Miss Townsend had promised. Maybe his grandfather would let him call her today and find out when.
He got out of bed, stretched and yawned, then turned to make the bed. As he did, he remembered the wooden soldier in the attic. There had to be a way to see him again. He wouldn’t break it. How could he make his grandfather see? Other kids his age broke things, but Patrick wasn’t like that. His neighbor, Mrs. Howard, said he was the only little boy she had ever trusted in her parlor.
He straightened the rest of his room, changed his clothes, and went into the bathroom. Along the way, he stopped and eyed the attic door. He’s up there all by himself, Patrick thought. In his mind, the soldier was well on his way to becoming a living thing.
When he finished in the bathroom, he went downstairs. The living room was empty. He walked into the kitchen and peeked around the corner. The kitchen was empty too. He began to panic. He hadn’t heard any noise upstairs. Was his grandfather still upstairs? It was starting to feel like the bad dream he had two nights ago. He was just about to run upstairs when he heard footsteps coming from below, behind a doorway in the dining room. His grandfather emerged from the basement, wiping his hands on his pants.
“So you’re up,” he said, closing the door. “I suppose you want something to eat.”
Patrick breathed a sigh of relief.
“I’ve got some oatmeal made in a pot if you want it. Help yourself.”
Patrick wanted to remind him he was only seven. Seven year olds weren’t supposed to fix their own breakfasts. “Thank you,” he said. “Is there any milk, sir?”
“Some in the icebox. Smell it first.”
After eating breakfast by himself, he began to dread the day ahead. A half hour in his grandfather’s presence and his morning joy had evaporated. He got up from the table and cleaned up his mess. As he worked, he tried building his nerve to just walk right into the living room and talk things out with his grandfather. First, he’d ask him about calling Miss Townsend. Then about what was in that cardboard box. Maybe even about the wooden soldier in the attic.
Well, maybe not about the wooden soldier just yet.
Patrick tiptoed in and stood in front of him, silent as a sentry. He was reading the newspaper. Patrick hoped to catch him when he changed pages. The doorbell rang, startling them both. His grandfather jumped in his seat, newspaper pages flapping in the air. Patrick jumped back.
“What are you doing?” Collins asked Patrick, rising to his feet.
“I-I was just standing here. I—” “Who is that now?” Collins muttered as he answered the door. “Oh, great,” he said, standing on his tiptoes, looking out the front door window. “What does she want?”
“Who is it?” Patrick asked, hoping the answer was Miss Townsend.
Collins sighed as he put on his coat. “You better step back. I open this door and you’re going to freeze.”
Patrick backed halfway into the dining room.
“Hurry up, old man. I’m freezing out here.” A muffled woman’s voice yelled through the door. It couldn’t be Miss Townsend, he thought. The woman had some kind of accent.
The door opened on a big black blob of a woman stomping the snow off her boots in the vestibule. She marched through the threshold like she was in her own home and handed Collins her black gloves. As she parted with a fur hat, Patrick noticed her black hair was tightly woven in a bun, thick gray streaks on the sides. She wore a hairnet that seemed to emanate from a dark hole in the center of her forehead. She was holding some kind of covered plate, which she set down on the coffee table. Collins closed the door behind her with a frown.
“Morning, Mrs. Fortini,” Collins said. “What brings you over so early in the morning?” He didn’t sound pleased.
“Is that him?” she said, handing Collins her coat and staring right at Patrick. Her smile, set against her jovial face, gave her the appearance of a
He got out of bed, stretched and yawned, then turned to make the bed. As he did, he remembered the wooden soldier in the attic. There had to be a way to see him again. He wouldn’t break it. How could he make his grandfather see? Other kids his age broke things, but Patrick wasn’t like that. His neighbor, Mrs. Howard, said he was the only little boy she had ever trusted in her parlor.
He straightened the rest of his room, changed his clothes, and went into the bathroom. Along the way, he stopped and eyed the attic door. He’s up there all by himself, Patrick thought. In his mind, the soldier was well on his way to becoming a living thing.
When he finished in the bathroom, he went downstairs. The living room was empty. He walked into the kitchen and peeked around the corner. The kitchen was empty too. He began to panic. He hadn’t heard any noise upstairs. Was his grandfather still upstairs? It was starting to feel like the bad dream he had two nights ago. He was just about to run upstairs when he heard footsteps coming from below, behind a doorway in the dining room. His grandfather emerged from the basement, wiping his hands on his pants.
“So you’re up,” he said, closing the door. “I suppose you want something to eat.”
Patrick breathed a sigh of relief.
“I’ve got some oatmeal made in a pot if you want it. Help yourself.”
Patrick wanted to remind him he was only seven. Seven year olds weren’t supposed to fix their own breakfasts. “Thank you,” he said. “Is there any milk, sir?”
“Some in the icebox. Smell it first.”
After eating breakfast by himself, he began to dread the day ahead. A half hour in his grandfather’s presence and his morning joy had evaporated. He got up from the table and cleaned up his mess. As he worked, he tried building his nerve to just walk right into the living room and talk things out with his grandfather. First, he’d ask him about calling Miss Townsend. Then about what was in that cardboard box. Maybe even about the wooden soldier in the attic.
Well, maybe not about the wooden soldier just yet.
Patrick tiptoed in and stood in front of him, silent as a sentry. He was reading the newspaper. Patrick hoped to catch him when he changed pages. The doorbell rang, startling them both. His grandfather jumped in his seat, newspaper pages flapping in the air. Patrick jumped back.
“What are you doing?” Collins asked Patrick, rising to his feet.
“I-I was just standing here. I—” “Who is that now?” Collins muttered as he answered the door. “Oh, great,” he said, standing on his tiptoes, looking out the front door window. “What does she want?”
“Who is it?” Patrick asked, hoping the answer was Miss Townsend.
Collins sighed as he put on his coat. “You better step back. I open this door and you’re going to freeze.”
Patrick backed halfway into the dining room.
“Hurry up, old man. I’m freezing out here.” A muffled woman’s voice yelled through the door. It couldn’t be Miss Townsend, he thought. The woman had some kind of accent.
The door opened on a big black blob of a woman stomping the snow off her boots in the vestibule. She marched through the threshold like she was in her own home and handed Collins her black gloves. As she parted with a fur hat, Patrick noticed her black hair was tightly woven in a bun, thick gray streaks on the sides. She wore a hairnet that seemed to emanate from a dark hole in the center of her forehead. She was holding some kind of covered plate, which she set down on the coffee table. Collins closed the door behind her with a frown.
“Morning, Mrs. Fortini,” Collins said. “What brings you over so early in the morning?” He didn’t sound pleased.
“Is that him?” she said, handing Collins her coat and staring right at Patrick. Her smile, set against her jovial face, gave her the appearance of a
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