overlooking the backyard, Ali was busy putting her books in alphabetical order. She’d been sloppy boxing them up before the move and now she had to pay for it. Up to the S ’s now, she was puzzling over her Thomas Burnett Swann books. Wolfwinter was gone. She’d searched high and low for it but couldn’t find it. It was the only one of Swann’s books that she hadn’t yet read; she’d only just found a copy—in mint condition—in a secondhand book shop before they left Ottawa and had been looking forward to reading it.
That was the problem with moving, she thought. Every time they’d moved, one or two of her books disappeared—usually the middle book in a trilogy or something really hard to find, like this Swann title. Frustrated, she went to sit by her window and stared through the screen at the darkness beyond. A light cool breeze blew on her cheek.
She was listening on her Sony Walkman to a cassette of Hungarian violin music by John Owczarek. That was something else her mother worried about—the fact that Ali’s tastes followed her mother’s so much, rather than what was popular for her age group. It was no use trying to tell Frankie different, Ali had realized long ago. Her mother just liked to worry about things.
The cassette ended and she took off the earphones. Unclipping the Walkman from her belt, she laid it and the earphones on the nightstand by her bed. She was about to go back to organizing her books—incomplete Swann collection and all—when she heard music coming from somewhere.
It wasn’t the stereo downstairs; her mother was taking a nap and there weren’t any neighbors near enough to be its source, so where was the music coming from? And such music. Distant, quiet, but so immediate you could almost touch it. Something inside her stirred awake as she listened to it.
She stared out the window until she began to feel confined. Then she got up and made her way downstairs and out the back door. She wanted to hear what the music sounded like from outside.
* * *
If Valenti rarely dreamed before moving to Lanark County, Frankie was just the opposite. Her nights were like film festivals, her dreams showing back to back until morning. All that was missing were the credits.
Her dreams seemed so real that sometimes she carried the memories and emotions evoked by them over into her waking life. She might dream of Ali doing something horrible to her, then she’d wake up and treat the poor kid like shit. Ali, sweetheart that she was, knew enough to stay out of her way on mornings like that, but it didn’t make Frankie feel any less guilty about it.
She hadn’t meant to fall so deeply asleep after dinner, but the couch seemed to gather her up and take her away. OD-ing on all the fresh air, she thought as her eyelids grew too heavy to keep open and she drifted off. The nap thickened into sleep. She burrowed closer against the back of the couch, her eyes beginning to move rapidly behind her eyelids as she dreamed….
From a formless place, she found herself standing in the front hallway of the new house. She could hear something moving upstairs, something too heavy to be Ali, but so far as she knew, Ali was up there by herself. There was a heavy clomp, clomp, clomp on the hardwood floors. Biting at her lower lip, Frankie moved slowly toward the stairs.
She mounted one stair at a time, and all the while she could hear the sound of some huge thing moving around on the second floor. When she reached the landing, there was nothing to see. The sound was coming from Ali’s bedroom. What was she doing? Moving the furniture around?
She started down the hallway, then caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of her eye. What…? Something that seemed like a little man made of sticks was scrambling up the narrow stairs that led to the attic.
Frankie stared after the disappearing figure, mouth open in astonishment. A cat, she thought. Or a raccoon. Somehow it got into the house, heard me
That was the problem with moving, she thought. Every time they’d moved, one or two of her books disappeared—usually the middle book in a trilogy or something really hard to find, like this Swann title. Frustrated, she went to sit by her window and stared through the screen at the darkness beyond. A light cool breeze blew on her cheek.
She was listening on her Sony Walkman to a cassette of Hungarian violin music by John Owczarek. That was something else her mother worried about—the fact that Ali’s tastes followed her mother’s so much, rather than what was popular for her age group. It was no use trying to tell Frankie different, Ali had realized long ago. Her mother just liked to worry about things.
The cassette ended and she took off the earphones. Unclipping the Walkman from her belt, she laid it and the earphones on the nightstand by her bed. She was about to go back to organizing her books—incomplete Swann collection and all—when she heard music coming from somewhere.
It wasn’t the stereo downstairs; her mother was taking a nap and there weren’t any neighbors near enough to be its source, so where was the music coming from? And such music. Distant, quiet, but so immediate you could almost touch it. Something inside her stirred awake as she listened to it.
She stared out the window until she began to feel confined. Then she got up and made her way downstairs and out the back door. She wanted to hear what the music sounded like from outside.
* * *
If Valenti rarely dreamed before moving to Lanark County, Frankie was just the opposite. Her nights were like film festivals, her dreams showing back to back until morning. All that was missing were the credits.
Her dreams seemed so real that sometimes she carried the memories and emotions evoked by them over into her waking life. She might dream of Ali doing something horrible to her, then she’d wake up and treat the poor kid like shit. Ali, sweetheart that she was, knew enough to stay out of her way on mornings like that, but it didn’t make Frankie feel any less guilty about it.
She hadn’t meant to fall so deeply asleep after dinner, but the couch seemed to gather her up and take her away. OD-ing on all the fresh air, she thought as her eyelids grew too heavy to keep open and she drifted off. The nap thickened into sleep. She burrowed closer against the back of the couch, her eyes beginning to move rapidly behind her eyelids as she dreamed….
From a formless place, she found herself standing in the front hallway of the new house. She could hear something moving upstairs, something too heavy to be Ali, but so far as she knew, Ali was up there by herself. There was a heavy clomp, clomp, clomp on the hardwood floors. Biting at her lower lip, Frankie moved slowly toward the stairs.
She mounted one stair at a time, and all the while she could hear the sound of some huge thing moving around on the second floor. When she reached the landing, there was nothing to see. The sound was coming from Ali’s bedroom. What was she doing? Moving the furniture around?
She started down the hallway, then caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of her eye. What…? Something that seemed like a little man made of sticks was scrambling up the narrow stairs that led to the attic.
Frankie stared after the disappearing figure, mouth open in astonishment. A cat, she thought. Or a raccoon. Somehow it got into the house, heard me
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