The Moon Over High Street Page 2

  And then: He had climbed out of the Ford and was standing looking up and down the quiet street when all at once the quiet was erased. Here came a rattling white van, its purpose emblazoned on its side in large green letters: SOPE ELECTRIC. Under this was painted a jagged bolt of lightning and the words RESIDENTIAL AND COMMERCIAL, the whole finished off with NO JOB TOO SMALL. “Hey!” said Aunt Myra. “Here come my neighbors!”

  The van bumped into the driveway of a shingled house across the street, a door rumbled open, and four people of various sizes rolled out like an upset pile of melons. Aunt Myra named them as they appeared: Evangeline Sope, aged six, in full shriek. Dorothea Sope, aged nine, blowing a cardboard horn of the birthday-party variety, which made a lovely blatting sound. Beatrice Sope, aged twelve, managing three huge blue balloons. Finally, Ogilvie Sope, father of all and calm as a millpond, stepping over and around them only to be nearly toppled by a joyful rush of fur that was large and devoted Rover Sope, dog of all, just released from inside the house by Amanda Sope, mother and wife. At the house door, mother and father embracing and mother crying to the tumbled group, “How was the party?” Three answers, all different except for volume, all coming at once.

  “Let’s go over,” said Aunt Myra. “I’ll introduce you.”

  It would be a while before Joe remembered their names, but for now none of them was really important. None, that is, except Beatrice.

  “This is Beatrice, Joe,” said Aunt Myra. “She’s just your age.”

  “Hi,” said Beatrice.

  As for Joe, all he could do was mumble. For Beatrice Sope was beautiful, with a round, clear face, and hair as dark and shiny as fine furniture. Joe looked away and swallowed hard. In the back of his mind, where he had stowed them on the bus, thoughts of Emily Crouse wavered, dimmed, and disappeared. His face went flaming red. He found that he needed to cough, and began to believe that he’d always known Midville would be fine.

  IN AUNT MYRA’S house, there was a front hall and then a living room with a long, loose-cushioned sofa, a coffee table and a couple of armchairs, a lot of plants in pots, and shelves full of books. There was a kitchen with the usual stove and refrigerator, a table for eating, and more plants in pots on a windowsill. And then off the kitchen was another room. “There’s a guest room upstairs, next to my room,” Aunt Myra told Joe, “and I thought I’d put Gran there and let you have this, so you and she don’t have to share. But when she gets here she may have trouble going up and down the stairs, what with that busted hip. So we’ll have to see. This might be better for her then. But for now it’s yours.”

  It was small, but it held a lot: a low bed with two fat pillows, an armchair covered in blue corduroy, a maple bureau with plenty of drawers, and, next to that, a desk with its own chair. Light blue curtains framed the windows that, side by side, looked out to the backyard. There was even a little bookcase, its wide shelves empty and waiting. Joe stood in the doorway, speechless. It was the best room he had ever seen, and it was his.

  Behind him, Aunt Myra said, “Does it look all right? It used to be my sewing room, but, shoot, I don’t have time for sewing. I’m over at school all day long.”

  Joe set down his suitcase and searched for words. And then, at last, he managed to say, “It’s just—well, it’s really—good.”

  Aunt Myra smiled. It seemed to be enough.

  THAT NIGHT, after a supper of pizza and ice cream (“But I don’t want you to think we’ll eat like this every night,” said Aunt Myra), Joe unpacked his suitcase and put his clothes away while she sat in the corduroy chair, telling stories about Midville with pauses in between, funny little pauses where she looked out the windows, wanting, he suddenly suspected, to talk about something very different but seeming uncertain how to begin.

  With all his clothes in their places, Joe, with nothing more to do, sat down on the bed to wait. He was sure it would come now, whatever it was she wanted to say, and while he was waiting, he looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time. She was tall—well, he’d noticed that at first—and her hair was ordinary brown cut short and wavy around a plain, uncomplicated face, a regular in-between face except for her eyes, which were full of feeling.

  “Joe,” she said at last, “you don’t remember your father, do you?”

  “No,” he said. This was it, then, what she wanted to say. He looked away, down at the floor, and the irritated feeling filled him completely.

  But she went on: “I remember him. We had the same grandparents, and we were just about the same age. We used to see each other on holidays.” There was another pause, and then she said, speaking quickly, “He was a good person, Joe. I liked him a lot. I went to his wedding, when he married your mother. Listen, Joe, I’m not going to go on and on about this. I just need to tell you that after that terrible accident, I wanted you, Joe. I was alone, too, all of a sudden, just like you. Gran had a perfect right to keep you—your father’s mother, after all—and I was only a second cousin or something. But, Joe, I wanted you. I’ve always wanted you. That’s why it makes me so happy to have you here now.”

  “Okay,” said Joe, keeping his eyes on the floor.

  “All right,” said Aunt Myra. She leaned toward him, and for a moment he was afraid she was going to kiss him, but she only gave him a quick touch on the shoulder. She stood up and said, “Well, good night. Sleep well.”

  Then, as she was going to the door, the irritated feeling erupted and he heard himself say, suddenly, “How come you never got married, Aunt Myra? Didn’t anyone ask you?” And at once he wished with all his heart he hadn’t said it. It sounded bad. Bad—and mean.

  But she didn’t seem to mind. She paused in the doorway and turned. “I was going to get married,” she told him. “We were engaged. But he was killed in the war. Korea.”

  Joe heard these words with amazement. Somehow he’d never thought about other people having losses, too. His irritation disappeared. He said, “I’m sorry, Aunt Myra! I really am sorry! What was his name?”

  Her face softened. “His name,” she said with a little smile, “was Joe.”

  “Oh!” he said. “Like me.”

  “Yes,” she answered. “Like you. Good night.”

  AND THEN HE WAS alone. He went to a window and peered out. The last of the twilight still rimmed the sky, late though it was, for these were the longest days. And the air was still balmy. Even so, Joe shivered a little. It had been a whole lot more of a day than he was used to. But there was a night sky here, all right, just as he’d known there would be. There weren’t a lot of stars to look at yet, but they were up there. They’d come out soon. So would the moon. And crickets had begun their songs. Out in his yard, Rover Sope was barking his friendly good-nights to all the dogs in Midville. And Aunt Myra—Aunt Myra had said, “I’ve always wanted you.” The warmth of these things was very fine, and almost the finest of all was that picture in another part of his head: the late-day sun on the shiny hair of the girl across the street.

  IV

  SATURDAY MORNING. Joe woke suddenly, his eyes wide. And then: Oh! This was Midville, so it was all right. When he was up and ready, he went to the kitchen. On the stove a frying pan was sending out promising sizzles and pops while Aunt Myra stirred something smooth and creamy in a big bowl. “Pancakes and bacon, Joe,” she said. “Hope you like them.” Like them! Who didn’t? “Of course, it’s not a skinny breakfast,” she added, “but we’ll get around to that later.”

  There was orange juice, too, and butter and maple syrup, and they sat down to it and began to eat as if they’d been together every morning of their lives, handing the butter and the syrup back and forth like friends for whom no words are necessary. Still, it was the first breakfast and both of them knew this very well, though neither of them said so. At one point, Joe sensed her looking at him, and he lifted his eyes to her face. She turned away quickly, but she was smiling.

  And then, just as they were finishing, the telephone rang. It was a wall phone, hanging near the s
tove, and Aunt Myra got up to answer it. “Hello? … Oh, hi, Gil … It’s Mr. Sope,” she told Joe over her shoulder. “What? … Oh, that sounds wonderful! I think he’d … Yes, but he doesn’t have a bicycle here, so maybe … Gil, you don’t have to do that … Well, wait a minute while I ask him.” She put the phone down and turned to Joe. “Beatrice wants to take you around town and show you things. Would you like that? Mr. Sope says you can borrow his bicycle. And the two of you can get your lunch somewhere if you’re gone that long. What do you think?”

  “All right,” said Joe. Beatrice? All morning on bicycles? Yes. He thought it would be all right. And Aunt Myra hadn’t told him he had to go; she had asked him if he wanted to. She had let it be his decision.

  “THIS IS A PRETTY good town,” said Beatrice as they pedaled down the street, Rover loping along beside them. “But I’ve never lived anywhere else, so I haven’t got much to compare it to. What’s your hometown like?”

  “It’s okay,” said Joe. “Not so different from here, I guess.” Except he didn’t think he’d ever seen a Willowick sky as blue as this. Or a Willowick sun this bright. It winked through the trees to splash on the blacktop and the handlebars of Beatrice’s bicycle. And on her shiny hair. But of course he didn’t say all that out loud.

  “You’ve got Lake Erie, though,” she said. “We don’t have anything like that. I’ve hardly ever even seen Lake Erie. You’re lucky. And you get to go around alone. I almost never get to do that. I mean, someone has to look after Evangeline and Dorothea once in a while. Mother can’t do everything. You don’t have any brothers or sisters, do you?”

  “No,” he said.

  “You’re lucky,” she repeated. “See, the thing is—wait a minute—where’s Rover?” She braked to a stop, looking around, and Joe stopped beside her. “There he is. Rats! I wish he wouldn’t always do this. Just look at him! He’s been rolling in Junior Johnson’s wading pool again.”

  Rover had come briskly into the front yard of a nearby house. He was soaked and dripping, the long hairs on his chest and tail plastered to his skin, his ears like wet washcloths. He looked, this way, to be a thin dog of no importance. But, pausing near a bed of hyacinths, he took a firm stance and shook himself, transferring a fine rain out of his coat and onto the flowers, and was once again a dog of substance. “Rover,” said Beatrice as he came smiling up to them, “you’re very bad.” But she didn’t sound really angry. Rover seemed to recognize this because he went right on smiling in that way some big dogs have where the ears will droop, the eyes go soft, and the generous lips turn up at their generous corners.

  “What kind of a dog is he?” asked Joe, looking at him with approval.

  “Well, let’s see,” said Beatrice. “He’s half golden retriever, half Airedale, and half cocker spaniel.”

  “That’s three halves!” Joe pointed out.

  “Yep,” she said. “That’s why he’s so big. But he’s really only a mutt. Like all of us Sopes.”

  “You think you’re mutts?” said Joe in astonishment.

  “Sure,” said Beatrice, laughing. “It only means you haven’t got a pedigree. But Pop says what good is a pedigree unless you like standing around being looked at.”

  They started off again, in and out of neighboring streets, and crisscrossed the park Joe had noticed the day before. Beatrice even took him to the junior high school. “You’ll have to go to one, too, won’t you?” she asked him as they paused at the curb in front. “It’ll be awful. We’ll be the youngest ones, just like first grade. Probably get pushed around a lot.”

  “I guess so,” said Joe.

  “Of course,” she added as they started off again, “I’ve always been the oldest at my house. That makes it harder. But Miss Myra told us about you once, so I know you’re the oldest and the youngest at your house. It’s like I started to say before. You’re lucky. You’ve got a lot of independence.”

  Lucky! She’d said three times that he was lucky. It was a description so different from the way he saw himself that he hardly knew how to answer. But she wasn’t waiting for an answer. “Hey!” she said. “Want to go up on the hill and see where the rich people live? No mutts on High Street! The houses are practically castles. There’s a boy in my class that lives up there, but he’s going to Glenfield next year.”

  “What’s Glenfield?” Joe asked her.

  “It’s a private school for boys,” she explained. “There’s one for girls, too, called Folkestone. They’re both out in the country.”

  “Oh,” said Joe.

  “It’s not a big deal,” she told him. “It’s just what you have to do if you’re rich. Come on. If you want to know about Midville, you need to see High Street. And then we can go get lunch.”

  YES, THE HOUSES WERE big and beautiful, with big and beautiful trees and wide green lawns. Some had low stone walls along the front and—but wait: “Wow!” said Joe. “Look at that one!”

  They climbed off their bikes and stood on the sidewalk, gazing at it. It was set far back from the street, on an even wider, greener lawn. A big, very beautiful house: white-painted brick with black trim and shutters, and a row of white pillars across the front.

  Beatrice said, “That’s where Mr. Boulderwall lives. He owns that factory over on the other side of town.”

  “He must be really rich,” said Joe.

  “Yep,” she answered. “He invented those engine things called swervits. His factory’s the only place in the world that makes them, but Pop told me they’re used all over everywhere.”

  “I’ve heard of those,” said Joe. “My grandmother had to get a new one for her car last winter.” And then, still gazing, he said, almost to himself, “I wonder what it’s like to live in a house like that.”

  Beatrice nodded. “But think if you had to clean it every week!” she said. “Of course, they must have lots of maids to do that kind of stuff. It’s hard to picture Mrs. Boulderwall running a vacuum cleaner.”

  “Do you know her?” he asked.

  “I don’t exactly know her,” she said, “but I’ve seen her lots of times. Pop did some work for them once, putting in a bunch of outside lights. He said there’s a swimming pool way out back, and a tennis court, and … oh no! Rover! ROVER!”

  Too late. It was as if Rover Sope had heard the word pool and knew what it suggested. He galloped away across the lawn, ignoring Beatrice’s calls and whistles, and disappeared behind the house. “This is the absolute worst!” said Beatrice. “Now what are we going to do? We’ll have to go get him—we can’t just leave him. But what if someone’s back there? What if they see us?”

  “Or what if he gets in the swimming pool?” said Joe.

  “Oh—that’s a terrible idea!” said Beatrice. “You’re right, of course. It’s just what he will do, the dummy, and then he might not be able to get out again. I mean, it’s a real swimming pool, with a deep end and everything. Come on—hurry!”

  They dropped their bikes and ran.

  HAPPILY, THE WORST isn’t always what happens. Behind the house, there was a wide flagstone terrace with red-cushioned wicker chairs and lounges set about and a round white metal table shaded by a tilting striped umbrella. Sitting at the table was Anson Boulderwall himself, the Saturday morning newspapers spread out around him. At his elbow was a tray with coffee and a plate of cinnamon sweet rolls, and he was sharing a roll with Rover.

  He was certainly old. Joe’s first impression was that he looked like one of those drawings a little child might make: a round body, with long, thin arms and legs stuck on like sticks poked into an apple. Under the summer fabric of his white shirt and trousers, his elbows, knees, and shoulders made sharp angles. The backs of his wrinkled hands were dotted with large brown spots, and the knuckles made more angles as he gripped the sweet roll and tore off chunks of it for Rover. But there was something far more important about him than the fact that he was old—something calm and solid and powerful.

  Rover knew power when he met with it. Dogs always do. He
was sitting pressed close to the old man’s knee, ears high, muzzle dusted with sugar, his eyes full of respect—and hope. “Well!” said Mr. Boulderwall as Beatrice and Joe came up to him. “This your animal?”

  “Oh dear,” said Beatrice. “Yes, he’s mine. I’m really sorry he bothered you. I tried to call him back, but he wouldn’t come.”

  “He’s not a bother,” said Mr. Boulderwall. “I like dogs. You two live around here?”

  “Over on Glen Lane,” said Beatrice. “I was showing Joe the town. He’s new here.”

  Mr. Boulderwall looked at Joe. “Oh? Your family just move in?” he asked.

  “No,” said Joe. “I’m visiting my … uh … aunt.”

  “Where’s your family, then?” asked Mr. Boulderwall.

  “I don’t … I mean, there isn’t … except for my grandmother and my aunt, I’m all there is,” said Joe, but he said it with a frown. It was none of this old man’s business.

  If Mr. Boulderwall noticed Joe’s discomfort, he brushed it aside. “So, what you’re saying is, you’re more or less an orphan. Right? Except for your aunt?”

  “She’s not exactly my aunt,” Joe mumbled. “She’s just a cousin or something.”

  “She’s a really nice person,” Beatrice put in. “She’s a teacher now, but she used to work for my father at Sope Electric.”

  “Aha! Your father runs Sope Electric?” said Mr. Boulderwall, glancing at Beatrice.

  “Yes,” she said, and then: “Oh, excuse me, Mr. Boulderwall! We know who you are, of course, but you don’t know us. I’m Beatrice Sope. And this is Joe Casimir.”

  The old man paused. His eyes widened and he turned in his chair to get a better look at Joe. And then after a moment he said, “Your name is Casimir? How do you spell that?”