control him?”
“Ah, well, we all have somebody watching over us, don’t we?” Mrs. Griffin replied. “Whether we like it or not. Now eat. You’ve got some wonderful times, ahead of you.”
Harvey didn’t need a second invitation. He dug into his second meal at the Holiday House with even more appetite than he had the first, and then headed out to meet the day.
Oh, what a day it was!
The breeze was warm, and smelled of the green scent of growing things; the perfect sky was full of swooping birds. He sauntered through the grass, his hands in his pockets, like the lord of all he surveyed, calling to Wendell as he approached the trees.
“Can I come up?”
“If you’ve got a head for heights,” Wendell dared him.
The ladder creaked as he climbed, but he made the platform without missing a step. Wendell was impressed.
“Not bad for a new boy,” he said. “We had two kids here couldn’t even get halfway up.”
“Where’d they go?”
“Back home, I s’pose. Kids come and go, you know?”
Harvey peered out through the branches, upon which every bud was bursting.
“You can’t see much, can you?” he said. “I mean, there’s no sign of the town at all.”
“Who cares?” said Wendell. “It’s just gray out there anyway.”
“And it’s sunny here,” Harvey said, staring down at the wall of misty stones that divided the grounds of the House from the outside world. “How’s that possible?”
Wendell’s answer was the same again: “Who cares?” he said. “I know I don’t. Now, are we going to start building, or what?”
They spent the next two hours working on the tree house, descending a dozen times to dig through the timbers heaped beside the orchard, looking for boards to finish their repairs. By noon they’d not only found enough wood to fix the roof, but they had each found a friend. Harvey liked Wendell’s bad jokes, and that who cares? which found its way into every other sentence. And Wendell seemed just as happy to have Harvey’s company.
“You’re the first kid who’s been real fun,” he said.
“What about Lulu?”
“What about her?”
“Isn’t she any fun?”
“She was okay when I first arrived,” Wendell admitted. “I mean, she’s been here months, so she kinda showed me the place. But she’s gotten weird the last few days. I see her sometimes wanderin’ around like she’s sleepwalkin’, with a blank expression on her face.”
“She’s probably going crazy,” Harvey said. “Her brain’s turning to mush.”
“Do you know about that stuff?” Wendell wanted to know, his face lighting up with ghoulish delight.
“Sure I do” Harvey lied. “My dad’s a surgeon.”
Wendell was most impressed by this, and for the next few minutes listened in gaping envy as Harvey told him about all the operations he’d seen: skulls sawn open and legs sawn off; feet sewn on where hands used to be, and a man with a boil on his behind that grew into a talking head.
“You swear?” said Wendell.
“I swear,” said Harvey.
“That’s so cool.”
All this talk brought on a fierce hunger, and at Wendells suggestion they climbed down the ladder and wandered into the House to eat.
“What do you want to do this afternoon?” he asked Harvey as they sat down at the table. “It’s going to be real hot. It always is.”
“Is there anywhere we can swim?”
Wendell frowned. “Well, yes…” he said doubtfully. “There’s a lake around the other side of the House, but you won’t much like it.
“Why not?”
“The water’s so deep you can’t even see the bottom.”
“Are there any fish?”
“Oh sure.”
“Maybe we could catch some. Mrs. Griffin could cook’em for us.”
At this, Mrs. Griffin, who was at the stove piling up a plate with onion rings, gave a little shout, and dropped the plate. She turned to Harvey, her face ashen.
“You don’t want to do that,” she said.
“Why not?” Harvey replied. “I thought I could do whatever I wanted.”
“Well, yes, of course you can,” she told him. “But I wouldn’t want you to get sick. The fish are…poisonous, you see.”
“Oh,” said Harvey, “well, maybe we won’t eat’em after all.”
“Look at this mess,” Mrs. Griffin said, fussing to cover her confusion. “I need a new apron.”
She hurried away to fetch one, leaving Harvey and Wendell to exchange puzzled looks.
“Now I really have to see those fish,” Harvey said.
As he spoke, the ever inquisitive Clue-Cat jumped up onto the counter beside the stove, and before either of the boys could move to stop him he had his paws up on the lip of one of the pans.
“Hey, get down!” Harvey told him.
The cat didn’t care to take orders. He hoisted himself up onto the rim of the pan to sniff at its contents, his tail flicking back and forth. The next moment, disaster. The tail danced too close to one of the burners and burst into flames. Clue-Cat yowled, and tipped over the pan he was perched upon. A wave of boiling water washed him off the top of the stove, and he fell to the ground in a smoking heap. Whether drowned, scalded or incinerated, the end was the scone: He hit the floor dead.
The din brought Mrs. Griffin hurrying back.
“I think I’m going to go eat outside,” Wendell said as the old woman appeared at the door. He snatched up a couple hot dogs, and was gone.
“Oh my Lord!” Mrs. Griffin cried when she set eyes on the dead cat. “Oh…you foolish thing.”
“It was an accident,” Harvey said, sickened by what had happened. “He was up on the stove—”
“Foolish thing. Foolish thing,” was all Mrs. Griffin seemed able to say. She sank down onto her knees, and stared at the sad little sack of burned fur. “No more questions from you,” she finally murmured.
The sight of Mrs. Griffin’s unhappiness made Harvey’s eyes sting, but he hated to have anyone see him cry, so he fought back his tears as best he could and said: “Shall I help you bury him?” in his gruffest voice.
Mrs. Griffin looked around. “That’s very sweet of you,” she said soy. “But there’s no need. You go out and play.”
“I don’t want to leave you on your own,” Harvey said.
“Oh, look at you, child,” Mrs. Griffin said. “You’ve got tears on your cheeks.”
Harvey blushed and wiped them away with the back of his hand.
“Don’t be ashamed to weep,” Mrs. Griffin said. “It’s a wonderful thing. I wish I could still shed a tear or two.”
“You’re sad,” Harvey said. “I can see that.”
“What I feel is not quite sadness,” Mrs. Griffin replied. “And it’s not much solace, either, I’m afraid.”
“What’s solace?” Harvey asked.
“It’s something soothing,” Mrs. Griffin said, getting to her feet. “Something that heals the pain in your heart.”
“And you don’t have any of that?”
“No, I don’t,” Mrs. Griffin said. She reached out and touched Harvey’s cheek. “Except maybe in these tears of yours. They comfort me.” She sighed as she traced their tracks with her fingers. “Your tears are sweet, child. And so are you. Now you go out into the light and enjoy yourself. There’s sun on the step, and it won’t be there forever, believe me.”
