When the Phoenix Sings ~ 2
"Mouse, what are you doing?" Father looked up from his desk, frowning. The boy had darted in through the upper entrance of Father's study and was pulling himself into a narrow space between two cases on the balcony.
The young man peered down over the rail and put a finger to his lips, "Shhh." In a theatrical whisper he added, "Hiding."
"No, you are not. You come down here immediately."
"Can't. Paul and Freddie hunting...see Mouse down there."
Father sighed heavily, removing his reading glasses. "Mouse, it is admirable that you are entertaining the children, but you know very well this study is not a place to play."
Suddenly two small boys tumbled through the entrance behind Mouse. Without hesitation, they charged, tagging him and shouting simultaneously, "You're It!"
For a moment, Mouse wavered between pursuing the game and indulging Father. But then another glance at Father's scowling face convinced him that indulgence was the wiser path.
"Game over," he announced to his companions.
"Aw, Mouse. No fair."
With one more look at Father, Mouse pulled himself very straight and adopted the manner of his elders. "Father's study. Not a place to play. Game over." As an afterthought, he assured them, "Mouse not It."
"Yes, you are!"
Immediately losing his adult manner, Mouse lunged for the stairs, "Last one touches Father's chair... It!"
To the old man's dismay, all three of them charged down the spiral stairs, shoving and pushing, arriving at Father's side in an undefined tangle.
"Boys! Stop this at once." Father batted them away, snatching at the shawl which had slipped from his shoulders. "Mouse, take them up to the park to play."
"Can't. Mary says too cold. Might get sick."
Snorting at Mary's over-protective ideas, Father rearranged the shawl. "Of course, it's not too cold. The fresh air would be good for you."
But Mouse's attention was no longer on the game. He was looking instead at the things on the desk in front of Father. Several pieces of a broken blue and white bowl sat nearby, evidently awaiting repair.
But Father's immediate project involved several cleaning rags, a bottle of disinfectant, a small container of bleach, and some ink eradicator.
"What Father doing?" Mouse reached for the bleach.
"Nothing." Father slapped at his hand. "Put that down."
"Cleaning something." The blond hair shifted as he nodded. "Something dirty."
Father sighed heavily, "Mouse, take the boys outside to play."
Doggedly, the young man refused to be distracted. Picking up the book which lay at Father's hand, he asked, "This?" The book was quite old, very faded, and was showing severe signs of blackened mildew. It was slightly damp with disinfectant.
"Give it to me, Mouse."
"All black," Mouse traced the blackened area of the decaying paper. "Been in fire...burned."
"No," Father reclaimed the volume, "Not a fire...sometimes mold does that to paper."
Freddie leaned forward, "What're you doing, Father?"
"I have been attempting to remove the stains from Mr. Kipling's work." He wiped carefully at the cover.
"Why go to all the trouble?" asked Paul. "It's just an old book."
"Boys, this is definitely not just an old book." Father tenderly fingered the spine upon which was printed the title, "Captains Courageous". Opening the cover, he turned to the frontispiece and showed it to the boys.
Mouse reacted, "Uh-oh, somebody in bad trouble now." Indicating the page to the two younger boys, he shook his head, "Somebody wrote in Father's book." He quickly added, "Not Mouse."
"No, of course not." Father sat back caressing the book and savoring the memories it inspired. "This is a very special book, boys. It is a first edition belonging to Rudyard Kipling himself." His mind traveled back through the years to a faraway place, and to a small English boy who sat at his uncle's knee listening to wonderful stories about the boy's father...a father he could barely remember.
Paul came nearer, looking around Mouse's shoulder, reading the words written in a flowing Victorian hand.To Edward J. Wells,
With sincere appreciation and affection.
R. Kipling,
August 19, 1918.The boy pulled back in wonder. "Wow, Father. Was that really written in there by Mr. Kipling himself?"
The gray head nodded. "Really."
"How come?"
Closing the book, Father took it into his lap. When his voice came, it was strangely quiet. "This book was part of Mr. Kipling's personal library...until 1918." He looked at the children. "You see, boys. Mr. Kipling was a remarkable man. He traveled the world... Europe, India, Africa, he even lived for a few years in Vermont not too far from here." With a small sigh, he continued. "My father grew up reading his works and admiring him, but he never expected they would meet." Father paused, "Then came the war and my father went to fight, just as all the schoolboys did."
"Which war, Father?" Freddie interrupted.
"World War One, Freddie,...The war to end all wars." Father cleared his throat, and his voice became quieter still. "My father became close friends with a boy in his company...but it was not until his friend was killed that my father discovered exactly who the young man was."
"Who, Father?"
The aging gray eyes looked at the boys through a mist. "Mr. Kipling's only son." Father coughed lightly, pulling a cloth from his pocket. "My father wrote a letter to Mr. Kipling...telling him about his son, and sending his sympathy...sharing some of the things that boys share when they doubt they will ever go home again." Wiping the cloth once across his eyes, he continued, "Rudyard Kipling invited my father to his home and gave him this book...in gratitude for the letter." Father cleared his throat again, "It was my father's greatest treasure."
Quietly, Mouse mused, "Father's father..." He thought for a moment. "Where Father's father now?"
Father straightened, "He died a few years later. In an accident in London." Looking down at the book, he added, "I was very young. This is all I have left of him..." With a shake of his head, he murmured, "And I fear the dampness of the tunnels has taken its toll. It is beyond repair." His fingers traced the heavy stains.
Mouse peered at the book again. "Mouse fix. Mouse can fix anything."
In horror, Father clutched the volume possessively. "Absolutely not. This is not one of your mechanical doodads or gadgets." Tucking the book into a small wooden box, Father slipped it into the bottom drawer of his desk. Mouse hesitated, watching carefully, causing Father to caution him again. "You are not to touch it...Is that understood, Mouse?"
"Yeah, yeah." The boy nodded, refusing to meet Father's glare. Then as if the whole subject had become unworthy of his attention, he swatted Paul on the seat of his pants. "You're It!" And he bounded for the entrance up the short flight of steps.
Only when he was well beyond the study did he again declare to himself, "Mouse can fix anything."* * *
"Vincent, it's past Mary Beth's bedtime." Mary had entered Father's study where Vincent held a sleeping six-year-old girl in his arms. The tiny auburn haired Mary Beth had been found on the streets four months ago, and immediately after she had come to live in the tunnels, she had chosen Vincent's lap as her favorite place. She was now securely curled in that place, sound asleep.
Catherine and Father were involved in a project at Father's desk, and Vincent had been quietly reading to the child. She had fallen asleep some time ago, but each time Vincent had tried to take her to bed, she had stirred in his arms and had clung tightly to his soft vest.
He whispered to Mary, "I'll take her to bed."
Wisps of graying hair floated around the woman's face as she shook her head. "No need. I'll take her. You stay here and keep Catherine company." She smiled in the direction of the pair at the table. "She may need your help more than I do." She bent and gently took the child from Vincent. For just a moment, Mary Beth's fist remained tangled in the long golden hair. She opened her eyes sleepily and stared up at him, one blue gaze meeting another. Then Vincent leaned to kiss her
forehead and whispered something into her ear. She smiled and put her arms around Mary's neck. By the time the woman had left the chamber, the child was asleep again.
After they were gone, Vincent picked up a book from the table at his side and shifted in his large red velvet chair. Over the top of his book, he watched Catherine and Father as they huddled at Father's desk, working together intently. Stretching his long legs, he savored the pleasure of having Catherine Below, even though her attention was not centered upon him.
Father grumbled as he attempted to hold three pieces of a large broken china bowl in place. "Catherine, this isn't going to work."
"Yes, it will. You just have to be patient." She held a fourth piece in her hand, carefully applying a thin ribbon of clear glue to its irregular edges.
With an exasperated sigh, the older man directed his next words across the room. "Vincent, you should be doing this. Your hands are much steadier than mine."
"No, Father." With a shake of his head Vincent replied, "You have always insisted that every person must take responsibility for his own actions. And, after all, you were the one who bumped into the table and broke the bowl. I think it's very generous of Catherine to volunteer to help you." He ducked behind his book, taking refuge from his father's glare.
Catherine dipped her head, hiding the smile which would only add to Father's frustration. Vincent was being surprisingly smug about this bit of role reversal. She could only imagine the number of times Father had stormed at his son in this room, scolding him for some rowdy offense and demanding restitution. Now it was Vincent who sat in judgment, watching his father's efforts to mend the damage he had done to Mrs. Potterfield's Wedgwood bowl.
Throwing a second frown at his unsympathetic son, Father fussed, "I can't imagine why the woman ever sent a pudding Below in a Wedgwood bowl anyway."
Catherine put down the tube of adhesive and leaned forward to add the freshly glued piece to Father's china puzzle. "Now, Father, be fair. You know how you raved about her tapioca." Easing the piece into position, she moved his thumb until it held everything together. "We can fix it...and even if we couldn't, I'm sure you would be forgiven."
Catherine looked up a bit too sweetly, "I think Mrs. Potterfield has a small crush on you."
"Catherine, don't be ridiculous." He flinched at the thought. "The woman has out-lived four husbands, and there is a rumor that there is a fifth hiding out in Alaska somewhere."
From across the room, Catherine barely heard the word, "Canada," muttered from behind the large up-raised book.
Apparently, Father had heard it too, because he scowled even more darkly in Vincent's direction, failing to notice Catherine's smothered giggle.
When his son refused to meet his stare, the older man sighed, returning his attention to the broken bowl. "Be that as it may, I am certainly not going to give her the opportunity to be graciously forgiving. Catherine, how many more pieces are there to this damnable thing?"
Taking a deep breath to recover her composure, she answered, "Just this one." Carefully she slipped the piece into place, testing its fit while trying not to disturb Father's fragile grip. To her relief, it fit perfectly. "See?" She smiled. "It's going to be good as new."
The graying head shook. "Hardly. There is no way we can hide the cracks."
Catherine had to admit that the spidery dark lines inside the bowl would show permanently. For a moment she considered shopping for a new bowl to replace the damaged one, but then she realized with certainty that that was not the tunnel way. Father would have to live with his mistakes, just as every citizen of the tunnels did. "Well, at least you can give it back to Mrs. Potterfield in one piece." Removing the last piece carefully, she gave it a thin coat of glue, then returned it to its position and held it there. "Of course, you may never taste her tapioca again."
Father snorted. "That is a sacrifice I am more than happy to make." Shifting his weight restlessly, he complained, "How long will it take this glue to set? My fingers are cramping."
"I think you can let go now, but be careful."
Gingerly, he released the china, pulling his hands into his lap, sighing in relief. Catherine's fingers still supported the last piece, but the remainder of the bowl held together, and from an arm's length Father was unable to see where the break had been. "Thank God, that is done." He leaned back in his chair and peered at Catherine.
She felt his eyes on her, but more intently she felt the blue gaze which came from across the room. Although she had tried very hard to give her attention to Father's problem, Vincent's presence had vibrated through her with a persistence which had made it impossible to concentrate fully on Father and his broken china.
She was quite certain that Vincent hadn't turned a page since Mary had taken Mary Beth to bed, and there was satisfaction in the realization that Vincent's concentration had suffered as much as her own.
Throwing him a knowing smile, she wondered if he would retreat again behind the book. To her further satisfaction, he returned her smile and laid his book aside. Pushing himself up out of his seat, he came to her, leaning over her chair and wrapping his arm about her.
With an approving nod he studied the bowl as she carefully released it. "You've done well, Catherine."
"Well, it'll probably never hold tapioca again, but it's still beautiful enough to decorate a shelf." She was acutely aware of the warm hand upon her.
"...And to save Father a great deal of embarrassment." He looked down at his father and was met with a gray stare, cast above the rim of Father's reading glasses. "Father, I think you are in Catherine's debt."
"Yes," Father nodded sternly, "I certainly am. Catherine was an immense help. I am grateful to her...and I appreciate the fact that she is resourceful, gracious, and supportive," he paused significantly, "...unlike certain other individuals I could name."
Catherine laughed, laying her hand on Father's arm. "It was a two- person job, and it's done. Just don't let anybody touch it until it's completely dry." She gave him a quick hug as she stood, and then turned into Vincent's embrace.
Looking up into his eyes, she sighed, trying to remember if she had ever before felt so completely contented. Reaching far back in her memories she located a word her mother had used sometimes, when the world was kind and everything was right..."swaddled". That's how she felt tonight, protected and swaddled by the tunnels and everything they had come to mean to her.
Recently it had become more and more difficult to leave this special place, but a glance at her watch reminded her that a more demanding world waited for her Above. "I didn't realize it was so late. I have a deposition tomorrow morning at eight o'clock." She lifted her hand to stroke the golden hair that fell across Vincent's shoulder, "Do you think you could find someone gracious enough to walk me home?"
Tilting his head, he nodded, his smiling eyes never leaving hers. "I am certain of it."
As Vincent crossed the chamber to retrieve her coat, she turned back to Father. "Vincent has invited me to come for dinner tomorrow night. I'll bring that journal you wanted from the library."
Father nodded, "Good." Then with a sidelong glance at Vincent he whispered, "And, Catherine...thank you."
She threw him a silent smile.
Vincent returned and assisted her as she slipped into her coat. While Vincent pulled her hair free from under the collar, she gave Father a parting hug. "Goodnight, Father...And don't let anyone touch that bowl." Pulling on her gloves, she took Vincent's arm, and the two of them left the study.
When she was certain they were well beyond Father's hearing, Catherine stopped and tugged at Vincent's sleeve, "Canada!" Releasing the laughter she had carefully hidden from Father, she grinned up at him, "When did you start listening to tunnel gossip?"
Placing his hand over hers on his arm, he resumed walking and replied casually, "It was on the pipes." He said it as if it were the logical explanation for all things.
"Remind me not to say anything personal on the pipes. They're worse than an old-fashioned party line."
"A party line..." Vincent ventured.
She supplied a definition. "A phone system in which several residences share the same telephone line."
"I know that."
"How did you know?"
He gave her a look of patient indulgence. "Catherine, we are not so isolated as you think."
"Oh?" She thought she detected a bit of a challenge in his statement, and she picked up the gauntlet. "Have you ever spoken on a phone?"
"I have." He nodded as he stopped to help her over a large pipe in their path.
In surprise, she asked, "When?"
He began walking again, taking her with him. "When I was nine...late one night at a pay phone in the park. Devin found a dime, and he dared me to call Fullerton's All Night Drug Store."
Catherine pulled him to a stop. "Vincent, don't tell me you asked if they had Prince Albert in a can."
"Prince Albert? No..." After a moment of confusion, his guileless eyes met hers and he dismissed her remark, continuing his narration. "I used my very deepest voice and told them I was Mr. Fullerton and I was sending my son in to pick up some ice cream, and that they should
charge the cost to my personal account."
"You're kidding." In delight, Catherine tried to imagine Vincent indulging in a lie...even in childhood. She decided she liked the idea that he had been a boy like other boys. His flaws were so rare...and they hinted at interesting opportunities in the future. "What happened then?"
"Devin went into the store and they threw him out." He smiled, remembering, "I was never sure whether it was because my voice was too high, or because Mr. Fullerton himself was working that night."
She stared at him a moment, then suddenly she was laughing, visualizing Devin's roguish ways, and loving the fact that justice had won out over the older boy's attempts to corrupt his little brother.
When she could speak again, her words were breathless. "It serves Devin right. But, you, Vincent...did you mind that Devin got caught?"
He ducked his head, and his eyes sparkled through the hair that fell across his face. "I minded very much that he didn't bring back ice cream."
And she laughed again.