Chapter the 7th
There was only one house on Perifell Lane, a squat wooden structure of three stories that seemed to have been squeezed into the space for a story and a half. A pair of dormer windows stuck out of the roof although it was hard to see how even a child could have had the space to stand upright in the third floor. Michael checked the street number against the envelope of his invitation. They both said: 34435. Michael nodded to himself, climbed up the front steps of the house and rang the doorbell. It was promptly answered by an unassuming middle-aged man with thinning brown hair, dressed informally in clothes he could have pulled out of a rummage sale. Michael heard the sound of a flute play on for a few seconds and then stop.
“Ah! The newspaper carrier cometh!” exclaimed the man. Several high-pitched voices from inside the house broke out in a cheer. “What news do your bring?”
“None,” Michael replied as he handed the man the one soggy, blank newspaper he had left. He heard soft groans from inside the house
“So I see,” said the man as he looked over the paper.
A sharp-looking woman with flaming red hair and a flute in her hand appeared in the vestibule as Michael entered. In contrast to Uncle Martin, she was wearing a glittering evening gown, and she eyed Michael with hostility.
“No news in the newspaper, did you say?” the woman asked Michael.
“No news that you can see with your eyes,” Michael answered.
“Then try reading without your eyes,” suggested a child from inside the house.
“That’s a good idea,” said the man. “One piece of news that’s apparent without reading any newsprint is that newspapers have taken up swimming as a hobby.”
The man thrust the paper in the woman’s free hand and relished her squeamish reaction.
“I carried them out of the fish tank at the Dime Store with the greatest care,” said Michael, “to make sure they didn’t get any wetter than they already were.”
"I'm glad you treat your papers with such care," said the woman with marked sarcasm.
"Are you Uncle Martin?" asked Michael.
"You could say that," said the man. "Are you Michael?"
"As far as I know."
“Ah! Where’s your friend?”
“What friend?” Michael asked, steeling himself against another accusation he could see coming.
“I think his name is Scott.”
“He’s not a friend, he’s just a buddy.”
The smile faded on Uncle Martin’s face.
“Oh, sorry to hear that. Then you’re here alone?”
“Looks like it.”
“Well, step in as far as you can. Don’t mind your Aunt Edith, she always hates strangers. I just hope you survive without Scott to protect you from her"
The cold look in the woman’s eyes was enough to make Michael fear that he would turn into stone if he took another step, but Uncle Martin nodded to him encouragingly so Michael braved the journey into the house. The vestibule was so small that there was hardly room for him to move with Uncle Martin and Aunt Edith both standing there. A staircase rose right behind them. To Michael’s right was the entrance to what Michael assumed was the living room. He turned the tight corner and promptly tripped over a large potted plant. The laughter of some children accompanied Michael’s efforts to get himself back on his feet.
Three children, two girls and a boy, were sitting on the floor in the corner, quietly building a castle out of blocks. Michael thought he recognized them as the three children he encountered at the dime store, but he wasn’t sure. A red bird, possibly the same red bird Michael had made out of his empty package of cigarettes, and a pigeon were perched on the mantel above the fireplace looking as if they were used to being house pets. Could the pigeon be the same one that had grown out of the potato chip bag? Michael asked himself.
In the corner was a grand piano with music laid open on it, and a music stand next to it with music on it as well. Potted bulgonias and geraniums were sprinkled throughout the cramped living room. A pot overflowing with ferns hung from the ceiling. The walls were lined solid with books up to the level of the fireplace mantel. Above the mantel there hung three paintings. One of them depicted the ruins of a castle on a rugged sea coast with a stormy sea assaulting it with its waves. Another painting was a still life of a bowl of fruit just like the fruit Michael had picked off the tree. The third painting was the strangest of all. It appeared to be two paintings of two different towns had ben painted one on top of the other to give the effect of a photographic double exposure. One town was composed of old frame houses much like what Michael had seen in Carelin and there was a water fountain in the square that looked like the same one he saw at a distance after coming through the archway. The other town was an industrial town very much like Milton. In fact, Michael realized with a chill, it was Milton.
Michael plopped himself down into the nearest chair and placed his newspaper bag beside him. Once settled, he noticed that an unfinished drink lay on the table next to him. One look at Aunt Edith's face made it clear she had been sitting there. Michael stubbornly did not move, leaving Aunt Edith to pick up her drink and sit elsewhere.
"I was waiting for you at the bus depot this morning," said Uncle Martin, "but you weren't there."
"I know. Something happened and I found myself off the bus."
"Things like that do happen in life," said Uncle Martin with a slight shake of the head. "Maybe something better would have happened if Scott had been on board with you.”
“Maybe not,” Michael muttered.
“True, you never know. Make yourself comfortable—I see you already have—and I'll scrounge up something for you to eat."
"Hi Michael!" called out the smaller of the two girls while her attention remained concentrated on placing a block she held in her hands.
"Hi, Whoever-you-are," Michael answered.
"Whoever-you-are is Samantha," said the boy, "and I'm Roger."
"And I'm Amarilla," said the other girl quietly as she carefully put the next interlocking block in place. "We're building a tower up to Heaven."
"Glad to hear it," said Michael. “Hope you make it.”
“We promised we won't climb to the top without permission," Roger continued, "so this tower up to Heaven is all right."
As the children talked with Michael, Aunt Edith placed the flute to her lips and began to play a plaintive melody. Michael pricked his ears. No longer did his aunt look crabby or hostile. The music transformed her. As she played, Michael eyed the keyboard of the piano. He couldn't help himself. He moved over to the piano and sat on the bench. After listening for a few moments, he played a few notes tentatively. They did not fit with what Aunt Edith was playing, so Michael started to play on some black keys as well as the white ones. Gradually, he evolved a counter-melody and some chords that did go with the flute part. He worked his own rhythms around what Aunt Edith was playing and, as her part rose to a climax, Michael played some notes deep in the bass as well as high in the treble range so that the piano sounded like a town full of bells. When they finished, Aunt Edith and Michael looked at each other with new understanding. The three children had stopped playing with their blocks long enough to listen to them.
"I think I am beginning to understand why Martin invited you," said Aunt Edith, somewhat humbled by her musical experience with Michael. "Have you been studying the piano for long?"
"This proves I’m going crazy,” said Michael. “I’ve never played a piano in my life. Can't read a note. Don’t want to."
“You did it all by ear?"
"I guess so," said Michael, "unless I was using my nose, too."
The children tittered over the comment, and Roger experimented a bit with his nose to see if he could get any music out of it. Michael went over to one of the smaller chairs so that Aunt Edith could reclaim hers. Before sitting down, Aunt Edith lit a couple of kerosene lamps that hung from the ceiling.
"Your music is about as good as that of Josef Mysliveczek," commented Samantha.
"Whoever he is," said Michael.
"He was a contemporary of Mozart," Roger explained. "Not as good, but who was?"
“What’s in you bag?” asked Samantha as she pointed to Michael’s newspaper satchel.
“All the soggy newspapers I’ve got left,” Michael answered. “That and a book about dragon’s eggs.”
Samantha’s eyes grew wide.
“Dragons’ eggs?” she exclaimed. “Did you find the dragon’s eggs themselves?”
“I don’t know. The book says anything anywhere could be an dragon’s egg so I guess anything in this bag could be a dragon’s egg.”
“Can I see it?”
“Samantha!” Amarilla reproved her sister. “You don’t ask people to let you stick your nose into other people’s sacks.”
“Yes, I do,” Samantha replied.
“So I noticed.”
“If you do have a dragon’s egg,” said Roger, looking rather thoughtful, “be sure to take good care of it. Being on the right side of a dragon’s mother is one of the best places to be, but I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of a dragon’s mother for all the violin concertos in the world.”
“Thanks for the advice,” said Michael with a steadied lack of gratitude.
“You’re welcome,” Roger replied.
"Amarilla!" Uncle Martin called out from far back in the house. "Come help me with the sandwiches!"
Amarilla jumped up and ran out of the living room disappeared in the darkness beyond it.
The other two children ran over to Aunt Edith.
"Please tell us a story," asked Samantha as she climbed into her mother's lap.
"Yes, please do," added Roger as he sat at Aunt Edith's feet.
"Which story should I tell you?" asked Aunt Edith with good humor.
"I want to hear the story about the boy who took back his candy," said Roger.
"Very well, Roger," said Aunt Edith. "There was a boy who had a candy bar, and a most tasty candy bar it was. He enjoyed eating it so much, that when a friend of his came by and asked for a piece, the boy with the candy bar said: No. As soon as the boy said the evil magic word, the candy bar in the boy's hand grew smaller even though he had not taken another bite out of it. This set the boy to thinking. He called back the boy who had asked for some of the candy, tore off a piece and offered it to the other boy. As it happened, the piece he tore off turned out to be bigger than the boy thought it would be. So he tore off a piece from the piece he was about to give away, and gave that to the boy who had asked for a piece of the candy. Since the candy was quite tasty, as I have said, the second boy was quite satisfied with his piece. He went off and told some of his friends about it. Before long, some of these children came to the boy and asked if they might have a piece as well. The boy, being shrewd, began to think of a way to turn everything to his advantage. He broke off a piece for the girl who was first in line. Sure enough, the piece turned out to be rather large, so he kept back some of it, explaining that he was saving some for the boy behind her. When the boy next in line came up for a piece, the boy with the candy tried an experiment. He broke off a larger piece then he had broken off before. As he hoped, the piece of candy he had left was larger still than what he had left after breaking off a piece for the girl. So the boy broke off an even larger piece for himself and still had enough to give to the next boy who wanted a piece. As more and more children came to the boy and asked for a piece of candy, the boy with the candy bar broke off ever larger pieces and, as a result, he had more and more candy to keep for himself even as he gave more and more candy away."
"Did he give candy to everyone in the world?" asked Samantha.
"No, Samantha" said Aunt Edith. "He did not."
"Why not?" asked Roger.
"I will tell you. Since the boy kept taking back more and more of the candy he broke off to give away, he made quite a large pile of candy for himself. This pile grew and grew until finally it buried the boy. After that, nobody could get close enough to him to ask for more candy. Even so, the boy continued to break off more pieces and then to break off still more pieces from those pieces so that he could keep still more candy for himself even though he was no longer giving any of the candy away. As a result, the pieces of candy became a mountain. This mountain of candy became so heavy that the boy reached the point where, not only could he not give any more candy away, he could not move his arms sufficiently to break off any more pieces or eat any of them. So he starved to death."
The two children sat quietly when Aunt Edith had finished the story. The pigeon flew about the living room fretfully while the red bird remained on the mantel.
"That's a sad story," said Roger.
"Yes, it is," said Aunt Edith. "The world is full of sad stories."
"Are there any happy stories?" asked Samantha.
"Of course there are. We could even make up another story of the same boy who had the candy bar and give it a happier ending. If the boy in the story wanted the story to be different, then the story would be a different, and perhaps a happier one."
"But didn’t you make up the story?" asked Michael.
"Not exactly," said Aunt Edith. "You see, the boy in the story was making it up as he went along."
"Then who was the boy?" Michael persisted.
"Why the boy in the story with the candy is the boy with the candy. And the boy in the story has to decide what to do with it."
Michael did not find that answer at all helpful, but he did not have a chance to say so. Listening to the story had put an ache into his heart, and it didn’t seem to be just because the story was sad or that it might apply to him. Michael began to wish that somebody had been around to tell him stories when he was younger, but nobody was.
"Here come the sandwiches!" cried Amarilla. She appeared in the living room with a plate piled high with neatly cut sandwiches. Uncle Martin followed, carrying a large pitcher of water in his hand.
Roger and Samantha cheered and ran up to their sister.
"Guests first," Amarilla reproached her younger siblings sanctimoniously as she brought the plate over to Michael. "What kind of sandwich would you like?"
"What have you got?"
"All kinds," Amarilla replied.
"I don't care," said Michael as he grabbed four of the sandwiches at random.
“Uh-oh,” said an amused Samantha.
The girl’s mocking look unnerved Michael but, realizing how hungry he was, he bit into one of his sandwiches, then all but spit it out. He sniffed at it and then carefully tried another bite. Again, it tasted so much like gravel that Michael was beginning to think it was gravel. But how could such a nice-looking family play a dirty trick like that on him?
Amarilla went on to serve her mother who announced she would rather like a lobster sandwich. Then Samantha grabbed for the platter, giving her sister no choice but to let her have a sandwich.
"I'll have a cheese and turkey," said Samantha.
When Samantha seemed more than content with her sandwich, Michael tried a bite out of his second sandwich. It wasn’t made with gravel but it was made with brussel sprouts, hardly an improvement. He tried to avoid looking at Samantha, but he couldn’t help himself and, to his chagrin, Samantha was clearly trying to stifle a severe case of the giggles.
"I want peanut butter and blackberry jelly," said Roger as he took two of the sandwiches.
Michael noticed that even after several sandwiches had been taken, the plate looked as full as it was when Amarilla first brought it into the room. He was also beginning to think that saying he didn’t care what kind of sandwich he got had been a terrible mistake. Michael made a desperate try with his third sandwich, but his luck did not improve. It was spread with stale sauerkraut.
"Roger," asked Uncle Martin. "can you get some glasses for us?"
“Sure.”
Roger ran off, stuffing his mouth as he went.
"Something wrong with your sandwiches?" asked Uncle Martin as he eyed the three sandwiches resting on Michael's lap with only one bite taken out of each.
"No," said Michael. "I'm just not very hungry.”
“Now do you care what kind of sandwich you get?’ Samantha asked him with insufferable smugness.
Michael almost snapped back that he wasn’t ever going to care what kind of sandwich he ate in a million years but, after what had just happened, he began to fear that he might really have to eat gravel and brussel sprouts for a million years if he didn’t start caring about that.
“Uh---some raspberry jam would be nice," Michael muttered.
“Good idea,” said Samantha, “we’ve got real good raspberry jam around here.”
Michael took a bite from his last sandwich, fearing the worst, but to his relief, it really was a delicious raspberry jam sandwich.
“Something to drink?” asked Uncle Martin as Roger appeared with glass mugs dangling from his fingers and his cheeks bloated with the sandwiches he was eating.
"Looks like water," remarked Michael.
Uncle Martin looked at the pitcher.
"I suppose it does. Is that what you want?"
"Yea."
Uncle Martin poured Michael a cup and gave it to him. To Michael's relief, it really was water. That rinsed out the taste of the horrible sandwiches and washed down the one good one he had salvaged. His stomach was still growling, but he still didn’t feel like asking for anything more.
When the pitcher was presented to Aunt Edith, she announced that she was drinking a Mosel wine from the year 1854. Roger had some root beer and Samantha a cup of hot chocolate. It appeared that the water, or whatever really was in the pitcher, turned into whatever anybody asked for. As with the plate of sandwiches, the pitcher of water remained full, no matter how much liquid was poured out of it. Uncle Martin poured some draft beer for himself and gave Amarilla the pitcher. After announcing that she was in the mood for cream soda, she poured some for herself and then carried the pitcher and the sandwiches out of the living room. Michael took another sip of water. Under the circumstances it was still the best thing for him to drink, but he began to wonder what he was missing.
"Did you find any new coins today?" Uncle Martin asked the girls between bites of his sandwich.
"Just one 1777 VSR," answered Amarilla while she positioned herself on the floor after having returned from the kitchen.
Michael frowned. He had heard of the 1909S VDB penny, but this VSR was a new one on him. But then all of Carelin was a new one on him.
"That's not bad for one afternoon's work," replied Uncle Martin.
"It is if you're the one who has to paw through all those dimes," said Samantha.
"You don't have to paw through all those dimes unless you want to find the rare coins you don't have yet," said Aunt Edith.
"But I want to find the rare coins without having to look into so many barrels for them,” replied Samantha.
"That's like trying to write a violin concerto without writing down any notes in the score,” said Roger, speaking so casually that it sounded as if he wrote a concerto every day.
"You wouldn't say that if you didn't like doing the work it takes to write a concerto,” said Samantha.
"You just don't want to admit to how lazy you are," Roger retorted.
"And you're never lazy when it comes to clearing the plates, are you?" said Amarilla.
Roger looked round the room, and realized that everybody had finished their sandwiches, except Michael, who obviously wasn't going to finish his.
"I'm not being lazy," said Roger, "I'm just giving everybody a chance to finish eating."
“Not to speak of giving everybody a chance to meditate on their empty plates," added Amarilla.
"How else can you read our fortunes in your plates?" asked Roger.
"Mom, can you read my fortune?" Samantha asked her mother.
"What for?"
"So I can know what's going to happen?"
"But your fortune doesn't tell you what's going to happen," Aunt Edith explained. "It only tells you in which respect whatever is going to happen will be for your good."
“Can you tell me how whatever is going to happen will be for my good?” Samantha persisted.
Aunt Edith looked at her daughter thoughtfully.
"Oh, okay. Just this once.”
"There have been so many ‘just this once's’ it's funny," Roger quipped.
Aunt Edith studiously ignored that remark and took Samantha's plate. She examined the traces of food quite closely for a moment and the longer she looked, the more troubled her frown.
“What is it?” asked Samantha anxiously.
“This seems to be a contingent fortune.”
“What’s that?”
“A fortune that depends on somebody else,” Roger answered.
“Depends on who? Is it a good fortune?”
"It should turn out better than you think it will,” said Aunt Edith looking slightly pale. “At least I hope so.”
“I hope so, too,” said Samantha, looking rather sober.
"Looks like Michael's life is really going to be a wreck," Roger remarked as he looked curiously at the half-eaten sandwiches on Michael's plate. "Maybe the fortune's contingent on him."
"Mind your manners!" Aunt Edith reproved her son.
“Okay,” said Roger, “I’ll just tell Michael nice and politely that his sandwiches look like a city right after an earthquake or something.”
“ROGER!”
“Well, they do.”
“I guess he’s right,” said Michael with a shrug as he looked down at his mostly uneaten sandwiches. “Sorry about that, didn’t mean to wreck your town first thing I came here.”
The children and their mother looked at each other and at Michael uneasily, making Michael feel as if he had already torn the town of Carelin apart with his bare hands.
"How about some after dinner music?" asked Uncle Martin.
The pressure in the room lifted instantly and cheers rang out among the children.
"Can we play the Bach Trio Sonata?" asked Samantha eagerly.
"I don't know why not," answered Uncle Martin. "Get out your instruments."
Aunt Edith walked back over to her music stand where her flute lay. Uncle Martin brought out a cello from behind the piano and Amarilla picked up a bassoon which was bigger than she was. Samantha sat down at the piano and played a note to tune the other instruments. When Roger returned from the kitchen, he picked up a violin case that was laying next to a potted plant. He carefully took out his instrument as if it were a new born baby, plucked the strings and tuned them. After everybody was in place, there was a solemn moment of silence filled with expectation before the playing began with a slow lyrical melody unfolding in an interplay between the flute and the violin. Uncle Martin and Amarilla doubled up on the bass part and Samantha supported them with chords on the piano.
With his stomach growling from hunger, yet feeling sick from the sandwiches he had tasted, Michael found it hard to concentrate on the music. The pigeon and the red bird flew about the room from time to time as if experimenting with one perch and then another. The mantel and the piano seemed to be their favorites. The Trio Sonata ran its course of four brief movements with Michael occasionally tuning in and thinking the music rather pleasant. He especially liked the last movement, with its three-note theme that he could pick out rather easily. He wondered vaguely where the young children had gotten their ability to play so well.
Once the Trio Sonata was over, Michael was treated to several other pieces that gave him a sampling of the musicianship of each member of the family. The name of each piece was announced, but the names of the composers meant nothing to Michael except when Roger proudly announced his own violin sonata number twelve. Michael was surprised that he enjoyed as much music as he did. The combination of flowing melodies and comical passages in the flute piece Aunt Edith played with Samantha at the piano made Michael wonder where his music teacher at school had been when the piece was written. Uncle Martin played a brooding piece on his cello. Roger’s sonata proved to Michael that rock music was not the only exciting music there was.
"Would you like to do something, Michael?" asked Uncle Martin once the family concert had come to an end. "You could sing or play some more piano."
"Don't know how," said Michael. At this point, he was feeling as tired as he was hungry. All that music listening had worn him out.
"You sounded pretty good before," said Uncle Martin encouragingly.
"Just luck or something."
The musicians quietly put away their instruments. Michael could not tell if he had disappointed them with his refusal or not. The red bird, perched on the mantel, looked at him sharply.
"What is luck?" asked Roger.
"Luck is anything that happens to you," Amarilla explained.
"But luck is either good luck or bad luck," said Roger. “If it's neither, it isn't luck."
"Maybe that's medium luck," suggested Samantha.
"Time for bed," Aunt Edith announced.
"No it's not," said Samantha, "it's time for us to finish our tower to Heaven."
"You can build it in the morning, Honey" said Aunt Edith.
"No I can't," said Samantha, "I'll be busy eating breakfast then."
"We can't get to Heaven in one day, anyway," said Amarilla.
"I have to finish the slow movement of my new violin concerto before bedtime," said Roger.
“You always have a music composition to finish when it’s bedtime,” said Aunt Edith.
“You'll just have to write by flashlight under the covers," said Uncle Martin.
"Oh boy!" cried Roger, and he ran up the stairs ahead of the girls.
Uncle Martin carefully ignored the dirty look he received from his wife.
"Come along, Michael," said Amarilla as if she were Michael's mother.
Several sarcastic responses crossed Michael's mind, but he held his tongue, picked up the newspaper bag with the book in it, and flung it over his shoulders.
“I suggest you be more careful with that bag if it really does have a dragon’s egg in it,” said Amarilla gravely.
More sarcastic remarks came to Michael’s mind but he just nodded obediently and followed Amarilla up the stairs. The flight of steps to the next floor proved to be longer than it looked and by the time he reached the top, Michael's head was swimming. He hardly noticed when Amarilla pointed to a dark bedroom, said something about where to find the bathroom, and left him to fend for himself with a cheery good-night. Michael felt a brisk breeze from an open window. The fresh air revived Michael just enough to give him the energy to close the door and hunt for a light switch. He never found one, no matter how long he ran his fingers along the wall in search of a light switch and then he remembered that Aunt Edith had lit some kerosene lamps earlier that evening. Cursing the town of Carelin for not being equipped with electricity, Michael found his way to the bed by the moonlight coming in through the window. Without stopping to undress, or even take off his shoes, Michael dropped down on the bed. By this time, his stomach was growling as fiercely as if there were a bear inside of him.
After tossing and turning a couple of times on the bed and enduring the loud creak of the springs each time he moved, Michael noticed a soft golden light coming up from the floor. Michael reached down. The light came from the newspaper bag. Remembering that he had put the fruit he picked in the bag, Michael reached down and pulled the fruit out. His stomach growled so loudly it could have been a rock band playing a jam session. Michael admired the looks of the fruit. Without losing its identity as gold, the color of the fruit was changing constantly.
-Take good care of it.
Thus spoke Pickleface. Michael knew he would treasure this fruit, so pleasurable to hold as it was. He would never let it go. Not for anything. The sight of the gold was a feast to the eye. Its rind promised a world of beauty inside. His stomach's growling became an ill-tempered snarl. Surely the piece of fruit would not cheat him the way the sandwiches had. Michael brought the fruit to his nose and smelled it. It smelled sweet. He put the fruit to his ear and shook it gently. He heard the sound of distant bells and the song of a bird.
Michael took a small bite out of the fruit. The taste was sweet beyond description and it gave his whole body a tingling sensation. The inside of the fruit shone even more than the outside and Michael could see scarlet seeds form an intricate pattern. Surely there was no end to the secrets this fruit could unravel. Michael took another bite. The fruit was stickier this time, but sweeter than ever. A new strength began to emerge inside of Michael. Something was coming alive within him. He looked into the fruit again. Two of the bright red seeds appeared as a pair of eyes beckoning to him. Michael quickly devoured the rest of the fruit.
With thirst burning in his throat, Michael tried to remember where the bathroom was. He would surely find it somehow if he looked. He started for the door but a wave of anxiety made him retrieve his bag. He stepped into the hallway, but bumped his head against something. Michael put out his hand to feel what it was. With a sinking heart, he recognized the feel of the room divider in the room he shared with his own brother. To his right, he could hear someone snoring. A recognizable snore. His brother’s. Michael pounded the divider and swore loudly enough to wake up anybody but his brother. The thirst in his throat burned so fiercely that he was almost glad that he now knew where the bathroom was where he could get a glass of water.