Pale Phoenix Page 4

  "Hamburgers and potato chips."

  "O ye of little faith! I've been practicing my culinary arts, I'll have you know. It's going to be a real feast. Say that you'll come."

  "I'll come." She grinned at him, glad the look of censure that had been in his eyes since yesterday when she'd lied to the principal's secretary was gone. "Well, I'll have to ask, but I'm sure it'll be fine with my parents."

  Dan beamed back at her and she moved on, selecting the caramel topping to go on top of her vanilla and strawberry ice cream, and then spooning on chopped nuts and chocolate chips. A long-faced cafeteria worker squirted a gob of whipped cream onto Miranda's creation. A fleck of cream flew up onto Miranda's cheek.

  "Oh, well," joked Miranda over her shoulder to Dan, wiping the cream off. "I try to ignore all the signs that we're not in a three-star restaurant, but sometimes it's hard."

  "More like negative three," he rejoined. "But wait till tonight. It'll be five stars for me!"

  Ahead of them in line, Miranda caught a flash of pale hair. She craned her neck. "Look, Dan—there's Abby."

  "So? Don't start, Mandy."

  Abby stood in line to pay. Unlike the trays of all the other students, hers held only a single carton of milk. Miranda watched as Abby glanced around furtively and then quickly elbowed the girl in front of her. The girl nearly dropped her tray and she spilled her cup of juice into her sundae.

  "Hey!" cried the girl, whirling around. She mopped at her sodden blouse with a paper napkin. "Look what you've done!"

  "Don't worry, honey." The woman with the whipped cream can hurried to the rescue with a towel. "We'll have you cleaned up in no time at all. Your boyfriend will never notice the spots."

  "Can I have a new sundae? And another juice?" whined the girl. "It wasn't my fault it got spilled."

  "Don't you worry. Just hold still a minute."

  This scene was causing some commotion in the line as people gathered around the disgruntled, wet girl. But Miranda kept her eyes on Abby, who calmly grabbed several cellophane-wrapped sandwiches and a bag of corn chips off the counter and dropped them swiftly into her beaded bag. "Excuse me, excuse me," Abby said, stepping around the cleanup crew on her way to the cash register. "Here, this is for the milk." She handed the cashier some change.

  "Thanks," murmured the cashier absently, hunched over a magazine.

  "Did you see that?" Miranda whispered.

  "I sure did." Dan's voice was grim.

  "She just slid the stuff into her bag, cool as anything." Susannah sounded impressed.

  "She's a thief. I knew it already, but now we have proof."

  "Ssh, Mandy. Not so loud. Let's get our stuff and go talk to her."

  They moved ahead to the cashier. "I can't believe anyone would want to steal junk from this place," said Susannah.

  But when they had paid for their sundaes and scouted around the large room, there was no sign of Abby at all.

  "She's pretty quick with the disappearing act." Miranda led the way to an empty table.

  "Well, it's really none of our business, I guess," said Susannah.

  "Yeah," agreed Dan. "But she'll get in big trouble one of these days if she doesn't stop it."

  Miranda poked unhappily at her ice cream. Why did she have the feeling that Abby was already in big trouble?

  At home after school, Miranda sank onto her bed. Friday at last. The week had seemed like, forever. A week ago she had never even heard of Abby Chandler. And yet now the girl was like a blister on Miranda's heel, an irritation impossible to ignore.

  Miranda tried to do her biology homework, but she couldn't concentrate. So she fished a thick library book out of her backpack and settled herself in the window seat to read until her parents came home. Helen worked until nearly seven every Friday, going over to the hospital at the end of her normal office hours to visit patients and check lab results. Because of the continuing snowfall, she had left her car in the garage today and taken the bus into town. Philip was in Lexington and would pick Helen up at the hospital on his way home.

  Miranda liked the silence and peace of the big house. She watched the patterns of late-afternoon light filter across the pages of her book, remembering all too well how elusive that sense of peace had been when her family lived in their cramped New York apartment. There she had tripped over piles of books and papers in the tiny living room to get back to the even tinier alcove that had been her bedroom. Even there it had been hard to have any real privacy, since the walls were so thin she could hear her parents' conversations almost as well as if she were sitting on the couch with them. But here in her big corner bedroom, she had space for all her things, privacy for all her thoughts. And the sounds of the house were muffled. Miranda stretched on the window seat, watching the snow falling outside her window. Snowing again! She had never known such a white winter before.

  Deep in her book, Miranda did not immediately register the thud of the closing front door. But then she marked her page, shut the book, and hurried down the stairs to greet her mother and father and ask about going to Dan's for dinner. "Dad!" She hugged him there in the front hall and unwound his scarf. "You look like a snowman. Where's Mither?"

  Then she noticed his grim face and angry frown. "In the kitchen," he said briefly and steered her in that direction.

  Puzzled, Miranda pushed through the swinging door, then stopped so fast that her father could not enter from the other side. "Abby!"

  Abby stood next to the kitchen table. Her face was as colorless as the winter sky. Her mouth looked pinched, her eyes were wide and staring.

  She looks frightened, thought Miranda in surprise. More than that—she looks terrified.

  Helen was by the sink, shrugging off her coat. When she spoke, her voice was as icy as the weather outside. "I suggest you take off your coat, too, Abby. We need to talk before you can go home."

  Abby set her beaded bag on the floor. Then she slowly removed her dirty beige coat and stood holding it. Philip went out the back door and returned in a moment carrying two heavy bags of groceries. "There's another one on the step," he told Miranda, and she opened the back door and hurried to help.

  "Okay," said Philip when Miranda set the bag on the table. "Now we talk."

  Miranda raised her brows, mystified. What in the world was going on here? She pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.

  Abby stood silently, head bowed, as Philip took her coat from her arms and put it on the counter. Helen began unpacking the food from the bags, stowing vegetables in the refrigerator with short, angry movements.

  Philip drummed on the table with his fingers. "Can't the groceries wait, Helen?"

  Helen shrugged but came over to the table. She sat down and indicated a chair for Abby. Abby sat down slowly and slumped over the table, looking whiter and thinner than Miranda thought possible. For a long moment no one said anything. Both Helen and Philip seemed to be waiting for Abby to speak. But the girl just sat staring at her hands in her lap.

  "Would anyone like hot chocolate or something?" asked Miranda to break the silence.

  She was stalling, but she was suddenly afraid to hear what was wrong.

  "Okay," said her father, surprising her with his unusually gruff tone. "Make us all some."

  Miranda left the table and busied herself heating water in the microwave and spooning the cocoa mix into mugs. Philip cleared his throat. "Okay, young lady. Out with it. Why were you breaking into our car?"

  Miranda wheeled around to stare at Abby. "You're kidding!"

  "She was trying hard, too," Helen told Miranda. "First with a coat hanger, poking around trying to get it in the window crack. We were in the grocery store parking lot. Dad picked me up at the hospital after work, and we did the shopping. We put the bags in the car, then went into the drugstore. When we came out, we saw Abby and rushed over to the car." Helen glanced at Abby's set face and frowned. "Before we could get there, she had taken a brick from her bag and started bashing at the window!"

  "
You're kidding," repeated Miranda, but she knew her mother was not.

  "I figure she was trying to get in to take the tape player," said Helen, "unless she was going to try to hot-wire the car."

  "But—why?" asked Miranda.

  "That's what we asked her," said Philip. He put his hand on Abby's bony shoulder, and she flinched as if he had struck her. "She tried to run off, but we caught her."

  "Normally we would have taken you—taken any thief—straight to the police," Helen told Abby sternly. "But since I recognized you, and since I've been worrying about you since the day you fell in the road—well, I thought you should have a chance to explain."

  Abby suddenly burst into tears. "I said I was sorry! Why can't you just leave me alone?"

  "Attempted robbery is too serious to be left alone," said Philip firmly.

  "Why in the world would you try to steal our car?" asked Miranda. "Abby, you're too young to drive, anyway."

  "I didn't know it was your car, Miranda Browne, or believe me, I would have stayed miles away." Abby's voice was sharp despite her tears.

  "You could have recognized it from the day we nearly hit you—," began Miranda, but then remembered that her mother's car was out in the garage. Today they had been driving Philip's car.

  "Well, I didn't! It was just there, just like all the other cars in the lot, but it had—," she stopped.

  "What did it have, Abby?" asked Philip intently. "Tell me."

  Abby ground both fists into her eyes and did not answer.

  "Answer him, young lady." Helen's voice was tight.

  Abby's voice was barely audible. "All right, all right. It was the food. I saw the bags."

  "You mean you were hungry?" questioned Helen.

  Abby did not answer.

  "I felt we really should call the police right away," Philip told Miranda. "But she begged us not to. Then I said we would call her parents—but she said she doesn't have any. And since I knew she was not just any old thief, but someone who had recently become a household word around here, I said she could come home with us and talk this whole thing out first. I didn't think," he added in a gentler tone, "that she looked like a violent criminal needing to be locked up."

  "More like someone needing a good meal?" Miranda remembered the bulging beaded bag, the bread and peanut butter from the little shop, the sandwiches and chips from the cafeteria.

  "And needing someone to talk to," added Helen. "Will you stay for dinner, Abby?"

  As Abby's eyes filled with tears, she lowered her head so her hair hid her face like a silk curtain. Then she nodded. "Oh, yes, please."

  Chapter Four

  MIRANDA LED a silent Abby upstairs while Philip and Helen fixed dinner. "In here," said Miranda, ushering Abby into her bedroom. The two girls perched in opposite corners of the brightly cushioned window seat. Miranda couldn't think of anything to say to this unexpected visitor.

  The silence settled uncomfortably over them as Abby looked around the room. Her glance took in the old-fashioned double bed with its carved wooden headboard and thick quilt, the matching desk and chair, strewn with clothes Miranda hadn't put away, her bookcase well-stocked with old favorites, the dresser, and Miranda's music stand in the corner.

  "I play the flute," said Miranda just to break the silence. "Do you play anything?"

  Abby took a long time to answer. "Not much ... these days." Her voice was still choked with tears. "But I used to play the harpsichord. A long time ago. And the piano."

  "Well, we have a piano," Miranda began, then stopped as Abby slid down from the window seat and crossed the room to the antique dollhouse in one corner.

  "This is beautiful!"

  "It's a replica of our house. It was left here by some people who owned the house before we did," explained Miranda politely. "I found it up in the attic when we moved here."

  Abby crouched on the floor and looked into the house, taking in the detail of miniature brick, hand-turned porch railings, and tiny drainpipes. "It's perfect."

  Miranda decided to be blunt. "Listen, why have you been stealing food, Abby? I saw you steal from the store the other day and from the cafeteria, too."

  "It's such a lovely house," whispered Abby.

  Miranda crossed the room to her. She saw there were tears on Abby's colorless lashes, "Why the food, Abby?" Miranda persisted. "Why?"

  Abby's long, pale hair swung forward to shield her face like a curtain as she bent over the house. "Look at the tiny brass knocker," she murmured, barely audible. "I've never seen anything like it...."

  Miranda gave up and left the room. She went into her parents' bedroom and slouched on the bed, relieved to be away from Abby. She picked up the phone and poked the buttons disconsolately. When Dan answered, she explained that their plans for dinner together must be abandoned. "I can still come over later, I think," she told him. "I'm really sorry. But I have to stay here now and find out what's going on with this weirdo."

  "Well," he said, sounding disappointed, "I'll save you some dessert if you promise to tell me all the gory details."

  "You've got a deal."

  "But Mandy?" He hesitated. "You'll come alone, won't you? I mean, you're not going to bring Abby, right?"

  "Do you think I'm crazy?"

  "There's enough lasagna here for an army," observed Philip when they were all sitting at the round kitchen table.

  Helen served the girls large portions and slipped her husband a small slice. "It's nonfat cheese," she assured him.

  He forked some salad onto his plate and passed the bowl to Abby. She piled her plate high. Then, keeping her eyes on her plate, she shoveled the beef, pasta, and cheese into her mouth. She. ate hurriedly as if to get her fill before one of them snatched her plate away.

  "Slow down," Helen told her gently. "There's lots of food. You can have seconds."

  A faint blush colored Abby's cheeks. "Sorry," she muttered.

  Helen asked Philip about his work at the museum, and he asked her about her work at the hospital. Miranda realized they must have made a decision not to talk about Abby's assault on their car until later. She joined the conversation, reporting on her classes at school. Only Abby remained silent, chewing steadily.

  When all four forks were placed on the plates to signal the end of the meal, Helen pushed back her chair. "There's an apple crumble for dessert—and applesauce for you, Phil. But let's wait a while and digest the lasagna." She raised an eyebrow at Abby. "And talk."

  "Really talk," said Philip.

  Abby sucked in her breath.

  "We're going to need some answers sooner or later, Abby," continued Philip. "Nice, clear answers. We don't want to go to the police about you, and we won't—as long as you'll tell us what's been going on. And we'll have to talk to your family. They need to know about this."

  "I think you should know, though," added Helen, "that I called the high school today to see if there had been a mistake with the address they gave us. But the Grove Street number is the one you gave them when you enrolled three weeks ago. Mr. Raphael was very upset to learn it's a false one. Then he contacted the school you told him you went to in Baltimore and discovered it doesn't have accurate records for you, either. It's all very strange." She frowned at Abby. "But does it need to be? What's going on? We only want to help you."

  Abby stared at her. When she finally spoke, her voice was tense. "No one can help me."

  Helen's frown deepened. "We'd like to try."

  "Where do you live, if not on Grove Street?" pressed Miranda. "You have to be living somewhere."

  "What right do you have to meddle in my life?" Abby asked shrilly. Her tense, drawn expression and hunched shoulders reminded Miranda of a stray dog she'd once seen in New York, cornered by boisterous boys.

  "We have every right to look into the affairs of a thief!" Philip thundered.

  "Just leave me alone, all of you." Abby's voice broke with tears. "All week, Mandy has been following me and watching me. I can't bear it anymore."

 
Philip shook his head. "I don't get it," he said wearily. "Does this really have to be such a mystery? You aren't being fair to accuse us of meddling when you are clearly in some trouble and need the help we would like to give you."

  A long moment passed, during which Abby sat with her head down. She seemed exhausted, as if just sitting upright in her chair were an ordeal. Finally she looked up at Helen and Philip and her eyes were tearful. "Well," she said, "I suppose I have to tell you. But there's nothing you can do, though it's nice of you to want to help. It's been so long since I've had anyone to talk to, anyone to trust, I've forgotten what trusting people is like." She took a deep breath, and Miranda could almost see her mind running backward to find a starting point for her story.

  They all waited. Outside the kitchen windows it had begun to snow again.

  "The truth is that since I arrived in Garnet, I've been living in the old Prindle House. I jimmied the lock on the back door."

  At their surprised exclamations, she hesitated, then continued in her soft voice. "I've been on the run for a long time. My parents are dead. They were killed in a fire—years ago. I went to live with my grandfather in Baltimore." Her words came more slowly now, as if chosen with care. "He was an alcoholic and didn't want much to do with me, but he was the only relative I had left. Everyone else is dead. So I sort of took care of him, and he paid for food and stuff. I only went to school sometimes—when I felt like getting out of the house. And when he died, I ran away. I wasn't about to end up in some children's home. So—" This time her pause lengthened into a full minute.

  "So? What happened?" asked Helen gently.

  Abby shook back her curtain of hair. It cascaded over the back of the oak chair like strands of cornsilk. "So I took money from my grandfather's house, got on a bus, and started traveling. I wasn't sure where I'd end up, but I knew I didn't want to live on the streets. There's too much trouble in that kind of life. I just wanted to be normal, to go to school, to have friends, you know. And when I got off the bus in Boston, I saw an old lady struggling to get onto another bus with some bags of stuff—she had been out shopping, you see. So I helped her onto the bus, then got on, and rode with her to Garnet. She was so nice, I was—well, I was hoping I could move in with her and kind of help out the way I used to help out my—my grandfather. It's like that with old people, you know. They're often eager to have someone stay and it's so easy...." She broke off and looked around the table at them. "I mean, well, I thought she might need a companion. But I found out she lives in one of those senior citizen communities where you have to be retired. No kids allowed, you know. I liked the look of Garnet, though, so I decided to stay."