"Louise Amanda," he repeated. "It could almost be one word : Louisamanda. The Louisamanda Purchase, 1803, a date from history. Or it could be the name of a museum. Do you know that outside of Copenhagen there is a museum called the Louisiana? The man who built it named it for his wives. He married only people named Louise. He married one Louise after another.

"It's at the edge of the Baltic Sea," he went on, and picked up his glass and sipped. A bottle of Father's whiskey was on the table beside him.

"Have you been there? At the edge of the Baltic Sea?" I asked him.

He nodded. He refilled his glass from Father's
whiskey. "Yes," he said, "I've been there. Once I told him that he should name his museum Louisamanda. But he became belligerent, and said I should build my own museum. He was right, of course. You can't put names to other people's things. I apologized to him for my suggestion and slunk away, duly chastened." He sipped again.

I sat down on the couch, opposite Father's chair. "How did you know my middle name?" I asked again.

"Thomas Frederick Cunningham," Claude said, "your ubiquitous older brother, was named for his great-grandfather, Thomas Frederick Newbold, who served without distinction in the army during World War I.

"That was my grandfather," Claude explained, taking another drink, "and therefore your brother's—and your—great-grandfather."

He refilled the glass again.

"Louise Amanda. Your great-grandmother. She was born Louise Amanda Taggart; she married Thomas Frederick Newbold, who served without distinction in the army; and she died at the age of forty-two, having given birth to six children, four of whom survived, one of whom was Marcus Newbold, who was your mother's father, and therefore mine. And so your very brash and freckled brother is named—"

He looked at me and waited for the answer.

"Marcus Newbold Cunningham," I said, and he nodded and sipped.

"But then there's Stephie," I pointed out. "Who had Stephie's name?"

"Stephanie Ann Cunningham," Claude sighed. "Who knows? Your parents had lost their sense of heritage by then. Your sister received a name with no history. She will survive it, I expect. I have."

"Doesn't your name have a history?"

"I am attempting to create one for it," Claude said gloomily. "What time is it, Louisamanda?" He looked at his wrist and squinted, but couldn't seem to focus on his watch.

I could see the hall clock from where I sat. "Almost eleven," I told him.

"The night is young," Claude muttered. "If you were twenty-eight years old, I would invite you to join me at the opera."

I laughed aloud. "There's no opera in this town," I pointed out.

"We would go to London," he said, and picked up the whiskey bottle. He held it against the light and shook it from side to side. It was empty. "If only you were twenty-eight years old, I would take you to London in the morning."

Suddenly I was sleepy. I yawned.

"Uncle Claude," I asked shyly, "what's in the box?"

He stared blankly at me.

"The priceless, fragile secret in the box I took upstairs," I reminded him.

"Go to bed, Louisamanda," Uncle Claude said. "I thought you were a creature of the dark, but
suddenly your pupils have diminished in size. They've turned to sinister slits."

I rose immediately, embarrassed, and headed for the stairs. "I'm sorry," I said. "I shouldn't have asked."

He squinted at me. "Are you duly chastened?"

I wasn't certain what he meant, but I nodded. "Yes," I said.

"Good. I'll tell you in the morning what's in the box. I'll tell you and your freckled brother—Marcus Newbold Cunningham—but no one else. Now then: Do you know how to say good night in three different languages?"

"No."

"One.
Bonne nuit.
That's French. Say it."

"
Bonne nuit,
" I said.

"
God natt.
Swedish."

"
God natt,
" I repeated.

"
Gute Nacht.
German." He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

"
Gute Nacht,
" I said, but he didn't hear me. "
Bonne nuit. God natt. Gute Nacht,
" I murmured, memorizing as I went up the stairs and back to Marcus's room.

"I want you and Marcus to show me your town, Louise," Uncle Claude said at breakfast. "If you don't mind, of course."

Tom glanced at him suspiciously through his metal-rimmed glasses. Usually Tom was the one selected for such tasks. Tom could recite the history
of our little town, pointing out landmarks : the grave of the World War I flying ace, the place where the river had crested during the flood of 1913, the site recently selected for the new library to be built next year.

But Claude smiled pleasantly back at my older brother. "I remember when I was passing through three years ago, Thomas, and you showed me around. Did a remarkable job of it, too, for a boy who was then no more than—what? Thirteen?"

"Eleven," Tom said, going back to his scrambled eggs. "Three years ago I was only eleven. Same as Louise is now."

"Is that a fact? I'm amazed. I could have sworn you were at least thirteen, giving an authoritative tour the way you did."

Marcus and I grinned at each other. Tom was known for his air of authority—he always had been—and we were sure that Uncle Claude was needling him. But Tom nodded, taking Claude's comment as a compliment. "Not much has changed," he said, "but the kids can show you around this time. If you have questions you can ask me when you get back."

"Would you mind taking the baby along?" Mother asked. "She could use the fresh air."

Marcus and I groaned in unison. Stephie was such a pest; she dawdled and whined. But Claude reached across the table to tickle her under her chin. "Want to go for a walk, Picklepuss?" he asked. "Are your legs up to a sturdy hike?"

Stephie dimpled and nodded, orange juice on her upper lip.

Upstairs, pulling sweaters over our heads in his room, I said to Marcus, "He said he'd tell us what's in the box. He said he'd tell us this morning. Only you and me."

Marcus took his baseball cap from the top of a lamp and pulled it down over his mountain of curls. "When?" he asked. "When did he say that?"

"Last night. I couldn't sleep last night, and real late, I went downstairs and talked to him."

"Liar. You went to sleep before I did."

"I am not a liar. Ask him. We sat downstairs and drank whiskey, and he told me he'd been at the edge of the Baltic Sea."

"
You
drank whiskey? I'm going to tell Father. It'll stunt your growth. You'll end up a midget if you drink whiskey before you're grown-up. What did it taste like?"

"I didn't drink it, stupid; Claude drank it. Father's whole bottle of whiskey was gone when I went up to bed."

"That's why Father was so mad this morning," Marcus said knowingly. "I heard him tell Mother that her brother is a lush."

"Well," I said slowly, "at least he's been at the edge of the Baltic Sea. I don't know anyone else in the whole world who's been there."

"And he's got that box full of stuff for us, and this morning he's going to tell us what it is, right?"

"Right."

"Louise! Marcus! Are you ready?" Mother was calling from the foot of the stairs. We ran down.

"Here," she said and handed me a dollar. "Stop at the grocery store on your way home and buy a dozen eggs. Make sure they're white ones, for dyeing. A dozen's enough, don't you think?"

Marcus calculated. "That's four each for me and Louise and Stephie. Tom says he's too grown-up now for Easter eggs, the jerk."