The Pantry Door, Julie Steimle [read aloud books .TXT] 📗

tried to run me over! So how is that saving me?”

Standing dumbfounded, the man shrugged. “Hmm. I guess she didn’t expect that. And neither would I. Are you ok? You’re not hurt are you?”

“Only scratched.” She slumped against the windowsill again. “Your friend, Mr. Fugit, came by. Everything just stopped. Just—froze.”

“Wow.” Nissa’s father took hold of his hat like he was keeping it from falling off. “He did that for you? I guess it proves that a man can have affection for the generations beyond. Perhaps you remind him of his wife.”

Katy blinked at him, feeling a bush rise to her cheeks. “I what?”

Laughing, Nissa’s father also shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing. If he hasn’t spoken with you yet about it, I shouldn’t.”

“About what?” Katy peered down, waiting. There was something in that man’s remarks, the tone of his voice that was almost musical, reminding her of her grandfather and his inscrutable looks and secret smiles. Perhaps the land he had built on made it so the men that lived there and farmed it became like that, so full of magic that it just leeched into them.

With the same smile, Nissa’s father waved good-bye. “Maybe another time I’ll tell you, if we get the chance. It’s his story. Not mine.”

He ducked under the awning and went inside the house.

“But….” Katy watched his figure vanish from view. Frowning, she leaned her elbow on the windowsill and her chin in her hand. Not fair, she thought over and over again. It wasn’t fair at all that everyone constantly insisted on keeping secrets from her. And it was even more unfair that Nissa would not be up in the attic room to visit Wednesday either.

She lingered in the attic like this until a sudden panic seized her, reminding her that she ought not let her grandmother see her climb out of the cupboard. So, taking apart her flute and putting it back in to her case, Katy crawled back to the attic door and climbed inside. When she got down and peeked out the cupboard door, her grandmother wasn’t in the kitchen. Hopping out to the floor as lightly as possible, Katy tiptoed to the living room to see if Grandma Schmidt’s guest had left yet. She overheard: “…today down the street. Their truck crashed into the corral fence, and Thomas had his license revoked. But I hear they blame your granddaughter.”

“What for?” Grandma Schmidt asked with a snort. “It wasn’t like she was pushing the truck into the fence.”

“No,” the woman said, nearly hissing it. Katy imagined her face was like a snake, all slit-eyed and snide. “But—”

“But nothing,” Grandma Schmidt snapped. “The Gibsons are blaming my Kathleen for their mishaps when they ought to all take responsibility for their own stupidity.”

“But they said she just up and vanished into thin air, like magic.” The woman had bite in her voice. Katy imagined her having fangs. “Remember the last time things—”

Katy pulled away from the room, frowning. She bit her lip as she turned and walked through the back room and out the back door. Standing on the concrete walk outside, Katy looked up at the darkening sky. It was all wrong. The magic wasn’t her fault. Why should they blame her?

Glancing up to where the window should be, she wondered if finding the room had opened up a door to magic. Was it like Pandora’s Box? Was that land cursed? Was that why Grandpa Schmidt was able to buy it so easily when the community was so closed to strangers? Was she dabbling in things she shouldn’t? Nissa’s words reminded her that she had already taken notice of too many things that Nissa’s father said was dangerous. How much further would she and Nissa fall into it before real trouble started?

“There you are!”

Katy jumped.

Turning around and clenching her chest as her grandmother laughed, Katy tried to regain her composure.

“Mrs. Lowman just left,” Grandma Schmidt said.

Katy rubbed her chest where her heart still pounded.

“Come on into dinner, Kathleen. Tempus fugit.” Grandma Schmidt turned and stepped back through the doorway.

With a jerk, Katy spun around, hopping up the step after her. She grabbed the back of her grandmother’s shirt with one hand. “What did you just say?”

Blinking frankly, Grandma Schmidt replied, “It’s time for dinner.”

Shaking her head with vigor as she let go, Katy also waved her arm. “No, no, no! That other thing. Fugit something.”

“Tempus Fugit?” Her grandmother gave the side of her head a scratch with her forefinger.

“That it!” Katy said. “What does that mean?”

Grinning sagely, her grandmother lifted a finger and said, “It’s Latin. It means: time flies.”

“Time,” Katy muttered under her breath. “Mr. Fugit.”

Her grandmother gave her a quick look and hastily turned in towards the kitchen. She hurried to put on her apron, and tied it with jerky movements. Turning, she called to Katy, “Come on. Are you going to help me or not?”

“Time stopped.” Katy murmured to herself, not really hearing her grandmother.

“Kathleen Nielsen!”

Katy popped up her head. “Huh?”

Her grandmother was flushed, waving her over. “Come help me!”

No idea why, but Katy was also flushed. Her mind raced over the incident earlier that afternoon.

They had chicken and dumplings for supper. Both Katy and her grandmother were silent, except to ask to pass the butter and salt. The silence lasted even until after supper when they both watched My Favorite Brunette from Grandma Schmidt’s DVD collection. When Katy went to bed, her mind was swimming with a million thoughts. She wanted to check that mythology book Nissa had brought into the attic room. She was sure she saw something about Mr. Fugit in it. She was sure of it.

*

Wednesday, after gardening and lunch, Katy was about to go up into the attic during her grandmother’s nap, but the sheriff came around and wanted to speak to both of them. Katy sat in the living room, peering at the Band-Aids over her big cuts and the scratches everywhere else. He frowned, asking mostly if the Gibsons had been harassing them at all. Grandma Schmidt remained tightlipped, saying she saw nothing. He then asked Katy about it.

Katy inhaled for strength and said, “Yesterday when I was walking home from the Sandberg’s, Thomas Gibson chased me in his truck.”

He lifted his eyebrows, his eyes inspecting the bandages with a slight twitch. “And that’s where you got those scratches?”

Katy nodded. “I ran through some bushes to get away.”

“Just some bushes?”

Shaking her head with a glance to her grandmother, she said, “No. I ran through some fields too. He tried to hit me when I crossed the street, but I got out of the way before he could.”

He stared at her, almost dropping his pen. “And you saw him hit the fence?”

She drew in another breath then shook her head.

“No.” Katy could tell he was suddenly nervous, so she added, “I didn’t look back. I just ran.”

Exhaling heavily, the sheriff nodded. “You probably ducked down, so he didn’t see you.”

“What are you implying?” Grandma Schmidt’s voice unexpectedly had bite, bite that made Katy uncomfortable.

Tipping his hat, the sheriff stood up from his chair. “Nothin’ ma’am. Just hearing funny rumors is all.”

Grandma Schmidt stood up, her neck stiff as she watched the sheriff turn and walk to the front door. He gave another nod then went out.

“Now my day is spoiled. I won’t be able to rest now.” Katy heard her grandmother mutter through clenched teeth.

“Grandma?” Katy was about to ask what she was so bugged about, but the agitated look in her grandmother’s eyes stopped her. Instead she said, “Do you want me to play something for you so you can take your nap?”

Her grandmother’s expression lightened. Tears formed in her eyes, turning toward Katy. “Yes, Kathleen. I’d like that.”

Katy walked over to the music cabinet where her grandfather kept his instruments. She slid open the door, taking out oboe.

“Not that one, dear,” said Grandma Schmidt. She set her hand gently on Katy’s and made her put back the oboe. “Use his wooden flute today.”

The wooden flute was kept in a satin bag with velvet lining. Katy took it out from the glass case, cleaned it, and then set it to her lips while her grandmother removed her house shoes and climbed on her bed, laying down in complete exhaustion. Playing a lullaby she knew, Katy gently went over the notes with all feeling she had, wishing her grandmother a peaceful sleep. And sleep her grandmother did.

Once she was sure her grandmother was serenely in dreams, Katy wrapped the wood flute up again and set it back into the cabinet. She then crept to the cupboard and climbed in.

Nissa was there in the room, sobbing and covered in dirt.

“What happened?” Katy scrambled over the carpet to her, crouching at Nissa’s side.

Rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand, Nissa broke out into louder sobs. “They pushed me down. They kicked me.”

Katy wrapped her arms around Nissa, holding her close. “Those Gibsons are so mean.”

“No,” Nissa said. “The kids at the party. Linda invited me only because Mom asked her mom to.”

Frowning, Katy thought of Martha Sandberg. At least Martha was nicer.

“But they all think Daddy is some kind of devil. Thomas Gibson had told them about the hornets daddy made chase him.” Nissa looked up. “They say I’m a witch.”

“You’re not a witch,” Katy snapped, glaring out the window, still holding her. People were so mean. How could they not see that Nissa was just a sweet girl? How could they pick on her like that?

“I ran home,” Nissa said.

“Nobody tried to run you over?” Katy asked wryly, glancing at her own scratches.

“No.” Nissa wiped off her last tears with her palm, sitting up to look at Katy. “But I’m sure they wanted to.”

Katy decided not to tell Nissa about her near miss. Instead, she picked up the book about magical creatures and flipped the pages, speaking to Nissa to get her mind off of her troubles. “I found something out that you might like to know.”

Nissa sniffed, wiping her nose. “What is it?”

Passing the pictures of fauns, dryads, nymphs, sirens, and trolls, Katy opened the book on a page depicting a tremendously old man with a sickle in his hands. She pressed her finger on the page and gave a brisk nod. “This. I figured out who Mr. Fugit is.”

Peering down at the page, inspecting it, Nissa’s face contorted. Then she looked up at Katy. “That’s an old man. Mr. Fugit is a young man who wears a suit, just a friend of Daddy’s.”

With a tap on the page, Katy said, “Read the words, Nissa. Father Time has control over time. He could probably look as old as he wants. Besides, this book has pictures that are all wrong most of the time. The pixie here looks close to what I saw, but the gnome you saw—remember—was nothing like the picture.”

“That is silly,” Nissa said. “Why would Father Time, who I think is totally made up, come and visit my father all the time? Hmm?”

She had a point. Still, Katy knew Mr. Fugit was Father Time. The myth book said the man was the keeper of time.

Thinking hard, Katy replied, “I don’t know why, ok? I just know it’s him.”

“How do you know?” Nissa folded her arms across her chest.

Heaving in a breath, Katy decided to tell her about Thomas Gibson and the truck after all. She started from the beginning, relating how her grandmother had set up a play date for her at Martha’s house just like the party at Linda’s for Nissa. She then told her briefly about why she left the barn and went home, not wanting to tell Nissa about how the animals in the barn stopped to listen to her in case Nissa got scared too. From beginning to end, she told of her escape through the fields and then of her attempt to cross the road, stopping at the moment when she thought she was going to be road-kill.

“And then time just stopped. Mr. Fugit