Raymie Nightingale

  “So was the seabird actually an angel? Was it doing a good deed and saving the baby?”

  “Phhhhtttt,” said Mrs. Borkowski. She waved her hand through the air. “Who knows? I’m only telling you what happened. What I saw. Make of it what you will. Tomorrow, you come over and cut my toenails, and I will give you some of that divinity candy, okay?”

  “Okay,” said Raymie.

  Did cutting Mrs. Borkowski’s toenails count as a good deed? Probably not. Mrs. Borkowski always gave Raymie candy in exchange for the toenail cutting, and if you got paid for something, it couldn’t be a good deed.

  Mrs. Borkowski closed her eyes. She tilted her head back again. After a while, she started to snore.

  Raymie got up and went in the house and into the kitchen.

  She picked up the phone and dialed her father’s office.

  “Clarke Family Insurance,” said Mrs. Sylvester in her cartoon-bird voice. “How may we protect you?”

  Raymie said nothing.

  Mrs. Sylvester cleared her throat. “Clarke Family Insurance,” she said again. “How may we protect you?”

  It was nice to hear Mrs. Sylvester ask, “How may we protect you?” a second time. Actually, Raymie thought that she would like to hear Mrs. Sylvester ask the question several hundred times a day. It was such a friendly question. It was a question that promised good things.

  “Mrs. Sylvester?” she said.

  “Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Sylvester.

  Raymie closed her eyes and imagined the gigantic jar of candy corn sitting on Mrs. Sylvester’s desk. Sometimes, in the late afternoon, the sun shone directly on the jar and lit it up so that it looked like a lamp.

  Raymie wondered if that was happening now.

  Behind Mrs. Sylvester’s desk was the door to Raymie’s father’s office. That door would be closed, and the office would be empty. No one would be sitting at her father’s desk, because her father was gone.

  Raymie tried to conjure up his face. She tried to imagine him sitting in his office at his desk.

  She couldn’t do it.

  She felt a wave of panic. Her father had only been gone for two days, and she couldn’t remember his face. She had to bring him back!

  She remembered why she was calling.

  “Mrs. Sylvester,” she said, “you have to perform good deeds for the contest.”

  “Oh, honey,” said Mrs. Sylvester, “that is no problem at all. You just go down the street to the Golden Glen and offer to read to one of the residents. The elderly love to be read to.”

  Did the elderly love to be read to? Raymie wasn’t sure. Old Mrs. Borkowski was elderly and what she always wanted Raymie to do was to clip her toenails.

  “How was your first baton-twirling lesson?” asked Mrs. Sylvester.

  “It was interesting,” said Raymie.

  An image of Louisiana Elefante falling to her knees flashed through her head. This image was followed by one of Beverly Tapinski and her mother fighting over the baton in a cloud of gravel dust.

  “Isn’t it exciting to be learning something new?” said Mrs. Sylvester.

  “Yes,” said Raymie.

  “How’s your mother doing, dear?” said Mrs. Sylvester.

  “She’s sitting on the couch in the sunroom right now. She does that a lot. Mostly, that’s what she does. She doesn’t really do anything else. She just sits there.”

  “Well,” said Mrs. Sylvester. There was a long pause. “It will be fine. You’ll see. We all do what we can do.”

  “Okay,” said Raymie.

  Louisiana’s words floated through her head. I’m too terrified to go on.

  Raymie didn’t say the words out loud, but she felt them pass through her. And Mrs. Sylvester — kind, bird-voiced Mrs. Sylvester — must have felt them, too, because she said, “You just select a suitable book for sharing, dear, and then go down to the Golden Glen. They will be very glad to see you there. You just do what you can do, okay? Everything will be fine. It will all work out right in the end.”

  It wasn’t until Raymie hung up the phone that she wondered what Mrs. Sylvester meant by a “suitable” book.

  She walked into the living room and stood on the yellow shag carpet and stared at the bookcase. All the books were brown and serious. They were her father’s books. What if he came back home and one was missing? She felt like maybe it would be best to leave them alone.

  Raymie went into her room. The shelves over her bed held rocks and seashells and stuffed animals and books. The Borrowers? No, it was too unlikely. No normal adult would believe in tiny people who lived under the floorboards. Paddington Bear? Something about the book seemed too bright and silly for the seriousness of a nursing home. Little House in the Big Woods? A really old person had probably lived through all that history and wouldn’t want to hear about it again.

  And then Raymie saw A Bright and Shining Path: The Life of Florence Nightingale. This was a book that Edward Option had given her on the last day of school. Mr. Option was the school librarian. He was very skinny and extremely tall. He had to duck his head to enter and exit the George Mason Willamette Elementary School library.

  Mr. Option looked too young and uncertain to be a librarian.

  Also, his ties were too wide, and they were all painted with strange and lonely pictures of deserted beaches, haunted-looking forests, or UFOs.

  Sometimes, when he held up a book, Mr. Option’s hands shook with nervousness. Or maybe it was excitement.

  In any case, on the last day of school, Edward Option had said to Raymie, “You are such a good reader, Raymie Clarke, that I wonder if you might be interested in diversifying. I have here a nonfiction book that you might enjoy.”

  “Okay,” said Raymie, even though she had absolutely no interest in nonfiction. She liked stories.

  Mr. Option held up A Bright and Shining Path: The Life of Florence Nightingale. On the cover, there were dozens of soldiers stretched out on their backs on what looked like a battlefield and a lady was walking in between the soldiers and carrying a lamp over her head, and the men were holding their hands out to her, begging her for something.

  There was no bright and shining path anywhere in sight.

  It looked like a horrible, depressing book.

  “Maybe,” said Mr. Option, “you could read this over the summer, and then we could talk about it together when school begins.”

  “Okay,” said Raymie again. But she only agreed because she liked Mr. Option so much, and because he was so tall and lonely and hopeful.

  She had taken the Florence Nightingale book from him and brought it home and put it on her shelf. A few days later, her father had run away with Lee Ann Dickerson and Raymie forgot all about Edward Option and his strange ties and his nonfiction book.

  But maybe somebody at the Golden Glen Nursing Home would want to hear about the life of Florence Nightingale and her shining path. Maybe it was exactly what Mrs. Sylvester meant by a “suitable” book.

  Maybe everything would work out right in the end.

  The Golden Glen Nursing Home was four blocks from Raymie’s house. Raymie could have ridden her bike, but she decided to walk so that she would have time to flex her toes and isolate her objectives.

  Every day in Lifesaving 101, Mr. Staphopoulos had all the students stand on the dock and flex their toes and isolate their objectives. Mr. Staphopoulos believed that flexing your toes cleared your mind and that once your mind was clear, it was easy to isolate your objectives and figure out what to do next. For instance: save whoever was drowning.

  “What is my objective?” whispered Raymie. She stopped. She flexed her toes inside her tennis shoes. “My objective is to do a good deed. And also to become Little Miss Central Florida Tire so that my father will come back home.”

  Her stomach clenched up. What if Louisiana won? What if Beverly sabotaged the contest? What if Raymie’s father never came home, no matter what Raymie did? A gigantic seabird flew through Raymie’s brain, its talons extended.
r />   “No, no, no,” she whispered. She flexed her toes. She cleared her mind. She isolated her objectives. Do a good deed, she thought. Become Little Miss Central Florida Tire. Do a good deed. Do a good deed.

  After a lot of toe flexing, Raymie arrived at the Golden Glen and discovered that the door was locked.

  There was a sign that read THIS DOOR IS LOCKED. PLEASE RING THE BELL FOR ADMITTANCE. An arrow on the sign pointed to a button.

  Raymie pressed the button and heard a bell ringing somewhere deep inside the building. She waited. She flexed her toes.

  An intercom crackled to life. “This is Martha speaking. It’s a golden day at the Golden Glen. How may I assist you?”

  “Hello,” said Raymie.

  “Hello,” said the woman named Martha.

  “Um,” said Raymie. “I’m here to do a good deed.”

  “Isn’t that wonderful?” said Martha.

  Raymie wasn’t sure if this was a statement or a question, so she said nothing in response. There was a long silence. Raymie said, “I brought a book about Florence Nightingale.”

  “The nurse?” said Martha.

  “Um,” said Raymie. “She has a lamp. And the book is called A Bright and Shining Path: The Life of Florence Nightingale.”

  “Fascinating,” said Martha.

  The intercom gave a lonely crackle.

  Raymie took a deep breath. She said, “Can I come inside and read the book to someone?”

  “Of course,” said Martha. “I’ll buzz you in.”

  There was a long, loud buzz, and Raymie heard the door unlatch. She reached forward and grabbed the handle and entered the Golden Glen. Inside, it smelled like floor wax and old fruit salad and something else, a smell that Raymie did not want to think about too much.

  A woman with a blue sweater draped over her shoulders stood behind a counter at the end of the hallway. She smiled at Raymie. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Martha.”

  “I am the person who was going to read to someone?” said Raymie. She held up Florence Nightingale.

  “Of course, of course,” said Martha. She stepped out from behind the counter. “Come with me.”

  She took Raymie’s hand and led her up a flight of stairs and into a room where the floor was polished and shining so brightly that it didn’t look like a floor at all. It looked like a lake.

  Raymie’s heart thudded and skipped.

  She had the feeling that she was going to understand things, finally, at last. She had this feeling often, that some truth was going to be revealed to her. She had felt it in the Tag and Bag parking lot with Mr. Staphopoulos when he was telling her good-bye. She had felt it earlier that day, standing with Beverly and Louisiana in Ida Nee’s backyard. Sometimes she felt it when she was sitting at Mrs. Borkowski’s feet.

  But so far, the feeling had never really panned out.

  The truth had never revealed itself.

  But maybe this time would be different.

  The room expanded. The brightness got brighter. Raymie thought about safecracking and sabotaging and the Flying Elefantes. She thought about her father sitting in the diner with Lee Ann Dickerson. She thought about Edgar the drowning dummy and gigantic seabirds with wings like angels. She thought about all the things she didn’t understand but wanted to.

  And then the sun went behind a cloud and the lake turned back into a floor and Martha said, “Let’s just go talk to Isabelle,” and it was all over. The feeling of almost understanding was gone, and Raymie didn’t know any more than she had before.

  Martha led Raymie over to an old lady sitting in a wheelchair parked by a window.

  “Isabelle’s eyesight is not what it once was,” said Martha, “so she is not able to read like she used to.”

  “I can read just fine,” said Isabelle.

  “Well, that is just not true, Isabelle,” said Martha. “You are as blind as a bat.”

  Isabelle made a fist with her right hand and brought it down on the arm of the wheelchair. Wham, wham, wham. “Don’t bother me, Martha,” she said. She was a tiny woman and her hair was pure white, and someone had braided it into a complicated crown on top of her head so that she looked like a fairy godmother. Her eyes were very blue.

  Martha turned to Raymie. “What’s your name, child?” she asked.

  Raymie had never been called “child” before. She knew that she was a child, of course, but there was something oddly comforting about someone addressing the situation directly.

  “I’m Raymie,” she said.

  “Isabelle,” said Martha. “This is Raymie.”

  “So what?” said Isabelle.

  “She would like to read to you about the life of Florence Nightingale.”

  “You’re kidding,” said Isabelle.

  “Isabelle,” said Martha, “please. The child wants to do a good deed.”

  Isabelle looked up at Raymie. Her eyes were bright. She didn’t look like she was as blind as a bat. It was more like she had X-ray vision.

  Raymie could feel Isabelle looking right inside her.

  She squinched up her soul as small as she could and pushed it to one side, so that it was hidden.

  “A good deed?” said Isabelle. “Why do you want to do a good deed? What is your purpose exactly?”

  Her purpose? Was that the same thing as an objective?

  Raymie flexed her toes.

  “Just, um, to do a good deed,” she said.

  Isabelle kept staring at her. Raymie stared back. She made her soul smaller and smaller. She imagined it becoming as tiny as the period at the end of a sentence. No one would ever find it.

  “Fine,” said Isabelle after what seemed like a very long time. “Who cares? Read to me about Florence Nightingale.”

  “Isn’t that wonderful?” said Martha to Raymie. “Isabelle would like to learn about Florence Nightingale.”

  “I couldn’t care less about Florence Nightingale,” said Isabelle as Raymie pushed her wheelchair down a long hallway lined with closed doors. “Do-gooders don’t interest me. They are the least interesting people on the planet. And Florence Nightingale was a do-gooder if there ever was one.”

  “Okay,” said Raymie, because she couldn’t think of anything else to say. Also, it was hard to talk. She was out of breath from pushing the wheelchair. Isabelle was heavier than she looked.

  “Faster,” said Isabelle.

  “What?” said Raymie.

  “Go faster,” said Isabelle.

  Raymie tried to push the wheelchair faster. She could feel little pinpricks of sweat on her upper lip. Her arms hurt. So did her legs.

  “Take my hand!” shouted a terrible voice from behind one of the closed doors.

  “What was that?” said Raymie. She stopped pushing the wheelchair.

  “What are you doing?” said Isabelle. “Why are you stopping?”

  “Take my hand!” screamed the voice again. Raymie’s heart jumped up high in her chest, and then sank down low.

  “Who is that?” asked Raymie.

  “That’s Alice Nebbley,” said Isabelle. “Ignore her. She knows one sentence, and she says it day and night. The monotony of her request is too horrible to bear.”

  To Raymie, the voice didn’t sound like it belonged to someone named Alice. Instead, it sounded like the voice of a troll who was standing under a bridge hoping that an unsuspecting billy goat would walk by.

  Raymie’s heart was pounding somewhere deep inside of her now. It felt as if it had moved position permanently — from her chest to her stomach. She thought how nice it would be if she were like Beverly Tapinski and afraid of nothing.

  Raymie took a deep breath and started to push the wheelchair again.

  “That’s right,” said Isabelle. “The trick is to keep moving. Never stop moving.”

  Isabelle’s room had a single bed in it and a rocking chair and a nightstand with a clock on it. There was an afghan on the rocking chair. The walls were painted white. The clock was ticking very loudly.

  ??
?Should I sit down?” asked Raymie.

  “What do I care?” said Isabelle.

  Raymie sat in the rocking chair, but she held herself very still. It didn’t seem like a good time to rock. “Should I read to you now?” she asked. She held up Florence Nightingale.

  “Do not,” said Isabelle, “read to me from that book.”

  “Okay,” said Raymie. She flexed her toes. She tried to isolate her objectives, but for the life of her, she couldn’t think of what to do next. Should she just leave?

  “Take my hand!” shouted Alice Nebbley.

  The voice was not as loud as it had been in the hallway, but it was still loud enough to make Raymie jump.

  “This place,” said Isabelle.

  And then, from far away, there came the sound of music. It was beautiful, sad music. Someone was playing the piano. For some reason, the song made Raymie think of the Flying Elefantes (whoever they were) and their luggage.

  “I can’t stand it,” said Isabelle. She put her head in her hands.

  “Should I go?” asked Raymie.

  Isabelle raised her head and narrowed her eyes. “Can you write?”

  “Write?” said Raymie.

  “Letters,” said Isabelle. “Words. On a piece of paper.” She balled up her fist and pounded it on the arm of the wheelchair. “Can you put words on paper? Oh, the frustration of this world!”

  “Yes,” said Raymie.

  “Good,” said Isabelle. “Get the notepad from the top drawer of the nightstand. And the pen. You write what I say, exactly what I say.”

  Was writing for someone a good deed? It had to be. Raymie got up and retrieved the pen and the notepad. She sat back down.

  “To the management,” said Isabelle.

  Raymie looked at her.

  “Write it,” said Isabelle, pounding her fist on the wheelchair arm again. “Write it, write it.”

  “Take my hand!” shouted Alice Nebbley.

  Raymie bent her head. She wrote, To the management. Her hand was shaking.