The woman was wearing a long dress, the man a formal, old-fashioned black suit, but that was all I could see of them. Because their faces had been scratched out, as if someone had taken a knife or the point of a scissors and slashed away at the paper until nothing remained but jagged holes where their faces should have been.
Well! That gave me a creepy feeling! Who were the mystery man and woman? What had they done, and why did someone hate them enough to obliterate their faces? It didn’t seem like something Linda would do, but I didn’t know her that well. Could it have been Miles or Flora, with their perfect manners and their gentle little voices? I figured I could ask Linda about it when I got to know her better, but something told me I’d have to wait and find the right moment. It was also possible that Linda didn’t even know about the mutilated photo, and I didn’t want to upset her. It sure upset me.
It seemed wiser, at least for a while, to pretend—even to myself!—that I hadn’t seen it. I carefully replaced it under the other photo and put both pictures back in the frame. Then I decided it might be a good idea to make myself some breakfast.
The sunny kitchen cheered me up. I scrambled some eggs and made some toast, and as I sat at the table, eating the food, which turned out to be delicious, I noticed that I was enjoying the solitude. It no longer felt like a nervous loneliness but like space and … freedom! Once more, I felt hopeful about the summer ahead. The image of the ruined photo crept back into my mind, but … so what? Kids did weird things all the time. They could be destructive without meaning to, without knowing what they were doing. And just because Miles and Flora said please and thank you didn’t mean they weren’t kids.
Just as I was washing up my breakfast dishes, I heard the put-put-put of a boat, and a few minutes later I looked out the window and saw a bunch of guys in work clothes, laughing and joking as they walked across the lawn toward the house.
Mr. Swopes, who told me to call him Hank, wore jeans and a beard and had a warm, friendly handshake. Actually, he reminded me a little of my dad. He looked surprised to see me instead of Linda, but without too much confusion I explained the situation. He seemed disappointed that Linda wasn’t there, in a way that made me think that maybe he had a crush on Linda. I handed him the “to do” list that Linda had left on the kitchen table. Hank laughed when he read it and said, “I can see that me and the guys have our work cut out for us today. I guess we’ll see you around.” I asked if they wanted some water or something to eat. But Hank said no, thanks, they’d brought their lunch and plenty of water with them.
The men began trimming the shrubs and mowing the lawn near the house, and I watched them, feeling a little envious of how smoothly they worked together and what good friends they obviously were. Each one of them seemed to know what the others were doing, or were about to do, without having to talk. When their chores took them farther out toward the lake, I decided to go to the library and see if I could find something interesting to read.
The library was on the main floor, with tall glass doors through which you could walk onto the patio at the back of the house. The light shining through the tall windows was dusty and soft, and the smell of old paper and leather and books was soothing. Glinting gold letters caught my eye, and I took down the plays of William Shakespeare and spent a while, sitting on the floor, looking at an engraving of Hamlet holding a skull. Then I skimmed through another book about the Roman Empire, and as I put it away, I noticed that beside it was a book about volcanoes. I recalled the prints of volcanoes on Jim Crackstone’s office wall. For a moment it seemed like another coincidence, until I realized that Jim Crackstone had grown up in this house. Maybe his love for volcanoes had started
Well! That gave me a creepy feeling! Who were the mystery man and woman? What had they done, and why did someone hate them enough to obliterate their faces? It didn’t seem like something Linda would do, but I didn’t know her that well. Could it have been Miles or Flora, with their perfect manners and their gentle little voices? I figured I could ask Linda about it when I got to know her better, but something told me I’d have to wait and find the right moment. It was also possible that Linda didn’t even know about the mutilated photo, and I didn’t want to upset her. It sure upset me.
It seemed wiser, at least for a while, to pretend—even to myself!—that I hadn’t seen it. I carefully replaced it under the other photo and put both pictures back in the frame. Then I decided it might be a good idea to make myself some breakfast.
The sunny kitchen cheered me up. I scrambled some eggs and made some toast, and as I sat at the table, eating the food, which turned out to be delicious, I noticed that I was enjoying the solitude. It no longer felt like a nervous loneliness but like space and … freedom! Once more, I felt hopeful about the summer ahead. The image of the ruined photo crept back into my mind, but … so what? Kids did weird things all the time. They could be destructive without meaning to, without knowing what they were doing. And just because Miles and Flora said please and thank you didn’t mean they weren’t kids.
Just as I was washing up my breakfast dishes, I heard the put-put-put of a boat, and a few minutes later I looked out the window and saw a bunch of guys in work clothes, laughing and joking as they walked across the lawn toward the house.
Mr. Swopes, who told me to call him Hank, wore jeans and a beard and had a warm, friendly handshake. Actually, he reminded me a little of my dad. He looked surprised to see me instead of Linda, but without too much confusion I explained the situation. He seemed disappointed that Linda wasn’t there, in a way that made me think that maybe he had a crush on Linda. I handed him the “to do” list that Linda had left on the kitchen table. Hank laughed when he read it and said, “I can see that me and the guys have our work cut out for us today. I guess we’ll see you around.” I asked if they wanted some water or something to eat. But Hank said no, thanks, they’d brought their lunch and plenty of water with them.
The men began trimming the shrubs and mowing the lawn near the house, and I watched them, feeling a little envious of how smoothly they worked together and what good friends they obviously were. Each one of them seemed to know what the others were doing, or were about to do, without having to talk. When their chores took them farther out toward the lake, I decided to go to the library and see if I could find something interesting to read.
The library was on the main floor, with tall glass doors through which you could walk onto the patio at the back of the house. The light shining through the tall windows was dusty and soft, and the smell of old paper and leather and books was soothing. Glinting gold letters caught my eye, and I took down the plays of William Shakespeare and spent a while, sitting on the floor, looking at an engraving of Hamlet holding a skull. Then I skimmed through another book about the Roman Empire, and as I put it away, I noticed that beside it was a book about volcanoes. I recalled the prints of volcanoes on Jim Crackstone’s office wall. For a moment it seemed like another coincidence, until I realized that Jim Crackstone had grown up in this house. Maybe his love for volcanoes had started
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