Octagon Magic Page 11

  Wonderful things—Lorrie's enthusiasm about her budding idea was sharply checked. The doll house—Miss Ashemeade had never mentioned the house to Lorrie, just as she herself had never spoken of it to Miss Ashemeade, or to Aunt Margaret. It was—it was something very private, Lorrie knew without anyone telling her so. But it was part of Octagon House and if that were turned into a museum—Miss Ashemeade and Hallie—where would they live? Did people ever live in museums? But what if—if the house were torn down—then where would Miss Ashemeade and Hallie go? And where would the doll house and Bevis and—and Sabina—go? Lorrie sat up in bed. What would happen? She had to tell—to ask Miss Ashemeade. Tomorrow she would get away from school as fast as she could and—

  Oh—tomorrow they had the class meeting. But that did not matter, not now. She simply had to see Miss Ashemeade and ask her about the museum idea, about whether it could be done.

  Lorrie was impatient. All her life she had always wanted to do at once anything she had planned. But now she must wait through the night, and most of tomorrow, before she could see Miss Ashemeade. She twisted uneasily on her pillow as she lay down again.

  She dreamed that she saw the house and over it a big storm cloud. In the shadow of that the red-brick walls began to shrink smaller and smaller until Lorrie was afraid that they would vanish altogether. She ran forward, trying to reach the house before it disappeared. But suddenly the front door opened, and Miss Ashemeade stood there. She was not leaning on Hallie's arm, nor was she depending on her cane for support, but she held out both hands, waving Lorrie back. And she was smiling as if all were well.

  However in the morning her plan still filled Lorrie's mind. Kathy pounded on the door and they went off together, taking the shorter way that did not go down Ash Street. Kathy chattered busily as usual but suddenly she broke off and said in a sharper voice:

  “Lorrie Mallard, I don't think you've heard one single, solitary word I've said. Where are you anyway? Right here, or about a billion miles away?”

  Lorrie was startled out of her own thoughts. “Here—at least I'm walking along this street.”

  “You'd never know it to look at you! You're more like one of those robots Rob keeps reading about. I was talking about the Valentine Fair and Open House, Lorrie—THE VALENTINE FAIR!”

  “But Valentine Day's in February, and this is only January.”

  “Boy, are you ever a real drippy dope, Lorrie. The Valentine Fair is about the biggest thing at school, it surely is. We're the seniors this year, and that means we plan most of it. And today they are going to elect both committees—girls’ and boys’.”

  “You ought to be on it, Kathy.”

  “I sure hope so. Look here, Lorrie. Deb Collins said she'd nominate me. Now, will you second it?”

  “You mean get up in class and say I want you for the committee?”

  “You just say, ‘Second the nomination.’ Lorrie, you've heard them do it before, there's nothing to it. I've some dreamy ideas and I think I have a chance to be chairman. So, you'll do it, won't you?”

  “But—I wasn't going to stay for the meeting.”

  Kathy stared at her. “Whyever not? And, don't be stupid, Mrs. Raymond won't let you miss it, anyway. Being seniors we're supposed to take an intelligent interest. Don't you remember what she said last week? Or weren't you listening then either?”

  “I have something important to do,” protested Lorrie.

  “I'm telling you the truth, it's got to be the best excuse in the world or Mrs. Raymond isn't going to take it. You'll be there, Lorrie. Now, will you second me for the committee?”

  “Yes.” Lorrie's heart sank. Kathy was probably right, she so often was in such matters. And if she had to stay for the class meeting, she would have no time for a visit to Octagon House tonight. But it was so important!

  Kathy was right. Lorrie tried her excuse of an important errand after school. But when the questioning revealed to Mrs. Raymond that the errand was Lorrie's idea and not Aunt Margaret's, she was told that participation in class activities was far more important.

  Lorrie returned to her seat with a rush of the same unhappy feeling that had been hers when she had first come to Ashton. She was hardly aware of Bill Crowder's calling the class to order as president and the rest of the talk at the front of the room. But she came to with a start when she was conscious of a sudden silence. Several of those around her were glancing at Lorrie as if they expected something from her, and she had a sudden thrust of panic—as if she had been called upon to recite and had not heard the question.

  Then two seats beyond, Bessie Calder stood up and said, “I second the nomination.”

  I second the nomination! Why, that was what Kathy had asked her to say! Kathy! Lorrie glanced quickly at Kathy and met an accusing stare in return. Kathy had asked her, and she hadn't done it. Kathy must believe she kept quiet on purpose!

  Again Lorrie ceased to listen to what was going on as she thought furiously of how she could explain her lapse to Kathy. She would have to tell Kathy about Octagon House and the thruway. Now she shifted impatiently in her seat, waiting only for the end of the meeting so she could get to Kathy and explain.

  Only Lorrie was not to have the chance, because, as she started toward Kathy's desk, the other girl called:

  “Bess! Chris! Wait up! I've some groovy ideas. Just wait until you hear them!”

  Lorrie pushed her way determinedly to Kathy's desk. “Kathy—Kathy!” she called, intent on making Kathy turn her head and acknowledge her being there. She made some impression, for Kathy did turn and look around. But her face was set and cold.

  “What do you want, Lorrie Mallard? You broke your word. Think I want you on my committee now?”

  “But Kathy—”

  “I said"—Kathy leaned over her desk—"get lost, Lorrie. You wouldn't help me, I don't need you—and don't you forget it! Come on, gang, we've got a lot to do!”

  With that she joined a waiting group of girls and was gone. Lorrie pulled her book bag back to her locker. There was no hurry now, she did not have time enough to go by Octagon House, and she was not about to leave so fast Kathy would believe she was trailing along behind her. As Kathy had pointed out, they did not need each other—not at all. Lorrie kept holding to that thought as she zipped up her ski jacket. Someone banged the door of the locker next to hers and she looked up.

  “Lizabeth—”

  “Out in the cold again, Lorrie?” Lizabeth asked. “What did you do this time to upset her royal highness?” There was such sharpness in Lizabeth's voice that Lorrie was startled.

  “She asked me to second her nomination for the committee and—well, I was thinking about something else and I forgot all about it. She has a right to be mad.”

  “Now”—Lizabeth set her hands on her hips and looked at Lorrie—"now just what could be more important than this committee? What deep thought, Lorrie?”

  Lorrie felt a little embarrassed. Lizabeth did not like Kathy, not one little bit. And she made it so clear now. Lorrie thought back to the theater party and her own uneasiness about how Kathy had acted over the seating. Lizabeth had so quickly withdrawn then into a shell of her own.

  “I was worried.” Suddenly she had to talk to someone and she liked Lizabeth, or the usual Lizabeth, not this sharp-tongued one. “Lizabeth, do you know the Octagon House?”

  “That old place over on Ash Street? Sure. Daddy says it's the only one of its kind anywhere around—has eight sides. What about it?”

  “They say it's going to be torn down for the thruway.”

  “Yes, the line runs through from Gamblier Avenue to the State route, and that's three blocks beyond Ash.”

  “How do you know so much?”

  “Daddy's on that project, he's an engineer with the highways. But what about you, why do you care where the thruway goes?”

  “They can't tear down Octagon House!” Lorrie protested. “I thought—Suppose people wrote to the papers and said not to—Or someone talked on the TV
about it. Wouldn't that stop them?”

  “They've been doing that for over a year now,” Lizabeth returned. “Oh, not writing about Octagon House, but about other houses. This Friday they're having a big meeting about it before the Commissioners. But it isn't going to do them any good. There's a river underground a little to the north, and they can't build the thruway over that, so it will have to go this way.”

  “A river?” Lorrie repeated. Was it perhaps the stream that the bridge had spanned in the past, under which the fugitives had hidden?

  “Yes. It used to be above ground, just like any other. Then they began to build more and more houses out here. So finally they put the river in big pipes and built right over it But they can't lay the thruway over that.”

  “But Octagon House—”

  “And what makes that so wonderful? They're going to tear down the old Ruxton House too. And Mother says that's a shame. A man came all the way from England more'n a hundred years ago to plan that. It's beautiful.”

  “So is Octagon House,” countered Lorrie stubbornly.

  “Now? It's an old wreck on a piece of wild land.”

  Lorrie shook her head. “It only looks wild from outside the fence, Lizabeth. Inside there's a garden, and in the house—Oh, Lizabeth, it's wonderful!”

  “How do you know? Lorrie Mallard, have you been in the witch house, have you really?”

  “There's no witch!” Lorrie flared. “There are Miss Ashemeade and Hallie and Sabina! And my aunt says it's like a museum there. Yes, I've been in, and so has Aunt Margaret. I go there to learn sewing from Miss Ashemeade, and Aunt Margaret's been there to Sunday tea, and we were there on Christmas. It was wonderful! You ought to have seen the tree and Hallie's gingerbread people and—” Lorrie launched into a confused description of Octagon House, its inhabitants and treasures—all but the horse Bevis and the doll house. And Lizabeth listened with flattering interest.

  “You girls there—time to get out.” It was Mr. Haskins, the janitor, shouting at them down the hall. Lorrie slammed shut her locker.

  Why, it must be late. Everyone else had gone. She looked up to the big clock at the end of the hall just as its minute hand made a full sweep—ten after four!

  “Look here,” Lizabeth said, “Mother's calling for me. I'm supposed to go to the dentist. We can let you off at the end of Ash and you don't have far to go from there, do you?”

  “Mother,” Lizabeth announced as they reached the waiting car, “we can drop Lorrie off at the corner of Ash, can't we? It's late.”

  “As I was just about to observe. What kept you, Lizabeth? Of course, Lorrie, hop in.”

  Lizabeth wriggled into the middle of the front seat. “Mother, Lorrie's been in the Octagon House, she knows Miss Ashemeade. And they had a Christmas tree with gingerbread people.”

  “So you know Miss Ashemeade, Lorrie?” Mrs. Ross's voice cut through her daughter's excited speech. “That is a privilege, Lorrie.”

  “Do you know her, too, Mrs. Ross?”

  “When I was a little girl, I went there twice with my aunt. Her father's aunt lived there—Hallie Standish.”

  “Hallie's still there!” said Lorrie eagerly. “She made the gingerbread people for the tree and all the little candies.”

  “But—” Mrs. Ross looked startled. “But she can't be! Why, Auntie would be in her late eighties if she were still living. And Hallie—why Hallie Standish would have to be over a hundred! It must be her daughter. Though,” Mrs. Ross looked thoughtful, “I didn't know she had a daughter. But I do remember my visits there and Miss Ashemeade—she must be very old now.”

  “Mrs. Ross, what will happen to Miss Ashemeade and Hallie if they tear down Octagon House? And can't they save the house? Aunt Margaret says it is like a museum.”

  “Nothing is decided, it won't be until after the Commissioners’ meeting. Most of the people will be represented by lawyers. Surely Miss Ashemeade will. Oh, here's your corner, Lorrie.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Ross.” Lorrie watched the car draw away and then she started down Ash Street. When she reached the fence about Octagon House she slowed. She could see the deer, who had snow piled high about the base on which he stood but none now on his back, and the shuttered front windows, the closed door. She put her hand to the gate, and tried to work the catch. But it did not give under her fingers and somehow she knew this was not the time to climb into territory closed against her. Unhappily Lorrie went on toward the apartment house a block away.

  Kathy—she must explain to Kathy, Lorrie thought as she went down the hall, though she was uncomfortable as she pressed the button of the Lockner doorbell. Rob answered.

  “Kathy? No, she's over at Bess Calder's for supper. She's really flipped over this Valentine Fair. Valentines!” he laughed. “They're for girls.”

  “Tell her I want to see her,” Lorrie said. She was sure, though, that if she did see Kathy it would be by her own efforts, with no help from Kathy.

  And her fears proved true. The next morning she lingered, waiting for Kathy, not quite daring to go to the Lockner apartment again. But no Kathy appeared and Lorrie was almost tardy, making her desk only a second or two before Mrs. Raymond closed the door. Kathy was in her place but Lorrie had no time to speak to her.

  Recess was just as bad. When the bell rang, Kathy asked permission to hold a committee meeting in the room and Lorrie had to go out with the others, leaving Kathy and her friends in a group about Mrs. Raymond's desk. Toward the end of the day, as Kathy continued to avoid every attempt Lorrie made, Lorrie lost her temper. So, let her think what she wanted to! She, Lorrie, was through trying to explain! She had more important things to think about and today she was going to stop at Octagon House. If the gate was shut, why she would just climb over it! But she had to see Miss Ashemeade—she had to.

  However the gate did swing open slowly and gratingly under her push. Lorrie was breathing fast, as she had run most of the way from school in order to have time for this visit. But surely Aunt Margaret would understand if she were a little late getting home. Aunt Margaret was concerned too. The meeting with the Commissioners was this week, and Miss Ashemeade must have some way to make them understand the importance of Octagon House.

  Lorrie ran around the house and knocked on the back door. For the first time Hallie did not answer. A little frightend, Lorrie tried the latch and it lifted. She came slowly into the hall.

  “Hallie?” she called.

  The door to the kitchen was shut, but the one to Miss Ashemeade's room a little ajar.

  “We are in here, Lorrie.”

  Lorrie tugged at zippers, pulled off at top speed the ski suit to hang pants and coat on the wall pegs and set her boots under. Then she went in, only to stop just inside the door and look ahead with startled eyes. Hallie was working by the long table. She was flanked by tall cartons with detergent advertisements stamped on their sides (they looked as out of place in this room as a pile of dirty boards).

  Sabina stood on her hind legs scraping her front claws down the side of one box, trying vainly to see into its interior. Into the next one Hallie was carefully packing all the rolls of material and ribbon that had lain undisturbed on that end of the table ever since Lorrie had first come here. There was the rustle of tissue paper as she rolled each one in that covering before fitting it into the carton.

  Packing—Hallie was packing things away! Was—had Miss Ashemeade given up? Was she planning to move? But there was nowhere else for Miss Ashemeade, and Hallie, and all the treasures of Octagon House. This was where they belonged. They could not live anywhere else and be the same!

  “Housecleaning, Lorrie.” Miss Ashemeade was busy, too. The length of tapestry that had been in the frame, for which Lorrie had threaded so many needles of wool, lay across her lap, and she was folding it carefully in a piece of protecting muslin. “Things accumulate so, and every once in a while they must be put to rights. It is an offense against thrift to hold onto what one cannot use to any profit. Hallie's box is going
to the Ladies Aid of the Gordon Street Church. They can put all those pieces to good use, better use than they will be here, attracting dust and getting creased and faded. Why, what is the matter, my dear?”

  “You're—you're not packing to move? You're not leaving Octagon House—”

  Miss Ashemeade raised her hands and held them out, and Lorrie was drawn to her as if those hands had reached clear across the long room to her. When she stood beside Miss Ashemeade's chair, they came to rest on her shoulders.

  “You need never fear, Lorrie, about that. I shall not leave Octagon House, nor shall the house—the real house—ever leave me.”

  “The real house—”

  But Miss Ashemeade was shaking her head. “The time will come, Lorrie, when you shall understand that. So, you thought we were moving, not cleaning up a bit? Ah, Lorrie, were we to move, I am afraid we would have to pull up roots so long and deep set that there would be a major disturbance in the world. Is that not so, Halllie?”

  “'Deed so, Mis’ Charlotta, ‘deed so.” Hallie chuckled. “Cleanin’ up, that ain't movin’, Mis’ Lorrie. Now, looky heah, Sabina, you take's your claws outa that right smart. Them fixings was never meant for pullin’ about thataway.”

  Sabina was backing across the carpet, pulling after her a long trail of golden ribbon that uncoiled as she went. She tried to jerk it free from Hallie's fingers when Hallie caught the other end. But Hallie won that tug of war and rewound the ribbon, to put it in the carton.

  “Housecleaning is an excellent occupation for at least once a year,” Miss Ashemeade continued. “And not only houses need cleaning. But, Lorrie, you are still troubled. Now tell me what it is.”

  “Tomorrow night is the meeting with the Commissioners, Miss Ashemeade, about the thruway.”

  “And you are wondering if I shall be represented there. Yes, there is a Mr. Thruston who will see to my interests.”

  “I've been thinking, if people wrote letters to the papers, maybe talked on the TV and the radio—Aunt Margaret said this house was a museum. Museums are important, they can't go knocking those down. Maybe Octagon House might be a museum if people wanted it.”