Yeah. There was a rusty red wagon with a broken handle, and a missing wheel--great. A broken green scooter, too. Terrific. Yet there stood Christopher looking around and expressing his pleasure in finding a room where people hid away their children so they couldn't see them, or hear them, or maybe not even think about them, and he saw it as a room with possibilities.
Sure, somebody could clean all the dark secret places where creeping horrors lived, and they could spray all over with insect repellent so nothing sinister was left that was small enough to step on. But how to step on the grandmother, the grandfather? How to turn an attic room into a paradise where flowers bloomed, and not just another prison like the one below?
I ran to the dormer windows and climbed upon a box to reach the high window ledge. Desperate to see the ground, to see how far we were above it, and if we jumped how many bones we'd break. Desperate to see the trees, the grass, where the flowers grew, where sunlight was, where birds flew, where real life lived. But all I saw was a slate black roof expanding wide beneath the windows, blocking out the view of the ground. Beyond the roofs were treetops; beyond the treetops, enclosing mountains hovered over by blue mists.
Christopher climbed up beside me and looked, too. His shoulder brushing mine quivered, as did his voice when he said softly, "We can still see the sky, the sun, and at night we'll see the moon and stars, and birds and planes will fly over. We can watch them for amusement until the day we don't come up here again."
He paused, seeming to think back to the night we came--was it only last night? "I'll bet if we leave a window open wide, an owl might fly in. I've always wanted an owl for a pet."
"For heaven's sake, why in the world would you want one of those things?"
"Owls can turn their heads all the way around. Can you do that?"
"I don't want to do that."
"But if you wanted to, you still couldn't."
"Well, neither can you!" I flared, wanting to make him face up to reality, like he insisted I do. No bird as wise as an owl would want to live locked up with us for even an hour.
"I want a kitty," spoke up Carrie, holding her arms up so she could be lifted to where she could see, too.
"I want a puppy," said Cory before he glanced out of the window. Then he quickly forgot about pets, for he began to chant, "Outside, outside, Cory wants outside. Cory wants to play in the garden. Cory wants to swing!"
Quickly Carrie followed suit. She too wanted outside, the garden, and the swings. And with her bull-moose voice, she was far more persistent with her wants than Cory.
Now they were both near driving Christopher and me up the wall with their demands to go outside, outside, outside!
"Why can't we go outside?" screamed Carrie, doubling up her fists and beating them against my chest. "We-ee don't like it here! Where is Momma? Where is the sunshine? Where did the flowers go? Why is it so hot?"
"Look," said Christopher, catching her small battering fists and saving me from a bruising, "think of this place as outside. There's no reason you can't swing up here, like in a garden. Cathy, let's search around and see if we can't find some rope."
We did search. And we did find rope in an old trunk that held all sorts of junk. It was very apparent the Foxworths didn't throw anything away--they stored their trash in the attic. Maybe they were afraid of one day being poor, and suddenly needing what was put away so miserly.
With great diligence my older brother worked to make swings for both Cory and Carrie, for when you have twins, you must never, ever give them only one of a kind--of anything. For seats he used boards ripped from a lid of a trunk. He found sandpaper and smoothed away the splinters. While he did this, I hunted around until I found an old ladder with a few missing rungs that didn't hinder Christopher in the least from quickly reaching the rafters high above. I watched him climbing nimbly around up there, crawling out on a wide beam--and every move he made endangered his life! He stood up to show off his balancing skill He swayed suddenly off balance! Quickly he adjusted himself by putting out his arms, but my heart had jumped up, terrified to see him taking such chances, risking his life, just to show off! There was no adult to call him down. If I tried to order him down, he'd laugh, and do even more foolish things. So I kept my mouth shut and closed my eyes, and I tried to shut out the visions I had of him falling, splattering down, breaking his arms, legs or, even worse, his back or neck! And he didn't have to put on any act. I knew he was brave. He had the knots securely tied, so why couldn't he come down and give my heart a chance to beat normally again?
It had taken Christopher hours to make those swings, and then he risked his life to hang them. And when he was down, and the twins were seated on the swings, fanning back and forth and stirring up the dusty air, they were satisfied for, perhaps, three minutes.
Then it began. Carrie started off. "Take us out of here! Don't like these swings! Don't like in here! This is a baa-ad place!"
No sooner did her wails cease than Cory's began. "Outside, outside, we want outside! Take us outside! Outside!" And Carrie added her chants to his. Patience--I had to have patience, deep self-control, act adult, not scream just because I wanted outside just as much as they did.
"Now stop that racket!" snapped Christopher to the twins. "We're playing a game, and all games have rules. The main rule of this game is to stay inside and be as quiet as possible. Screaming and yelling is forbidden." His tone turned softer as he gazed down at their tear-streaked, grimy faces. "Pretend this is the garden under a bright blue sky, and tree leaves are over- head, and the sun is shining bright. And when we go downstairs, that room will be our home with many rooms."
He gave us all a whimsical, disarming smile. "When we're rich as Rockefellers, we'll never need to see this attic again, or that bedroom below. We'll live like princesses and princes."
"Do you think the Foxworths have as much money as the Rockefellers?" I asked disbelievingly. Golly-day, wow! We'd be able to have everything! Yet, yet, I was terribly troubled. . . that grandmother, something about her, the way she treated us, as if we didn't have a right to be alive. Such horrible words she'd said: "You are here, but you don't really exist."
We rambled about the attic, half-heartedly exploring this and that, until someone's stomach rumbled. I glanced at my wristwatch. Two. My older brother stared at me, as I glanced at the twins. It must have been one of their stomachs, for they ate so little, but, nevertheless, their digestive systems were automatically set on seven for breakfast, twelve for lunch, and five for dinner, and seven for bedtime, and a snack before.
"Lunch time," I announced cheerfully.
Down the stairs we tripped single file, back into that hateful dim room. If only we could open the draperies wide to let in some light and cheer. If only . . .
My thoughts could have been spoken aloud, for Christopher was perceptive enough to say that even if the draperies were opened wide, this room faced north and the sunlight would never enter.
And my, just look at the chimney sweeps in the mirrors! Just like those from Mary Poppins, a spoken comparison to put smiles on the dirty faces of the twins. They dearly loved being compared with those
charming people who lived in their kind of picture books.