The Gift of the Magpie Read online

  “I guess this is why you keep telling us to clean our rooms,” he said.

  “Definitely,” I said. “Are you guys up for helping?” I suspected they would be, since someone had equipped them both with dust masks like the one Aida was wearing.

  They both nodded.

  “Okay—see that door?”

  I pointed to the door of the office. The half-dozen or so boxes I’d packed had made a barely visible dent in the mountains of paper.

  “Is that room completely full of paper?” Jamie asked.

  “Maybe,” I said. “I have no idea. It’s a mystery. And the only way to solve it is to dig in. Start filling boxes with paper. If you come across something that’s not paper, call me or your great-grandmother to look at it.”

  “Okay.”

  Normally the boys tried their best to do everything as differently as possible. But I had to suppress a chuckle when I saw them both square their shoulders, pull up their dust masks, pick up a box, and approach the door in an unconscious but perfect imitation of what Mother would do when approaching a difficult task.

  I went back to the kitchen to see how that was going.

  Mr. Dunlop was enthusiastically making inroads on a plate piled high with some of Deacon Washington’s mouthwatering food. Cordelia and Rose Noire were working on more modest plates.

  “Amazing,” he said through a bit of pulled pork sandwich.

  I decided he was mellow enough to bring up a possibly sticky subject.

  “By the way,” I said. “When I first arrived a man came up to me claiming to be your cousin. He seemed to assume I’d let him come in with us, but I didn’t know if you wanted him here—and for that matter, I didn’t even know if he really was your cousin, so I shooed him away. And now there are three of them.”

  Mr. Dunlop was nodding.

  “I saw them. The Haverhills; Morris, Ernest, and Josephine. And yes, they’re cousins, but I don’t want them here. Only second cousins. And their father quarreled with mine before I was born—I barely even met them. It’s not like we have fond childhood memories of playing together or anything. I don’t even know what they’re doing here—they all live in Farmville.”

  “So we should keep them out of the house.”

  “And off my property. Please.”

  I realized his tone wasn’t so much hostile as anxious.

  “That’s so sad,” Rose Noire said. “Not to get along with your family.”

  “If you knew them, you’d understand,” Mr. Dunlop said. “And I wasn’t the one who started it.”

  “Do you have any family members you would want to see?” Rose Noire could be persistent.

  “No.” Now he just looked sad. “They’re the only family I’ve got left. And if it’s a choice between them and nothing … I pick nothing.”

  Probably a good time to change the subject.

  “You know,” I said. “Maybe we should knock off in time to go to the concert—it’s the night when the New Life Baptist Church does its Christmas program for all the non-Baptists.”

  “Fabulous,” Cordelia said. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world—have you heard them, Harvey?”

  “No, I’ve never managed to make their concert.” He sounded wistful.

  “Let’s go, then,” I said. “I can get Minerva Burke to save us good seats. And then after the concert, we can go over to the furniture store, inspect what’s there, and have that potluck party.”

  Cordelia and Rose Noire immediately seized upon the idea and began embroidering it. I realized what they were doing—they were getting him to buy into the idea of leaving his house. Getting him downright excited about it. Good. And—

  My phone rang. Not a familiar number, but few were these days, between calls from people for whom Helping Hands was doing projects and people volunteering for projects. I pulled it out and answered it with what I hoped was a businesslike but welcoming “hello.”

  “The Drunkard’s Path,” said a pleasant but unfamiliar female voice.

  I waited for more information. In vain.

  “I beg your pardon—who is this, and what was that again?”

  “It’s Grace Dinwiddie.” The voice sounded disappointed, and a little hurt. “I was supposed to call you to give you more information about my grandmother’s quilt? The one Reverend Smith thought the Helping Hands project could help me finish?”

  “Oh, right.” I flipped my notebook open to the section where I was keeping information on the Helping Hands projects. Yes, I had a page for Grace Dinwiddie, with her address and phone number. “What was that you said?” I asked. “I must have misheard you.”

  “If it sounded as if I said ‘The Drunkard’s Path,’ then you didn’t mishear me,” she said, with a throaty chuckle. “That’s what I’ve been told is the name of the quilt pattern Gran was using—at least according to my downstairs neighbor, who knows about these things. And she says to warn you that this is a particularly difficult version of The Drunkard’s Path because the pieces are so small.”

  I stifled the impulse to mutter, “Oh, great,” and settled for writing down “Drunkard’s path with very tiny pieces.”

  “And how big a quilt is it—do you have any idea?”

  “At least queen sized. Gran was always saying she wanted people to use her quilts, not just hang them on the wall for pretty. And she was savvy enough to figure out that wasn’t going to happen unless the quilt was big enough to cover a modern queen or even king bed. That’s the other thing—Robyn did tell you about the whole space problem, right?”

  “Er … not really.”

  “I’m in one of those junior efficiencies at the Belvedere Arms,” she said. “You know, the ones that make cells in the county jail look like mansions.”

  I did know. Thanks to the laissez-faire attitude of its absentee owner, we’d already done several Helping Hands projects at that particularly run-down apartment building. And if she had a junior efficiency, her whole living space was probably smaller than the walk-in closet Michael and I shared.

  “There’s barely room for me to turn around in my space,” she went on. “I don’t see that there’s any way someone could work on the quilt in here.”

  “We’ll figure something out,” I said. “Why don’t I send someone over to collect all the pieces—say, sometime tomorrow?”

  “Anytime would be fine,” she said. “Just give me a few minutes heads-up.”

  We exchanged seasonal good wishes and hung up.

  “So is there a quilting bee in our future?” Cordelia asked.

  “Apparently,” I said.

  “But not until we finish taking care of Harvey,” Rose Noire said, frowning with anxiety.

  “Of course not.”

  They both turned to beam at Harvey, who did appear to have grown slightly anxious during my conversation with Mrs. Dinwiddie.

  “So tell us about this.” Cordelia was holding up a rather large piece of jewelry.

  “That’s a Victorian mourning brooch,” he said. “My grandmother wore it all the time.”

  “What’s that inside?” Rose Noire asked. “It looks like … braided hair.”

  “Yes—one lock each from two little girls she lost as babies.”

  “How sad.” Rose Noire looked quite ready to put on full mourning for the long-lost infants.

  “It was.” Harvey looked less sad than sentimental. “My father was the only one to survive.”

  I left them to it and went back to the living room. A glance down the hall showed that Jamie and Josh were still hard at work, piling up boxes of paper. And making impressive progress, but so far there wasn’t really enough room for anyone else to help them.

  “Got a corner for me?” I asked Joyce.

  “Try over there.” She stood and eased her back. “What in the world do you suppose this is?” She was holding up an object. I took a few steps closer and peered at it: it was about a foot tall and made of white china painted with flowers and heavily decorated with various odd-shaped and vag
uely repulsive knobs and bulges that you might have managed to overlook if they hadn’t been daubed with gold paint. The knobs and bulges grew more numerous on the object’s sides, forming two rather awkward handles. Joyce tilted it and I could see that it was hollow and open at the top.

  “Presumably a vase,” I said.

  “A superlatively ugly vase,” she said, in a low tone, after a glance toward the door to the kitchen. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like it, and I’ve put in my time in scouting who knows how many antique stores and junk shops.”

  “Show it to Mother,” I said. “With any luck, it will turn out to be something rare and valuable that Mr. Dunlop can sell for a small fortune.”

  “I’m not holding my breath.” She turned the presumed vase to study it from another angle. “You know, it doesn’t look like him.”

  “Do you think it’s supposed to? Some kind of portrait vase?” I squinted, but it didn’t make the vase look any more like Mr. Dunlop.

  “No, I mean it doesn’t look like something he’d like or care about. The same for nine-tenths of the stuff in here. I’m not at all sure he collected all this dreck. I think maybe he inherited it and just doesn’t know what to do with it.”

  “Or can’t bring himself to part with it,” I suggested, “because it used to belong to his parents, or his grandparents, or his great-aunt Sophie.”

  “Exactly.” She shuddered, and enveloped the ghastly vase in a large sheet of packing paper. “So will that make it easier or harder for him to declutter?”

  “I guess we’ll soon find out,” I said.

  She picked up another item—one of a pair of gaily painted but insipid-looking figurines. If we were in one of those melodramas in which Mr. Dunlop was in danger of having his house repossessed by a suave, mustache-twirling villain, Mother would walk in and recognize the gaudy little figurines as priceless Dresden or Meissen or whatever—something that could be sold for a fortune and make living happily after possible. But since we were in real life, they’d probably turn out to be cheap dime-store junk. From Joyce’s expression as she wrapped them, I’d put my money on junk.

  I stopped worrying and settled into the slow steady routine: grab an object. Untangle it, if necessary, from all the surrounding objects. Take its picture. Contemplate, just for a moment, how satisfying it would be to throw it in a black plastic trash bag or a box marked “donations.” Then sigh, wrap it neatly, and tuck it in a moving box.

  I was wondering if it was possible to doze off while packing—and if so, whether I’d keep on packing in my sleep or keel over and snore—when we heard shouting outside. Joyce and I both abandoned our packing and hurried over to peer out of the front door, since the front windows weren’t yet reachable.

  Morris and Ernest Haverhill had squared off and were shouting insults and shaking their fists at each other.

  Chapter 9

  “Ooh,” Joyce said. “It’s the whooping crane people, fighting amongst themselves.”

  “Whooping cranes are elegant,” I said. “I think of them as the praying mantis people.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “Much more apt. You know, I think if either one of them were actually going to deck the other, he’d have done it by now.”

  They were continuing to bellow, though it seemed to be taking them longer to think up another insult, and they were, if anything, farther apart than when they started.

  “Yes,” I said. “I suspect they’re desperately hoping someone will step in to break up their fight before they actually have to go through with it.”

  Just then their sister strode over, placed herself between them, and said something. Her words didn’t carry, but whatever she said interrupted their scene. To their ill-concealed relief.

  Now she shook her fist at Morris and pointed to his car. He folded his arms and shook his head. She turned to Ernest and repeated the process. Evidently Morris and Ernest, like Josh and Jamie, liked to do everything differently. Although in my sons it wasn’t because they loathed each other—clearly the Haverhill brothers did. Ernest said something—not, from his facial expression, something I was sorry to miss—before stomping over to his car. He jerked the car door open, slammed it shut after getting in, and drove off with a screech of his tires.

  Josephine said something else to Morris before getting into her car and driving off in a noticeably more sedate and sensible manner. Once she was out of sight, Morris got back into his car. I was hoping he’d follow his siblings’ example, but he just settled in to watch what was happening outside Mr. Dunlop’s house.

  “Poor Harvey,” Joyce said. “With a family like that, who needs enemies?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “No wonder he’s a hermit.”

  Around four I got a text from Caroline, asking if I could pick her up at the zoo in an hour or so. The zoo? Well, she’d probably gone back there with Grandfather after searching our yard for the magpies. Since I’d been trying for some time to think of an excuse to take a break from packing, I texted back “of course!” If I stopped work now, I’d have time to check on what was happening elsewhere in Harvey’s house before heading for the zoo. And we should probably stop anyway when the light went, given the perilous state of his front walk.

  I let Rose Noire and Cordelia know where I was going. Along with Harvey, they had relocated into the bedroom, and were ostensibly helping him figure out what he would wear to the concert and party this evening. Actually, they were gently but firmly talking him out of the better part of the mountains of clothes that filled every corner of his room—the socks with holes in the toes, the pants with rips in the knees, the unflattering or ludicrously out-of-style shirts. A dozen boxes marked “donate” were packed and ready for pickup. The lone “keep” box was only half full.

  “It’s just so much easier to get rid of almost anything if you know someone else can use it, isn’t that so?” Cordelia said.

  “Yes.” Harvey smiled and looked a little less tense. I had the feeling this wasn’t the first time they’d had this exchange.

  “We’re making real progress,” Rose Noire said. “Harvey, do you think you’re ready to tackle the closet?”

  Ready to tackle the closet? They’d filled a dozen boxes without even starting on the closet? But yes, she opened the door and we could see that the closet was full to bursting.

  “The closet?” Just for a second, his face wore a surprised expression, as if he’d forgotten there was a closet somewhere behind all the stuff. Then his expression grew … sad? Anxious? “Oh, yeah. That was all my father’s stuff. It can all go.”

  Curious. He seemed almost overly sentimental about everything else that had a family connection. There had to be a story there, and probably not a cheerful one. I could see from Cordelia’s face that she shared my sense of puzzlement. I’d leave it to her find out what was up between father and son.

  Rose Noire was holding up a black suit so long and narrow that it clearly wouldn’t fit someone of Harvey’s average height and plump frame. It would probably fit either of the Haverhills quite nicely, though.

  “Good decision,” Cordelia said. “Let’s take a look at everything while we pack it, to make sure there’s nothing valuable in the pockets.” She picked up a roll of packing tape and began assembling another box.

  “I’ll see you later,” I said.

  “At New Life Baptist,” Cordelia said. “And your mother said don’t worry about refreshments for the party. She’s on it.”

  When I walked outside I felt, just for a moment, as if I’d gone out on stage. The high school kids looked up from where they were loading boxes onto the truck. Josh and Jamie turned around from where they were standing by the Not Just Tacos Truck, evidently about to refuel. Mr. Brimley was sitting on his porch, wearing a down jacket and with his legs tucked into a sleeping bag, unabashedly keeping an eye on what was happening. Mrs. Gudgeon’s binoculars were visible. Morris Haverhill was still there. I fought the impulse to take a bow.

  “What’s
up?”

  I started slightly, and then relaxed. It was only Randall, carrying the front end of a small stack of half-rotten boards. I moved aside to make way for Michael, who was carrying the other end.

  “Harvey okayed our hauling off all the junk from under the house,” he said in passing. “We’re going to load it now, before we lose the light. Can you recruit a few more people to help us?”

  I could indeed. Soon Josh, Jamie, and all but one of the high school kids were trudging back and forth carrying boards, bricks, and cinder blocks and loading them onto a large Shiffley Construction Company truck.

  “We’ll sort out what can be reused from what’s pure trash when we get it down to the dump,” Randall said as he surveyed the load. “The important thing is to get it away from here before he changes his mind.”

  “I doubt if he will,” I said. “I’m beginning to wonder if Harvey’s dad was the real hoarder and he just never learned any better.”

  “That would be a good thing,” Randall said. “Still, maybe we should take anything else that’s actual trash to the dump while we’re at it. Unless you think he’s going to freak when he sees it all leaving.”

  “I think he’s going to be okay with it,” I said.

  “We can put all the bags right inside the gate until we’re sure of that,” Randall suggested. “That way if he has second thoughts, we can just bring those bags along to the furniture store.”

  Clearly Randall was a kinder person than I was. If Mr. Dunlop suddenly decided he couldn’t live without several bags of expired dry foods—which included a dozen boxes of Nut & Honey Crunch, a cereal I was pretty sure hadn’t been manufactured since the nineties—I’d be inclined to say we’d taken them to the dump and had no idea where to find them.

  “Let’s load your pickup, then,” Michael suggested. “But quietly.”

  Between the food from the kitchen and the miscellaneous trash from the rest of the house—empty pizza boxes, used paper towels, water-ruined cardboard boxes, and other things that had been so obviously useless that Harvey hadn’t had much trouble letting go of them, the black plastic garbage bags filled the bed of Randall’s large pickup truck. Randall and Michael recruited a few of the high school kids to help out at the dump, and then the construction truck and the pickup drove away.