The Walker in Shadows by Barbara Michaels

Author:Barbara Michaels [Michaels, Barbara]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, General
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

II

After two days of unoccupancy Kathy’s bedroom had acquired a hotel-room feeling. Pat went to the windows and threw them open.

Mark prowled, peering behind bookcases and bureaus, mounting a chair to stare at a corner of the ceiling.

“You really did a job on this place,” he said to Josef, who was standing with his hands on his hips, watching. “Stripped off all the old paper, repainted, scraped woodwork—”

“I didn’t do it; Joe Bilkins, contractor, did. At least I trust he did, that was what I paid him for.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Mark said.

“I suppose we should have lived with the rotten wallpaper and flaking plaster.”

“I mean, you should have kept records of what you found,” Mark said. “Mom, remember when Dad was working on our house? Remember, he had a scrapbook, describing the color of the original paint, and structural details? He even pasted in pieces of old wallpaper.”

“I remember,” Pat said.

“See, Dad always said that every little bit of the past should be preserved,” Mark explained, turning to Kathy; she was a much more appreciative audience than the others. “He said that the history of mankind is a long story of destruction, and he didn’t want to be one of the destroyers.”

Pat had packed the scrapbook away. Its reminder of frustrated enthusiasm and unfulfilled plans had been too much to bear.

“He said that if we ever got enough money he’d like to have someone duplicate the old wallpaper,” she said. “Of course we never did have enough….”

After one quick glance Josef had turned away and was pretending to watch birds outside the window. She appreciated his tact.

“That is interesting, Mark,” he said, over his shoulder. “But I don’t see its relevance here. And perhaps your mother—”

“No, that’s okay,” Pat said. Mark was speaking of his father freely, fondly, without hurt. That was the way she wanted it.

“But it is relevant,” Mark said. “Mom, remember the day we were working in the closet of my room? I was helping Dad strip off the paper in there. Remember when we found the name written on the wall?”

“Good heavens, I had forgotten,” Pat exclaimed. “I’m surprised you remember, Mark, it was so long ago. You weren’t more than—”

“I was twelve,” Mark said indignantly. “And I had good reasons to remember it. It struck me as a neat idea, so I wrote my name on the walls too. When Dad found out he had me spend all day Saturday scrubbing.”

“What else did you write, Mark?” Kathy asked, smiling. “Just your name?”

“And the date. That was what we found—‘Edward Bates, aged twelve, 1857.’ It seemed so funny to me then, that some kid, just about my age, had written that, over a hundred years ago. I thought, wow, it would be cool if a hundred years from now some other kid would find my name.” Mark grinned. “Dad never did find them all. I put one in the back of my closet, next to Edward’s.”

“So you concluded your room was once Edward’s.” Josef’s quick intelligence was learning to follow the curious leaps and twists of Mark’s mind.

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