Eleven

  The tile wall next to him was cold; he was cold. This was even worse than seeing that clipping for the first time. Mack couldn't be his grandfather, Lydia couldn't be his grandmother. And who knew who his parents were?

  There was a clanking sound on the railing: Mr. Ramon banging his keys. He glared at them from the bottom of the stairs. “Again I find you where you shouldn't be.” He raised his eyebrows at Caroline. “Haven't you been here only a month or two?”

  “I guess.”

  “And already you've linked up with Sam MacKenzie.”

  Bell.

  Caroline's face was red as they took the stairs. They passed the assistant principal and scurried down the hall away from him.

  Sam left her at the classroom door. “I'm sorry I got you in trouble,” he said.

  “I don't care. I'll be out of here in a couple of weeks, a month at most.”

  He went back to the Resource Room. Mrs. Waring glanced up at the wall clock when she saw him. “The time is up anyway.”

  “Sorry,” he said again.

  He couldn't stop thinking about it. Even when he got ready for bed, the words were in his head, in his throat: Children's Home, 11th Street.

  “I wish you could talk,” he told Night Cat. “And tell us where we've been.”

  And Caroline. He couldn't imagine school without her anymore.

  Sam's Bream

  The sails flapped overhead as they threaded their way

  through the ice.

  Islands of ice.

  Someone at the tiller said, “They come from the sky.”

  Dropped by the Creator.

  A house spun by, a flag.

  He looked up and up, and saw—

  an island, shaped like a heart.

  In front was a rosy stone wall,

  and higher,

  a castle surrounded by trees, with more towers

  than he could count. Roofs, tall and round, met the sky,

  windows reflecting water.

  Inside, men working.

  Footsteps. Whose footsteps? His own?

  He wanted to stay and look at that castle forever.

  “A bold castle,” someone said.

  “Yes, bold.”

  11

  The Castle

  Middle Ages. Middle of the night. He'd been dreaming.

  His eyes were closed, but he heard himself saying it aloud.

  He sat up, and looked out the window. Yes, still dark, but he was wide awake. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the floor cold underneath.

  He fished around for his sneakers, his jeans, his warm sweatshirt, then went to the door with Night Cat behind him. He was losing the dream already. He stood there with his hand on the knob, willing himself to remember: a castle, but not like the pictures Mrs. Stanek had given him.

  Downstairs, he stopped in the kitchen for a handful of Rice Krispies, then went to the workroom and flipped on the overhead light.

  He looked at the picture he'd drawn for Caroline, and the castle they'd begun. They were wrong, something a little kid might draw. The castle would end up flat-sided, with only the turrets on top to give it any detail.

  It wasn't like the dream castle at all. The dream castle didn't have turrets. It had towers, some rounded, some square, with roofs of tile, and the stone walls of the castle itself jutted out here and there—

  Windows, too many to count.

  High, so high above—

  Above what?

  That part of the dream was gone already. And even though he tried to bring it back, it was too late. People had been in the castle, people he knew, but they were gone too. Only the sound of loud feet, a kid's feet. His feet? Someone might have come after him, whispering, “Shhh.”

  But it was the dream castle he wanted to work on. It was the castle he'd build.

  He could do this, really do it. Never mind school. Never mind Mrs. Stanek. Never mind anyone but himself. And Caroline. Don't forget Caroline.

  He'd build this castle, finish it before she left, think about every detail.

  He drew what he could remember on the back of his original drawing. Sketched it in, Mrs. Mallett, the art teacher, would have said. He didn't pay attention to scale, or to getting it exactly right. It was just so he'd remember before the dream lost itself entirely.

  He thought of going back to bed, but he was wide awake. He reached for Anima's birthday book on the shelf over his table, paging through, searching, until he found a small cabinet with panels on the sides. He studied it; then in another few pages he found a drawing that showed a column. He saw how they were done; he could use both.

  He took a second piece of paper and a ruler, counted, drew, erased, and started over, feeling the pull in his back from bending over for so long. But at last he had a drawing with scale to it.

  He took wood from the bin and began to measure— to draw in lines— to cut the first piece— and the second.

  He kept going. Five pieces each for the sides, and he talked it out as he worked. “Two the same size for the ends, three smaller to form a section that juts out.”

  The front would need more, not only parts that jutted out into squares, but pieces to form columns.

  It seemed like only minutes, but he realized it was much later when he looked up to see light coming in the window, the sky separating itself from the water. A pair of mourning doves cooed their song to each other, and a jay screeched from the top of a willow tree.

  Sam worked on the wood until it was almost time for Mack to awaken; then he laid the pieces flat on his table.

  Later he'd sand both sides of each one, even though only one side would face out; the inside would be as smooth as the outside.

  He covered all of it with a drop cloth. Mack knew that Sam and Caroline were working on a castle for school, but he'd never look at it until Sam asked him, invited him, to see it. Sam would show it only to Caroline until it was finished.

  He went back upstairs and pulled off his sneakers, then opened the closet and took out the toy boat. He felt its smoothness, the curve of its body, and remembered sailing it, a vague picture of the green water, and wearing the sweater with a zipper.

  He ran his hand over the two delicate masts with the almost invisible repair. This wasn't a boat someone had bought in a store. It was a boat that someone had made, taking pains with it, spending hours on it.

  Mack.

  It had to have been Mack.

  Mack, who was afraid of water.

  This was how Sam would build the castle, taking pains, spending hours. When he finished, it would last as long as this boat had. From Anima's book he'd learn how to cut the edges so they'd come together seamlessly. He'd learn how to cut glass. He'd learn everything he didn't know.

  He couldn't wait to tell Caroline.

  He slipped under the warm quilt, still holding the boat, and closed his eyes.

  12

  Qnji

  Late in the afternoon Mack was on his way to an auction, hoping to bring back a table to refinish. “It's a long ride and the weather is terrible,” he told Sam, looking up at the leaden sky. “Stay and eat dinner with Onji.”

  Sam stood in the parking lot, shoulders hunched against the rain that had just begun, and watched him back the truck out. Mack would stop, lean out the window—

  Yes. Halfway across the lot, Mack called back, “Be careful. Watch for customers until five. Lock—” He was gone, the tailpipe loud as he turned the corner and headed for the highway.

  Sam stood there. Sometimes Mack was absentminded. He might be back looking for directions, his wallet, something. And suppose Mack found him upstairs on the way to the attic? It wasn't that the attic was off-limits. But what could he say he was doing up there? How could he explain?

  After a few minutes, he went inside, shaking the rain off the way Night Cat would. He glanced up at the clock over Mack's worktable. He'd give it five minutes.

  He began to smooth the edges of the castle walls he'd cut. He ran his hands over th
e pieces without looking at them, letting his fingers tell him where more of the plane was needed, or just a swipe with the sandpaper.

  Outside, the wind had picked up, and it was getting dark. The windows rattled slightly. Good, let the customers stay home.

  He looked up at the clock again; it seemed as if the hands weren't moving. He stared at it. Eventually it clicked another minute. Only Onji's van and Anima's blue Toyota were in the parking lot.

  Now.

  He went upstairs to Mack's room and stared at the ar-moire in the corner. He'd helped Mack build it; he'd stained the inside himself. He knew the shelf where he'd begun with the brush, the top where the stain had dripped into a narrow line. It was one of the first things he and Mack had done together.

  So why couldn't he just open the armoire doors?

  It was as if Mack's face were in front of him. The thick hair, the lines on his forehead. Mack's hand on his shoulder when Sam had finished a shelf. “I couldn't have done better.”

  How could he open the armoire and go through Mack's things? Bad enough to be up in the attic.

  Mack's eyes. Blue eyes. Clear eyes.

  Honest eyes.

  Sam shook his head, trying to make sense of it all. Had Mack been honest with him? There were so many things Mack hadn't told him. He really knew only three things: a name, Bell, a place, the Children's Home, and the boat accident. Where did Mack fit?

  He ran his hand over the armoire but couldn't make himself open the door.

  He stood up on Mack's bed to reach for the rope with the loop and pull open the overhead door. He looked down to see the muddy imprint of his shoe. He should have realized. But never mind that yet.

  He climbed the stairs, and in an instant had the clipping in his hand. He didn't bother to look at it, just folded it into his pocket, hearing the bells jangle on the outside door, and then the bellow, “Sam!”

  Onji.

  He slid down the stairs, almost flying, and reached for the loop to close the door, but he'd never be able to do it quietly enough. It always closed with such a bang. And Onji heard everything. He'd have to let it go.

  “Sam?”

  “Coming.” He swept his hand over the muddy footprints on the bedcover, then went down the hall.

  From the bottom of the stairs, Onji grinned at him. “What are you doing up there?”

  “Nothing.” He tried to look as if he'd really been doing nothing.

  Onji pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face. “It's pouring out. Let's close up here and I'll fix us something to eat.”

  Sam looked back over his shoulder. “I'll be right over.” Go, Onji, please.

  “I'll check the back windows while you finish doing nothing,” Onji said.

  Sam listened to him go around the workroom, humming off-key under his breath. There was no help for it. Sam went down the stairs and met him at the door.

  But suppose Mack came back before they finished eating? Came back to see the attic door gaping open over the bed? The quilt rumpled and muddy? How would Sam explain that to Mack?

  He raised his hand. “Listen, Onji,” then stopped. He followed Onji out, locking the door, and ran to the deli without a jacket.

  Inside, the rain pounded on the windows; the panes were so steamy that everything outside was hidden. The door to Onji's office was open. Sam could see the computer and the photo of Onji's daughter, Ellie, on top.

  Ellie was smiling and pointing to someone just out of the picture. Sam knew he was that someone, he'd heard it often enough. He'd just fallen into the water out back and was dripping wet, with reeds stuck to his legs.

  “You're soaked, Sam.” Onji wiped his hands on his huge apron and tossed him a towel. “We'll have trout, grilled, a twist of lemon, some slivers of almonds.” He opened the massive refrigerator. “What could be better?”

  “Can I help?” Sam tried to think of a reason to go back next door. “Did I lock the door? I'd better check.”

  Onji dumped a couple of carrots on the counter in front of him. “See if you can chop these up without cutting your fingers off. We'll eat them cold, crunchy. And don't worry, we locked the door.”

  The hands clicked off a minute on the clock on Onji's stove. Strange, when he wanted the time to go by in school, the clock hardly seemed to move. But now, time was flying, almost six o'clock.

  Sam tried to figure when Mack would be back. Thirty minutes down to the outskirts of town at the most, say an hour or so at the auction, thirty minutes back. Thirty and an hour or two, plus another thirty—

  “Are you listening?”

  “What?”

  Onji shook his head. “I was telling you how I caught this trout right under the bridge. It was cold in that river even with my hip boots and jacket. A skinny thing like you would have frozen to death.”

  “Hope you wore a cap.” Sam looked at the rim of hair around the edge of Onji's head, smiling, but still trying to add up the time. Two hours. Would it give him enough time to eat and to do something about the bedspread?

  “Never mind about my cap.” Onji pointed to the freezer with his thumb. “There's enough fish for both of us for weeks. We'll eat like kings every time Mack isn't around.” He ran his hand over his head. “Imagine, Mack doesn't like to eat fish.”

  Easy to understand. Doesn't like the water, doesn't like fish. Sam took a breath. What could he say to Mack about being in the attic? I know I don't belong here? I know I'm not your grandson?

  And then what?

  He and Onji sat on stools at the high table in the middle of the deli kitchen, the fish on a platter in front of them, potatoes boiled and still steaming, and grilled tomatoes with breadcrumbs sprinkled across the top.

  “Unique.” Onji grinned at the carrots, cut into thick stumps. “A kid who can cut a piece of wood straight and true but can't manage a carrot.”

  “Knife's not sharp enough.”

  “Any sharper and you'd cut your hand off at the wrist.” Onji slid a portion offish onto Sam's plate, and the rest onto his own. “Good, right? The best. When we were kids your age, Mack and I, we'd fish outside the house even after dark trying to catch a walleye, or maybe one of those really big guys, muskellunge. What we did catch, Mack would give me.” He pointed his fork at Sam. “Best friend I ever had. What would I do without him?”

  Sam felt a lurch in his chest. But then he glanced up at the clock. Six more minutes gone.

  “Five or six feet, those muskies.” Onji leaned back on his stool. “Every summer there's a contest to see who can catch the biggest one. You'd have been too young to remember all that. Once on the boat, Mack came so close to catching a muskie. He was married by then. The fish yanked away the line, the reel, the rod.”

  Onji stopped to spear a piece of potato. “Mack was furious, jumping around. What a temper.”

  Sam looked up, really listening now.

  “Other summers,” Onji said, chewing, “Mack would be out before it was light, throwing stones up at my window. ‘Go ahead,’ I'd call down. By the time I was dressed he'd be out on the river in the boat. I'd just about see those white sails going under the bridge—”

  Mack sailing? In the water? “Here? Was it here?”

  Onji made a large curve with both hands. “A real bridge, huge, not like the one down the road at all.”

  Sam took a little of the tomato. “But Mack hates the water.”

  “Mack? Mack loved the water, swimming, sailing.” Onji stopped suddenly, and bent his head toward his plate.

  Sam kept eating; he made himself finish the last bite of fish before he asked, “So where did you fish, Onji, you and Mack?” The place 1 was too young to remember. Sam asked it easily, as if he were just talking, as if it weren't important. He pushed aside his plate.

  Not easily enough. Onji had said more than he wanted.

  Onji stood up, stretched, went to the refrigerator, and brought back a brick of ice cream. “Love this rocky road.”

  “Where did you say—” Sam didn't lo
ok at Onji; he stared at the empty fish platter.

  “Try it.” Onji slid a huge scoop of ice cream into a bowl for him. “I'll probably sell enough of this during the summer to make me rich.”

  He kept talking, never giving Sam a chance to ask. And then they heard the rattle of Mack's pickup truck as he pulled into the lot.

  “Have to go,” Sam said. He slid out from the table, hardly caring now what Onji might think. He slipped out the back door, across the muddy path.

  Inside he yanked off his sneakers and tore up the stairs, banging the door shut up over the bed, wiping frantically at the mud, then darted into his bedroom.

  The door opened downstairs, and Mack called up to him. “Sam, are you up there?”

  “On my way down.” Sam pulled the clipping out of his pocket, but there was no date, no place that might be written on top that he could see.

  “Ready to go to Anima's?” Mack called.

  “Sure, almost. Did you get any furniture?” Sam folded the paper carefully, slid it back into his pocket.

  “Terrible pieces, not worth it.”

  “Sorry.” Sam tried to catch his breath. “Listen, go on over to Anima's. I'll be there in a few minutes. Homework,” he said vaguely.

  Another lie.

  He listened as the outside door shut. He went to his room and found a piece of paper, a stubby pencil. He began to write: M. ENGRY. BIG FISH M. He drew the quick shape of a boat, a swimmer, Mack. What else had Onji said? BR1GE. On the bottom he wrote, I WAS THER. 2 ung.

  He looked at the paper. He could read his own words even though no one else could.

  He went downstairs to Anima's to listen to another Iroquois legend. “Masks,” she read. “They were famous for their face masks, all with crooked noses. They were in honor of a giant who had a huge nose, and had frightened away the Spirit of Sickness, who'd come to prey on the people in the longhouse.”

  Mack was looking across the room at him, smiling a little.

  Later that night Sam fell asleep, glad he hadn't opened the armoire. He'd never have been able to smile back at Mack. When he awoke it was early, five o'clock or so, and Night Cat didn't budge as he dressed and went down to the workroom.