Follow the Stars Home Page 6

  “Dianne’s hoping for a good summer,” Mrs. Robbins said.

  “I know,” Alan said.

  “I’ll be home to help her out more.”

  “Do you think Dianne would consider a babysitter?” he asked. “I’m thinking of someone, kind of like a mother’s helper.”

  “She might,” Mrs. Robbins said. “You could try.”

  “Coming from me, I’m not sure.”

  “You’re very good to her, Alan,” she said. “She might not show it, but I know she appreciates it.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said.

  The librarian’s eyes connected with his. “It matters a lot,” Mrs. Robbins said. She took his damp towel and hung it on the metal handle of her cart. Alan knew she would wash it and bring it back for him next week. He understood that Lucinda wished that he had been the one to win. That Dianne had stayed with Alan, never married Tim at all.

  Things that Alan wished himself.

  Amy came home from school early. Her mother was in bed, and her mother’s boyfriend, Buddy, was rehearsing with his band. They were in someone’s garage down the street, and Amy could hear the ugly metal sound. Who wanted to make music that sounded like train wrecks? But the good news was, he was busy and she would hear if he stopped playing.

  The shades were pulled down, but spring sunshine outlined the window frames like square halos. Emptied beer bottles gave off their usual fragrance. Amy walked through the dark room with a can of pine-scented air freshener, spraying full blast. She thought of brooks and forests, hoot owls and whippoorwills. Peeking into her mother’s room, she saw her mother lying under the blankets.

  “Mama?” Amy whispered.

  Her mother didn’t move. Thick curtains were pulled over venetian blinds, so the air was dark and heavy as brown corduroy. It was stiflingly hot, and Amy resisted the impulse to throw open the window. She knew her mother needed her rest. Wanting company, she went back to the living room.

  “Hi, puppy,” she said, falling on her knees before the dog cage.

  The young dog bared his teeth, growling and cowering in the back of the cage. Buddy, training him to be a guard dog, had named him Slash, but there was no way on earth Amy would ever call him that.

  “I’m your friend,” she said.

  “Grrrr.”

  “You don’t believe me?” Amy ran to the kitchen and came back with two slices of American cheese-even Buddy wouldn’t miss two little slices. Breaking them up into small pieces, she placed one near the front of the cage.

  “Grrr,” the dog growled. Amy thought back to an early time in Dr. McIntosh’s office. Amy had been scared-she had had a sore throat, burning like fire, and a fever of one hundred and four. She had been so afraid to open her mouth. Dr. McIntosh hadn’t rushed her at all, just won her over slowly with a lollipop, a story about dolphins, and his gentle voice.

  “I’m your friend, puppy,” Amy said, trying to imitate Dr. McIntosh’s voice. And it was working, because soon the small black dog began creeping forward. Both eyes on Amy, he inched ahead.

  It took ten whole minutes, but the little dog finally took the cheese. Then another piece, and another. Very carefully Amy unlatched the metal door. The hinges squeaked, and the dog scurried back. But Amy just kept putting out cheese, and the little guy came up to eat it all. Soon he was eating out of her hand. His coat was bristly and warm, and he had that baby-animal smell that made Amy wish she were a dog.

  “The music!” Amy said, realizing one second too late that it had stopped.

  “What’s going on here?” Buddy asked, standing in the door.

  Amy tried to shield the dog from his sight. The room was so dark, even with the window halos, he might not be able to see. The little dog could crawl back into his lair, and everyone would be safe. Amy lay full-length in front of the cage, praying for the dog to retreat.

  “Nothing,” Amy said. “How was band practice?”

  “Lousy. I broke a string, and our bassist had to get to work. What—”

  “You sounded great,” Amy said, her heart pounding. Reaching behind her, she tried to shove the puppy back.

  “You heard us?”

  “Yes. Even with a broken string, you play the best. Who’s that famous guy, the one Mom listens to-not James Taylor, the other one …”

  “Eric Clapton?”

  “Yes! You play better than him.”

  “Huh,” Buddy said. No one could get more out of the word “huh” than Buddy. Coming from his string-thin lips, he could make the word sound like a ton of cement falling from the Empire State Building. But just then he made it sound like an expression of wonderment. When Ponce de León had emerged from the hot jungle to find the Fountain of Youth his “huh” had sounded just like Buddy’s.

  “Much better,” Amy said warmly, her chest cracking with anxiety. The puppy had discovered her cheese-flavored fingers again and was licking them madly.

  “You think? I think I’m more Hendrix myself. When my string snapped, I damn near … what’s that?”

  “That noise?” Amy asked, thinking fast. The puppy was slurping away.

  “Did that dog get out?” Buddy asked.

  “No,” Amy said immediately, pushing the puppy inside his cage, blocking the door with her outstretched arms. “I let him out, it’s my fault, I just wanted—”

  With one motion Buddy lifted Amy away from the cage and tossed her onto the sofa. Reaching in, he grabbed the dog by the scruff of his neck. Amy’s eyes were open wide. She watched the terrified puppy dangle from Buddy’s hand like a ham on a hook.

  “What did I tell you?” Buddy asked, and Amy didn’t know whether he was talking to her or to the dog.

  “It’s my fault,” Amy said again. Her voice sounded funny, like the sandpaper she sometimes used in art class.

  “I don’t care about fault,” Buddy said softly. “What I care about is obedience.”

  “Don’t hurt him,” Amy said.

  “What good is a guard dog that won’t obey? You teach them young, or you have to shoot them later.”

  “Don’t hurt him though,” Amy said.

  Without another word Buddy kicked the dog with his pointy cowboy boot. The dog yelped in pain, and Buddy kicked him again. “For your own good,” Buddy said, holding him down. “For your own stupid good.”

  Amy started to sob. The little dog couldn’t get away. He struggled and squirmed, yelping loudly. Buddy kicked him over and over, and when he was done, he hurled the dog into his cage. Picking up a rolled-up newspaper, he smacked the palm of his open hand.

  “Got it now?” he asked. He never hit Amy, but she had the definite feeling he was threatening her then. “Are we clear who’s master around here?”

  In the bedroom, blankets rustled. Amy’s stomach ached. She didn’t know what she wanted more, for her mother to rescue the dog or for her to stay out of the way.

  “C’mere,” Buddy said.

  Amy refused to look, afraid he was talking to her.

  “Come here,” Buddy said, and the cage door rattled. He was reaching in, pulling the dog out again. He was petting the dog, whispering to him, scratching him behind the ears. The dog whimpered, trying to get away.

  “I’ll break you, boy,” Buddy said. “If that’s what it’ll take, that’s what I’ll do.”

  “Don’t break him,” Amy whispered.

  “What?” he asked.

  Amy shut her mouth. She didn’t want Buddy to hear her. She knew from experience it made him mad when people intervened-like Amy would do with her mother.

  The puppy pulled to get away, crying almost like a human child. Amy’s body ached, straining to get over there and help him, but she was glad the dog had fight left in him. It would be worse if he licked Buddy’s hand the way he wanted the puppy to. Amy knew she had to be very quiet so Buddy would leave the room. If she made herself invisible, this would stop sooner.

  “I said, what?” he asked softly.

  But Amy slipped away in her mind, turned herself in
to a babbling brook. She was tumbling over mossy ledges, through shady glens and sylvan glades. Herons were nesting on her banks, and spiders spun glassy webs across her clear water. She was flowing downhill, toward the sea, where her father had fished. She was on her way when the phone rang.

  “Hello?” Buddy said.

  Amy watched him. He was ramrod-straight, the king of his castle, when he picked up the receiver. Beating the puppy must have given him confidence, because he sounded very sure of himself. But as he listened to the voice at the other end, Amy watched him wilt before her very eyes. His spine gave out, and he drooped like a tulip stem.

  “Yes, she’s right here,” he said. “I’ll get her.”

  “For Mom?” Amy asked.

  “For you,” he said, covering the receiver. He seemed about to admonish her, to tell her he was expecting a call, or remind her to keep family matters private. His thin lips opened and closed a couple times, but he just handed her the phone.

  “Hello?” Amy asked.

  “Is this Amy Brooks?” came the deep voice, and she recognized it right away. Relief spread through her like a heat wave, tears cresting in her eyes.

  “Hi, Dr. McIntosh,” she said.

  “What are you doing next Saturday?” he asked.

  On Saturday morning Dianne was wallpapering the parlor wall of a small Victorian. The blue and white paper was English, a pattern of tiny white peonies. Dianne worked from the interior out. She would do the inside work first, making sure every detail was perfect, then nail the house together.

  “Your grandmother would like this paper,” she said to Julia. “Peonies are her favorite flower.”

  Julia sat close by, propped up in her chair. Every window was open, and a warm wind blew off the marsh. Stella crouched on the sill, inside the screen, watching life in the yard. Julia was very quiet today, enjoying the breeze in her hair. Everyone got spring fever in their own way. Dianne felt April moving toward May.

  A car door closed, and the cat instantly slid out of sight. Born in the wild, Stella was intensely shy. Dianne craned her neck, but she couldn’t see the driveway from the window. Washing wallpaper paste off her hands, she went to the door.

  “Oh, my God,” she said, feeling her stomach lurch as she saw Alan getting out of the car. Dianne thought of Julia’s test results, wondered whether he had come by to break some bad news in person. But then she saw the young girl, and she relaxed a little. He wouldn’t have brought someone with him if that were the case. Dianne’s hands were trembling as she dried them with an old rag, and she watched them come toward the studio.

  Alan shielded his eyes, looking around. The marsh was bathed in sunlight, a hundred shades of green. Cattails rustled, and red-winged blackbirds darted in and out. Long Island Sound sparkled beyond. The Robbinses had the last house on Gull Point, ten blocks and a world away from Amy’s.

  “You know these people?” Amy asked, standing beside him with wide eyes.

  “I do.”

  “They’re witches,” she said. “All the kids say so.”

  “What kids?”

  “In my neighborhood.”

  “What do they say?”

  “That the ladies cast spells and turn kids into monsters and trolls. Then they keep them prisoner.” Amy was staring at the house. It was a tidy Cape, its white cedar shingles weathered to silver. The blue shutters had cut-out sea horses; the white window trim gleamed. Window boxes were filled with purple and yellow pansies.

  “Well …” Alan said.

  “Is it true?” Amy asked, standing so close, her shoulder bumped his jacket.

  “You’re going to have to decide for yourself,” he said, feeling a shiver under his skin as he saw Dianne standing in the doorway.

  Amy had never doubted Dr. McIntosh before, but she couldn’t imagine why he was bringing her to the witch-ladies’ house. She had been so happy about spending the day with him, she had prepared by taking a bath in Rain Magic bath salts, then putting on fresh jeans and the cleanest shirt she could find. But now, standing in the clamshell driveway on Gull Point, she felt afraid.

  Tall privet hedges lined the yard, blocking any view from the street. Although Amy lived just a few blocks away, she had never seen the house before and was surprised that it looked so cute. Would witches live in a Cape with sea horse shutters? Instead of walking up the front path, Dr. McIntosh headed around the side yard. It was a meadow of sea grass, bristly and greenish-brown, but there were gardens of daffodils, pink azaleas, and tiny blue scillas.

  Set back at the edge of the marsh was a small white cottage. Most unwitch-like! Amy thought. And standing in the doorway was the golden-haired lady Amy had seen once before, at Dr. McIntosh’s office.

  “Oh!” Amy said.

  “I should have called,” the doctor said to the lady.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, sounding scared.

  “Nothing. Nothing at all,” he said quickly. “I happened to be in the neighborhood, picking up my friend Amy Brooks, and I wanted to introduce her to you.”

  The lady bowed her head, looking relieved. She wore a white shirt tucked into blue jeans. The sleeves were rolled up; she wore old sneakers. Her hair was pulled back in a loose braid, and she’d tied the end with a thin piece of marsh grass. Her eye color reminded Amy of periwinkles, just as they had the other time she had seen her.

  “I know who you are,” the lady said, smiling slowly.

  Amy stood slightly behind the doctor.

  “You were in the playhouse,” the lady said.

  “Dr. McIntosh lets me,” Amy blurted out, thinking maybe the lady was going to give her a hard time about it.

  “It makes me happy you like it,” the lady said.

  Amy frowned, unsure of why the lady should care one way or the other. Confused, she looked at the doctor, and he placed his hand on Amy’s shoulder.

  “Miss Robbins made that playhouse,” he said. “I bought it from her to put in my waiting room. And my brother delivered it in his truck. That’s how we all met.”

  “That’s a very old story,” the lady said. “I’d like Amy to call me Dianne. Come on in.”

  Once Dianne got past that first lurch, seeing Alan’s car and thinking bad news, she felt herself relax. Their eyes met and held for a moment. She took in his open expression, the smile lines every mother in Hawthorne loved, and she was so aware of the distance she wanted to keep between them, she forgot to open the screen door.

  “How are you?” he asked, entering her studio.

  “Fine, thanks. Is everything okay?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said, looking around as if her studio were new to him. He made frequent emergency visits, but they were mainly up at the house.

  “You’ve been in here, haven’t you?” she asked.

  “You usually have it pretty well barricaded,” he said.

  She glanced up, saw him smiling wryly.

  “You’re related,” Amy said. “He told me.”

  “Distantly,” Dianne said.

  “I’m her daughter’s uncle,” Alan explained with kindness in his voice that even Dianne couldn’t miss. He was nice to all kids-no one could mistake the fact that he had a gift for talking to them.

  How could someone so different from Tim remind Dianne so much of him? Alan was brainy, Tim was cocky. Alan wore the most faded blue shirts Dianne had ever seen, old blue jeans, and hiking boots. His glasses were slipping down his nose, and Dianne had to fight the urge to push them back up. Tim was the family bad boy, and Alan was the scientist. But they were both tall, lean, with an easy, graceful style of movement. Seeing Alan, Dianne always pulled back, as if from Tim himself.

  “Deeee,” Julia said, coming to life. “Deeeee!”

  “Oh!” Amy said, shocked, stepping back at the sight of Julia.

  Dianne’s stomach flipped. Whenever someone saw Julia for the first time, all Dianne’s mother-lion instincts kicked into gear. If the people seemed upset, unfriendly, or disgusted, Dianne found a way to get th
em out fast. She might have expected Alan to warn the girl, but it seemed obvious that he hadn’t.

  “Is that-” Amy began.

  “My daughter,” Dianne said steadily.

  “Her name is Julia,” Alan said. “You were asking about her the other day.”

  “I saw her chart!” Amy said. Her eyes wide, she took a step toward Julia.

  Dianne’s shoulders tightened. She clutched herself with folded arms. The young girl had sounded so scared, and now she had a look of morbid fascination on her face. Anger welled up in Dianne, and she started forward to get between Amy and Julia.

  “You showed her Julia’s chart?” Dianne asked, furious.

  Alan just shook his head as if it didn’t merit an explanation.

  “This is Dianne’s workshop,” Alan said.

  “Where you make the playhouses?” Amy asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm,” Amy said. She cast a low glance at Julia, then looked quickly away. She was curious about the little girl. She wanted to stare, but she was polite enough not to. While Alan visited with Julia, Dianne pointed at the half-finished house, directing Amy’s attention away.

  “I’m wallpapering this section,” Dianne said, feeling like a protective bird, leading the girl away from her nest. On the other hand, the child seemed so vulnerable. She had flyaway brown hair, bitten-down fingernails, a deep worry line between her eyebrows.

  “Ooh, pretty,” Amy said, touching the white flowers.

  “I do one wall at a time,” Dianne said. “Then put them together.”

  “Oh,” Amy said, looking back at Julia.

  “Once the house is assembled, I add the trim. These wooden curlicues are called gingerbread. I’ll attach that to the eaves, then add this little dovecote, these shutters. Then I’ll paint it….”

  “Does she have one in her room?”

  “What?” Dianne asked.