The Thief of Always Read online

  “Step inside,” Mrs. Griffin said, brushing a spider-hair back from her furrowed brow.

  But Harvey still hesitated, and he might have turned around and never stepped inside the House except that he heard a boy’s voice yelling:

  “I got ya! I got ya!” followed by uproarious laughter.

  “Wendell!” Mrs. Griffin said. “Are you chasing the cats again?”

  The sound of laughter grew even louder, and it was so full of good humor that Harvey stepped over the threshold and into the House just so that he could see the face of its owner.

  He only got a brief look. A goofy, bespectacled face appeared for a moment at the other end of the hallway. Then a piebald cat dashed between the boy’s legs and he was off after it, yelling and laughing again.

  “He’s such a crazy boy,” Mrs. Griffin said, “but all the cats love him!”

  The House was more wonderful inside than out. Even on the short journey to the kitchen Harvey glimpsed enough to know that this was a place built for games, chases and adventures. It was a maze in which no two doors were alike. It was a treasurehouse where some notorious pirate had hidden his blood-stained booty. It was a resting place for carpets flown by djinns, and boxes sealed before the Flood, where the eggs of beasts that the earth had lost were wrapped and waiting for the sun’s heat to hatch them.

  “It’s perfect!” Harvey murmured to himself.

  Mrs. Griffin caught his words. “Nothing’s perfect,” she replied.

  “Why not?”

  “Because time passes,” she went on, staring down at the flowers she’d cut. “And the beetle and the worm find their way into everything sooner or later.”

  Hearing this, Harvey wondered what grief it was Mrs. Griffin had known or seen to make her so mournful.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, covering her melancholy with a tiny smile. “You didn’t come here to listen to my dirges. You came to enjoy yourself, didn’t you?”

  “I guess I did,” Harvey said.

  “So let me tempt you with some treats.”

  Harvey sat himself down at the kitchen table, and within sixty seconds Mrs. Griffin had set a dozen plates of food in front of him: hamburgers, hot dogs and fried chicken; mounds of buttered potatoes; apple, cherry and mud pies, ice cream and whipped cream; grapes, tangerines and a plate of fruits he couldn’t even name.

  He set to eating with gusto, and was devouring his second slice of pie when a freckled girl with long, frizzy blond hair and huge, blue-green eyes ambled in.

  “You must be Harvey,” she said.

  “How did you know?”

  “Wendell told me.”

  “How did he know?”

  She shrugged. “He just heard. I’m Lulu, by the way.”

  “Did you just arrive?”

  “No. I’ve been here for ages. Longer than Wendell. But not as long as Mrs. Griffin. Nobody’s been here as long as she has. Isn’t that right?”

  “Almost,” said Mrs. Griffin, a little mysteriously. “Do you want something to eat, sweetie?”

  Lulu shook her head. “No thanks. I haven’t got much of an appetite at the moment.”

  She nevertheless sat down opposite Harvey, stuck her thumb in the mud pie, and licked it clean.

  “Who invited you here?” she asked.

  “A guy called Rictus.”

  “Oh yeah. The one with the grin?”

  “That’s him.”

  “He’s got a sister and two brothers,” she went on.

  “You’ve met them then?”

  “Not all of them,” Lulu admitted. “They keep themselves to themselves. But you’ll meet one or two of them sooner or later.”

  “I… don’t think I’ll be staying,” Harvey said. “I mean my mom and dad don’t even know I’m here.”

  “Sure they do,” Lulu replied. “They just didn’t tell you about it.” This confused Harvey, and he said so. “Call your mom and dad,” Lulu suggested. “Ask ‘em.”

  “Can I do that?” he wondered.

  “Of course you can,” Mrs. Griffin replied. “The phone’s in the hallway.”

  Carrying a spoonful of ice cream with him, Harvey went to the phone and dialed. At first there was a whining sound on the line, as though a wind were in the wires. Then, as it cleared, he heard his mom say: “Who is this?”

  “Before you start yelling—” he began.

  “Oh, honey,” his mom cooed. “Did you arrive?”

  “Arrive?”

  “You are at the Holiday House, I hope.”

  “Yes, I am. But—”

  “Oh, good. I was worried maybe you’d lost your way. Do you like it there?”

  “You knew I was coming?” Harvey said, catching Lulu’s eye.

  I told you, she mouthed.

  “Of course we knew,” his mom went on. “We invited Mr. Rictus to show you the place. You looked so sad, you poor lamb. We thought you needed a little fun.”

  “Really?” said Harvey, astonished by this turn of events.

  “We just want you to enjoy yourself,” his mom went on. “So you stay just as long as you want.”

  “What about school?” he said.

  “You deserve a little time off,” came the reply. “Don’t you worry about anything. Just have a good time.”

  “I will, Mom.”

  “’Bye, honey.”

  “Bye.”

  Harvey came away from the conversation shaking his head in amazement.

  “You were right,” he said to Lulu. “They arranged everything.”

  “So now you don’t have to feel guilty,” said Lulu. “Well, I guess I’ll see you around later, huh?”

  And with that she ambled away.

  “If you’re finished eating,” Mrs. Griffin said, “I’ll show you to your room.”

  “I’d like that.”

  She duly led Harvey up the stairs. At the landing, basking on the sun-drenched windowsill, was a cat with fur the color of the cloudless sky.

  “That’s Blue-Cat,” Mrs. Griffin said. “You saw Stew-Cat playing with Wendell. I don’t know where Clue-Cat is, but he’ll find you. He likes new guests.”

  “Do you have a lot of people coming here?”

  “Only children. Very special children like you and Lulu and Wendell. Mr. Hood won’t have just anybody.”

  “Who’s Mr. Hood?”

  “The man who built the Holiday House,” Mrs. Griffin replied.

  “Will I meet him too?”

  Mrs. Griffin looked discomfited by the question. “Maybe,” she said, her gaze averted. “But he’s a very private man.”

  They were up on the landing by now, and Mrs. Griffin led Harvey pasta row of painted portraits to a room at the back of the House. It overlooked an orchard, and the warm air carried the smell of ripe apples into tile room.

  “You look tired, my sweet,” Mrs. Griffin said. “Maybe you should lie down for a little while”

  Harvey usually hated to sleep in the afternoon; it reminded him too much of having the flu, or the measles. But the pillow looked very cool and comfortable, and when Mrs. Griffin had taken her leave he decided to lie down, just for a few minutes.

  Either he was more tired than he’d thought, or the calm and comfort of the House rocked him into a slumber. Whichever, his eyes closed almost as soon as he put his head on the pillow, and they did not open again until morning.

  IV. A Death between Seasons

  The sun came to wake him soon after dawn—a straight white dart of light, laid on his lids. He sat up with a start, wondering for a moment what bed this was, what room, what house. Then his memories of the previous day returned, and he realized that he’d slept through from late afternoon to early morning. The rest had strengthened him. He felt energetic, and with a whoop of pleasure he jumped out of bed and got dressed.

  The House was more welcoming than ever today, the flowers Mrs. Griffin had set on every table and sill singing with color. The front door stood open, and sliding down the gleaming banisters Harvey raced out
onto the porch to inspect the morning.

  A surprise awaited him. The trees which had been heavy with leaves the previous afternoon had shed their canopies. There were new, tiny buds on every branch and twig, as though this were the first day of spring.

  “Another day, another dollar,” said Wendell, ambling around the corner of the House.

  “What does that mean?” said Harvey.

  “It’s what my father used to say all the time. Another day, another dollar. He’s a banker, my dad, Wendell Hamilton the Second. And me, I’m—”

  “Wendell Hamilton the Third.”

  “How’d ya know?”

  “Lucky guess. I’m Harvey.”

  “Yeah, I know. D’ya like tree houses?”

  “I never had one”

  Wendell pointed up at the tallest tree. There was a platform perched up among the branches, with a rudimentary house built upon it.

  “I’ve been working up there for weeks,” said Wendell, “but I can’t get it finished alone. Ya want to help me?”

  “Sure. But I’ve got to eat something first.”

  “Go eat. I’ll be around.”

  Harvey headed back inside, and found Mrs. Griffin setting out a breakfast fit for a prince; There was milk spilt on the floor, and a cat with a tail hooked like a question mark lapping it up.

  “Clue-Cat?” he said.

  “Yes indeed,” Mrs. Griffin said fondly. “He’s the wicked one.”

  Clue-Cat looked up, as if he knew he was being talked about. Then he jumped up onto the table and searched among the plates of pancakes and waffles for something more to eat.

  “Can he do whatever he likes?” Harvey said, watching the cat sniff at this and that. “I mean, does nobody 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.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I’ll see you later then,” Harvey said, and headed out into the afternoon.

  V. The Prisoners

  The temperature had risen while Harvey had been at lunch. A heat-haze hovered over the lawn (which was lusher and more thick with flowers than he remembered) and it made the trees around the House shimmer.

  He headed toward them, calling Wendell’s name as he went. There was no reply. He glanced back toward the House, thinking he might see Wendell at one of the windows, but they were all reflecting the pristine blue. He looked from House to heavens. There was not a cloud in sight.

  And now a suspicion stole upon him, which grew into a certainty as his gaze wandered back to the shimmering copse and the flowers underfoot. During the hour he’d spent in the cool of the kitchen the season had changed. Summer had come to Mr. Hood’s Holiday House; a summer as magical as the spring that had preceded it.

  That was why the sky was so faultlessly blue, and the birds making such music. The leaf-laden branches were no less content; nor the blossoms in the grass, nor the bees that buzzed from bloom to bloom, gathering the season’s bounty. All were in bliss.