The Summer of Mrs. MacGregor Page 6

  But a few hours later she wondered how she could have been grateful for a Mr. Jameson in her life. He had gone from difficult to impossible. The doctor he’d seen the day before had roused him to new extremes of temper.

  “The fool wants me to give up,” he roared. “Wants me to hobble around on that—that thing”—he pointed at the walker—“for the rest of my life! Well, I won’t do it. I can walk as well as anybody else. I just need practice.” He stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, clutching the back of a chair and rocking dangerously.

  Caroline waited until he stopped for breath. “But maybe you should practice with the walker,” she suggested timidly. “Just for a while, I mean. Till you get stronger.”

  Mr. Jameson’s answer was a savage kick at the walker. The sudden movement almost sent him crashing to the floor. “You can throw that out with the rubbish, as far as I’m concerned,” he snarled, clutching the chair again. “Take it out to the backyard and leave it next to the garbage cans. Go ahead, do it!” He thumped a bony fist on the door frame.

  Caroline eyed the walker lying between them. She didn’t want to argue and make him more upset than he already was, yet she couldn’t do what he asked.

  “My stepfather said you wanted me to write some letters for you,” she said. “Maybe we could do that first—if you feel like it.”

  The rage gradually faded from his eyes as Mr. Jameson considered this suggestion. He dragged himself into the living room and staggered wildly across the carpet to his chair in front of the television set. He sat down and stared for a moment or two at the blank screen.

  “All right, then,” he said finally. “We can write a letter or two, I s’pose. Got a niece name of Jean in Missouri. Never see her anymore, but she writes. Your handwriting decent?”

  “It’s okay.” Caroline bit her lip. She wasn’t going to let him scare her off. She could handle it. He doesn’t really hate me, she told herself. It was his illness, and his weakness, that made him so short-tempered. She tried to picture what he might have been like before age and illness changed him. Had he been cheerful, straight-shouldered, full of life? She stared, trying to see past the deep wrinkles, the set mouth, and the anger that now seemed part of the old man’s personality.

  “Pen’s in the top drawer of my dresser,” Mr. Jameson snapped. “Paper’s in there, too. Let’s get it over with.”

  Pleased with herself, Caroline scurried away. She had actually calmed Mr. Jameson in the midst of a tantrum by suggesting something interesting for him to do.

  The top dresser drawer held a jumble of pencils, pens, rubber bands, paper clips, and red-and-white mint candies. In the back was an open cardboard box half filled with unmatched sheets of writing paper and envelopes. The paper was yellowed and dusty-looking.

  “Hurry up,” Mr. Jameson bellowed. “It’s all right there—open your eyes.”

  Caroline took out the top sheet of paper and a wrinkled envelope. She was about to shut the drawer when an edge of dull green, sticking out from under the stationery box, caught her eye. She lifted the box. Dozens of bills—hundreds, fifties, and twenties—were stuffed under it.

  She stared at the money. How could Mr. Jameson be so careless! How could he leave all that money in a dresser drawer for a burglar to find as easily as Caroline had found it? Was it possible that he didn’t realize how much was there? Maybe he’d meant to take it to the bank a long time ago, or maybe he wanted to take it but didn’t know how to get there.

  She carried the paper and a pen back to the living room and sat on the couch. “There’s a lot of money in that drawer,” she said cautiously.

  “I knew it!” Mr. Jameson narrowed his eyes at her. “Knew you couldn’t help pokin’ around.”

  “I wasn’t poking around.” Caroline kept her tone neutral. “But what if a burglar—”

  “Wouldn’t dare,” Mr. Jameson shouted defiantly. “I’d brain ’im! Besides, no one knows it’s there, and they won’t know if you keep your mouth shut.… Which, I suppose, is askin’ a lot.”

  He really did want to pick a fight. He was watching her expectantly, and she realized that he’d known she would see the money and had guessed what her reaction would be.

  “If you need a ride to the bank, I’m pretty sure my stepfather will take you,” Caroline said. And tell you how dumb it is to keep all that money in the house. Joe, the truth-speaker, said what he thought to adults as well as to kids.

  Mr. Jameson scowled, as if he could hear what she was thinking. “Nobody else’s business where I keep my money,” he said. “Are we goin’ to write that letter or aren’t we?”

  “Yes, we are.” Caroline gave up. She folded some newspapers across her knees to make a writing surface and waited for him to start dictating.

  It was a strange experience. Mr. Jameson—bad-tempered, mean-tongued Mr. Jameson—loved his niece very much. Not that he told her so; the way he felt showed more in what he kept to himself than in what he said. He didn’t tell her his hands were too shaky to write, just mentioned that a neighbor was helping him with the letter. He didn’t tell her he was having a hard time walking or that he’d had to hire a part-time nurse and housekeeper. He didn’t complain about a thing. He said he was sorry Jean’s husband had lost his job, and he asked about her three children and whether the older boy was still playing in the Little League. He told her not to worry about coming for a visit because he knew she couldn’t leave her family. He asked her if she remembered going to the drugstore with him for milkshakes when she was a little girl.

  Caroline listened wonderingly. This was a Mr. Jameson she hadn’t met before. There was a funny little quiver in his voice when he mentioned the milkshakes, and afterward he sat quietly for a long time, staring at the television screen as if he saw something there that no one else could see.

  “How should I sign the letter?”

  He looked up, startled. She knew he’d forgotten she was there.

  “Sign it ‘Uncle Jim.’ And get one of them fifty-dollar bills from the drawer.”

  Caroline signed it “Love, Uncle Jim,” and gave him the letter to read. When she came back with the money, he folded it into the letter and tucked it into the envelope. She half expected him to tell her that her handwriting was terrible and that she shouldn’t have added the “Love,” but he didn’t say anything at all.

  “I think it’s a nice letter,” Caroline said. “I bet Jean is going to like it.”

  He shrugged. “She’ll like the money.” He looked at her sourly. “Now what?”

  “I could fix your lunch.”

  “Might as well.”

  “What would you like?”

  He made a face. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Same as last time will do.”

  And that, Caroline thought, is as close as he’ll ever come to a compliment. I guess if he doesn’t throw something across the room, that means he likes it.

  After lunch she took the letter to the corner mailbox. Before going back, she stopped at her own house. There was chocolate syrup in the refrigerator and plenty of ice cream in the freezer. She poured milk into the blender, added the syrup and ice cream, and produced two tall milkshakes that looked very professional when she added Linda’s bright-colored straws.

  Mr. Jameson was dozing when she returned. “Took you long enough,” he said. “What’s that you have there?”

  Caroline handed him one of the glasses. “Chocolate milkshakes,” she said. “I made them.”

  He looked at her and then at the glass, while she waited expectantly, wondering what he would criticize this time.

  “I’d rather have strawberry myself,” he said after a minute. But he smiled—a small smile, quickly banished—and drank every drop, making loud noises with the straw when he reached the bottom of the glass.

  Chapter 10

  “I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone.” Caroline nibbled a fingernail and peered across the street through rapidly fading twilight. She and Joe were sitting on the front s
teps after dinner. “Mr. Jameson has lots of money in his dresser drawer, Joe. Lots of it! Even hundred-dollar bills!”

  “Pretty stupid,” Joe commented. He lay back, stretched his long legs, and yawned. The five-thirty call to Boston had been reassuring, and he was ready to relax. “I think Linda sounded a little stronger,” he said, following his own thoughts. “And your mother was definitely cheerful. I can always tell when she’s putting on an act for us and when she means it.”

  “So can I,” Caroline said. But she wasn’t as certain that things were better. Joe had sounded really lonely at the beginning of the phone call, and so her mother and Linda would naturally try to cheer him up. “About Mr. Jameson,” she said. “Do you think you could take him to the bank sometime? If he’ll go, that is.”

  Joe yawned again. “Sure, if he’ll go. But he’s pretty set in his ways, Carrie. I don’t think he’ll do it just because you and I think he should.” He straightened suddenly. “What in heck is that?”

  Caroline looked where he was pointing. A figure stood motionless at the corner of the yard. It was Lillina, barefoot and wearing some kind of short white robe. Her head was thrown back, and she looked at the moon with a rapt expression.

  “Hi,” Caroline called sharply, hoping to stop another chant to the moon goddess before it started. “This is my friend Lillina MacGregor,” she explained to Joe, who watched Lillina’s gliding approach with disbelief. “You know, the girl who’s staying with the Restons.”

  Up close, Lillina’s tunic appeared to be made of two not-very-long bath towels stitched together and belted with white cord. Caroline thought it looked great. She could imagine what Joe thought of it.

  “This is my stepfather,” she said. Joe started to get up, then sank back on the step and waved a hand at Lillina. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “You—are you having a good time in Grand River?”

  “Simply marvelous,” Lillina drawled. But she looked uneasy. Caroline remembered what she’d said about Mr. Jameson. I might make him uncomfortable.… Lillina looked uncomfortable herself, under Joe’s intense gaze. “It’s very different from home, of course.”

  “Home is New York City, right?”

  “Yes.” Lillina half turned away from them, and Caroline was afraid for a moment that she was going to spin over the lawn in one of her impromptu ballets. “I really should go along home,” she murmured. “I told Aunt Louise I was just going to walk over for a breath of air.” She turned back to Joe, briefly. “Delightful to meet you, Mr. Cabot.”

  “Same here,” Joe replied. “Enjoy your walk.”

  Caroline didn’t want to hear what Joe would say when Lillina was gone. “Is it okay if I walk back to the Restons’ with her?” she asked. “It’s only a block.”

  “Guess so.” Joe looked at her and then back at Lillina, as if he was having a hard time imagining them as friends. “It’s okay, but you come right back. I’ll stay out here and wait for you.”

  The sidewalk was a winding river of silver in the moonlight. Walking next to Lillina, Caroline felt a rush of affection for her friend, and remorse at believing she might have taken the green bracelet. It could have been a shiny candy wrapper in the camera case—or nothing at all. Lillina was different from anyone else in Grand River, and that was the trouble. Joe thought she was peculiar; he hadn’t bothered to hide it. And I probably wouldn’t have suspected she took the bracelet if she wasn’t different from everyone else I know. It was unfair but true.

  “What did you do today, Lillina?” She wanted to make up for doubts, show that they were friends, no matter what Joe or anyone else thought.

  “I worked on my novel,” Lillina said dreamily. “It’s going beautifully. And I made some portrait shots of Uncle Charles. I thought he was feeling a little left out, so I offered and he was very pleased.” Away from Joe, her confidence seemed to have returned. She walked slowly, pointing her bare toes like a dancer. “What did you do, dear?”

  “Worked for Mr. Jameson.” Caroline remembered some news to share. “Guess what—I made him smile!”

  Lillina laughed softly. “That’s nice,” she said, and sounded as if she meant it. “You could have been Eleanor, saying that. She’s good with people, and so are you.”

  Good with people. Caroline hoped it was true. The words made her feel almost grownup. Hang from a hook above your head, she reminded herself. Tuck in your chin. She felt taller and slimmer, too.

  They were only four houses from the Restons’ bungalow when the dog appeared. At first it was just a darker blob on a dark patch of lawn, but as they came closer the blob grew and a growl issued from it. Caroline grabbed Lillina’s elbow.

  “That’s the Kramers’ German shepherd, Rafe,” she whispered. “He’s supposed to be locked up. He’s—he’s dangerous!” She was remembering the afternoon one of the Kramer boys had left the dog-run unlatched and Rafe had attacked the postman when he came up the walk. The whole neighborhood had been up in arms, and the police had warned the Kramers that the dog must be kept penned all the time. Now he was free again, and obviously in a bad mood.

  “Back up, Lillina,” Caroline quavered. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Lillina shook off her hand. “Poor baby, he’s just frightened,” she murmured. “I can handle him, Caroline. I can handle anything.” To Caroline’s horror, she stepped forward and held out her fingers. “I’ll just let him know we’re friends.”

  “No!” Caroline’s protest was a terrified squeak. “He’s mean, Lillina! He bites! Please!” The hulking figure of the dog was like a nightmare come to life.

  “Animals like me,” Lillina said confidently. “They know I understand them. Good doggy. Good Rafe.”

  Good Rafe snarled deep in his throat. He braced himself to leap, a posture so threatening that there was no mistaking what he intended to do if she came a step closer.

  “Well!” Lillina sounded annoyed rather than frightened. “He’s not very bright, is he? I mean, I’ve never had the slightest trouble—”

  Caroline was halfway across the road. “Come on,” she urged. “If we get away from his yard, maybe he’ll forget about us.”

  Lillina gave up. She backed across the road, while the dog continued to snarl. They made their way along the sidewalk, not speaking, until they were directly opposite the Restons’ house. Then they dashed across the road. Caroline was ahead, but Lillina caught up quickly, her long legs a blur in the dark.

  “What in the world!” Mrs. Reston struggled to her feet as they burst without warning through the front door. Darning thread, scissors, and socks spilled across the carpet. “Charles!” she shrieked. “Charles, come here!”

  Mr. Reston hurried in from the kitchen as the girls tumbled onto the sofa, gasping for breath. He was wearing pajamas and a bathrobe and carrying a coffee mug. When he saw Caroline, he looked embarrassed.

  Lillina pushed her hair back from her face. “It’s nothing, really,” she gasped. “Just a silly little fright—”

  Nothing! “Kramers’ dog is loose,” Caroline said. “He snarled at us, and he would have jumped us if we hadn’t backed across the road. It was awful!”

  Mrs. Reston rushed to the door, kicking balled-up socks in every direction. She peered out into the night. “Charles, they could have been killed!” she exclaimed. “That animal is a monster! What are you going to do?”

  “Is he out there now?” Mr. Reston sounded as if he hoped the answer would be no.

  “He’s not sitting outside the front door waiting for you, if that’s what you mean. He’s lurking somewhere, and so no one is safe, and—”

  “I’ll call Tom Kramer,” Mr. Reston said. “He’ll take care of it.”

  “He’d better,” said Mrs. Reston. Her cheeks were pink with outrage. “You tell him he could be sued for thousands of dollars if that dog had touched the girls. You tell him you’re going to call the police. Tell him—”

  “I’ll take care of it.” Mr. Reston escaped to the kitchen. His round baby face, pale blue robe,
and floppy slippers didn’t suggest a knight-to-the-rescue, but he sounded determined. With Mrs. Reston shouting instructions, it would have been hard to be otherwise.

  “Now you girls just relax,” Mrs. Reston said. “Charles will take care of everything. He’s marvelous in an emergency.” She stopped to listen for a moment to the gentle murmur of her husband’s voice on the kitchen telephone. “What I think we should do is have a nice cup of hot chocolate. To calm you down.”

  “My stepfather’s waiting for me,” Caroline said. “I’m supposed to come right back.”

  “Well, he’ll understand if you call him,” Mrs. Reston said comfortably. “You’ll have to give Tom Kramer time to pen up that beast before you start home.”

  Caroline nodded. She was in no hurry to face Barker Road alone. While she called Joe to tell him what had happened, Mrs. Reston bustled around making cocoa and filling a plate with cookies.

  “I told Tom he’d better get a new lock for his dog-run,” Mr. Reston announced when they were settled around the kitchen table. “I told him he’d better start checking for himself to make sure the gate is fastened. You can’t trust those boys to do it.” He sounded pleased with the way he’d coped.

  Lillina perched on her chair between the Restons like a rare red-crested bird. She’d been unusually silent for the last few minutes, but now she spoke. “We shouldn’t have let him scare us away,” she said, apparently still annoyed at her failure to charm Rafe. “Some neighbors of ours had a beautiful dog—a Doberman—but it had been badly treated when it was a puppy, and it snapped at people all the time. I was absolutely the only person outside of their family who could get near it. From the very first—”

  Mrs. Reston cut this reminiscence short. “Trying to make friends, with a snarling dog is ridiculous,” she said flatly. “You could have been badly hurt.”

  No one said anything for a moment. Caroline agreed wholeheartedly with Mrs. Reston, but she didn’t want to say so. “Lillina told me about the portraits she’s doing of you,” she said, to change the subject. “I bet they’ll be very good.”