The Unforgettable Guinevere St. Clair Page 8

  CHAPTER 9

  AT LUNCHTIME THE NEXT DAY I sat in a noisy cafeteria, surrounded by my classmates, pondering everything Gaysie had told us. There was laughing, trays clanging, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, but it all drifted far away, even my questions, when I opened my lunchbox.

  I took a bite of cantaloupe I had purposely cut and packed myself that morning. My father said the only way to face your fears was to face them head-on. So there they were, cut up into nice, even squares in a Tupperware dish. The squish in my mouth though, the sweetness on my tongue, brought the memory surfacing.

  She began to fall.

  Holding Bitty with one hand, her other arm swung wildly into the stacked cantaloupe. The fruit rolled forward, slowly at first, then faster as one by one, each cantaloupe took a suicide plunge all the way to the hard grocery store floor. At that moment, something disastrous was happening inside my mama. I yelled and stuck my arms out to stop the falling fruit, but her eyes found mine once again. Bitty was falling too. Our baby girl. She was going to hit the ground, her little, round head the shape of a small, round cantaloupe. There were no words. I just held out my arms.

  She dropped Bitty into my arms, like she was saying,

  This is your baby now, sweet pea.

  My mama’s eyes closed and she continued to fall, hitting her head on the cold, white-tiled floor with a sickening thwack and thud. That fall wasn’t what wrecked her though. Her heart had stopped. She wasn’t breathing. No oxygen was circulating to her brain. Bitty wailed as I squeezed her, the cantaloupes still falling all over and landing, one after another, on top of my mama’s legs, back, head, and hands.

  A woman stopped, snatched Bitty from me, and began screaming for help. Alarmed, I knelt down, tears and hysteria coming over me. “Mama, get up! Someone has the baby, and cantaloupes are all over the floor and we’re going to have to pick them all up!” And then I was screaming it. “Get up, get up!”

  She didn’t answer me.

  My father explained the brain like it was a tree. All the branches making up the tree are the brain’s millions of neurons that need oxygen. The longer your brain is deprived of oxygen, the worse the damage will be.

  Strangers put their hands on her chest and pumped while counting in quick, deliberate rhythm.

  How long can a person go without oxygen? I’ve experimented. My longest time ever is one minute and twenty-three seconds, which is pretty long, but I almost fainted, and my face turned a scary purple color. At five minutes brain cells begin to die. The tree branches shrivel.

  Extraordinary efforts were taken to save Mama’s life that day, I found out later. But it wasn’t enough. She was taken by ambulance, my father beside her. Paddles were applied to her chest, an electric shock was delivered. She was given numerous IVs. Still, the heart did not pump. Six minutes without oxygen turned into eight. Nine. Ten.

  She was twenty-four years old and declared dead at 10:23 a.m.

  It was then my scientist of a father tried a new hypothesis. He dropped to his knees and pleaded for a miracle.

  That’s exactly what he got.

  Vienna’s heart began to beat on its own again.

  It was a miracle. She came back to life. If you could call it that.

  I spit the cantaloupe into my hand.

  CHAPTER 10

  AS THE WEATHER TURNED COOLER, my questions about both the sledding accident and Wilbur’s whereabouts remained unanswered. I saw Officer Jake peering through the windows of Wilbur’s cottage one afternoon after school, and Micah said Gaysie was avoiding him because he was a pompous nincompoop, but I thought that awfully odd. If Gaysie’s only real friend was missing, why would she be avoiding the best person to help her find him? Through my superior eavesdropping skills, I heard rumors that Gaysie Cutter had finally driven Wilbur away, and that he was in hiding. It was followed by a laugh and a chilling silence.

  Others, including my father, said Wilbur was an independent sort, not the kind of man who checked in. But my suspicions grew, especially when one morning before school I saw Officer Jake talking with Gaysie in the backyard, close to Wilbur’s tractor. They gestured with their hands, animated. The field was overgrown and recently blanketed with cold, wet dew.

  “I’d give my pinkie toe to know what they’re talking about,” I said to Micah. Today he was wearing a handmade-looking yellow-and-orange poncho, the hood pulled up around his face. “In fact,” I said, “you go on ahead.” I skulked around the trees, trying to get closer.

  “The longer he’s gone, the worse it looks,” Officer Jake was saying. I’d only just settled in when Gaysie loudly said, “Curiosity killed the cat, Guinevere.”

  I skipped away. Wasn’t it too bad for her that I was Guinevere St. Clair—and not a cat?

  “Hurry up,” Jimmy said, skating ahead. “Mrs. Law is on the warpath.” This was unfortunately true after we’d arrived half an hour late last week due to Bitty’s recent show-and-tell: a perfectly intact squirrel who had recently met its demise in the middle of the road. Since moving to Crow, I had observed that squirrels, next to Jimmy, were God’s most reckless creatures. The squirrel we found was so perfectly alive-looking, we weren’t even sure it was dead until we poked it and it didn’t move. Jimmy plopped the coolest show-and-tell ever right into Bitty’s backpack.

  But it made us late to school, and it wasn’t even worth it, since Bitty’s teacher, Mrs. LaRue, shrieked and threw the backpack across the room, scaring all the first graders to tears. Of course, Bitty didn’t get into trouble, because she was a sweet, motherless child, but I sure got it later when Nana got called to the office.

  Still, I’d been feeling restless for days, with so many questions about the past no one would answer.

  “I dare you, Jimmy Quintel,” I said, moving past Ms. Myrtle’s house, “to knock and run.”

  “Booooring,” he said.

  “You’re just chicken!” This, of course, was a very ridiculous thing to say, since Jimmy Quintel was many things, but chicken was not one of them.

  Jimmy careened so close, I thought his skateboard was going to hit me.

  “Come on, guys,” Micah said, pulling me along.

  “Can I knock?” Bitty asked.

  “You want that goose to eat you?” I said.

  “Oh, so it’s okay for the goose to eat me?” Jimmy said. “It’s too easy to knock and run. She can’t even chase you. I dare you to spit in her mailbox.”

  “Jimmy,” Micah said.

  “She won’t do it. She’s too scared,” Jimmy said lazily, rolling ahead on his skateboard.

  “I am not.”

  “Baawwwwwk!” Jimmy said.

  I observed Ms. Myrtle’s mailbox, which was affixed to the house, right next to the front door.

  “Why isn’t the mailbox on the road like everyone else’s?”

  “Probably because witches can’t be seen in daylight,” Jimmy said.

  I had never actually seen Ms. Myrtle except for a flash of red hair or one wrinkly hand sliding out the front door to take her mail out of the box.

  Stalwart, I marched across the grass with Bitty following me. Jimmy and Micah made it to the maple tree and covered their eyes. I could hear Jimmy cackling.

  I opened the mailbox and hesitated.

  Jimmy bawked like a chicken.

  I closed my eyes and spit.

  “Get off my porch, you nasty girl! I’m going to tell your grandmother on you!”

  Bitty screamed, while Micah and Jimmy yelled for us to run. Mortified, I jumped off the porch and ran breathless to the maple tree, looking back to make sure Ms. Myrtle wasn’t flying on her broom after me.

  It was Bitty I saw. She had not run. She stood frozen, locked in a staring contest with the goose who had waddled around to the front. It honked, and Bitty startled. The sight was so horrifying that I screamed out for her.

  Micah and I began running toward her. The goose, however, had a distinct advantage with a much smaller distance to cover. It was not afraid of us
, either. On the contrary, it was outwardly defiant, posturing at Bitty, angry and hissing.

  “Bitty!” I screamed. “Move!” But she didn’t move. Her face was white, her mouth open. I knew that terrified feeling. It was like being in Gaysie’s open grave with a dead dog hanging over you.

  The goose came up to her face—they were about the same height—and honked. When she didn’t move, it made a pecking motion toward her. “Stop it, you stupid, stupid bird!” I screamed.

  But the goose went in hard and nipped Bitty’s cheek.

  “Bitty—run!” My voice became a panicked cry.

  The bite woke Bitty from her frozen stupor, and she finally stepped back, but fell on the sidewalk. The goose toddled around her once, then went after her again, honking loudly. Ms. Myrtle’s front door opened, and an old and wrinkled arm reached out, grasping at the air. Bitty was crying, trying to shield her small face.

  It was Jimmy who reached her first. He flew down the road on his skateboard, ollied over the curb, and picked Bitty up like Superman, shielding her from another lunge from the goose. When I reached the goose, it nipped me hard on the shoulder. I gave a great kick, but missed the mark and fell. Bold and defiant, it made another lunge toward me. I screamed a bloody-murder scream.

  Micah, with wild eyes, hesitated just one second.

  Then he grabbed the goose by the neck, and sweet, gentle Micah wrung its neck with both hands. He wrenched it hard before dropping it on the ground, his mouth open in horror. The world went silent. We stared down at the lifeless animal, its beautiful white feathers fluttering with a slight breeze. I half knelt and grazed them with my fingers.

  I took Bitty from Jimmy, cried at the blood on her cheeks, and carried her on my back all the way to school.

  The searing image that stayed with me though, was when I looked over my shoulder, just to make sure the goose hadn’t revived and come after us for revenge. No, it lay still and dead. It was Ms. Myrtle I remember, the one and only time I ever saw her leave her house. She sat on the grass sobbing, holding the dead goose in her arms.

  • • •

  Bitty was immediately sent to the nurse. I sat with her as her face was bandaged and Nana was called. Yes, the nurse said, we were fine, just a run-in with a local goose.

  Jimmy halfheartedly punched me in the shoulder on the way to class, his way of showing affection, I supposed.

  “Ow,” I said. “Where’s Micah?”

  “Sobbing his eyes out in the bathroom.”

  The news made me want to sob my eyes out too.

  “Every once in a while,” Jimmy said, holding out his hands like he’d hold a twig, “Gaysie just SNAPS! You never know when it’s coming. I guess that’s what happened with Micah.” Jimmy lifted his eyebrows in admiration. “You’ve got to admit. It’s about the bravest thing he’s ever done.” Jimmy entered the classroom, but I stood still a moment longer.

  “Gwyn?” Mrs. Law popped her head out of the classroom.

  SNAP. And yet I owed Bitty’s life to Micah! He wasn’t a goose murderer, only protecting us.

  Blindly, I hung up my jacket, walked to my seat, and sank down, trying not to think about the dead bird. It had all happened so fast. Jimmy was wrong. Micah wasn’t like Gaysie. And sure Gaysie snapped at Wilbur, but . . . was it like Jimmy said? Had Gaysie really snapped?

  When had we last seen Wilbur? I mulled it over, realizing it was the day Gaysie cut off her finger. She had sat in her living room, rocking, bleeding. There had been blood under the Blue Mistress, too. I had gotten it on my clothes and hands that day. And poof—we had never seen Wilbur again. We had assumed all of the blood was from Gaysie’s finger, but was it? Or was it connected to Wilbur as well? I almost groaned out loud. What kind of lawyer was I? Days and days had gone by, and now all that fresh evidence was gone!

  A hard, cold thought came. Something had happened to Wilbur that day, and Gaysie Cutter was in the middle of it. How was I going to prove it?

  CHAPTER 11

  WE ARRIVED HOME FROM SCHOOL to find my father sitting at the kitchen table.

  “Sit,” he said, patting the seat beside his. Bitty came in behind me, a large bandage on her cheek. He inhaled sharply as she climbed up into his lap.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy,” I said quietly.

  “You killed Ms. Myrtle’s goose?” my father asked.

  “Jed, for heaven’s sake,” Nana said, touching Bitty’s side. “Look at your baby’s face.”

  “I didn’t kill the goose,” I said quietly, but I lowered my eyes. I might as well have.

  My father rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes. “We need to go see Ms. Myrtle.”

  We walked up the road to where Gaysie was waiting outside her orange farmhouse, Jimmy and Micah beside her. Jimmy was tapping his foot impatiently, arms folded, tossing his hair out of his eyes every few seconds. Micah stood still, eyes red with guilt and grief. His purple-and-yellow, paisley-swirled shirt was untucked and rumpled. Gaysie’s lips were pursed tightly, her hands folded in front of her as her body rocked back and forth. She said nothing until my father began to walk us over to the dreaded Ms. Myrtle’s.

  “Jed.”

  He turned.

  “Let the children do this.”

  He looked at me, then nodded.

  “Daddy!” I whispered. “You can’t leave me!”

  He gently turned me to face the lion’s den. “I’ll be right here.”

  “But not Elizabeth,” Gaysie said firmly. “She’s been through enough today.”

  “But . . . ,” I protested. Bitty’s face was our best supporting evidence!

  “Go,” my father said.

  I climbed the front stairs, averting my gaze from the mailbox. Micah, too shell-shocked for words, was dragged up by Jimmy, who knocked on the old aluminum door. We paused to listen. The curtains were drawn, not a sliver of light shone through.

  “Maybe she’s not home,” I said.

  Jimmy knocked harder.

  “What!” a voice demanded.

  Jimmy looked at me.

  “Uh, it’s Guinevere St. Clair. We wanted to say—we’re sorry,” I said diplomatically, knowing a hostile witness usually looks like a guilty witness.

  Jimmy impatiently pushed the front door open and entered.

  “Jimmy!” I whispered. “You can’t just . . .”

  But he did, and we followed him into a dimly lit living room. Micah let out a cry when he saw a worn yellow baby blanket in the middle of the living room floor, the dead goose atop it. Limp and peaceful, it looked like it could just be sleeping. I stared at it until Micah’s sniffles required assistance. I reached out and held his hand tight. We sat awkwardly on a dusty, rose-colored couch that smelled like Vienna’s care center. My eyes flicked around the room, at anything besides the dead bird.

  The room was bare except for one couch, one chair, a piano, and a large, empty cage. Inside was a bowl and fresh newspaper.

  There were no pictures on the wall, no television, no books.

  My eyes adjusted to the dim light as I finally saw Ms. Myrtle. She was as old and wrinkly as an ancient potato, and her expression looked like she was sucking on a very sour dill pickle. How strange it was, seeing the whole of her, sitting in a chair.

  Ms. Myrtle cleared her throat.

  She held her hands tightly together to control her shaking, and it looked like it took great effort to keep her very long neck upright. She reminded me of a turtle. At any other time, “Myrtle the Turtle” would have sent me into hysterics.

  “I’m sorry for what I did,” I began again, glancing out the window at Bitty. “We didn’t mean . . .” The look on her face cut me off. She was frozen, staring out the window.

  “Vienna . . . ,” Ms. Myrtle’s crabby voice whispered. “Vienna is the mother of that child.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Of both of us.”

  “Vienna was my piano student,” she said, motioning to the instrument in the living room, her expression suddenly less sour. The complete
deviation of conversation caught me off guard. One of my earliest memories was sitting on Vienna’s lap while she played the piano, her voice sounding like what I imagined angels to sound like. Sometimes I could still hear that voice in my head.

  “She was very talented,” Ms. Myrtle said. My heart beat more quickly. So many people mentioned Vienna, saying how beautiful or spirited she was, but I didn’t know much else. Ms. Myrtle had really known Vienna.

  “She still plays,” I said thickly. “It’s one of the only things she remembers how to do.”

  I had not intended to say anything personal to the witch, but I couldn’t help it.

  Ms. Myrtle sniffed, her orange hair moving slightly, the tip of her nose red, gnarled hands curled and twisted together. “She was so nice to my boy.”

  “Your boy?” I asked.

  Ms. Myrtle gave Micah such a ferocious look that I was even more confused.

  Jimmy elbowed me hard. “Get on with it,” he whispered.

  I shook off the spell that had come over me and put my lawyer skills to work. After all, we needed adequate representation.

  “We wanted to say we are sorry about your goose,” I began again. “Micah loved the goose, and he’d never ever in a million years hurt another living thing and definitely not the goose who thought he was its mother!” Ms. Myrtle’s eyes narrowed as I continued. “Micah is sweet and good, and Bitty was being attacked—he had to save her!” As the neighborhood spy, I was expecting compassion; Ms. Myrtle knew the true and gentle Micah who wore silver, curly shoelaces. Micah sniffed back a ragged sob.

  She did not offer compassion. She looked disgusted and angry.

  Ms. Myrtle raised her eyes as she lifted a wrinkled, gnarled finger and pointed at me. “And you are a very bad girl! I saw what you did to my mailbox. You shame your mother’s name.” I shrunk an inch, stricken.