But could I be sincere about it? Could I really care?
No matter what I end up doing, I won’t call him William, I vowed. From the start, I’ll let him know that for sure.
I put my bike away and entered the house. As soon as I did, I knew something was up. I could feel the excitement in the air and saw the way the maids were scurrying along. Myra was cranking out orders and criticism. She was standing in the hallway with her back to me, whipping out commands like a lion tamer. When she turned and saw me, she came hurrying my way.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Oh, those maids we hired recently get my goat. They dillydally like we’re paying them hourly. They’re way behind on the upstairs, but we had to move them down here.”
“Why?”
“Your granddad didn’t get too far with their ride,” she continued, obviously excited. “You know the old Farmingham estate on the way to Richmond?”
“Yes. That’s the famous haunted house, where Clarence Farmingham supposedly killed his own parents when he was fourteen nearly eighty years ago.” My eyes widened as I remembered. “He poisoned them, didn’t he?”
“Yes, yes, that’s the story, love. No one wanted to live in it afterward, none of the relatives who inherited, and no one wanted to buy it, either. It’s lain fallow for years and years, but the Farmingham family has kept it and the grounds around it in fairly good condition. Your grandfather said there was talk once of turning it into some sort of museum, a house of horror where they’d run tours, but the chamber of commerce shot that idea down quickly. It’s quite a Gothic mansion with its arches and chimneys. All it needs is a moat. Reminds me of a house near where I grew up in Surrey. It was quite a popular place the night before All Hallows.”
“Yes, yes, Halloween. So what’s this have to do with the ride Grandpa and Mrs. Camden took the boy on?”
“Oh, everything was going well, Mrs. Camden says. Until your granddad made the turn in the road where the Farmingham house looms almost directly in front of you, looks like you’re going straight at it. It has such a way of suddenly appearing. I remember the first time I saw it . . .”
“I know. So?” I asked, now very impatient with Myra’s slow explanation.
“I’m getting to it, dear. As soon as that happened and William saw the house, he began to scream. He became quite hysterical.”
“Why?”
“They don’t know, dear, but Mrs. Camden thinks he thought they were taking him to the house.”
“The Farmingham house? He might be from the Farmingham house? Is that it?” I asked, now really excited, too.
“I don’t know. As I said, supposedly no one lives there, but I can imagine squatters finding out about it and maybe camping out there.”
“What did Mrs. Camden and my grandfather do?”
“Your granddad turned the car around quickly, and Mrs. Camden held the boy and comforted him best she could. She said he felt like he had turned into ice, and his eyes were going back in his head. It sounded just horrible. They hurried back and called Dr. Patrick. She’s upstairs with him and Mrs. Camden now. As I said, we hadn’t really gotten the upstairs done and—”
“Where’s my grandfather?”
“He went to see about the Farmingham house, to be sure no one’s been camping out in it. The police are with him.”
I shook my head, astonished, and looked up the stairway. This could be over in hours if the boy’s family was in that house. It made sense to me. Maybe the Farmingham family had put rat poison everywhere. Maybe the boy had been kidnapped and kept in that house. When it looked like he would die, they dropped him at the hospital and fled. Maybe they had brought him in from another state, somewhere far enough away that it wouldn’t make local news. It all made sense to me.
“Your granddad carried him up the stairs. He looked like he was unconscious, his arms dangling like a puppet off its strings,” Myra said, shaking her head and biting down on her lower lip.
“Did he say anything important when he was screaming?”
“Mrs. Camden said he was incoherent, babbling gibberish. Nothing made any sense. And then he went into a deep sleep. Poor thing.”
I nodded. She began barking at one of the maids, so I started up the stairs. The door to Willie’s room was closed. I stood a moment listening, but I didn’t hear anything, so I went to my room. I wasn’t sure why, but Myra’s relating of the events made me tremble, especially the description of Grandpa Arnold carrying the boy’s limp body up the stairs. It had never occurred to me until just this moment that the boy could actually die here. Little kids could have heart attacks, couldn’t they? How terrible would that be? What if he died and we still didn’t know who his family was? Or his real name?
Would Grandpa have him buried in the Prescott cemetery with a tombstone that said “William Arnold,” too? Would he bury him close to Willie? Would everyone hate me for having been so mean to him? Even if he didn’t die, maybe Grandpa finally would realize that he was too fragile to be in this house. Maybe Dr. Patrick would order him back to the hospital or a clinic or something. Should I be happy that all this had happened? Why couldn’t I stop shaking?
I heard conversation and rose quickly to look out in the hallway. Mrs. Camden was talking to Dr. Patrick as they walked toward the stairway. I started after them and paused just before Willie’s room. When they had both descended, I stepped up to the doorway and looked in. The boy was asleep in Willie’s bed. I watched him for a while. He looked dead already. He was so still, and in the subdued light, his face was ashen. How serious was this? Why wasn’t he in the hospital now?
After a moment, I walked down the stairs. Mrs. Camden and Dr. Patrick were at the front door. They paused and looked toward me.
“Are you sending him back to the hospital?” I demanded as I hurried toward them. “He can’t stay here if he’s dying.”