Falling into Place (7 page)

“How about ‘Happy Birthday'?” he insisted. “I bet you can sing that.”

Mrs. Nightingale didn't bother to argue. She simply opened her mouth and sang.

It was incredible. The words were the ones for “Happy Birthday,” but the tune didn't sound anything like it. It didn't sound like any tune Margaret had ever heard before. She could feel her face puckering up the way it did when she sucked on a lemon. It was a good thing Mrs. Nightingale was tone-deaf, or she would have been pretty miserable under the bucket.

Margaret looked at Roy. He had his hands over his ears and his shoulders hunched, as if someone was about to hit him. They sat there frozen like twin gargoyles until Mrs. Nightingale sang the last, horrible note. Then Roy took his hands away from his ears.

“That wasn't so bad,” he said kindly.

“Yes, it was,” said Margaret. “It was terrible.”

“When I was a girl, every time I opened up my mouth to sing, my brother yelled, ‘I'm telling!'” said Mrs. Nightingale.

“That was mean,” said Roy.

“Yeah, but you can't really blame him,” said Margaret.

“It's not easy, having a voice like mine and a name like Nightingale, let me tell you.” With her bright red lips and shiny red cheeks, she looked like a clown who can change from funny to sad in an instant. She was sad now. “All my life, all I've ever wanted was to sing on a stage in front of an audience, and hear them applaud,” she said wistfully.

I wouldn't count on the applauding part, Margaret was tempted to say. But she couldn't. Not with the way Mrs. Nightingale looked.

“You could sing to Roy and me,” she said instead. “We wouldn't mind, would we, Roy?”

“Not that much.”

“You're both very sweet.” Their sympathy seemed to cheer her up, because she was suddenly her smiling, jovial self again. “Thank you, but no. It's karaoke or nothing.”

“Maybe they can turn up the music really loud, to drown you out,” said Roy.

“And we can come and clap, so people'll think you sound good,” said Margaret. “We'll ask Mrs. Tudley, too. And Gran. We'll all clap.”

“Then no one will be able to hear you,” finished Roy. “It'll be great.”

Mrs. Nightingale threw her head back and laughed so hard, everything on her jiggled. “I don't know whether to be insulted or encouraged,” she said at last. “But I'll do it.”

“Yippee!” shouted Roy, jumping to his feet.

“Oh, I'm so excited,” said Margaret. It felt so good to try to cheer somebody up and actually have it work for a change that she jumped up, too, and was hugging Mrs. Nightingale around the neck before she remembered they were strangers. She drew back, embarrassed.

But Mrs. Nightingale had already turned to Roy.

“Come on, one from you, too, Roy.” She enveloped him in an enthusiastic embrace, from which he emerged red-faced but pleased.

“There can be no formalities among the three of us if you're going to help launch me on my new career,” said Mrs. Nightingale. “Now, you two had better run along. I have lots of work to do, and not much time.”

“Gran can have her party after the karaoke,” said Margaret as Mrs. Nightingale opened the door. “It'll be perfect.”

“I don't know whether you'll all be consoling me or congratulating me, but it will be nice to have the company,” called Mrs. Nightingale from her front stoop.

Roy was about to lead the way through the gate when Margaret stopped. She couldn't leave without asking one more question. “Wait a minute,” she said quickly. She turned and ran back to the bottom of the steps. “Mrs. Nightingale?” she said uncertainly.

“Yes, Margaret?”

Margaret took a deep breath. “When your brother was mean to you, did it make you hate him for the rest of your life?” she said in a rush.

“Ronald? Why, I adore him. He's one of my best friends. Why do you ask?”

“I don't know.”

Mrs. Nightingale's face creased in an understanding smile. “I wouldn't worry if I were you,” she said kindly. “Siblings are resilient creatures. If you've done something you're sorry for, I'm sure you'll make it up to them. You're a nice girl, Margaret, I can tell. ”

Margaret felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She was suddenly as light as air. “Thanks,” she said. She smiled radiantly and ran back to join Roy out on the street.

“Tell your grandmother I'm looking forward to meeting her,” Mrs. Nightingale called as they crossed the street.

“We will!” chorused Margaret and Ray.

“It certainly was a serendipitous event, meeting you two!”

“Same here,” yelled Margaret. “See you tomorrow!”

“Ser-en-di-pi-tous,” said Roy. He pulled out his notebook and slowed down so he could write. “That will be my longest word ever.”

“It means lucky,” said Margaret.

“How do you know?”

“I just do. Go ahead”—she executed a perfect cartwheel, then kept on walking—“look it up.”

It did mean lucky, she thought happily. She could feel it in her bones. Mrs. Nightingale was lucky to have met them, and they were lucky to have met Mrs. Nightingale.

She could hardly wait to introduce her to Gran.

“. . . and her husband's name was really Livingston Dudley Tudley . . .”

“But they called him Tubby because he was fat.”

“But he didn't mind,” said Margaret, “because being fat wasn't so bad back then.”

“Being overweight is never a good idea,” Roy said.

“And Mrs. Nightingale was singing with a bucket over her head, because she's tone-deaf,” said Margaret.

“You can imagine how hard it is on her with a name like Nightingale,” said Roy.

They were standing side by side in front of Gran, soldiers reporting on a successful mission. She had been looking from one eager face to the other like a spectator at a tennis match. Now she put down the pen she'd been using to address an envelope, and smiled. “It sounds as if you two have had a very busy morning.”

“They're really great, Gran,” Margaret said. “You'll like them.”

“Mrs. Tudley loves to dance,” said Roy. “We told her you might want to go to her dance class at the Recreation Center.”

Margaret pinched him, but it was too late. Two bright red spots appeared on Gran's cheeks. Her mouth flattened into a disapproving line.

“You're good to think of me, Roy,” she said stiffly, “but I'm not so old yet that I view dancing with a bunch of old women in a cafeteria as something to look forward to.”

Roy looked hurt.

The smile fell from Margaret's face. “That's not very nice, Gran,” she said. “You don't even know Mrs. Tudley and Mrs. Nightingale.”

“Yeah, and when Mrs. Tudley came over to say she was sorry about Tad, you hid,” said Roy. “And she's shrinking.”

“Don't you think you should at least give them a chance?” said Margaret. “Meet them a few times, and see if you like them?”

“I don't know. . . .” Gran picked up the envelope and looked at it thoughtfully in silence for a minute. “I've been sitting here for a while, composing a letter to Mr. Whiting. If Tad were here, we'd have a good laugh over all these silly rules. But by myself . . . ?” She looked at Margaret with a stony face. “I'm afraid I don't have the energy for any of it right now, Margaret. I don't even feel like walking this to the mailbox, if it comes to that.

“Since you have so much energy, Roy, why don't
you
take it?” she said suddenly, holding out the envelope to him. “You might even want to take it directly to Mr. Whiting. Maybe he's another resident of Carol Woods I should get to know.”

“Me?” Roy said. He took a step back. He was afraid to take the letter, Margaret realized, and hurt by the sarcastic tone in Gran's voice. “Why me?” he said helplessly.

For Margaret, it was the final straw. Here they were, trying their best to cheer Gran up and make her happy, and Mrs. Nightingale and Mrs. Tudley, full of sympathy and understanding for a person they didn't even know, and here was Gran, being mean and sarcastic about them all. Worst of all, she was deliberately being horrible to Roy, her own grandson, who was gentle and kind and never said a mean word to anyone.

Margaret snatched the envelope out of Gran's hand. She knew she was being rude, but she didn't care.

“I'll take it to him,” she said abruptly, turning on her heel. “Come on, Roy.”

He waited until they were outside to speak.

“Why can't we just put it in the mailbox?” he said, scurrying after her. “Why do we have to take it all the way to him? Mr. Whiting hates Gran. What if he yells at us?”

“So? Haven't you ever heard anyone yell before?” Margaret pushed the gate open with such energy, it flew back and hit Roy in the stomach.

“Hey! What are you mad at
me
for?” he said.

“She's brooding,” said Margaret. She was stomping her feet so hard that little pieces of gravel were shooting out to either side like sparks. “She's sitting around like a chicken all day long, brooding.”

“Are you sure?”

“You saw her!” said Margaret. “Everyone's trying as hard as they can, and all she does is act tired, and look out the window, and say ‘I don't know' all the time. She's being mean about people she doesn't even know, and she's being mean to us. Her own grandchildren.”

“No, I mean the chicken part,” said Roy. “I mean, I think chickens are hens, but I don't think they brood. I think hens brood, but—”

“For heaven's sake, Roy!
Who cares?”
Margaret shouted. She halted and whirled around to face him so fast that he almost ran right into her. “I'm talking about Gran's attitude. There are lots of things to do around here, if she'd give them a chance. And the people are nice. No one's talking about their aches and pains like she said. They're all doing things. Everyone except Gran.”

“I feel sorry for her,” said Roy.

“Feeling sorry isn't doing her any good,” said Margaret. “It's only making her feel more sorry for herself.”

“Maybe she's scared.”

“Of what?”

“I don't know. Maybe she's afraid she's next.”

“Next for what?”

“Next to die.”

“What?” The word was so unexpected, Margaret shook her head slightly, as if she wasn't sure she had heard him correctly. “What are you talking about? Gran's not dying.”

“She might feel like she is,” he said. “Tad died, didn't he? They were almost the same age. Maybe Gran thinks she's next.”

“But Gran's in perfect health.”

“Tad was, too, until he got sick.”

Margaret couldn't think of a thing to say. Roy kind of had a point. Maybe Gran was afraid. Margaret was afraid sometimes, too. But she couldn't go around being afraid for the rest of her life, could she? That would be horrible.

Gran couldn't either.

“I don't care.” She started to walk again. “She's got to try harder.”

Roy walked along beside her. “When are we going to tell her she's having them over for a party?” he said.

“I don't know. Maybe we won't even have the stupid party.” She stopped in front of the last house on the block and looked from the letter in her hand to the front door. “One-sixty. This is it.”

“Let's slip it under the door and run,” said Roy.

“Why should we run? We haven't done anything.”

“We're related to Gran, that's why.”

“Mr. Whiting doesn't know that,” said Margaret. “We'll tell him a grouchy old lady we never saw before made us deliver it.”

“And then we'll run?”

But they didn't have time to do anything. Before they even got to the door, it was flung open wide and a shrill voice shouted, “Get lost!”

“Now, now, Rolly, mind your manners.” Mr. Whiting reached up and smoothed the feathers of the large gray bird on his shoulder. “That's no way to greet our visitors.”

He wasn't at all what Margaret had expected. He was wearing a pale gray cardigan, a bow tie, and slippers. His thin white hair was slicked back from his face, and his curly eyebrows stuck out over his gentle eyes like wings. This was the mean, horrible Mr. Whiting?

“We're not visiting,” she said. She held out Gran's letter. “We came to bring you this.”

“Is that a parrot?” said Roy. He looked as if he had dropped any idea of fleeing, and was gazing up at Mr. Whiting's bird admiringly. “I've always wanted a parrot.”

“Rolly is a cockatiel,” said Mr. Whiting. He held Gran's letter in the air and squinted. “How nice. A letter from Mrs. Mack. At long last.”

“How do you know who it's from?” said Margaret.

“I have to confess, I saw you coming,” he said. He held up the binoculars that were hanging around his neck on a cord.

Margaret's eyes widened in shock. “You were spying on us!” she said indignantly.

“Actually, I was watching a flock of warblers,” said Mr. Whiting. “But I did catch you in my sight,
›
yes.

“Spying's sneaky,” she said.

“In this case, it was strictly by accident, I assure you. I didn't mean to be sneaky. Just as I'm sure you didn't mean to litter when you threw your half-eaten Popsicle over your shoulder onto my lawn.”

When Margaret's face fell, Mr. Whiting laughed gleefully. His laugh was almost as shocking as his spying. Mr. Whiting wasn't mean, he was sweet.

“Your sister's very fierce, isn't she?” he said to Roy.

“He's not my brother, he's my cousin,” said Margaret. “And you're being mean to our grandmother.”

“Mean to your grandmother?” said Mr. Whiting. “Why, we haven't even met. I knocked on her door two or three times, but she wasn't in, and she never attends our monthly Steering Committee meetings. How on earth have I been mean to her?”