Falling into Place (8 page)

“You sent her mean letters about your dumb old rules.”

“But my dear young lady,” he said. “Those were
form
letters. We send them to all the new residents when they seem to be doing something in violation of our rules. Surely, your grandmother doesn't think they're
my
rules.

“Tell them, Rolly,” he said, turning to the bird and scratching its chest with his finger. “Tell them what a nice man I am.”

“Come in! Come in!” Rolly shrieked. He stretched up to his full length and ruffled his feathers, as if preparing for liftoff.

“Does he bite?” said Roy.

“Absolutely not,” said Mr. Whiting. “And neither do I. Rolly's right—come in. We need to clear this thing up.”

“No, thank you,” said Margaret. “We have to go.”

“Nonsense. Roy wants to see my goldfish pond and my Siamese fighting fish.” He looked at Roy and winked. “Don't you, Roy?”

“Oh, yes, please,” said Roy. He slipped eagerly into Mr. Whiting's hall before Margaret could stop him. “Siamese fighting fish are beautiful.”

“Roy,”
she said meaningfully, but it was no use. He was already trotting down the hall behind Mr. Whiting like an obedient puppy. Margaret could hear his high voice asking questions as they disappeared.

By the time she caught up with them, they were in a sunny, humid room filled with plants. There was a wicker birdcage in one corner, and a tall perch next to a raised pond in the middle of the room. The pond had a fountain at one end, and lily pads. Roy was leaning on the edge, peering eagerly into its depths.

“Look at that one—it's huge,” he said, pointing. “And that one.” He looked at Mr. Whiting. “Is the Siamese fighting fish in there, too?”

“Just a moment.” Mr. Whiting bent down so that his shoulder was on a level with the perch and said, “Rolly?”

Rolly gave another shocking squawk, stepped nimbly onto the perch, and immediately started preening his feathers with his beak.

“Ethel is over here,” said Mr. Whiting. From the edge of the pond he picked up a small bowl that had an iridescent blue fish floating inside. The fish had a huge, feathery tail like a fan, and fins that extended from one side of the bowl to the other.

“Is that where it lives?” said Margaret. “That bowl is much too small.”

“Ethel is a ‘she,' not an ‘it,'” said Mr. Whiting.

“There's no room for her to swim,” said Margaret stubbornly. “What does she do all day?”

“I don't know,” said Mr. Whiting. He looked thoughtful. “What does any fish do all day, except dart around?”

“Ethel couldn't dart if she wanted to,” said Margaret. “That looks like a horrible life.”

“She's perfectly happy, I assure you,” said Mr. Whiting, but he peered into the bowl with anxious eyes. “You are happy in there, aren't you, Ethel? That's my girl.”

It was funny to see a grown man talking to a fish in a voice like the one people use to talk to babies. In spite of herself, Margaret smiled.

“They come in other colors, don't they?” said Roy. “I saw one once that was red and green.”

“Each one is different,” said Mr. Whiting. He put the bowl back down on the edge of the pond. “Wait just a moment. I want to show you something.”

Roy turned to Margaret with a shining face when he left. “Isn't she beautiful?”

“How could you?” she said.

“What did I do?”

“We weren't even going to come in here, remember?” She turned her hot gaze to Ethel. “Look at her. How would you like to live like that?”

“But I think Mr. Whiting's right, Margaret,” said Roy. “I've seen lots of Siamese fighting fish in pet stores. They're always in small bowls like that.”

Margaret grabbed his arm. “When he comes back, we're leaving, do you hear me?”

“Bossy lady! Bossy lady!
Awwwwwwk!”
Rolly flapped his wings furiously and lifted awkwardly off his perch. Margaret and Roy jumped back as he hurtled through the air and landed on the edge of Ethel's bowl, tipping it over. Ethel shot out onto the edge of the pond and Rolly flew back up onto his perch, then sat there calmly craning his neck around to fuss with the feathers on his back as if nothing had happened.

Margaret and Roy were left with their mouths hanging open and water all over their feet, watching Ethel plastered to the edge of the pond, trying to breathe. The only part of her that was moving was her mouth.

It was opening and closing, opening and closing. “She's going to die like that,” Roy said frantically. “What should we do?”

“Get her back into the water, quick,” said Margaret. She darted a look over her shoulder. “Hurry! He's coming.”

“You do it. I'm afraid.”

Margaret bent down. With both hands cradled together, she flipped Ethel's body up off its deathbed into the life-preserving waters below. There was a furious roiling commotion as twenty massive goldfish raced to eat at the same time.

When Mr. Whiting came back into the room waving a book in the air, she and Roy were staring at the calm, empty surface of the pond.

“If you like Ethel, my boy,” he called, “wait until you see this!”

Roy took one look at the empty fishbowl lying on its side, then at Mr. Whiting coming toward them, and burst into tears.

“What's this?” said Mr. Whiting, stopping short. He looked from Roy, in tears, to the guilty expression on Margaret's face, to the bowl on the floor, and finally at Rolly. “Rolly,” he said in a stern voice, “look what you've done. You've upset our poor guests, just when we were starting to get along.”

He pulled a snowy white handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to Roy. “Please don't be upset, or you'll make me feel even worse.”

Margaret was still getting over the shock of Ethel. Now she looked at Mr. Whiting. “How did you know it was Rolly?” she said.

“I'm sorry to say that it's happened before,” he said. His eyes under his bushy brows were so sad, she immediately felt sorry for him. “And it's all my fault. I should simply stop buying them, but I can't.”

“What do you mean?” said Roy.

Mr. Whiting slowly picked up the bowl and put it back on the edge of the pond. He went and sat down on a chair, and patted the book in his lap. “Come take a look at this.”

They stood on either side of him as he opened it. It was a photograph album. The page Mr. Whiting had opened to was covered with photographs of fish.

Siamese fighting fish. In bowls. Each one was slightly different from the one next to it. The following page was filled with fish, too. And the one after that. Margaret stared at them in amazement. There must have been twenty pictures of Siamese fighting fish, each in its tiny bowl, suspended forever, side by side.

And under every photograph, in faint, spidery letters, someone had written the same name. Ethel.

“I started it when she was so sick, you see,” Mr. Whiting was saying. “She couldn't get out of bed, and she wanted something pretty to look at. One day when I was out buying her some flowers, I saw this one in a store window.” He flipped back to the first page and pointed to the first picture. “Ethel number one. My wife was delighted. I put it on her bedside table, and she watched it all the time. After Ethel died, I just couldn't seem to stop buying them.”

“Ethel the fish?” said Margaret.

“Ethel my wife.”

“Oh.” Margaret looked at him. “You named them all after your wife.”

“You must think I'm a silly old man,” he said. “You children are probably too young to understand what it's like to miss someone as much as I miss my wife.”

Margaret thought about her dad. “A person doesn't have to be dead for you to miss them,” she said.

“You're so right, Margaret.” He looked at her approvingly and a glimmer of his good humor came back into his eyes. “I can see that you're as wise as you are strict.”

“Gran misses Tad. She was used to being part of a couple, and I don't think she feels as if she fits in.” She was surprised at how right the words felt. “That's why she hasn't come to any of your meetings.”

“That's a pretty normal reaction,” Mr. Whiting said sympathetically. “A lot of people in Carol Woods have recently lost someone, I'm afraid. That's why many of them live in a retirement community. But most of us adjust. Don't you worry, Margaret,” he patted her hand. “I think your grandmother will recover. From what I've seen of all the rules she has broken, she's a feisty woman. When she feels better, I hope she joins the rest of us folks. We manage to have a pretty good time.”

“Is Rolly short for Roland?” Roy piped in.

It was just like Roy to bring up a totally different subject, but this time Margaret was glad. Her eyes were suddenly stinging with tears.

“Yes, isn't that silly? It's a good thing my wife and I got along better than the fish and the bird, wouldn't you say?” When Mr. Whiting laughed, so did Roy and Margaret. “I'm a sentimental old fool, that's what I am. It's been two years now. I think maybe the time has come for me to stop sacrificing poor, defenseless fish, don't you?”

“Maybe you could get another kind of pet and name it Ethel,” said Margaret. “Something Rolly can't kill.”

“A cat, perhaps?” said Mr. Whiting.

“How about a ferret?” said Roy. “They're nice pets.”

“Now,
there's
a picture for you.” Mr. Whiting slapped his knee. “I'll have to show you a photograph of my wife sometime, Roy. She was a rather big woman. Boy, if she saw a skinny, wiggly thing like a ferret running around with her name, she'd have a good laugh.”

He closed the book decisively. “No, the time has come. No more pets named Ethel. Now, can I offer you children a snack of some sort?”

“We'd better get home before Gran thinks you had us arrested,” said Roy.

“It's that bad, is it?” said Mr. Whiting, opening his front door.

“Gran's a lot like Margaret,” said Roy.

The expression on his face was so funny that Margaret had to laugh. Mr. Whiting laughed, too. “It's been kind of tough, being around the two of them, huh?” he said to Roy.

“You can say that again,” said Roy glumly.

“I think maybe their barks are worse than their bites most of the time, don't you?” said Mr. Whiting.

“Yeah, but their barks can be pretty bad,” said Roy. “Especially Margaret's.”

“Roy,” Margaret protested, but she didn't really mind. She was suddenly very happy. She had a bark, and she never even knew it. She growled at Roy all the way down the street.

“Are you going to tell Gran how nice he is?” said Roy, as they got near Gran's.

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“She won't believe me.” Margaret turned into Gran's yard. “I'm going to let her find out for herself.”

“How can she, if she keeps on hiding?”

“She can't hide at her own party.”

“You
invited
him?”

“When you were in the bathroom.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he looked forward to changing Gran's opinion of him.”

“Oh, brother,” said Roy.

“Am I really a lot like Gran?” she said, opening the front door.

Roy rolled his eyes and went in past her.

“How did it go?” Gran called. They found her in the kitchen, baking. The entire house smelled of gingerbread. “I was thinking of sending out the troops,” she said. “You were gone for a long time.”

“It didn't seem long,” said Roy. He slid into a chair.

“It seemed short,” said Margaret, sitting down across from him.

“He wasn't rude to you, was he?”

“Nope,” said Roy.

“Not at all,” said Margaret.

Gran looked from one to the other, suspicious. “Well, what was he like?” she said impatiently.

“You'll find out,” said Margaret. “At your party.”

“My party?” Gran said. “What party?”

Roy slid down in his chair until his eyes were level with the tabletop.

“The one you're having after we come back from karaoke at the Recreation Club tomorrow night,” Margaret said. She was suddenly unafraid, and it felt great. “We're all going to listen to Mrs. Nightingale sing first.”

“Tone-deaf Mrs. Nightingale,” Gran said.

“Right.”

Gran's eyes looked into hers. Neither of them said a word, they just stared. It was as if they were waging a silent battle. Finally, Gran said, “May I ask who's coming?”

Roy slid out of sight.

“Mrs. Tudley, Mrs. Nightingale, and Mr. Whiting,” said Margaret. “And Roy and me, of course.”

“Of course.”

For a minute, there wasn't a sound in the room. And then Gran spoke in a light voice, and Margaret knew she had won.

“Then I guess we'd better talk about food.”

In the end, it was Gran's idea to drive by Blackberry Lane. The minute Margaret woke up the next morning, she could feel that something had changed. The air was filled with a delicious smell. She sat bolt upright in her bed and sniffed. It was. It had to be.

“Gran!” she cried, bursting through the kitchen door. “Are you making blueberry pancakes from your secret recipe?”

Gran turned to smile at her from in front of the stove. “I thought that might rouse you,” she said. “Blueberry pancakes with the last of the Blackberry Lane blueberries, and a sprinkle of cinnamon.” They both laughed. “Set the table, would you, Margaret, and call Roy.”

They had had a very festive breakfast, at the end of which Gran had made her amazing suggestion. Now they were driving down the Post Road, halfway there.

“Look,” said Margaret. “Motley's still has the bubble-gum machine in the window!”