The sudden shrilling of the telephone woke Meg with a jolt of terror. Her heart began to thud, and she pushed out of bed, hardly aware of Ananda. Her feet half in and half out of her slippers, one arm shoved into her robe, she stumbled downstairs and into her parents’ bedroom, but they were not there, so she hurried on down to the kitchen.
Her father was on the phone, and she heard him saying, “Very well, Mrs. O’Keefe. One of us will be right over for you.”
It was not the president.
But Mrs. O’Keefe? In the middle of the night?
The twins, too, were in the doorway.
“What was that about?” Mrs. Murry asked.
“As you gathered, it was Mrs. O’Keefe.”
“At this time of night!” Sandy exclaimed.
“She’s never called us before,” Dennys said, “at any time.”
Meg breathed a sigh of relief. “At least it wasn’t the president. What did she want?”
“She said she’s found something she wants me to see, and ordered me to go for her at once.”
“I’ll go,” Sandy said. “You can’t leave the phone, Dad.”
“You’ve got the weirdest mother-in-law in the world,” Dennys told Meg.
Mrs. Murry opened the oven door and the fragrance of hot bread wafted out. “How about some bread and butter?”
“Meg, put your bathrobe on properly,” Dennys ordered.
“Yes, doc.” She put her left arm into the sleeve and tied the belt. If she stayed in the kitchen with the family, then time would pass with its normal inevitability. The kythe which had been broken by the jangling of the telephone was lost somewhere in her unconscious mind. She hated alarm clocks, because they woke her so abruptly out of sleep that she forgot her dreams.
In the kything was something to do with Mrs. O’Keefe. But what? She searched her mind. Fireflies. Something to do with fireflies. And a girl and a boy, and the smell of fear. She shook her head.
“What’s the matter, Meg?” her mother asked.
“Nothing. I’m trying to remember something.”
“Sit down. A warm drink won’t hurt you.”
It was important that she see Mrs. O’Keefe, but she couldn’t remember why, because the kythe was gone.
“I’ll be right back,” Sandy assured them, and went out the pantry door.
“What on earth …” Dennys said. “Mrs. O’Keefe is beyond me. I’m glad I’m not going in for psychiatry.”
Their mother set a plateful of fragrant bread on the table, then turned to put the kettle on. “Look!”
Meg followed her gaze. Coming into the kitchen were the kitten and Ananda, single file, the kitten with its tail straight up in the air, mincing along as though leading the big dog, whose massive tail was wagging wildly. They all laughed, and the laughter froze as the two creatures came past the table with the telephone. Twice since the president’s call the phone had rung, first Calvin, then his mother. When would it ring again, and who would call?
It surprised Meg that the warm bread tasted marvelous, and the tea warmed her, and she was able, at least for the moment, to relax. Ananda whined beseechingly, and Meg gave her a small piece of toast.
Outside came the sound of a car, the slamming of a door, and then Sandy came in with Mrs. O’Keefe. The old woman had cobwebs in her hair, and smudges of dirt on her face. In her hand she held some scraps of paper.
“Something in me told me to go to the attic,” she announced triumphantly. “That name—Mad Dog Branzillo—it rang a bell in me.”
Meg looked at her mother-in-law and suddenly the kythe flooded back. “Beezie!” She cried.
Mrs. O’Keefe lunged toward her as though to strike her. “What’s that?”
Meg caught the old woman’s hands. “Beezie, Mom. You used to be called Beezie.”
“How’d you know?” the old woman demanded fiercely. “You couldn’t know! Nobody’s called me Beezie since Chuck.”
Tears filled Meg’s eyes. “Oh, Beezie, Beezie, I’m so sorry.”
The family looked at her in astonishment. Mr. Murry asked, “What is this, Meg?”
Still holding her mother-in-law’s hands, Meg replied, “Mrs. O’Keefe used to be called Beezie when she was a girl. Didn’t you, Mom?”
“It’s best forgotten,” the old woman said heavily.
“And you called Charles Wallace Chuck,” Meg persisted, “and Chuck was your little brother and you loved him very much.”
“I want to sit down,” Mrs. O’Keefe said. “Leave the past be. I want to show you something.” She handed a yellowed envelope to Mr. Murry. “Look at that.”
Mr. Murry pushed his glasses up his nose. “It’s a letter from a Bran Maddox in Vespugia to a Matthew Maddox right here.”
The twins looked at each other. Sandy said, “We were just talking about Matthew Maddox tonight when we were looking something up for Meg. He was a nineteenth-century novelist. Is there a date on the letter?”
Mr. Murry carefully drew a yellowed sheet of paper from the old envelope. “November 1865.”
“So the Matthew Maddox could be the one whose book Dennys studied in college!”
“Let Father read the letter,” Dennys stopped his twin.
My beloved brother, Matthew, greetings, on this warm November day in Vespugia. Is there snow at home? I am settling in well with the group from Wales, and feel that I have known most of them all our lives. What an adventure this is, to start a colony in this arid country where the children can be taught Welsh in school, and where we can sing together as we work.
The strangest thing of all is that our family legend was here to meet me. Papa and Dr. Llawcae will be wild with excitement. We grew up on the legend of Madoc leaving Wales and coming to the New World, the way other children grew up on George Washington and the cherry tree. Believe it or not—but I know you’ll believe it, because it’s absolutely true—there is an Indian here with blue eyes who says he is descended from a Welsh prince who came to America long before any other white men. He does not know how his forebears got to South America, but he swears that his mother sang songs to him about being the blue-eyed descendant of a Welsh prince. He is called Gedder, though that is not his real name. His mother died when he and his sister were small, and they were brought up by an English sheep rancher who couldn’t pronounce his Welsh name, and called him Gedder. And his sister’s name—that is perhaps the most amazing of all: Zillie. She does not have the blue eyes, but she is quite beautiful, with very fine features, and shining straight black hair, which she wears in a long braid. She reminds me of my beloved Zillah.
Gedder has been extraordinarily helpful in many ways, though he has a good deal of arrogance and a tendency to want to be the leader which has already caused trouble in this community where no man is expected to set himself above his brothers.
But how wonderful that the old legend should be here to greet me! As for our sister Gwen, she shrugs and says, “What difference does a silly old story make?” She is determined not to like it here, though she’s obviously pleased when all the young men follow her around.
Has Dr. Llawcae decided to let Zillah come and join me in the spring? The other women would welcome her, and she would be a touch of home for Gwen. I’m happy here, Matthew, and I know that Zillah would be happy with me, as my wife and life’s companion. Women are not looked down on here—Gwen has to admit that much. Perhaps you could come, and bring Zillah with you? The community is settled enough so that I think we could take care of you, and this dry climate would be better for you than the dampness at home. Please come, I need you both.
Your affectionate brother,
Bran
Mr. Murry stopped. “It’s very interesting, Mrs. O’Keefe, but why is it so important for me to see it?”—that you called in the middle of the night, he seemed to be adding silently.
“Don’t you see?”
“No, sorry.”
“Thought you was supposed to be so brilliant.”
Mrs. Murry said, “The letter was mailed from Vespugia. That’s strange enough, that you should have a letter which was mailed from Vespugia.”
“Right,” the old woman said triumphantly.
Mr. Murry asked, “Where did you find this letter, Mrs. O’Keefe?”
“Told you. In the attic.”
“And your maiden name was Maddox.” Meg smiled at the old woman. “So they were forebears of yours, this Bran Maddox, and his brother, Matthew, and his sister, Gwen.”
She nodded. “Yes, and likely his girlfriend, Zillah, too. Maddoxes and Llawcaes in my family all the way back.”
Dennys looked at his sister’s mother-in-law with new respect. “Sandy was looking up about Vespugia tonight, and he told us about a Welsh colony in Vespugia in 1865. So one of your ancestors went to join it?”
“Looks like it, don’t it? And that Branzillo, he’s from Vespugia.”
Mr. Murry said, “It’s a remarkable coincidence—” He stopped as his wife glanced at him. “I still don’t see how it can have any connection with Branzillo, or what it would mean if it did.”
“Don’t you?” Mrs. O’Keefe demanded.
“Please tell us,” Mrs. Murry suggested gently.
“The names. Bran. Zillah. Zillie. Put them together and they aren’t far from Branzillo.”
Mrs. Murry looked at her with surprised admiration. “How amazing!”
Mr. Murry asked, “Are there other letters?”
“Were. Once.”
“Where are they?”
“Gone. Went to look. Began thinking about this Branzillo when I went home. Remembered Chuck and me—”
“Chuck and you what, Mom?” Meg probed.
Mrs. O’Keefe pushed her cobwebby hair away from her eyes. “We used to read the letters. Made up stories about Bran and Zillah and all. Played games of Let’s Pretend. Then, when Chuck—didn’t have the heart for Let’s Pretend any more, forgot it all. Made myself forget. But that name, Branzillo, struck me. Bran. Zillah. Peculiar.”
Mr. Murry looked bemusedly at the yellowed paper. “Peculiar, indeed.”
“Where’s your little boy?” Mrs. O’Keefe demanded.
Mr. Murry looked at his watch. “He went for a walk.”
“When?”
“About an hour ago.”
“In the middle of the night, and at his age?”
“He’s fifteen.”
“No. Twelve. Chuck was twelve.”
“Charles Wallace is fifteen, Mrs. O’Keefe.”
“A runt, then.”
“Give him time.”
“And you don’t take care of him. Chuck needs special care. And people criticize me for not taking care of my kids!”
Dennys, too, looked at his watch. “Want me to go after him, Dad?”
Mr. Murry shook his head. “No. I think we have to trust Charles Wallace tonight. Mrs. O’Keefe, you’ll stay awhile?”
“Yes. Need to see Chuck.”
Meg said, “Please excuse me, everybody. I want to go back to bed.” She tried to keep the urgency from her voice. She felt a panicky need to get back to the attic with Ananda. “Chuck was twelve,” Mrs. O’Keefe had said. Chuck was twelve when what? Anything that happened to Chuck was happening to Charles Wallace.
Mrs. Murry suggested, “Would you like to take a cup of tea with you?”
“No, thanks, I’m fine. Someone call me when Charles gets in?”
Ananda followed her upstairs, contentedly licking her lips for the last buttery crumbs.
The attic felt cold and she got quickly into bed and wrapped the quilt around herself and the dog.—Charles Wallace wanted me to find a connection between Wales and Vespugia, and Dennys found one in his reference books. But it’s a much closer connection than that. The letter Mrs. O’Keefe brought was from 1865, and from Vespugia, so the connection is as close as her attic.
Despite the warm glow of the electric heater, she shivered.
—Those people in the letter must be important, she thought,—and the Bran who wrote the letter, and his sister Gwen. Certainly the name Zillie must have some connection with Madoc’s Zyll, and Ritchie Llawcae’s Zylle, who was nearly burned for witchcraft.
—And then, the Matthew he wrote to must be the Matthew Maddox who wrote the books. There’s something in that second book that matters, and the Echthroi don’t want us to know about it. It’s all interconnected, and we still don’t know what the connections mean.
—And what happened to Beezie, that she should end up as Mom O’Keefe? Oh, Ananda, Ananda, whatever happened?
She lay back against the pillows and rubbed her hand slowly back and forth over the dog’s soft fur, until the tingling warmth moved up her arm and all through her.
“But why Pa?” Beezie demanded over and over again. “Why did Pa have to die?”
“There’s never an answer to that question, my Beezie,” the grandmother replied patiently. “It’s not a question to be asking.”
“But I do ask it!”
The grandmother looked tired, and old. Chuck had never before thought of her as old, as being any age at all. She was simply Grandma, always there for them. Now she asked, not the children, but the heavens, “And why my Patrick, and him even younger than your father. Why anything?” A tear slid down her cheek, and Beezie and Chuck put their arms around her to comfort her.
Mrs. Maddox went over the ledgers so patiently kept up to date by her husband. The more she looked, the more slowly her hands turned the pages. “I knew it was bad, but I didn’t know it was this bad. I should have realized when he sold Matthew Maddox’s book …”
Chuck crawled up into the dark storage spaces under the eaves, looking for treasure. He found a bottle full of pennies, but no gold or jewels to give his mother. He found an old Encyclopaedia Britannica, the pages yellow, the bindings cracked, but still useful. He found a set of china wrapped in old newspapers dated long before he and Beezie were born, which he hoped they might be able to sell. He found a strongbox, locked.
He brought his findings to the living room. His mother was in the store, but Beezie and the grandmother were there, doing the week’s baking.
“The pennies are old. They may be worth something. The china’s good. It may pay for our fuel for a month or so. What’s in the box?”
“There isn’t a key. I’m going to break it.” He took hammer and screwdriver and wrench, and the old lock gave way and he was able to lift the lid. In the box was a sheaf of letters and a large notebook with a crumbling blue leather binding. He opened the book to the first page, and there was a watercolor sketch, faded only slightly, of the spring countryside.
“Grandma! It’s our rock, our picnic rock!”
The old woman clucked. “And so it is.”
The rock was shaded in soft blues and lavenders merging into grey. Behind it the trees were lush with spring green. Above it flew a flock of butterflies, the soft blues of the spring azures complemented by the gold and black of the tiger swallowtails. Around the rock were the familiar spring flowers, dappling the grass like the background of a tapestry.
Chuck exclaimed in delight, “Oh, Beezie, oh, Grandma!” Reverently he turned the page. In beautiful script was written, Madrun, 1864, Zillah Llawcae.
The grandmother wiped her floury hands carefully and put on her spectacles, bending over the book. Together they read the first page.
Madrun.
Past ten o’clock. Through my bedroom window I can look down the hill to the Maddoxes’ house. Mr. and Mrs. Maddox will be asleep. They get up at five in the morning. Gwen Maddox—who knows? Gwen has always considered herself a grownup and me a child, though we’re separated by only two years.
The twins, my dear twins, Bran and Matthew. Are they awake? When Bran lied about his age, so afraid was he he’d miss the war, and went to join the cavalry, I feared he might be killed in battle. When I dreamed of his homecoming, as I did each night when I looked at his diamond on my finger and prayed for his safety, I never thought it could be like this, with Bran withdrawn and refusing to communicate with anyone, even his twin. If I try to speak to him about our marriage, he cuts me short, or turns away without a word. Matthew says there have been others who have suffered this sickness of spirit because of the horrors of war.
I am, and have been for nearly seventeen years, Zillah Llawcae. Will I ever be Zillah Maddox?
They continued to turn the pages, more quickly now, not pausing to read the journal entries, but looking at the delicate paintings of birds and butterflies, flowers and trees, squirrels and wood mice and tree toads, all meticulously observed and accurately reproduced.
A shiver ran up and down Chuck’s spine. “Pa’s mother was a Llawcae. This Zillah could be one of our ancestors … and she was alive when she painted all this, and it’s just the way it is now, just exactly the same.”
He turned another page; his eye was caught, and he read:
This is my seventeenth birthday, and a sorry one it has been, though Father and I were invited to the Maddoxes’ for dinner. But Bran was there and yet he wasn’t there. He sat at the table, but he hardly ate the delicious dishes which had been especially prepared, to tempt him as much as in honor of me, and if anyone asked him a question he answered in monosyllables.
He turned the page and paused again.
Matthew says Bran almost had a conversation with him last night, and he is hopeful that the ghastly war wounds of his mind and spirit are beginning to heal. I wear his ring with its circle of hope, and I will not give up hoping. What would I do without Matthew’s friendship to comfort and sustain me? Had it not been for Matthew’s accident, I wonder which twin would have asked for my hand? A question better not raised, since I love them both so tenderly.
The grandmother took the top letter from the packet. “It’s from Bran Maddox, the one Zillah’s talking about, but it’s from some foreign place, Vespugia? Now where would that be?”
“It’s part of what used to be Patagonia.”
“Pata—?”
“In South America.”
“Oh, then.” She drew the letter out of its envelope.
My beloved brother, Matthew, greetings, on this warm November day in Vespugia. It there snow at home? I am settling in well with the group from Wales, and feel that I have known most of them all our lives …
When she finished reading the letter, she said, “Your poor pa would have been thrilled at all this.”
Chuck, nodding, continued to turn the pages, reading a line here and there. As well as the nature pictures, the young Zillah Llawcae had many sketches of people, some in ink, some in watercolor. There was an ink drawing of a tall man in a stovepipe hat, carrying a black bag and looking not unlike Lincoln, standing by a horse and buggy. Underneath was written, “Father, about to drive off to deliver a baby.”
There were many sketches of a young man, just beyond boyhood, with fair hair, a clear, beardless complexion, and wide-apart, far-seeing eyes. These were labeled, “My beloved Bran,” “My dearest Bran,” “My heart’s love.” And there were sketches of someone who looked like Bran and yet not like Bran, for the face was etched with lines of pain. “My dear Matthew,” Zillah had written.
“It’s so beautiful,” Beezie said. “I wish I could paint like that.”
But the old woman’s thoughts had shifted to practicality. “I wonder, would this notebook bring a few dollars?”
“Grandma, you wouldn’t sell it!” Chuck was horrified.
“We need money, lad, if we’re to keep a roof over our heads. Your ma’ll sell anything she can sell.”
The antiques dealer who bought the pennies and the set of china for what seemed to Chuck and Beezie a staggering sum was not interested in Zillah’s notebook.
Mrs. Maddox looked at it sadly. “I know it’s worth something. Your father would know where I should take it. If only I could remember the name of the person who bought Matthew Maddox’s book.”
But Chuck could not feel it in his heart to wish the beautiful journal sold. His grandmother took an old linen pillowcase and made a cover to protect the crumbling leather binding, and on it Beezie embroidered two butterflies, in blue and gold. She was as entranced with the journal as was Chuck.
They shared the notebook and the letters with the grandmother, reading aloud to her while she did the ironing or mending, until they had her as involved as they were. The present was so bleak that all three found relief in living the long past.
Beezie and Chuck looked at the old foundation behind the store. “That’s where the Maddoxes’ house must have been. They didn’t live above the store, the way we do.”
“Our apartment was all part of the store.”
“I wonder what happened to the house?”
“We’ll never know,” Beezie said drearily.
“I tried to check one of Matthew Maddox’s books out of the library,” Chuck said. “But the librarian said they haven’t been around in a long time. She thinks somebody must have lifted them. But I did get some books on Vespugia. Let’s go upstairs and look at them.”
They compared the photographs in the books with the watercolors in the final pages of the journal, where Zillah had tried to reproduce in ink and paint what Bran had described in his letters. Zillah’s painting of vast plains rising terrace-fashion up to the foot of the Andes gave them a feeling of a world so different it might have been another planet.
Beezie had turned back to Zillah’s notebook, to a painting of a tall and handsome Indian, with strange blue eyes set rather too close to his aquiline nose. The caption read: “This is how I think Gedder must look, the Indian who Bran writes is descended from Madoc’s brother.”
Chuck reached for one of Bran’s letters and read:
I wish I was more drawn to Gedder, who is so obviously drawn to Gwen. I feel an ingrate when I think of all he has done for us. Building is completely different in Vespugian weather than at home—or in Wales, and I shudder to think what kind of houses we might have built had Gedder not shown us how to construct dwellings to let the wind in, rather than to keep it out. And he showed us what crops to plant, hardy things like cabbage and carrots, and how to make windbreaks for them. All the Indians have helped us, but Gedder more than the others, and more visibly. But he never laughs.
“I don’t trust people who don’t laugh.” He put the letter down.
Beezie got a baby-sitting job that began right after school, so Chuck took her place at the cash register, pretending that he was Matthew Maddox and that the store was big and flourishing. The grandmother took in ironing and sewing, and her old hands were constantly busy. There was no time for leisurely cups of tea and the telling of tales. Chuck moved more and more deeply into his games of Let’s Pretend. Matthew and Zillah, Bran and Gwen, Gedder and Zillie, all were more alive for him than anyone except Beezie and the grandmother.
One evening Mrs. Maddox stayed late downstairs in the store. When Chuck came home from chopping wood for one of their neighbors, he found Beezie and his grandmother drinking herb tea. “Grandma, I’m hungry.” He could feel his belly growling. Supper had been soup and dry toast.
Seeming to ignore his words, the old woman looked at him. “Duthbert Mortmain’s been calling on your ma. He’s downstairs now.”
“I don’t like him,” Beezie said.
“You may have to,” the grandmother told her.
“Why?” Chuck asked. He remembered Duthbert Mortmain as a lumbering, scowling man who did small plumbing jobs. How did he smell? Not a pleasant smell. Hard, like a lump of coal.
“He’s offered to marry your ma and take over the store.”
“But Pa—”
“The funeral baked meats are long cold. Duthbert Mortmain’s got a shrewd business head, and no one’s bought the store, nor likely to. Your ma’s not got much choice. And for all her hard work and heavy heart, she’s still a pretty woman. Not surprising Duthbert Mortmain should fall for her.”
“But she’s our mother,” Beezie protested.
“Not to Duthbert Mortmain. To him she’s a desirable woman. And to your mother, he’s a way out.”
“Out of what?” Chuck asked.
“Your mother’s about to lose the store and the roof over our heads. Another few weeks and we’ll be out on the street.”
Chuck’s face lit up. “We could go to Vespugia!”
“Going anywhere takes money, Chuck, and money’s what we don’t have. You and Beezie’d be put in foster homes, and as to your ma and me …”
“Grandma!” Beezie clutched the old woman’s sleeve. “You don’t want Ma to marry him, do you?”
“I don’t know what I want. I’d like to know that she was taken care of, and you and Chuck, before I die.”
Beezie flung her arms about the old woman. “You’re not going to die, Grandma, not ever!”
Chuck’s nostrils twitched slightly. The scent of dandelion spore was strong.
The old woman untangled herself. “You’ve seen how death takes the ready and unready, my Beezie. Except for my concern about your future, and your mother’s, I’m ready to go home. It’s been a long time I’ve been separated from my Patrick. He’s waiting for me. The last few days I’ve kept looking over my shoulder, expecting to see him.”
“Grandma”—Beezie pushed her fingers through her curls—“Ma doesn’t love Duthbert Mortmain. She can’t! I hate him!”
“Hate hurts the hater more’n the hated.”
“Didn’t Branwen?”
“Branwen hated not. Branwen loved, and was betrayed, and cried the rune for help, and not for hate or revenge. And the sun melted the white snow so that she could sleep warm at night, and the fire in her little stove did not burn out but flickered merrily to keep her toasty, and the lightning carried her message to her brother, Bran, and her Irish king fled to his ship and the wind blew him across the sea and his ship sank in its depths and Bran came to his sister Branwen and blessed the stark earth so that it turned green and flowering once more.”
Beezie asked, “Did she ever love anybody again, after the Irish king?”
“I’ve forgotten,” the old woman said.
“Grandma! Why don’t we use the rune? Then maybe Ma won’t have to marry Duthbert Mortmain.”
“The rune is not to be used lightly.”
“This wouldn’t be lightly.”
“I don’t know, my Beezie. Patterns have to be worked out, and only the very brash tamper with them. The rune is only for the most dire emergency.”
“Isn’t this an emergency?”
“Perhaps not the right one.” The old woman closed her eyes and rocked back and forth in silence, and when she spoke it was in a rhythmic singsong, much as when she intoned the words of the rune. “You will use the rune, my lamb, you will use the rune, but not before the time is ripe.” She opened her eyes and fixed Beezie with a piercing gaze which seemed to go right through her.
“But how will I know when the time is ripe? Why isn’t it ripe now?”
The old woman shook her head and closed her eyes and rocked again. “This moment is not the moment. The night is coming and the clouds are gathering. We can do nothing before they are all assembled. When the time is ripe, Chuck will let you know. From the other side of darkness, Chuck will let you know, will let you know, will let …” Her words trailed off, and she opened her eyes and spoke in her natural voice. “To bed with both of you. It’s late.”
“Horrid old Duthbert Mortmain,” Beezie said to Chuck one fine summer’s day. “I won’t call him Pa.”
“Nor I.”
Duthbert Mortmain seemed quite content to have them call him Mr. Mortmain.
He ran the store with stern efficiency. With their mother he was gentle, occasionally caressing her soft hair. People remarked on how he doted on her.
A sign over the cash register read NO CREDIT. Beezie and Chuck helped out in the afternoons and on Saturdays as usual. And their mother still did not smile, not even when Duthbert Mortmain brought her a box of chocolates tied with a lavender ribbon.
She no longer smelled of fear, Chuck thought, but neither did she smell of the blue sky of early morning. Now it was the evening sky, with a thin covering of cloud dimming the blue.
Duthbert Mortmain saved his pleasantries for the customers. He laughed and made jokes and gave every appearance of being a hearty, kindly fellow. But upstairs in the evenings his face was sour.
“Don’t be noisy, children,” their mother warned. “Your—my husband is tired.”
Beezie whispered to Chuck, “Pa was tired, too, but he liked to hear us laugh.”
“We were his own children,” Chuck replied. “We don’t belong to Duthbert Mortmain, and he doesn’t like what doesn’t belong to him.”
Duthbert Mortmain did not show his vicious temper until the following spring. There was never a sign of it in the store, even with the most difficult customers or salesmen, but upstairs he began to let it have its way. One morning his wife (“I hate it when people call her Mrs. Mortmain!” Beezie exploded) came to breakfast with a black eye, explaining that she had bumped into a door in the dark. The grandmother, Beezie, and Chuck looked at her, but said nothing.
And it became very clear that Duthbert Mortmain did not like children, even when they were quiet. Whenever Chuck did anything which displeased his stepfather, which was at least once a day, Mortmain boxed his ears, so that at last they rang constantly.
When Beezie sat at the cash register, her stepfather pinched her arm every time he passed, as though in affection. But her arms were so full of black and blue marks that she kept her sweater on all the time to hide the bruises.
One day at recess in the schoolyard, Chuck saw Paddy O’Keefe come up to Beezie, and hurried over to them to hear Paddy asking, “Old Mortmain after you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No. I don’t.” But she shivered.
Chuck intervened, “You leave my sister alone.”
“Better tell old Mortmain to leave her alone, runt. You ever need any help, Beezie, you just let me know. Li’l ole Paddy’ll take care of you.”
That night Duthbert Mortmain’s temper flared totally out of control.
They had finished the evening meal, and when Beezie was clearing the table, her stepfather reached out and pinched her bottom, and Chuck saw the look of cold hatred she turned on him.
“Duthbert—” their mother protested.
“Duthbert Mortmain, take care.” The grandmother gave him a long, level gaze. She spoke not another word, but warning was clear in her eyes. She put cups and glasses on a tray, and started for the sink.
Mortmain, too, left the table, and as the old woman neared the stairway he raised his arm to strike her.
“No!” Beezie screamed.
Chuck thrust himself between his grandmother and stepfather and took the full force of Mortmain’s blow.
Again Beezie screamed, as Chuck fell, fell down the steep stairs in a shower of broken china and glass. Then she rushed after him.
Chuck lay in a distorted position at the foot of the stairs, looking up at her with eyes that did not see. “Gedder pushed me. He pushed me. Don’t let him marry Gwen. Zillah, don’t let Gedder, don’t let …”