100 Cupboards Read online

  “I know,” Henry said. “I just think it’s something like Quantum.”

  “What’s Quantum?” Henrietta asked.

  “Well,” Henry said, “my dad says it’s when things can sometimes be where they aren’t, or two places at once.”

  “Sounds like magic.”

  “No, it’s natural,” Henry said. He was rocking nervously. “It just happens.”

  “You couldn’t make something Quantum?” Henrietta asked.

  “It’s only for really little things.”

  “The cupboard’s little.”

  “No,” Henry said. “Really little. And trees and rain and wind aren’t little.”

  “Okay. They’re too big to be Quantum,” Henrietta said. “So it has to be magic.”

  Henry wasn’t sure what to say. He would have liked to discover that the whole thing was just some sort of trick, that he wouldn’t really be sleeping beside a bunch of magic cupboards, but he didn’t know any other way to explain what had just happened.

  “I don’t know,” he finally said.

  Henrietta shivered suddenly, bounced up on her knees, and focused her wide eyes on Henry. “Aren’t you excited to see what’s behind the other doors? There could be all sorts of things!”

  Henry sat very still. “Aren’t you scared at all?” he asked. “I mean, we might find something bad.”

  “Everybody always finds bad things,” she said. “And things only get hidden like this if they’re really bad or really good.” She bounced again. “We’ll just have to find out.”

  “I don’t know,” Henry said again. Despite his concerns, he was truly curious about the cupboards. He knew that if they got another one open, he would be terrified. But he would be sick with himself if he didn’t try.

  “Do you think the key opens another one?”

  Henrietta pointed to it. Henry looked down at the key in his hand. He was about to say “I don’t know” for the third time when a rumbling, motorcycle-sounding engine fired up at the bottom of his stairs. Shoving the key in his pocket, he and Henrietta scrambled down the stairs.

  At the bottom, they found Uncle Frank wearing plastic goggles and standing in front of Grandfather’s door with a chain saw. He began singing something, then braced himself and pulled the trigger. As a cloud of black smoke blew out the back of the saw, the chain blade spun into loud motion. He leaned the blade back and slowly lowered it onto the door. When it touched, wood chips began flying all over the landing. It looked like Frank was fighting to keep the blade from sliding. It began to skid, and Frank spread his legs a little more. Then the saw caught on something and kicked back. The full force of the spinning chain threw Frank against the wall. He jumped as the saw, barely in his left hand, swung down toward his legs. It didn’t hit them, but its nose caught the floor. In one short second, the saw dug itself in, shredding and wrapping long strands of green carpet around itself. There, nestled cozily into the floor, it idled. Panting, Frank reached down and turned off the engine.

  Dotty was at the top of the stairs. She looked at Frank, then at the saw burrowed into the landing. She looked at Frank again.

  “Time to go,” she said. “We’re due at the barbeque. You okay, Frank?”

  Frank rubbed his cheek on his arm. “My pride’s on the lower end,” he said. “Floor’s a bit dinged.” He reached down and pulled at the quiet saw. It wouldn’t budge. “I’ll cut it out later, Dots. Sorry about…um.” He sighed and put his hands on his head. “I figure I’ll have to go through the bathroom wall.”

  “Mr. Willis,” Aunt Dotty said, “I’m not sure if the house will survive you. Now, I think you need a hot dog.” Frank seemed relieved. “C’mon, kids,” Dotty added. “We’re gonna be late for the barbeque.”

  Henry and Henrietta followed her down the stairs, glancing back at Grandfather’s door and the saw. Frank came behind, still wearing his goggles. There were wood chips in his hair.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Henry stood with his back against the fence and watched the boys play. His emotions were mixed. In one sense, he was enjoying himself. Since arriving at the barbeque, he had consumed three generic colas. Now he was working on a root beer. He had never before consumed any sort of soda. He had seen commercials occasionally, which his father had told him were crass and capitalistic. Thus far, soda pleased him. But Henry’s happiness was tempered by worry. What he was watching, while nursing his can of root beer, was baseball.

  The grown-ups were all inside the yard, standing around grills or setting out casseroles, paper plates, and flimsy plastic utensils designed to snap when used. Henry’s cousins had all disappeared into the front yard, and the boys had run out behind the house into a vacant lot with an old foundation to play baseball. They had enough foresight to bat away from the house toward the raggedy old trees, the street, and, beyond that, an abandoned warehouse squatting in the shadow of a rusty water tower. Not one hit had reached the street in the air, and balls hit on the ground died fast in the grip of the overgrown grass.

  Henry was worried about the boys. He wasn’t worried they might exclude him. He wasn’t worried they might be too embarrassed to ask the new kid to play. He was worried that they might want him to. But no one had asked him yet, so he leaned against the fence, trying not to be too noticeable, drinking his root beer, and watching other boys run, pitch, throw, and try to hit.

  “Your arm hurtin’ you?” a voice behind him asked. Henry looked up into Frank’s face.

  “My arm?” Henry asked.

  “Well, you aren’t out there playin’. I thought it might be your wrist or your elbow.”

  “No. I’m just not feeling up to it.” Henry sipped his root beer.

  “Oh well. I don’t feel up to most things most times,” Frank said. “I’m gonna grab a beverage, and then I’ll come back and watch your game.”

  Frank’s head disappeared behind the fence, and Henry turned back toward the field. A tall boy in a sweat-stained baseball hat with a fraying bill stood in front of him.

  “Are you Henry?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Henry said.

  “I’m Zeke Johnson,” he said. “D’you play?”

  “Not much,” Henry said.

  “D’you wanna play?” Zeke nodded at the field.

  Normally, Henry would have lied. Instead, he surprised himself. “I forgot my glove,” he said.

  “Borrow mine,” said Zeke. “We’ll play opposite.”

  “I’m a lefty.”

  “So am I.”

  Henry held his breath. “Okay,” he said, and looked around for a place to set his root beer. Zeke took it out of his hand and put it on the fence. Then, with Henry’s blood doing strange things in his veins and his breath catching in his throat, the two of them walked out onto the scraggly grass of the makeshift diamond. The other boys nodded at Henry or said hi. Henry nodded back but couldn’t say anything. Zeke introduced him, then gave Henry his glove and sent him into right field.

  Uncle Frank leaned on the fence, watching the boys and sipping his beer. A bigger man leaned up next to him. “Hey, Frank,” he said. “Dotty says you wanted to talk to me about your door trouble.”

  Frank glanced at him. The man was tall and looked strong. His fleshy face smiled beneath a yellow cap with a concrete truck above the bill. “Hey, Billy,” Frank said. “Dotty said that?”

  “How long’s it been stuck?” Billy asked.

  Frank stared out into the field, lifted his beer, and winced at the taste. “Two years,” he finally said. “I tried choppin’ it today. I tried chainsawin’ it and just wrecked the floor. The door won’t budge.”

  “Well,” Billy said. “You want me to take a look?”

  The two men stood silently, watching a small kid overbalance swinging.

  “Needs to choke up on the bat,” Frank said.

  Billy nodded and spat. “And his eyes are all over the place. Everywhere but the ball.”

  Frank stood up and took a deep breath. “Okay, Billy. I need you to lo
ok at it now. And tell Dotty I said no. I don’t know when I could pay you. She handles the money, and it might be months before I could sneak some.”

  Billy nodded. Henry’s team was running in to bat as the two men set their drinks on the fence next to Henry’s root beer and left to find Billy’s truck.

  Henry stood at the plate and watched the fat kid wind up. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. The kid was throwing the ball as hard as he could. He’d almost hit Henry the first time, and Henry wasn’t even wearing a helmet. One of the boys from Henry’s team was on second, and there were two outs. The fat kid threw the ball—it was coming right at him. Henry wanted to duck or squat or something. Instead, he leaned back and brought his hands around. The ball cracked off the handle of the bat, and instantly Henry’s hands burned.

  “Run!” somebody yelled. Henry carried the bat with him for a few steps, then remembered to drop it. He didn’t even look to see where the ball had gone. He was sure he would be out if he looked. When he hit the sweatshirt that was first base, he left one foot on the shirt and hopped forward with the other, trying to stop. Then he fell over.

  “You can run through the bag,” the first baseman said. Henry looked at the pitcher. The shortstop was throwing him the ball.

  “Where did it go?” Henry asked the first baseman. “Where did I hit it?”

  “Short left. Did it hurt your hands? You hit it with the handle.”

  “Yeah,” Henry said. He stood up, unsure of how to hold himself. He rubbed his throbbing hands together and then crossed his arms. The other runner was on third. But he wasn’t really on it. He was leading off, sliding sideways with bent knees. Henry uncrossed his arms and stepped off the sweatshirt, trying to watch the pitcher, the other runner, and the batter all at once.

  The batter popped out, and Zeke threw Henry his glove as he headed in from center field. Henry ran back out into right field, almost hoping someone would hit it to him. But not quite.

  Frank and Billy stood on the landing. Billy was holding his toolbox. Frank wiped sweat off of his forehead before he spoke.

  “I got the chain saw stuck in the floor right before we left for the barbeque. Haven’t had time to cut it out yet.”

  Billy licked his lips. Wood chips were scattered all over the landing and partway down the stairs. The door looked like it had been attacked by a herd of angry beavers. The chain saw still rested in its tangled carpet nest. Billy knelt beside the door.

  “Some job, Frank,” he said. “Should have called me sooner, and maybe you could have skipped the Vietnam approach.”

  He fished in his toolbox, pulled out something black and metallic, and began probing the old keyhole. Frank heard a click.

  “Was that it?” he asked.

  “Almost.” Billy pulled out a second tool, and a moment later, there was another click.

  “Now,” Billy said. “Now it will open.” He leaned on the door. He stood up and thumped his shoulder against it. He stepped back and kicked it.

  “Goodness,” he said. “Somebody weld a plate on the other side of this? It’s not locked as far as I can tell. Should pop right open.” He kicked it again.

  “That’s why I used the ax,” Frank said. “Wish I could just find the key.”

  “Key wouldn’t help you. It’s as unlocked as any key would make it. Something else has got it shut.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Frank said. “Might be a different kind of key. It’s sure a different kind of lock.”

  “It’s the same kind of lock that’s in all of these old houses,” Billy said. “Nothing special about it.”

  They were silent again.

  “I would have gone straight to the chain saw,” Billy finally said. “What happened with it?”

  “Kicked. Swung down and ate the carpet.”

  “Mind if I give it a try?”

  “Gotta cut it out first.” Frank pulled a knife from his pocket and flipped it open. He cut the strands of carpet away from the saw while Billy tried to pull it out. After a few wiggles and two big tugs, they got it free of the floor. Billy examined the chain.

  “Bit dull,” he said. “And full of carpet.”

  “Wasn’t,” Frank said. Billy pulled the starter cord, and the engine muttered. He pulled again, and the engine sounded irritated. A third pull roused it completely, and the landing filled with exhaust.

  Billy stepped toward the door.

  By the time Henry, his cousins, his aunt, and his uncle were all home and unloaded, Henry had consumed a total of six sodas of various types (four of them caffeinated), two sausages, and a hamburger. And he desperately needed to go to the bathroom.

  Standing in front of the downstairs bathroom mirror, he reviewed his baseball accomplishments.

  He had struck out twice, and hit one single and a double. His double had gone all the way to the trees. He had flubbed a fly ball in right field, but had fielded a grounder and thrown it almost all the way to second base. Zeke Johnson, though much bigger than Henry, wanted him to come over to hit sometime this week. Henry would be in Zeke’s class in the fall.

  Henry turned on the faucet and watched the water become brown as it ran over his hands. He could hear his cousins yelling and laughing. He wouldn’t go to school in Kansas if his parents were back. Something knotted in his stomach. He felt horribly guilty. Only a few days in a new house, and he had already forgotten them. They were probably miserable.

  But, he thought, it wasn’t completely his fault for forgetting. Strange things had been distracting him. Of course he hoped they would be found and returned. But if that was going to happen, it was going to happen whether or not he worried about it. And he was playing baseball, and Zeke did want him to come to his house, and, most importantly, he needed to figure out what was going on in his bedroom.

  Henry wandered into the living room, where his cousins were begging Uncle Frank to let them watch a movie. He thumped past them and up to his bedroom, trying to feel unhappy for his parents. When he got to the bottom of the attic stairs, he took one step up and stopped. Cold air was drifting down around him. He took two more slow steps, smelling and listening. The air smelled like grass and wet earth. He could hear trees.

  The entire attic, normally the hottest place in the house, was extremely chilly. His two doors were open, and a quiet wind was crawling out of his bedroom and past him. The lights were off, but it wasn’t completely dark outside, so he could just see the wall of his bedroom from where he stood. The cupboard door was open. He could hear trees gently moaning, creaking like ships, somewhere beyond his bed. When he stood just inside his doors, he looked carefully to both his left and right, then took another step and sogged into a puddle of very cold water. He jumped back, felt his way to his light, and turned it on.

  The end of his bed beneath the open cupboard was soaking wet. An enormous puddle covered the floor, reaching almost to his doorway and filling the right side of the room. The cupboard door was swinging slightly, and all the doors beneath it, as well as the plaster, were drenched. Henry knelt on his bed, felt his mattress squelch beneath his knee, and looked in the cupboard. He could see nothing. But he could smell wet earth and thick, contented moss. He could hear leaves tossing in their sleep. He shut the door, slid the latch, and found a dry spot on his bed. Picking at the wet knee of his jeans, he looked at the water on his floor. There were three earthworms, big ones, swollen in the puddle.

  “Worms,” Henry said out loud. There were worms in a puddle on the floor in the attic.

  Dotty and Frank stood in the kitchen sipping sun tea. The girls were watching something or other on television.

  “What’d Billy say?” Dotty asked.

  “What do you mean?” Frank asked. “I told you I wasn’t going to ask him.”

  “But you did.” Dotty smiled, brushed back her hair, and took a drink. Then she kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for talking to him, Frank. I know you have your pride.”

  “My pride’s why I asked him,” Frank muttered. “He c
ouldn’t open it, either. Proved I didn’t need him.” He set his tea down. “I’m gonna blob with the girls.”

  Anastasia and Penelope were on the floor in front of the television. Frank plopped next to them.

  “Henrietta went upstairs with Henry,” Anastasia said. “She said we couldn’t come.”

  “Did you want to go?” Frank asked.

  “Yes,” Anastasia said.

  “No,” Penelope said. “Henry’s not very good at playing games. Henrietta is just being nice to him.”

  “I think they have a secret,” Anastasia said.

  “It’s not nice to try and find out people’s secrets,” Penelope said.

  “Secrets are for finding out. Dad, do you think they have a secret?”

  “Why don’t you ask them?” Frank said.

  Anastasia was excited. “Can I? Do they have to answer?”

  “No,” Frank said. “No, they don’t have to answer.”

  “Can I ask them now?”

  “Sure. Penny and I will keep track of the television for you, won’t we, Pen?”

  Penelope just bit her lip as Anastasia ran to the stairs.

  Anastasia reached the attic stairs, slowed down, and listened. She knew that the first step to asking about secrets is seeing how much you can find out by sneaking. She had been wanting to sneak for days. She had wanted to follow Henrietta when she got out of bed late the night before. Penelope hadn’t let her. She wanted to spy on Henry in his room and go through his drawers, but Penelope wouldn’t let her. Penelope thought it was more fun when people wanted to tell you things. Anastasia thought it was more fun to find out what they didn’t want to tell you.

  She could hear Henrietta’s voice, though she couldn’t tell what she was saying, and she could hear something slopping heavily on the floor. She could also hear tape being unrolled and torn across the teeth of its plastic holder. She spread her feet all the way against the walls on both sides of the stairs, put out her hands a few steps up, and began crawling.

  “How do you think the latch came undone?” she heard Henrietta ask. “I saw you latch it. I know you didn’t forget.”