Mostly the store sold the kinds of items people run out of: bathroom tissue, orange juice, canned fruits and vegetables, flour, and sugar. I found cat food along the right-hand wall.
I almost missed it because I was looking for a big bag; the store had only one-pound boxes. I knew it probably cost more this way, but I carried a box to the counter.
“Haven’t seen you before,” the man said as he gave me my change.
“I’m visiting for the summer.”
I could tell he wanted to ask who I was visiting, but I didn’t give him a chance. I figured in a town like this everyone knew everyone else, and I didn’t want word to get back to Aunt Ethel that I had been in Carbon City buying cat food.
“Could I have a bag, please?” I said.
He put the box of cat food in a blue plastic bag that said WAL-MART on it. He must save bags from his own shopping to reuse in the store.
“Thanks,” I said, and hurried out.
I hung the bag on the handlebars and headed back to Aunt Ethel’s house. I had sailed down the hill, but I crawled back up. I kept wanting to shift the bike to a lower gear, the way I would at home. Instead, I stood up and pumped until my leg muscles ached, my damp T-shirt clung to my back, and my breath came in short gasps. If I did this a couple of times a week, I’d be in great shape by the end of summer. Part of the time I had to dismount and walk the bike up the steep hill.
Finally I turned down Aunt Ethel’s gravel driveway.
As I returned the bike to the barn, I planned my next move. I decided to keep the cat food in the tree house. It would be where I needed it, and Aunt Ethel would not discover it.
Ordinarily I would have felt guilty about doing something I had been told not to do, but I felt too sorry for the cat to be remorseful. If I didn’t help the cat, who would? The cat’s hunger seemed more important than following Aunt Ethel’s rules. If I only fed it out by the tree house, it wouldn’t bother Florence.
Leaving the cat food in the barn, I went inside. The house was quiet. Aunt Ethel lay tilted back in her recliner, snoring softly. I splashed some cold water on my face and filled a glass. As I drank, I realized the cat would need water as well as food.
Earlier, when I put away the breakfast dishes, I had seen some small plastic bowls with snap-on lids. Now I helped myself to two of the bowls. I filled one with water and snapped a lid on it, then went back to the barn to retrieve the box of cat food.
When I reached the tree house, I opened the bowl of water and shook cat food into the other bowl. I left both bowls on the ground, where the cheese had landed. Then I climbed up the ladder to wait for Mr. Stray. Of course, I didn’t know for sure if the cat was male or female, but I wanted to name him something. Mr. Stray seemed appropriate.
I wondered where he slept. I hoped no coyotes or cougars prowled the woods at night.
I stayed at the window for ten minutes or so. Twice I called, “Here, kitty, kitty,” in case Mr. Stray had once been a pet and would know to come when called. There was no sign of the cat.
As I watched, I felt myself relax. It seemed peaceful in the woods. No traffic noise, no boom boxes blaring, no kids at play or parents calling the kids to come home. Nothing here but Mother Nature at her best.
I decided to read while I waited. If I looked outside before I turned the page each time, I wouldn’t miss Mr. Stray. I settled onto the pillow and reached for my book. It was not where I had left it.
I’d placed it on the floor beside my pillow. Now it lay under the table.
Someone’s been here, I thought. Someone came in the tree house while I was away. Who? No neighbors lived nearby. A transient?
I checked the box of crackers I had left on the table. I’d rolled the inner wrapper tightly so I wouldn’t attract mice or ants. The crackers were exactly as I’d left them; the box was still half full. Surely a transient would have eaten them.
Someone bent on mischief would have vandalized the tree house, but everything was tidy. If the book had not been moved, I would never have guessed anyone had been here.
The thought of an intruder made me uneasy. If someone came in here once, they might come again. The feeling of peace and solitude vanished. I felt edgy and kept listening for approaching footsteps.
Why would someone move my book—to let me know he’d been here?
Maybe I hadn’t put the book on the floor; maybe I remembered it wrong. That must be it, I decided. I forgot where I’d left the book earlier.
I opened the book, but I couldn’t concentrate on the story. After a few minutes, I replaced my bookmark and set the book down, paying attention to exactly where I placed it: on the floor beside the pillow.
When I looked out a window, I saw Mr. Stray hunched over the water bowl, lapping up the water. I felt glad that I had brought it for him.
After he finished drinking, he ate some cat food. As I watched, I thought, I’m going to try to tame him. If I can get him used to me, maybe Mom will let me keep him. I could get a cat carrier and take him home on the plane.
“Hello, Mr. Stray,” I whispered. Instantly, he fled into the bushes. I waited, not moving. After a few minutes, he crept back to the food.
I let him eat a while before I said, “Hello, Mr. Stray” again. He looked up, froze, and then, after staring at me for a few seconds, he cautiously began eating again. “Good kitty,” I whispered. “Good Mr. Stray.” That time he didn’t bother to look.
I’ll get him used to my voice, I thought. He’ll start to associate my voice with food, and he won’t be afraid of me.
When he finished, he washed his whiskers again, then stood and stretched before he went back into the woods.
I climbed down the ladder, refilled the cat food bowl, and turned to leave. Mr. Stray stood on a big rock, watching me. I sat cross-legged on the ground next to the food and water. I watched him, but I didn’t say anything. After a few minutes, he stepped off the rock and walked away into the woods.
Encouraged that he let me be so close, I began planning how I could keep him. If he was tame, I thought Mom would let me take him home, even if it cost extra on the plane. By now she and Steven were probably feeling so guilty about ruining my summer, they would agree to letting me have a cat.
Meanwhile I should take Mr. Stray to a veterinarian as soon as I could. I knew from taking care of Charlie that animals must be wormed and neutered. Mr. Stray also had to be vaccinated for rabies and whatever else cats get. I had no idea how I would manage to transport him to a vet. I couldn’t carry him on a bicycle, that’s for sure. I would have to try to change Aunt Ethel’s mind about helping him. Of course, I had to catch him first.
Pleased by my success in getting close to Mr. Stray, I decided to stay at the tree house a while. I felt like reading now.
I climbed the ladder, savoring the silence again. I knew my afternoons in the tree house, alone with my books, would be the best part of the summer. Except for helping Mr. Stray, of course.
I entered the tree house, opened the windows, flopped onto my pillow, and reached for the book. It wasn’t where I’d left it.
I looked around, all my senses alert now. What was going on here? This time I was positive where I’d put the book. No one could possibly have come in the tree house while I sat with Mr. Stray; the ladder had been in plain sight. Yet the book lay on the table, along with two others from the box. A feeling of foreboding prickled the hairs on the back of my neck.
I stuck my head out each of the windows, searching the woods for any sign of another person. I saw only the woods, heard only the chirping of the birds and the low hum of a small airplane engine in the distance.
Shaken, I decided to take my book back to the house and read it there.
I hurried home, glancing often over my shoulder. I wondered what had made Aunt Florence think the tree house was haunted. I could ask Aunt Ethel, but I didn’t want to tell her about the book. She might refuse to let me go back to the tree house, and I wanted to keep feeding Mr. Stray.
I
tried to act nonchalant when I went inside. Aunt Ethel was still in her recliner, but she was awake and reading a cookbook.
I got a drink of water, then went up to my room, lay on the bed, and tried to read. I couldn’t concentrate, though. For the first time ever, my own life was more mysterious and interesting than the book I was partway through. I put it down and thought about everything that had happened since I got to Carbon City.
Was it wrong to feed the cat when Aunt Ethel had said not to? Or was it worse to ignore an animal’s hunger when I could help it? Should I tell Aunt Ethel about the book being moved? I knew I wasn’t mistaken about that; it had really been moved, but by whom? Should I mail the letters I’d written, knowing they would make Mom and Steven worry? I had plenty of questions but no answers.
After a while I went downstairs.
“Where did you go on your bike ride?” Aunt Ethel asked.
“Down the hill toward Carbon City. It was easier going down than coming back up.” That wasn’t the whole truth, but it wasn’t a lie, either.
She laughed. “I could have told you that.” She passed me a bowl of raw baby carrots. “Snack time.”
I took a few carrots to munch on. “Is there anything you want me to do for you?” I asked. I expected her to hand me a dust cloth or a broom or maybe suggest I pull some weeds.
“Do you know how to knit?” she asked.
Knit? “Um, no, I don’t.”
“I’ll teach you. I’m knitting a scarf as a gift for Muriel, but I have arthritis in my hands, and it’s getting too hard to work the knitting needles. I only have a few inches left to do.”
She opened a large shopping bag and withdrew a scarf about two feet long in shades of purple, lavender, and red. One end of the scarf hung on a wooden knitting needle whose pointed end was stuck through a big ball of yarn. A second needle was also stuck in the yarn.
Aunt Ethel sat on the couch, patting the cushion beside her to indicate where I should sit. I sat. She showed me how to hold the knitting needles, how to stick the point of the empty needle into the end stitch on the other needle, then loop the yarn over and slide the stitch off the first needle, where the scarf was, and onto the other needle. It didn’t look hard, but when I tried, I felt as if I had ten thumbs. Gradually, I got the hang of it with Aunt Ethel giving me directions every step of the way.
“While you do that,” she said, “I’ll start our dinner. We’re having oatmeal pancakes with applesauce.”
Spaghetti for breakfast and pancakes for dinner.
Knit one, knit two. If the guys on the summer baseball team could see me now, I thought, they’d fall over laughing. When I write the paper on my summer vacation, I think I’ll leave out the part about learning to knit.
After a while, though, I began to enjoy the repetitive motion and the clicking of the knitting needles. Once I didn’t have to concentrate so hard on how to do it, I found the process relaxing, and I let my mind drift to the tree house and the question of who, or what, had been there with me.
Although I had been frightened when I left, I decided to return first thing the next morning. I had to go back to feed Mr. Stray, but now I also wanted to see if any of the books got moved overnight. Maybe the tree house was still haunted, as Aunt Florence had believed it was seventy years ago.
CHAPTER SIX
My first thought when I awoke the next morning was: I wonder if any books were moved around in the night. I dressed quickly and hurried downstairs.
Breakfast was pork chops, green beans, fried potatoes, and the leftover applesauce from the oatmeal pancakes. I was glad that the beans were cooked.
I washed the dishes quickly, then headed for the tree house again. I took the book I’d brought home the day before and carefully placed it on the table. Then I went back down the ladder to refill Mr. Stray’s bowl.
I didn’t see the cat, nor did I hear any movement in the woods. No deer, no squirrels.
Back in the tree house, I looked out each of the windows, my eyes searching for Mr. Stray. When I didn’t see him, I reached for a different book, one that I had left there overnight.
As I picked it up, a voice from behind me said, “You won’t like the ending.”
I dropped the book and whirled toward the man’s voice, my heart thumping.
He peered in at me through one of the windows. He must have moved the ladder—which meant I couldn’t climb down now and run away. Why hadn’t I seen him when I was feeding Mr. Stray? How could I not have heard the ladder being moved?
“The horse dies,” he continued. “I don’t like books where the animal dies at the end. Why can’t them writers figure out a better way to tell a story than to kill the poor horse?”
“Who are you?” I whispered.
His eyes lit up, and a huge grin spread across his face. “You can hear me?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Can you see me, too?”
“Yes.” Why wouldn’t I?
“Hee-haw!” The man yelped like a cowboy starting into the rodeo ring.
I backed toward the door.
He’s crazy, I thought. He’s a delusional escaped mental patient. I’ll have to jump from the door to the ground, hope I don’t break a bone, and try to outrun him.
“I thank you for the loan of your books,” he said. “Never owned a book myself. ’Course, I didn’t learn to read until after I died.”
My scalp prickled with apprehension. After he died?
“Still can hardly believe I’d be glad for book learning,” the man said. “I quit going to school when I was seven years old in order to stay home and help with farm chores, and I left with no regrets. The only parts of school I liked were lunch and recess. I played hooky half the time and ignored my lessons the other half. Never thought I’d know how to read. I didn’t learn for the rest of my life but since then, well, I have a natural curiosity, and after I died, I started spending my nights in the library. Being around so many books, I naturally opened one here and there to look at the pictures, and then one night I opened a book that had pictures of coal mines, and I started figuring out the words, and once I got the hang of it, I never stopped. Since they closed the Carbon City Library, back in 1964, I don’t get many chances to read.”
As he talked, I slid my feet closer to the door. I hardly heard what he said. How had he moved the ladder so quickly? Only a few seconds had passed between when I’d looked out the window and when he looked in.
“Don’t go running off,” he said. “I ain’t had anyone to talk to in more than fifty years.”
Keeping my eyes on the face in the window, I felt behind me until my hand touched the door. I shoved it open and saw the ladder right where I had left it. What was the man standing on?
“Nothing to be scared of,” the man said. “I ain’t armed, if that’s what you’re thinking, and I wouldn’t hurt you anyway. You’re the first friendly soul I’ve met in decades.”
Friendly? I was trying my best to get away from this nutcase, and he thought I was acting friendly.
“I wouldn’t take the life of a boy, that’s certain,” he said. “Unlike some folks I know, I value a human life.”
His voice had an angry edge now, as if he were talking about a specific incident. I decided it would be best to change the subject and calm him down before I tried to escape.
“Do you live around here?” I asked.
“Used to. Do you mind if I come in?”
Since he’d already been in the tree house at least twice, I figured I couldn’t stop him even if I wanted to so I said, “OK,” and the next thing I knew he was standing near the little table. He didn’t climb in the open window; he simply materialized inside the tree house. One second he was a face at the window, and the next second he stood beside me.
I gasped. He must be a ghost! How else could he float through the wall that way? All his talk of learning to read after he died made sense, if he was a ghost.
I stared at my visitor. I’d always thought ghosts were delic
ate, transparent beings that a living person could see through, but this man was as solid as a tree stump. If I had not seen him go from outside to inside the tree house like magic, I would never have suspected he wasn’t a flesh-and-blood person.
“Why are you here?” I asked. “Who are you?”
“Name’s Wilber,” he said. “Wilber Martin, but everyone called me Willie. I’m an angel.”
Unkempt hair framed his face. He wore a grubby gray work shirt, an odd hat with some kind of light on the front of it, and one sturdy high-top boot. His right pant leg was pinned up above the knee.
This angel needed a shave.
“You don’t look like an angel,” I said.
“How do you know? Have you met other angels?”
“No, but I always thought angels wore long white gowns and had shiny wings and halos.”
“Ha! That’s a stereotype, if ever I heard one. Angels aren’t all the same, just as people aren’t all the same.”
“An angel should look kindly, like Cinderella’s fairy godmother in the Disney movie.”
“Cinderella? Disney?”
I could tell he had no idea what I was talking about. Maybe he really was an angel. What did I know about angels?
Whoever or whatever he was, he didn’t seem to be a threat. My heart quit thundering in my chest, and my breathing returned to normal. Part of me still wanted to scramble down the ladder and run, but another part of me overflowed with curiosity. I stayed next to the door, ready to bolt if I needed to, but I kept talking to the man/ghost and listening to what he said.
“Tell me about yourself,” I said.
“Not much to tell. What do you want to know?”
“How did you lose your leg?”
“In a mining accident. Got caught in the explosion of nineteen-oh-three. My leg’s buried in the Carbon City cemetery. My brother made a proper little casket for it, like you’d put a baby in. He said a Bible verse, and my wife sang a hymn, and they laid my leg to rest. ’Course, I didn’t attend the funeral service. I was still in the hospital.”
“What kind of mine did you work in?” I asked as I tried to imagine burying my own leg.