100 Cupboards

  “We could pay up front,” Dotty said, and walked back into the kitchen.

  The sounds of metal scratching on flint and slowly chewed grilled cheese dominated the room. Finally, Frank set Henry’s knife down, ate his sandwich in two bites, and drained his milk. He stood and put his hands on his hips.

  “Women and children behind the lines!” he yelled, and all the girls jumped. Henry froze with his mouth open. “Bang the drum slowly and ask not for whom the bell’s ringing, for the answer’s unfriendly!” He threw a fist in the air. “Two years have my black ships sat before Troy, and today its gate shall open before the strength of my arm.” Dotty was laughing from the kitchen. Frank looked at his nephew. “Henry, we play baseball tomorrow. Today we sack cities. Dots! Fetch me my tools! Down with the French! Once more into the breach, and fill the wall with our coward dead! Half a league! Half a league! Hey, batter, batter!”

  Frank brought his fist down onto the table, spilling Anastasia’s milk, and then he struck a pose with both arms above his head and his chin on his chest. The girls cheered and applauded. Aunt Dotty stepped back into the dining room carrying a red metal toolbox.

  Frank sniffed. “You know me well, wife. I thought those were in the basement.”

  “They were. You should have been an English teacher, Frank.”

  “What are we going to do?” Henry asked.

  “We’re going to build a wooden horse, stick you inside it, and offer it up as a gift,” Frank answered.

  “Burn your bridges when you come to them,” Dotty said. She smiled at Frank, picked up the empty plates, and walked back into the kitchen.

  “Can we watch?” Henrietta asked.

  “You,” Frank said, “can go play in the barn, the yard, the fields, or the ditches, so long as you are nowhere near the action. C’mon, Henry.”

  The girls moaned and complained while Henry followed his uncle up the stairs. At the top, they walked all the way around the landing until they faced the very old, very wooden door to Grandfather’s bedroom. Uncle Frank set down his tools.

  “Today is the day, Henry. I can feel it. I never told your aunt this, but my favorite book’s in there. I was reading it to your grandfather near the end. It’s been due back at the library for a while now, and it’d be nice to be able to check something else out.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Henry sat on the floor of the landing and watched his uncle fiddle with the doorknob.

  “Here it comes,” Uncle Frank said, and pulled. The knob rattled off in Frank’s hand.

  “What’s that spike thing?” Henry asked.

  “That, Henry, is the spike thing that sticks through the door and holds the knob things.” He looked at Henry and waggled his eyebrows. “Now we’re gonna be a little more gutsy than I have been in the past. She’s waited two years, and I figure she’s been patient enough.” Frank put his thumb on the end of the protruding spike and pushed. It herked and jerked a bit but went all the way into the door. When it was behind the old brass cover plate, Uncle Frank used a screwdriver to push it the rest of the way through. Henry heard a thump on the other side of the door.

  “That’s the knob droppin’ on the other side,” Uncle Frank said. “We aren’t puttin’ it back on unless we get the door open. I’ll tell you something, Henry. Today I’m gonna do something I’ve resisted doing for two years. If the door won’t open, we’re gonna bash it in. It’s a nice old door, not many like it around anymore. I’d hate to bust it up, but it’ll probably be the jamb that splits.”

  “Do you think it will open?” Henry asked.

  “Nope,” Frank said. “But I’m not going downstairs with my head hangin’. I’ll poke and prod the insides a bit, then I’ll start kickin’.”

  The poking and prodding lasted about forty-five minutes. The cover plate came off. Everything that Frank could get at came off. Screwdrivers stabbed and twisted. Finally, Uncle Frank stood, put his hands on his lower back, leaned backward, and rocked to the sides. The cat walked past Henry and rubbed itself on Frank’s leg.

  “Well, here we go. Lord forgive me.” Frank raised his right foot and kicked hard against the door just where the knob had been. There was a scream downstairs.

  “Is it open?” Dotty yelled.

  “Quiet, woman!” Frank yelled back. “Soon will be.” He kicked again. The door didn’t budge, but it made an enormous sound, like a huge wooden drum.

  Frank backed up as much as the landing would allow, took five quick steps, and jumped at the door. His body piled into it, and then piled onto the floor. The cat, who had been observing from the corner, strolled away. Henry didn’t say anything. He tried to keep on not saying anything. And then he laughed. Frank began laughing as well but quickly stopped himself.

  “Got to get this thing open,” he said. “I have never seen an oak door this solid, and this one’s fir.”

  “Fir? Is fir like pine?” Henry asked. “I thought pine was soft.”

  “It is. Fir’s a bit different, but not this different.” Frank examined the wood of the door. “Looks like fir. Grain might be a little funny, but still fir. Look out, Henry, I’m gonna try to hurt myself again. Then we’ll get drastic.”

  Henry scooted farther back.

  “Seen this in a movie once,” Uncle Frank said. He rocked in place, then took four steps and jumped. He put his feet out in front of him and leaned back. When his feet hit the door, he fell backward and landed hard, flat on his back with his legs up the door. He was gasping.

  “Are you okay, Uncle Frank?” Henry asked. “Should I get Aunt Dotty?”

  “No,” Uncle Frank gasped. “Just my wind. Knocked out.” He sat up slowly, then stood. “You wait here. I’ll be right back. Got to be a bit sneaky.” He put his finger to his lips, then crept down the stairs.

  After a moment, Henry heard his aunt Dotty’s voice.

  “Frank? What are you doing?”

  “Just grabbin’ a few more tools. Back in a minute.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Not too bad.”

  Henry heard the back door slam. He was alone with his thoughts and the cat, who had reappeared and was now cleaning himself at the other end of the landing. Henry looked at the cat. The cat looked at him.

  “Sorry about that whole thing last time,” Henry said. The cat looked him over, then went back to collecting hair with its tongue.

  Henry sat on the green-carpeted landing for five minutes. He finally grew impatient and stood to go up to his room. At the same moment, Uncle Frank rose out of the stairwell holding an ax. The head was all rust and a little red paint, but the edge looked sharp. Henry wondered when his uncle had last used it. Or if he just kept it on a regular sharpening schedule, like Aunt Dotty’s knives.

  Frank gripped the ax handle and laughed. “Here we are, Henry. We’ve grown serious.” Henry stepped out of the way as Frank approached the door. His uncle reached up to his neck and fished out a black string from inside his shirt. A silver ring dangled at the end. Frank kissed it quickly and tucked it back into his shirt. As he turned his hips, his right hand slid to the top of the ax handle and his left dropped to the bottom. He shifted his weight from foot to foot and tipped his head from side to side. It was obvious to Henry that while Frank may have been out of ax practice, he had once done it a great deal and enjoyed it immensely.

  Frank swung, his hips squaring and his right hand sliding down the handle to meet his left.

  Grandfather’s door had once been a normal fir. It had four panels: two large vertical rectangles at the top and two smaller ones at the bottom. Its stain was dark, like walnut, but there was a lot of red buried beneath it. The color would pull the eyes and then duck and run, calling for them to try and find it. Eyes never could. But they knew it was there somewhere.

  There are places where whole forests of trees have been petrified and turned to stone. Usually this happens at the bottoms of lakes after volcanic eruptions. Grandfather’s door had not been petrified, and it was not stone. But
it was something very close. Its core was stronger than stone because it was less brittle. Frank’s ax might have cracked a petrified door, but not Grandfather’s.

  The ax blade rattled the wood and ricocheted back. Frank leaned the ax against the wall, shook his hands, and examined the mark he had made. He had struck in the groove beside the top panel on the right side of the door. It was as thin as any part of the door, and the ax should have broken right through. Instead, the notch left by his swing was no more than an eighth of an inch deep. Frank didn’t say anything. He didn’t look at Henry. He grabbed the ax and began swinging.

  Henry watched blow after blow bounce off the door. Left and right Frank swung, always along the edges of the panels. The ax hopped and skipped, slid and twisted. Breathing heavily, Frank finally stopped and wiped the sweat from his head. There were small slivers of wood all over the carpet.

  “Henry,” he said between gasps. “I’m not sure this will work.” He picked up the ax and ran his finger along its blade. “Dull already,” he muttered.

  “Are we giving up?” Henry asked.

  “Nope. We’re going to a barbeque tonight. I told Dots that one way or another, it’d be open before we left. You can run do whatever. I’ve gotta think on this for a bit.”

  “Are you sure? Do you need me to do anything?”

  “Nope. Scram.” Henry went to Grandfather’s door and felt it with his hands. The notches were shallow, but there were a lot of them.

  “Why doesn’t the ax work?”

  “Dunno. That’s what I gotta think on. Your grandpa was a weird one, just as selfish dead as alive, but this is stranger than anything. Run on now. I’m headin’ out to the barn. You’ll hear me when I’m back if you wanna watch my last stand.” With that, Frank wandered back downstairs with the blunt ax over his shoulder.

  Henry did not hold still for long. Once his uncle was out of sight, he scrambled up the attic stairs and immediately applied his fingernails to the paint on the small door. A moment later, he hopped off his bed and ran down both flights of stairs before walking calmly to the dining room table, where he retrieved his newly sharpened knife. Then he reversed direction and hurried back to his room.

  Sitting on his bed, Henry examined the new edge on his now-much-smaller knife blade. Frank had taken at least a third of the blade off, but it really was sharp. Henry was a little afraid to touch it. Still, he rubbed his thumb across the blade and knew that what he held was truly dangerous. It looked at Henry’s fingers in an insinuating way, as if to say, “You wouldn’t be the first. Why do you think they got rid of me?” The edge, as Dotty had warned, was not straight. Nor was the curve of the blade consistent. It was frozen in a ripple, like the surface of a windy lake.

  Henry bent down and scraped at the paint with his knife. It came off easily but in very narrow strips. It was not a large area, only an inch or so high and about three wide, but it took him a while. When the paint was finally off, the glass still did not look like anything you would be able to see through.

  Henry had put down his knife, cupped his hands over the glass, and was staring intently into complete lightlessness when he heard feet on the attic stairs. He knew it had to be Henrietta, but he still jumped and was outside of his room with the doors shut by the time she reached the top. She was lugging a cardboard box under one arm.

  “Hi,” she said, smiling. “I brought a bunch of posters from the barn. Dad had a box he forgot about. They’re all the same basketball guy, and they say ‘University of Kansas, National Champions’ even though Dad says they weren’t that year. He thought he could sell them to people in England who wouldn’t know better, but they didn’t want them, so he says you can have them all. I brought tape, too, and a chisel. Why couldn’t Dad get Grandpa’s door open? Did you get the paint off?”

  She dropped the box of posters on the floor.

  “I stuck the chisel in the bottom.”

  “Thanks,” Henry said. “I got the paint off, but I still can’t see anything. It’s all smeary.”

  They went into his room, and Henrietta examined the small door.

  “I think it’s a mailbox,” she said.

  “What do you mean a mailbox?” Henry ran his fingers over the grooves in the little door. “It doesn’t look anything like a mailbox.”

  “The kind in post offices,” Henrietta said. “I used to go to the post office with Mom sometimes, and there are little boxes like this there.”

  “You mean post office boxes?” Henry prodded the glass with his knife. “Why would there be a post office box in my bedroom?”

  Henrietta laughed. “Why would any of these be in your bedroom?”

  “I don’t know,” Henry said. “I guess someone could have just been a sort of collector. You know, of little things with doors. They must have just liked cupboards.”

  “No,” Henrietta said. “It has to be more exciting than that.” Henrietta sat up on the bed and crossed her legs. “Somebody hid them all, so they’re supposed to be secret. We have to get them open and find out why.”

  “Do you think we’ll ever be able to see through this little one?” Henry cupped his hands against the small door and peered in. Henrietta pushed him out of the way. She licked and slobbered all over the ends of her fingers and then rubbed them on the glass. Then she pulled her sleeve down over her hand and wiped it clean.

  Henry looked in again. “It’s clear enough,” he said, “but I still can’t see anything. We need a flashlight.”

  “I’ve got one in my room.” Henrietta jumped up. It didn’t take her long to get it, and when she came back in, she closed both doors tight behind her and stepped over to Henry’s reading light. When she turned it off, the room was near pitch. Except for the trickle of daylight that filtered beneath the doors, there was no light at all.

  Henry tried not to shiver. This wasn’t make-believe. He really had found these doors, and he didn’t know what was inside them. He suddenly wondered why something hidden inside a secret cupboard would have to be pleasant.

  Henrietta flipped on her flashlight and handed it to him.

  “Take it,” she said. “Look in the door. You found it.”

  Henry took it. He knelt on his bed, put the flashlight beside his right eye, and, swallowing hard, he looked.

  “I think I can see something.” He shifted his head. “It looks like an envelope.” He handed the flashlight to Henrietta and knee-waddled out of her way. She bent and looked.

  “It looks skinnier than an envelope,” she said. “Maybe a postcard.”

  Henry leaned his hand against the wall and bent over to look.

  “Move your head a bit,” he said. She did, and he looked again, bracing himself against the cupboard wall. He was holding on to something metal. It slid, and he fell over onto Henrietta. She screamed. They both fell off the bed. Above them, a cupboard door banged against the wall.

  Henry lay still, all of his senses straining. The flashlight was off. His eyes hurt, they were open so wide. He could make out Henrietta on the floor by the light from the door. He could smell something big and feel a cold wind on his skin. He could hear rustling, and Henrietta holding back tears. He could taste fear in the back of his throat, constricted to the point of pain.

  Henry had never thought of himself as brave. He never had been. What he did next wasn’t a terrific act of bravery, but it did take effort. With every inch of his skin crawling at the touch of cold, moving air, he sat up, found his way to the head of his bed, and turned on his light. The cupboard door just above the post office box was open and swinging gently back and forth, lightly tapping the wall, then almost closing.

  He looked at Henrietta. She looked back at him, her face white and eyes wide.

  “Are you okay?” he whispered.

  “What is it doing?” she asked.

  Henry reached up and held his hand in front of the moving door. “There’s air coming through it.”

  They both held still for a moment, listening.

  “Can
you hear that?” she asked. “What is it?”

  “It sounds like trees blowing around,” Henry said.

  “Should we look inside?” Henrietta asked. Henry climbed onto his bed. A cool wind pushed around his face and through his hair as it came out of the cupboard. Henry held the door still.

  Henrietta climbed up beside him.

  “There’s something inside. On the bottom,” Henry said. He stretched out his hand. He could barely see what he was reaching for. It was simply a shape. His hand felt something and closed. It was a string. He pulled the string out of the cupboard. Dangling below his fingers was a small key.

  The wind blowing out of the cupboard suddenly became a gust. Henry’s bedroom doors blew open, and dust shuffled and rolled across the floor toward the attic window. The noise of the trees roared like a waterfall. The two of them could hear boughs bending and creaking. Then they smelled it, sudden and fresh. Somewhere on the other side of the cupboard, rain had begun to fall.

  “Shut it quick,” Henrietta said. “Mom and Dad will hear it. They’ll feel it.”

  Henry pushed the door closed on the wind. Then he slid the metal latch, and the room was quiet.

  “How did you get it unlocked?” Henrietta asked.

  “I don’t think it was locked,” Henry said. “It must have just been stuck. I leaned on it to look through the glass, and it came open.”

  Henrietta’s hair was coming loose in the front. She brushed it back and put her eyebrows up. “It’s magic,” she said. “We can’t pretend it’s not. It’s a magic cupboard. They’re probably all magic.”

  Henry shifted on the bed and looked away. “I don’t think it’s magic,” he said. “I think it’s just something really unusual.”

  “Henry,” Henrietta said. She leaned forward and spoke slowly. “It’s not raining outside, and we don’t have any trees back there.”