Ashley. Let sleeping dogs lie, Kate.'
'They've lied too much already,' I said.
He shook his head. 'Don't make Patrick pay the price for your curiosity about the past. I'm warning you, Kate, and I'm not going to warn you again.' He pivoted and reentered the cafe. I stared through the window at him, but he had sat down and turned his attention to his lady friend.
I walked away, upset by his words. Was I pursuing the truth for Patrick's sake or my own? I had thought I was doing it for Patrick-at least, it had started out that way. But I had learned that the past was tied up in lies, lies that had changed my own life. I was doing this for both of us now, though it was only myself I had the right to endanger. The question was, which was endangering Patrick more: pursuing the truth or letting it go?
When I picked up Patrick at school that afternoon, he seemed happier than he had earlier in the day. He had done well on a spelling test and had discovered another boy in his class who liked ice hockey. But the little bit of brightness in his face faded by the time we reached the end of the long road up to Mason's Choice. A few minutes later, when I offered him an after-school snack, he took a tiny bite out of the peanut butter cracker I had fixed, then set it down.
'What's wrong?'
He looked at the plate of crackers warily. 'I don't want a tummy ache.'
'They won't hurt you. I fixed them myself.'
'I'm not hungry.'
Trust me! I wanted to say, but even I could recognize the irony of that coming from me.
'Do you want to go for a hike?' I asked.
'No.'
'Not even down to the pond?'
'The pond?' He was interested.
'Why don't you change into your play clothes? I'll put your crackers in a bag, and we can take them along for a picnic.'
His face lit up, then he reconsidered. 'No, thanks. I'm not hungry.'
'Then we'll skip the picnic part, but go change your clothes.'
Mrs. Hopewell entered the kitchen as soon as Patrick left. I had the feeling she had been eavesdropping.
'Patrick and you will eat with the family tonight.'
'Is that what Adrian wishes?' I asked.
She hated it when I called him by his first name. Yes.
I nodded, put an unopened bag of crackers in my coat pocket, and headed upstairs. When I got to Patrick's bedroom, I saw that he had taken out his ice skates.
'Patrick, can you see how foggy it is outside?' Yes.
'When warm air comes in contact with the cold of the melting snow, it makes fog. The air is very warm today, the temperature well above freezing. The ice on the pond will be too soft for skating.' 'No, it won't.'
'I'm sorry, but it will.'
'It won't!' he said, swinging his skates, banging them against his closet door.
'It will,' I said firmly.
He dropped his skates and threw himself on the bed. 'Then I don't want to go.'
'All right. You stay here and do your homework. I'm going on a hike to the pond.' I strode across the hall, wondering how far I could go before having to give up the bluff. He followed me down the main stairs, keeping about ten steps behind. Out of the corner of my eye I saw that he was carrying his skates.
When I reached the first-floor hall, I heard voices in the library-more fighting. I walked quietly toward it, trying to decipher Robyn's words. Trent cut her off, then Emily's high-pitched voice interjected something. Patrick caught up with me just as the library door opened. At the sound of their angry voices, he cringed.
'It's okay,' I whispered.
Brook emerged. Seeing Patrick and me, he grinned as if he knew a secret. 'The cat's away,' he told us, 'and you know what happens then.' He pointed to the library.
'My cat is dead,' Patrick replied solemnly.
'Oh yeah, I forgot about that old thing.'
'Close the door, Brook,' I said.
He reached back and pulled it shut, muffling the sound of the raised voices, then walked toward us. 'Do you think your cat ate some raspberry pie?'
I glared at him. 'Sometimes, Brook, I can't tell if you are exceptionally mean-spirited or simply stupid.'
'I've never been exceptional at anything,' he replied, shoving his hands in his pockets, 'so I must be stupid. Grandfather thinks so.' He shrugged, as if it were unimportant, but there was an edge in his voice. 'He has gone into town to see his attorney. Grandfather's personal attorney always comes here, of course. I guess the old man wants some privacy while deciding how to divide up his loot. Anyway, when the cat's away-' 'The mice will play,' I finished for him. 'It's just a saying, Patrick.'
'Oh, it's more than that,' Brook said. 'It's advice. Be on your guard. The mice can play rough, especially when the cat frustrates them.'
The library door opened again. Trent emerged, his face the color of vanilla ice cream, his brow pinched. With barely a glance in our direction, he headed toward his wing. Robyn came out and stared straight at us, but I wasn't certain she saw us. Her cheeks flamed with anger. Emily was still in the library, her fists clenched, tears running silently down her face. Hoping Patrick didn't see his mother, I quickly turned him in the direction of the kitchen, where we kept our boots, and gave him a little push.
'So where are you going, Patrick?' Brook asked.
Patrick didn't reply.
'To the pond,' Brook guessed, noting the skates. 'What a great idea, ice skating on a nice warm day like this!'
I told him the pond was too soft. He wants to see for himself. Excuse me.'
Patrick was halfway down the hall and I took long strides to catch up with him. In the kitchen, we pulled on our boots, then exited out the back of the house.. Patrick walked swiftly, wordlessly toward the snowman we had built two days ago. Our hockey player had shrunk into a troll.
'He's melted,' I observed.
Without replying, Patrick picked up the snowman's hockey stick and circled the house to the front. I could have stopped him there and given him the choice of dropping the skates and stick or going to his room, but going back inside that angry house was too stiff a penalty for any child to pay. We'd settle the matter when he could see the ice for himself.
We walked silently down the main road, then cut across a garden and orchard, Patrick leading the way, making a wide circle to skirt the horse bam. The stand of trees around the pond looked eerie in the fading afternoon light, like an island floating in the snow and mist. We entered the ring of cedar and pine, following the short trail through dripping branches. Fog darkened the wood and hung over the pond, turning the straggly trees near the shore into ghostly figures. The ice was leaden gray. Off-center, larger than before, was the circle of black water.
Patrick picked up a stick and threw it on the ice. 'See? It's frozen.'
'Patrick, sticks float on water.'
'But it's not floating,' he replied. 'It's just sitting there.'
'The point is that sticks are so light, they can float on water. You are much heavier.'
'I float,' he argued. 'I float on my back.'
Struggling to keep my temper, I took the skates and hockey stick from him. 'You can't go on the ice. I don't want to hear any more about it.'
I put his things at the entrance to the path, then dragged two heavy limbs to the narrow margin between pond and trees, and pushed them together.
'Do you want to sit on my new bench?' I asked, taking out the bag of crackers. I had brought the buttery ones, his favorite. 'You may open them if you like.'
