The Number 7 by Jessica Lidh Page B

hand—white steam rising out of its spout—and a basketful of yeast rolls in the other.
    â€œI come a ‘wassailing’!” She smiled cheerfully, holding up her kettle in greeting.
    The sweet smell of mulled cider drifted to our noses. She set everything down on the bench in the mudroom and untied a green handkerchief to release her auburn hair. She’d painted her lips red, like Kamikaze cherry. She was lovely.
    I looked to Dad. His eyes shone with a brightness I didn’t recognize, and unexpected jealousy washed over me. Dad had secret looks reserved for women other than his daughters? I stared at Rosemary with a sense of panic. What was she doing here interrupting our Thanksgiving? I was finally at peace with our 3.14 family Thanksgiving; we didn’t have room for one more. But before I could slam the door, before I could plead with Dad that all he needed to be happy were Greta and me, before I could gain control of these foreign feelings, Rosemary was in the house, unbuttoning her coat and hanging it up. Unaware of my alarm, Greta went to take the kettle but then looked as if she didn’t think she could lift it and grabbed the breadbasket instead. Dad gave me a head tilt toward the kettle. I grudgingly fetched it, and we retreated back into the living room with our half-decorated fir sitting in the corner.
    Rosemary leaned over and whispered quietly in my ear so no one else could hear, “Don’t worry, Louisa. It’s only turkey and green bean casserole.”
    It was a statement of truce, an olive branch. Rosemary wasn’t here to pillage. She was here because, like us, the can of Libby’s was too big. After two servings of turkey and stuffing, one very large helping of sweet potatoes, and three rounds of cards, Rosemary announced her exit. If there was one wonderful, redeeming thing about a four-person nuclear family, it was having enough hands for a game of Spades. For that, and I suppose for a number of other things—Dad’s new bright eyes, for one—I was glad Rosemary had joined us. She’d kept her end of the day’s bargain by not trying to steal Dad away from me.

IX.
    I was sitting in the parlor gazing out the front window at my coffee can of blooming chrysanthemums and daydreaming about Gabe, the boy with long lashes, when the lights in the house went out.
    â€œDad! I think I blew a fuse!” Greta called down from the top of the stairs.
    â€œGive me a sec,” Dad called from where he sat grading papers at the kitchen table. “The fuse box is in the cellar.”
    â€œOnly Greta’s hair dryer would blow the whole house,” I heard him mutter as he grabbed the flashlight and walked out the back door.
    A draft whistled through the creases in between windowpanes. The sugar maples across the street swayed with the wind. Their boughs looked heavy, and I spied several galvanized buckets clinging to their trunks waiting patiently for sap. How long had they been there? Who’d hung them? Had it been Grandpa?
    Suddenly, the room ignited with a yellow burst like a mistimed camera flash. The lights were back on. The buzz penetrated the room and was followed by a high-pitched whistle. What was that sound? Out of a hole in the bookshelf near the fireplace chugged a miniature locomotive. One of Grandpa’s old model trains. It ran the length of the mantel before slowing to a halt. There it sat, as if waiting for me to approach it. Another whistle called me closer, but I was too afraid.
    I glanced around the room wanting to share the strange occurrence with someone other than myself. The hairs on my arms stood up, and I felt someone watching me from behind, urging me on. I couldn’t sit still any longer. I got up from my spot near the window and walked carefully toward the mantel.
    â€œLouisa,” Dad interrupted my step and I yelped with a start.
    â€œDad!” I yelled.
    â€œSorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.