The Doldrums

“He’s not sick.”

“I feel sick.”

“Then you had better get some rest before they arrive,” she said, and that was that. When Mrs. Helmsley put her foot down, she never left an inch of wiggle room.

Archer poked a finger at his toast and thought this over. Perhaps this was an opportunity. Perhaps he could use this to his advantage. It was worth a shot. He turned to his mother and said matter-of-factly, “I’d like to leave the house this summer.”

Mrs. Helmsley dropped the asparagus.

“To go to Rosewood Park with Oliver,” he quickly added.

“I don’t see why not,” said Mr. Helmsley from behind the paper. “I see nothing here about iceberg sightings in Rosewood Park.”

“It’s not a joke,” Mrs. Helmsley said.

“I work in law. A sense of humor is required. Just yesterday a man came in wanting to sue his dog.”

“You can’t sue a dog,” said Archer.

“No,” Mr. Helmsley admitted. “But he was fed up with the creature burying the family’s fine silver in the backyard.”

Mrs. Helmsley stood silently at the sink, rinsing off the asparagus. Archer watched her from the corner of his eye. He was almost certain something was coming—something good? He didn’t hold his breath.

The interesting thing was that because Archer had spent much of the past few months buried in books, she thought perhaps his tendencies were not quite what they once were. Archer didn’t know this, but it explained what followed.

“If there are no episodes,” she said. “If you can give Mrs. Murkley a good first impression, then we’ll discuss what the summer will look like. But I’m not promising anything.”

She didn’t have to. That was enough. Archer was practically beaming. He was actually going to be free! He quickly retreated from the kitchen before he could ruin this. “Your best foot,” she yelled after him, but Archer was already up the stairs.

♦ ELEPHANT HOUSE ♦

Archer stepped into his closet and scanned the secret boxes. He removed number 17: Elephant House, sat down on the rug near the balcony doors, and pulled the red string.

ARCHER B. HELMSLEY

375 WILLOW STREET

DEAR ARCHER,

I WROTE THIS TO YOU FROM THE BACK OF AN ELEPHANT. WE WERE IN A SMALL COUNTRY WHERE THE INHABITANTS BUILT THEIR HOUSES ON THE BACKS OF THEM. THEY WERE BEAUTIFUL AND HOSPITABLE PEOPLE AND WELCOMED US TO STAY AWHILE. THEY WERE ALSO KIND ENOUGH TO STRAP ME DOWN AT NIGHT. (I HAVE A TENDENCY TO SLEEPWALK.)

A MAN NAMED AYYAPPIN SCULPTED THIS ELEPHANT HOUSE AS A GIFT. THE STONE IS JADE. BEAUTIFUL, ISN’T IT? WE THOUGHT YOU MIGHT LIKE IT.

YOURS TRULY,

Ralph Helmsley

Archer wished Helmsley House had been built on the back of an elephant. Each night he would fall asleep as the elephant wandered, and in the morning he would wake up some place entirely new. But house number 375 was planted firmly on the ground, and the view from his balcony remained completely unchanged.

Archer went to his dresser, clicked on the radio, found his notebook in a drawer, and was thinking about Rosewood Park as he returned to the rug. He had no intention of staying inside the park. The question was where could he go from there? And he sat quietly, considering just that as the sunlight slanted in through the balcony door. His thoughts were shortly interrupted when a shrill cry shot up from the gardens.

“HENRY!” the voice shouted.

Archer tilted his head.

“HENRY!” the voice shouted again.

Archer grabbed his binoculars and hurried to the balcony.

♦ NON-NOCTURNAL OPOSSUM ♦

Oliver had also dashed to his balcony. Archer motioned to him. Oliver climbed a ladder to the roof, hopped over the small gap between the houses, and slid down the ladder to Archer’s balcony.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

Archer wasn’t sure. He directed his binoculars down into the gardens. The voice that had cried “Henry!” belonged to Mrs. Murkley, a rather bulbous woman with little neck to spare, who at present was cornered by an opossum in her garden.

“HENRY!” she shouted. “HENRY!”

The Murkleys’ garden door swung open and a man who looked in need of a decent meal sauntered valiantly through.

“Yes, my dear?” he said. “What seems to be the—ah! What is that?”

“It’s what you’re about to kill!” shouted Mrs. Murkley. “So don’t just stand there. Get a shovel and smash it to pieces!”

There are many tunes in this world that can soothe the savage beast. That wasn’t one of them. The opossum hunched its back and let out a terrible hiss.

“Don’t show it fear,” Henry said. “I think they attack when they sense fear.”

The opossum turned to Henry and gave him the once-over. Henry backed into the opposite corner of the garden.

“On second thought,” he said. “Show it a little fear, darling.”

Oliver placed his hand on Archer’s shoulder, trying his best not to look afraid. “Opossums don’t really attack when they sense fear, do they?” he asked.

“Normal opossums don’t,” said Archer. “They just play dead.” But this opossum was out in the daylight, and Archer thought it might be a non-nocturnal opossum. “I’ve never seen one out in the day before.”

Oliver hadn’t, either. “But it looks too soft and fluffy to be violent,” he said. “Mrs. Murkley, on the other hand …”

With all of her shouting, Mrs. Murkley had gone quite pink in the face and looked something like an overzealous mosquito. The non-nocturnal (and probably nonviolent) opossum eyed both Murkleys. It seemed to realize it was outnumbered and sounded the retreat, scurrying backward up the garden wall and scampering away. As it did, the opossum paused to look up at Archer and Oliver.

“I think that thing just winked at me,” said Oliver. “I knew it wasn’t violent. Isn’t she horrible, though?”

Archer pointed his binoculars back toward the Murkley house. The garden was empty.

“She’s coming to dinner tonight,” he said.

Oliver paled. “That’s terrible! Why would your mother invite that?”

“She’ll be teaching at the Button Factory this fall.”

Oliver needed to sit down for a moment. It was a lot to take in. As he did, Archer explained what else his mother had said and that come tomorrow, they would be on their way to Rosewood Park.

“That place creeps me out,” said Oliver. “It’s like the city grew around it and no one knew what to do so they left it there.”

“We’re not going to stay inside the park,” said Archer. “It’s about getting out of here. And from Rosewood Park, we can go—anywhere.”

“Where’s anywhere?” Oliver asked.

Archer wasn’t sure. He ducked back inside his room and returned with one of his grandfather’s journals. Those were filled with brilliant ideas.

“While you’re figuring that out,” said Oliver. “You should come to my house.”

Delicious smells were wafting from the Glubs’ kitchen. Mrs. Glub always made wonderful food. Archer knew this because ever since he’d become friends with Oliver, he’d been sneaking into Oliver’s house. His mother had no idea how easy it was, and she was completely unaware how frequently he did it. She wouldn’t like it. And with his chance for real freedom so close, perhaps he shouldn’t risk it today. But Archer knew a dinner party at night meant a day of busied preparations for his mother. He just had to be careful. So he followed Oliver up the ladder, over the crack between the houses, and down the stairs to the Glubs’ kitchen.

♦ WONDERS OF WEEDING ♦

Mrs. Glub nearly hit the ceiling when Archer and Oliver stumbled in through the back door to the kitchen.

“Did you take the roof again?” she asked, staring at the both of them.

Archer and Oliver exchanged glances.

“It’s not safe jumping over that gap! One of these days you’re going to fall into it and Mr. Glub will have to fish you out!”

“But the roof is quicker,” said Oliver, following the delicious smells seeping from the oven.

“Quicker is rarely safer,” Mrs. Glub said. “But I’m glad you’re here, Archer, and you’re just in time. Have a seat.”

Mrs. Glub pulled a steaming hot tray of apple cider turnovers from the oven. They were crusted in caramel and nuts and smelled heavenly.

“I’m taking your sister to get a new dress,” she said to Oliver. “I need you to weed the garden while we’re out. That flower festival, or whatever it’s called, is just around the corner.” Mrs. Glub frowned. “I’m sure the neighbors are whispering again.”

Oliver said he would get to it after eating, and when Mrs. Glub left the house, they began popping apple cider turnovers into their mouths as quickly as they could, careful not to burn their tongues. Archer ate with his head buried inside his grandfather’s journal. What was he going to do when he left the house?

“They finally opened the new upstairs area at DuttonLick’s sweetshop,” said Oliver. “Everyone from the Button Factory was going there yesterday. We could go if you can actually leave your house. I think you’d really like the—”

“We should do this,” interrupted Archer, not hearing a word Oliver had just said.

… the jungle dripped with uncertainty. Everywhere were insects, flying, jumping, and crawling up trees. One bit my arm. A bump swelled, festered, and popped. It flowed yellow. I became delirious. Rachel nursed out the poison and we dug in for the night. The air was thick and the wood, too wet to burn. We floated in a sea of leaves and moss. Large creatures lurked in the moonlight. We couldn’t see them, but knew they were near… .

Oliver lowered his pastry. His appetite was gone. “I don’t understand you sometimes—a lot of times. What about that sounds enjoyable?”

“‘Floating in a sea of leaves and moss,’” said Archer. “Deep in a jungle beneath the moonlight. That’s what we should do. That would be wonderful.”

Oliver shook his head and the crumbs from his fingers. “Wonderful,” he mumbled, jumping down from the counter and leaving the kitchen. Archer followed with a pastry in one hand and the journal still opened in the other.

… it was a strange plant. I shouldn’t have eaten it. Rachel was right about that. Looked like it might taste good. I was wrong about that… .

Oliver and Archer stepped into the garden.

“Well,” said Oliver. “There’s your sea of leaves and moss.”

Archer lowered the journal.

The Glubs’ garden was something of a neighborhood scandal. The stone walkway was a slimy green and the walls were caked with ivy. An apple tree that bore no apples was in desperate need of trimming and the grass, if you could call it grass, was at least knee high. The difficult part in weeding such a garden was trying to decide what was a weed and what wasn’t because it all looked the same.

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