Raymie Nightingale Page 5

“Well, anyway. It was long ago and far away. And it was a great tragedy. All the Flying Elefante luggage sank to the bottom of the ocean, and my parents drowned. And that is why I never learned how to swim.”

  “That makes sense,” said Beverly.

  “Now it’s just Granny and me. And Marsha Jean, of course. She wants to capture me and put me in the county home, where they only ever serve you bologna to eat. It’s all very terrifying when you think about it. So I try not to think about it.”

  “Louisiannnnnnaa!” shouted her grandmother.

  Louisiana bent and picked up her baton. “I’ll see you both tomorrow at the Golden Glen Happy Retirement Home on the corner of Borton Street and Grint Avenue at twelve noon sharp.”

  “Okay,” said Raymie.

  “It’s not the Golden Glen Happy Retirement Home,” said Beverly. “It’s a nursing home.”

  “Good-bye, and long live the Rancheros!” shouted Louisiana as she walked away.

  “Do you think her parents were really trapeze artists?” said Raymie to Beverly.

  “I don’t care if they were,” said Beverly. “But they weren’t.”

  “Oh,” said Raymie.

  From up at the house, there came the sound of the Elefante station wagon pulling away. It made a very loud noise, as if it were a broken rocket ship working to escape the earth’s atmosphere.

  “I should probably go up there,” said Raymie. “My mother will be here soon.”

  “Where’s your father?”

  “What?” said Raymie.

  “Your father. Did he come back home?” asked Beverly. The bruise on her face suddenly looked darker, meaner.

  “No,” said Raymie.

  “I didn’t think so,” said Beverly.

  Raymie felt her soul shrink. The sky didn’t look as blue. She decided that she didn’t believe at all what Mrs. Borkowski said about daylight stars and deep holes. Her mother was right. Mrs. Borkowski was as crazy as a loon.

  Probably.

  Phhhhtttt.

  “Look,” said Beverly. “Don’t get all upset. That’s just how things go. People leave and they don’t come back. Somebody has to tell you the truth.” She stood up and stretched, and then she bent down and picked up her baton. “But, listen, don’t worry — we’ll go and get your stupid library book from underneath the old lady’s bed, because that’s an easy thing to get back. That’s no problem at all.”

  Beverly threw the baton up in the air once, twice, three times. Each time, she caught it without even looking.

  “See you tomorrow, then,” said Beverly Tapinski.

  And she walked away.

  They met at the Golden Glen at noon the next day, which was Saturday and not a baton-twirling day.

  Louisiana got there first.

  Raymie could see her standing on the corner from half a block away. She sparkled. She was wearing an orange dress with silver sequins at the hem and gold sequins sprinkled around its gauzy sleeves. She had added more barrettes to her hair. All the barrettes were pink and had bunnies on them. Who knew that there were so many bunny barrettes in the world?

  “I am wearing some extra good-luck bunny barrettes today,” said Louisiana.

  “You look nice,” said Raymie.

  “Do you think that orange and pink go together, or is that only in my imagination?”

  Raymie didn’t get a chance to answer this question because Beverly arrived. She looked angry. The bruise on her face had gone from black to a sickly looking green.

  “So?” said Beverly as she approached them.

  Raymie wasn’t sure what this question was in reference to, but she didn’t take it as a good sign. She went and rang the bell before Beverly could change her mind about helping.

  The intercom crackled. Martha said, “It’s a golden day at the Golden Glen. How may I assist you?”

  Raymie heard Beverly snort.

  “How may I assist you?” asked Martha again.

  “Martha?” said Raymie. “It’s me, um, Raymie. Raymie Clarke. I visited Isabelle a couple of days ago, and I was going to do a good deed?” A wave of dizziness washed over Raymie. She remembered the letter of complaint she had written for Isabelle. Would Martha know that she was the one who had written it? Would she hold it against her? Would she understand that Raymie had just been trying to do a good deed? Why was everything so complicated? Why were good deeds such murky things?

  “Oh, Raymie, yes,” said Martha’s crackly voice. “Of course, of course. Isabelle will be delighted to see you again.”

  Raymie didn’t think that this was necessarily true.

  “We’re here, too!” shouted Louisiana into the intercom. “We’re the Three Rancheros, and we’re going to —”

  Beverly put her hand over Louisiana’s mouth.

  The door buzzed, and Raymie pulled it open. Beverly took her hand off Louisiana’s mouth, and the three of them walked into the Golden Glen, where Martha was standing, like before, behind the counter at the end of the hallway, smiling.

  Raymie was glad to see her.

  She thought that when you died, if there was someone waiting to greet you in heaven, then that person would probably, hopefully, look like Martha — smiling, forgiving, golden, and with a blue, fuzzy sweater draped over her shoulders.

  “Oh,” said Martha. “You brought friends.”

  “We’re the Three Rancheros!” said Louisiana. “We’re here to right a wrong.”

  “Please, please —” said Beverly.

  “What a lovely dress,” said Martha to Louisiana.

  “Thank you,” said Louisiana. She twirled around so that her sleeves floated out and the sequins sparkled. “My granny made it. She makes all my dresses. She used to make the costumes for my parents, who were the Flying Elefantes.”

  “Isn’t that interesting?” said Martha. “And I wonder what happened to your face,” she said, turning to Beverly.

  “It’s just a bruise,” said Beverly in an extremely polite voice. “From a fight. I’m okay.”

  “Well, then,” said Martha. “As long as you are okay. If the three of you would like to come with me.” She took Louisiana’s hand. “We will go upstairs and see who would like a good deed done today. Visitors are always welcome here at the Golden Glen.”

  Beverly rolled her eyes at Raymie, but she turned and followed Martha and Louisiana up the stairs.

  Raymie walked behind Beverly. Right at the bottom of the stairs, right before she started to climb, Raymie was struck with a sudden, piercing moment of disbelief. How had she, Raymie Clarke, gotten here? At the Golden Glen? Walking behind Martha and Louisiana and Beverly — people she hadn’t even known until a few days ago?

  Raymie looked down at the steps. Each step was lined with a dark strip, to stop people from slipping.

  “We’re all baton twirlers,” she heard Louisiana say to Martha. “And we’re all going to compete in the Little Miss Central Florida Tire 1975 contest.”

  “Fascinating,” said Martha.

  Beverly snorted.

  Raymie flexed her toes. She reminded herself of what she was doing. She was working to get the book back, to do a good deed, to win the contest, to bring her father home. She put her foot on the first dark nonstick strip and then the next one and the next.

  She climbed the stairs.

  The common room was entirely empty. The floor was shining, but in an ordinary kind of way. The piano was silent. There were several scraggly ferns hanging from the ceiling and an unfinished jigsaw puzzle on a small table in the center of the room. The box of the puzzle was propped up to show what the picture would be when the puzzle was done: a covered bridge in autumn.

  “Well,” said Martha, “I have to return to my station. Maybe you three would like to take it from here and go down to Isabelle’s room and knock on her door and see if she would like visitors.”

  “Okay,” said Raymie.

  “Thank you very much,” said Beverly in the same terrifyingly polite voice she had used before.

>   “I like this room,” said Louisiana. “You could dance on this floor. You could put on a show here.”

  “Well,” said Martha, “I suppose you could. There’s not a lot of dancing here, and I don’t believe that we have ever had a show. But perhaps someday. Who knows?” Martha shook her head. And then she clapped her hands. “Okay, girls. You just head down the hallway. Raymie, you know which door is Isabelle’s.”

  Raymie nodded. She knew which door was Alice Nebbley’s. That was what mattered.

  “Right,” said Beverly when Martha was gone. “Which room?”

  “It’s this way,” said Raymie. Beverly and Louisiana followed her down the hallway, and as they got closer, they heard it.

  “Take my hand!” screamed Alice Nebbley.

  “Oh, my goodness,” said Louisiana. “Let’s go back. Let’s not do it.”

  “Shut up,” said Beverly.

  Louisiana caught up to Raymie and took her hand, and Raymie had the strange thought that holding on to Louisiana’s hand was like holding the paw of one of the ghost bunnies on her barrettes. She almost wasn’t even there.

  But still, it was comforting for some reason, to have Louisiana’s hand in hers.

  “Take my hand!” shouted Alice Nebbley again.

  “Just get out of the way,” said Beverly. She pushed past Raymie and Louisiana and marched right into Alice Nebbley’s room without knocking. Raymie could see that the room was dark, as it had been before, as dark as a cave, as dark as the grave.

  “She went into the room,” said Louisiana to Raymie.

  “Yes,” said Raymie. “She did.”

  They stood together in the hallway and stared at the dark outline that was Beverly Tapinski. She was standing right next to the bed.

  “Arrrgggghh!” screamed Alice Nebbley, and both Louisiana and Raymie jumped.

  “It’s under the bed,” called Raymie.

  “I know that,” said Beverly from inside the darkness. “You told me that a thousand times. If there’s one thing I know, it’s where the stupid book is supposed to be.”

  Raymie saw the dark form of Beverly duck down and disappear.

  “There’s no book under here,” said Beverly’s muffled voice a minute later.

  “There has to be,” said Raymie.

  “It’s not there,” said Beverly. Her shadowy form reappeared. “It’s not anywhere in here. I don’t know. Who knows what old people do with books. Maybe she ate it. Or is lying on top of it.”

  And then, instead of coming back out of the room, Beverly moved closer to Alice Nebbley’s bed.

  “Never mind,” called Raymie. “Leave it alone. Come back.” She was suddenly afraid that Beverly might do something drastic and unpredictable, like try to pick up Alice Nebbley and look underneath her.

  “Arrrrggghhhhh!” screamed Alice Nebbley. “I cannot. I cannot. I cannot stand the pain.”

  “Oh, no,” said Louisiana. “It’s too terrible. She can’t stand the pain. I can’t stand the pain of her not standing the pain.” She squeezed Raymie’s hand so hard that it hurt.

  “Take my hand!” screamed Alice Nebbley.

  And then, just like before, a skinny arm came out from underneath the covers as if it were emerging from a grave. Louisiana screamed and Raymie let out a whimper, and in Alice Nebbley’s dark and tragic room, Beverly stood quietly without jumping or moving at all. And then, slowly, she reached out and took hold of the hand.

  “Ooooooohh,” said Louisiana. “She took the hand. Now that woman is going to pull Beverly into the grave. She is going to kill her and use her to fashion a new soul.”

  Raymie had not imagined any of these gruesome outcomes in particular, but she did feel a very deep sense of dread.

  “No, no,” said Louisiana. “I can’t stand and watch.” She dropped Raymie’s hand. “I’m going to go and find someone to help.”

  “Don’t,” said Raymie.

  But Louisiana was gone, running down the hallway, her sequined dress glowing and glittering in a purposeful way.

  Raymie stood alone, watching as Beverly, still holding Alice Nebbley’s hand, sat down on the bed.

  “Shhh,” said Beverly.

  Alice Nebbley stopped screaming.

  “It will be okay,” said Beverly. And then, incredibly, she started to hum.

  What was Beverly Tapinski — the safecracker, the lock picker, the gravel beater — doing sitting on Alice Nebbley’s bed, holding her hand, telling her it would be okay, and humming to her?

  It didn’t seem possible.

  And then Louisiana was standing next to Raymie again. Her small chest was rising and falling. A wheezy sound was issuing from her lungs. “I found it,” she said.

  “What?” said Raymie.

  “I found it. I found your Florence Whatsit book.”

  “Nightingale,” said Raymie.

  “Yes,” said Louisiana. “Nightingale. Nightingale. It’s in the janitor’s office. I went in there to see if the janitor would help Beverly fight the goblin, and then surprise! I found the book! Also, I let the bird go.”

  “What bird?” said Raymie.

  “That little yellow bird. In the cage in the janitor’s office.”

  At this point, someone somewhere in the Golden Glen screamed, and it wasn’t Alice Nebbley.

  “I had to climb up on top of the desk to do it,” said Louisiana. “And then I had to leave in a hurry, so I forgot your book. I don’t think that birds should be in cages, do you?”

  There was another scream and the sound of running feet.

  Beverly came out of Alice Nebbley’s room.

  “What happened?” she said.

  “I’m not sure,” said Raymie.

  “I found the book!” said Louisiana.

  A small yellow bird came whizzing down the hallway and sailed over their heads.

  “Was that a bird?” asked Beverly.

  In her room, Alice Nebbley was completely silent.

  Raymie hoped that she wasn’t dead.

  The janitor came running down the hallway. His keys were jangling, and his janitor boots were making a very authoritative sound as they hit the polished floor of the Golden Glen.

  The janitor had a determined look on his face. He didn’t seem at all like a man who would play mournful music on the piano. His fingers were too thick. Also, he didn’t look very much like someone who would own a yellow bird.

  “Oooooh,” said Louisiana. “Hurry. Follow me.”

  Louisiana led them down the hallway. “In here,” she said. “Right there.” She pointed at a small room with the door open. Inside the room, there was a desk, and right in the center of the desk was A Bright and Shining Path: The Life of Florence Nightingale.

  “Is that it?” asked Beverly. “Is that your stupid library book?”

  Above the desk, there was a birdcage, rocking back and forth. It was empty. The little door to the cage was open.

  Something about the open door on the cage made Raymie feel sad.

  At home right now, Raymie’s mother was probably sitting on the couch, staring into space. Mrs. Borkowski was probably in her lawn chair in the middle of the road. And Mrs. Sylvester was surely at her desk, typing, the giant jar of candy corn in front of her trembling slightly from the hum and clatter of the electric typewriter.

  And Raymie’s father? Maybe he was sitting in the diner with the dental hygienist. Maybe they were both holding menus. Maybe they were thinking about what they might order.

  Did her father think about her?

  What if he had already forgotten her?

  Those were the questions Raymie wanted to ask somebody, but there wasn’t anyone to ask.

  “Why are you just standing there?” said Beverly. “Are you going to get the book or not?”

  “Well, my goodness,” said Louisiana. “I will get the book.” She ran into the janitor’s office and grabbed Florence Nightingale off the desk and ran back out.

  From somewhere in the Golden Glen there came another scream.


  “I think we should go now,” said Louisiana.

  “That’s a good idea,” said Beverly.

  And the three of them started to run.

  Outside, in front of the Golden Glen, Louisiana was holding the book, and Beverly was sitting on the curb, and Raymie was standing and staring at nothing at all.

  “You said I wouldn’t be any help,” said Louisiana. “But I found the book, and I retrieved the book. And I freed the bird!”

  “No one told you to free a bird,” said Beverly.

  “Yes,” said Louisiana. “That part was extra, an extra good deed.”

  Raymie’s heart thudded somewhere deep inside of her. Good deeds, good deeds. She was so far behind on good deeds that she did not think she would ever catch up.

  “You —” said Beverly. But whatever she intended to say next was interrupted by the appearance of the Elefante station wagon. It came careening down Borton Street, emitting great clouds of black smoke.

  “Look,” said Raymie. This was an entirely unnecessary directive. It would have been impossible to miss seeing the car.

  The station wagon pulled up to the curb and screeched to a stop. A piece of decorative wood paneling was peeling off and hanging at an odd angle. It flapped back and forth thoughtfully.

  “Get in, get in!” shouted Louisiana’s grandmother. “She’s right behind me. There’s not a moment to waste.”

  “Is it Marsha Jean?” said Louisiana. “Is she hot on our trail?”

  “Hurry!” shouted the grandmother. “All of you.”

  “All of us?” asked Raymie.

  “Don’t just stand there!” shouted the grandmother. “Get in the car!”

  “Get in the car, get in the car!” shouted Louisiana. She hopped up and down. “Hurry. Marsha Jean is hot on our trail!”

  Beverly looked at Raymie. She shrugged. She walked toward the station wagon and opened the back door. “You heard her,” said Beverly. She held the door open. “Hurry up. There’s not a moment to waste.”

  “Come on!” said Louisiana. She climbed into the station wagon. Raymie got in after her, and Beverly got in last. She slammed the door shut, and it immediately popped back open.

  The car accelerated so quickly that they were all thrown back against the seat. The broken door slammed shut and then opened again.