Penny dreadful, p.2
Penny Dreadful, page 2
Delia glared crossly at Dirk, who glared right back. For a while neither of them said anything, and the room was full of a strange silence. Penelope frowned. She wished she could tell her father that she understood, but it seemed a bad time to interrupt.
Finally Delia made an exasperated face. “Well, I’m sorry, Dirk. But how did you expect me to react? You come home and tell me you’ve quit your job of nearly twenty years when it happens to be our only regular source of income. It’s something of a shock.”
“Sorry,” he said. “But the money will work itself out. It always does, and I really wanted you to be excited with me. This isn’t a bad thing, Delia. It’s a good thing. I think so, anyway. Can’t you be happy too?”
Delia didn’t reply.
Penelope watched her parents fall silent again through the gap in the doors. She wondered if the silence was the end of the conversation. It didn’t feel like the end. It didn’t seem like anything had been finished yet.
Suddenly Penelope sneezed! It was a small sneeze, but still it was a sneeze.
Delia’s eyes flew to the library doors. “Penelope?” she called out sharply. “Penelope Grey? Are you in there?”
Penelope grimaced and took a deep breath. She stuck her head out and whispered faintly, “Yes, Mother. I kind of am.”
“Were you listening to us?” asked Delia, glancing at Dirk and then back at Penelope. She looked concerned. “You shouldn’t be. This is grown-up talk. Not for young ears.”
“Sorry, Mother,” said Penelope.
“Would you be so kind as to close the door and give us a few minutes alone?” asked Delia. She phrased this as a question, but her tone made it pretty clear to Penelope that she had no choice in the matter.
“Okay,” said Penelope meekly, shutting the French doors.
Once she was out of sight again, she put her ear to the cold glass. Her parents’ hushed voices rose and fell steadily in the next room, but Penelope couldn’t make out a thing they said. It was infuriating! At last something was happening, and she was left out. But it was frustrating to eavesdrop unsuccessfully, so eventually Penelope gave up. She headed back to her book, in which a baby was sure to bite someone shortly. Penelope thought she might like to bite someone too.
After a while the hum of voices died away, and Penelope went to the glass doors. Then, slowly, she opened the doors a crack and peeked out. She was just in time to see Dirk head up the stairs with his box. Delia stood at the bottom step and gripped the banister tightly as she called out in a pleading voice, “But, Dirk, what is it you plan to do now?”
After a moment Dirk turned on the landing and paused. He looked back over his shoulder and his voice tumbled down the stairs. “Long ago,” he said, with a faraway look in his eyes, “I liked to write stories. One of my teachers said I was good at it. He said I should try my hand at a novel, but my father convinced me it was a silly thing to do. So I didn’t even try.”
“You wrote stories?” asked Delia with interest. “I didn’t know that.”
Penelope could tell that her mother was trying to be nice, but Dirk only shrugged. “There are lots of things you don’t know,” he said coldly, before disappearing into his office and closing the door.
“I guess maybe that’s true,” whispered Delia, her shoulders hunched in a sad way.
For the next few weeks Dirk wandered around the house in his bathrobe, clutching a cup of cold coffee and muttering, with a pencil stuck behind his ear. The messy box of papers found a home on the desk in his study. When Penelope eagerly peeked in to ask him how his book was coming, he looked up and said slowly, “Fine—I guess.”
Although she was a little concerned about her father’s lack of continued enthusiasm, Penelope decided this must just be what writers did. Mostly she liked having Dirk around, even if he was being kind of weird. Sometimes they took a father-daughter walk together in the morning to get the paper from the newsstand down the street. It was nice, and a little different.
But Penelope wondered when things would begin to be really different. In books, everything changes were followed by all sorts of other exciting developments. Unfortunately, for the most part, Penelope’s life went on as usual. Each morning she ate a bowl of cereal and a quarter of a honeydew melon by herself. Then she spent the day with Joanna, learning about the American Revolution or decimals or something else useful, because there’s no summer vacation when you have a tutor.
As Dirk muttered and puttered, Delia wiped flower petals discreetly off the shiny surface of the dining room table and oversaw the staff. But Penelope noticed that her mother wasn’t smiling or singing nearly as often as usual. She also noticed that her parents didn’t appear to be talking to each other very much. That was a little concerning.
Then one day Freddie the driver suddenly wasn’t there. This didn’t affect Penelope much since she rarely went anywhere in the car, but when Chef disappeared a week later, Penelope had to wonder what was going on. Chef’s absence had a considerable effect on Penelope’s life. Not only did Delia not enjoy cooking, she turned out not to be very good at it, as evidenced by a parade of terrible dinners, including a very burnt stir-fry, an undercooked roast chicken, and a platter of unpleasant cheeseburgers, which Penelope found especially incredible. She wouldn’t have guessed it was possible to ruin a cheeseburger, but she didn’t want to hurt her mother’s feelings, so she just chewed each bite as quickly as possible and drank a lot of milk.
Penelope was beginning to be sorry about her well-wish and its dismal aftermath, if that was what all of this was. She hadn’t been sure if she believed in magic before, really, but—
Then one evening, after another nearly silent dinner of little rolled-up things that she guessed were supposed to be enchiladas, Penelope decided it was time to take matters into her own hands. Somehow, her generally boring life was turning into a silent, tense, stressful boring life. Something needed to be done. After standing in her room examining her bookcase for inspiration and pondering the problem at hand, Penelope struck upon a book—The Penderwicks—and a solution. The Greys needed a vacation!
Dirk had already disappeared into his office, and Delia was sitting in the parlor writing something down on a notepad when Penelope found her. “Mother,” she said as casually as she could, “I was thinking we need a change of scenery. A vacation. Maybe we could rent a rambling farmhouse in the country!”
Usually the Greys visited a very nice resort at the ocean in July, but Penelope found the idea of an old-fashioned trip to the country appealing. There would probably be county fairs and friendly locals and berry picking. Plus, the fresh air would surely help her parents’ moods. Wasn’t that what fresh air was for?
Delia appeared not to have even heard her daughter’s suggestion. She looked lost in thought as she scribbled numbers on her pad. Periodically she consulted her checkbook.
“Mother?” Penelope tried again softly. Then louder, “Mother!”
This time Delia looked up. When she did, Penelope was shocked to find that there were tears standing in her mother’s eyes. “Yes, Penelope?” Delia asked softly. “Did you need something, dear?”
“Oh,” Penelope said, taken aback. “It’s nothing,” she mumbled. “I just—had an idea.”
Delia set down her pen and asked without inflection, “What’s that?”
Penelope hesitated. Suddenly her idea seemed silly, but she had already begun, and so she said, “Just—to go to the country, like in a book. But we can talk about it another time. It’s really no big deal. Is—is everything okay?”
Delia smiled weakly, and with the back of a finger wiped away the tears that hadn’t fallen. “Of course it is. Or anyway, it will be. But I don’t—I don’t think we can afford to go to the country, or the beach, or anywhere else. Not this year. Maybe next summer?”
Penelope nodded slowly, absorbing what her mother had just said. Not afford it? The Greys always went away to the beach in July! They had rented the same ocean-view suite every year since Penelope could remember. Penelope stared into her mother’s sad eyes, and suddenly she understood. This was bad. This was serious. If the Greys could not afford to go to the beach, things must not be okay.
“Sure,” she said at last. “Next year. Or—not. I mean—it doesn’t matter,” she continued, fumbling.
“That’s my good girl,” said Delia.
Penelope tried to smile, but the smile got stuck halfway. It felt awkward, false.
“And, Penelope?” added Delia. “Please don’t mention anything to your father about this. Let’s have this be our secret for now. I don’t want to worry him with unpleasant money talk. Not until he’s feeling a little more—himself.”
Penelope nodded again, slowly, and felt her fake smile slip into a frown. She had thought her parents were mad at each other, because of the not talking, but that wasn’t the case. Her mother’s voice sounded kind, and she didn’t look angry so much as worried and tired.
Delia sighed. “It’s just, he’s going through a rough patch, and I don’t want to make things any harder for him. Though, honestly, I’m not quite sure how to manage things myself. I know we will, of course, but I’m not sure how, exactly. We’re broke, I’m afraid.”
Broke? Penelope hesitated. “But I thought,” she said quietly, because it felt like a strange thing to say out loud, “we were—rich.”
“Well,” said Delia, “in a way we are.” She seemed to be choosing her words carefully. “You see, your father’s family has always been rather well-to-do, and your grandparents left us this house when they passed away, but the cost of the maintenance for a house like this is huge. There are so many bills each month, and the staff to pay. We really depended on your father’s salary to keep everything going. Plus, I’m embarrassed to admit that we often spend more than he makes, which means a lot of credit cards, and that gets tricky, juggling all of them. I’ve already had to let Chef go, and Freddie too. Maybe you noticed?”
Penelope nodded.
“Oh, Penelope,” Delia said, “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t talk about this with you at all, but I have to tell someone, and until your father is more himself …” Delia sighed. “Besides, I don’t know how else to explain to you about why we can’t have a vacation this year. Or anything else extra.”
“It’s okay,” said Penelope. “There are probably a lot of bugs in the country anyway, and snakes.” She patted Delia’s shoulder.
And it was okay. Despite the weird seriousness of everything her mother was telling her, it felt strangely good to talk about it all. It felt nice to understand things a little better, to actually know instead of guessing.
She only hoped her well-wish hadn’t caused this mess. This wasn’t at all what she’d meant by interesting.
Delia looked at Penelope and sniffled. “I love you,” she said. Then, without warning, she reached out to pull Penelope toward her. She folded her daughter up in a big startling hug.
Penelope, caught in the hug, felt many things all at once. Mostly it was just nice to be hugged, but underneath the warmth Penelope had the feeling that her pleasant, boring life, with her small family in their large stone house, had been until recently like a movie with the sound turned down low. Since she’d never been able to hear what anyone was saying, she’d just assumed things were fine, if dull. Suddenly it was as if someone had turned the sound up, and she was discovering that the story had complications.
“Everything will be fine, Mother,” she said into Delia’s warm shoulder. “Just wait and see. I bet things will be better again really soon.”
Penelope thought that sounded right, like the sort of thing a daughter might say in a book.
PENELOPE OPENS THE DOOR
As it turned out, Penelope was dead wrong about things getting better. Because after that day things around the house only slipped further. Since she had no idea what to do about any of it, Penelope just watched it all fall, like rain through a window.
First, Joanna was given the summer off. When she politely asked why Penelope did not require summer instruction for the first time in seven years, Delia mumbled something about how Penelope was being sent to a special arts camp.
Of course, this was not the truth at all, and Penelope was startled to see her mother lie. She stared curiously at Delia, who looked at her feet until Joanna turned and left the room. Penelope had never especially liked Joanna, so it was with a bewildered sense of relief that she watched her tutor walk away from the house for good.
Shortly after that people began calling from fancy stores and credit card companies. Each time Penelope answered the phone and told whoever was at the other end of the line that her mother was away, they asked her to please tell Mrs. Delia Grey that she needed to call and discuss her bill. Penelope stopped answering the telephone.
Then one Thursday, Josie the housekeeper quit, saying that she absolutely refused to keep up with the trail of litter that Dirk left behind him as he wandered the house lost in thought. She stormed out, waving her hands in the air and yelling, “Crazy man! Owes three weeks’ back pay and can’t pick up his own socks! I am not your mother, and I don’t have to put up with your mess anymore, thank goodness!”
Dirk ran after her, pleading. “I’m sorry, Josie! I’ll wash my own coffee cups from now on! I’ll stop walking on your wet floors, I promise!”
But Josie was gone, and that was a problem, because while managing the staff had always been Delia’s job, managing the house itself wasn’t something any of the Greys knew much about. It was a very large house—four giant floors, full of rooms—and it got away from them. Dishes piled up in the sink, once-shiny floors grew dim, and small mountains of clutter multiplied in rooms all over the house, though nobody said a word about it. Penelope tried to see the mess as an adventure, but it was really just plain depressing.
As the mess got worse, Penelope tried not to think about the wishing well. It was just a silly game, she told herself. I didn’t do this. I couldn’t possibly have done this.
On top of everything else, as June wore into July, the house also became unbearably hot. Penelope wasn’t sure whether the air-conditioning was broken or Delia had shut it off to save money, but either way, Penelope didn’t want to complain about it. So when the temperature became absolutely intolerable, she went down to the cellar with a flashlight to read in the darkness beneath the stairs. Though it was cooler there, sitting alone in the basement was really just a different kind of sad.
Through all of this, the Greys didn’t snipe at each other or fight about whose turn it was to sweep up. Instead, Dirk and Delia walked around the house avoiding each other and closing the doors on any particularly messy rooms. Delia unplugged the phone and stopped singing to herself completely. In the evenings she sat on the couch in the dark and sipped what seemed to be an endless glass of white wine, alone. Dirk continued to mutter in his robe, read old newspapers, and drink cold coffee. Lightbulbs burned out, and the great stone mansion became a vast series of dark hallways and shut doors. It was as though the house had gone to sleep, and Penelope watched it all worriedly, wishing everyone would go back to their old, boring ways.
This might have remained the sorry state of things for a long, long time if, one afternoon, Dirk had not loaded the washing machine with seven towels, a pair of running shoes, and two bathroom rugs, so that it made an alarming thumpity thumpity noise and walked itself across the laundry room before it broke. At first Penelope and her parents simply ignored the piles of towels and clothes as they’d ignored everything else. They all pretended not to notice the gray mildewy smell hanging in the air. Then the piles of laundry turned into mountains, until everything in the house was dirty.
Penelope—worried into silence herself—tried very hard not to bother her parents, but the day she could not find a single clean pair of pants and was forced to wear the elephant costume from her dress-up trunk, she finally had to say something. She found her father, who was rooting through jars and bottles in the refrigerator looking for a snack.
“Daddy,” she said cautiously, “I—I kind of need some pants.”
“What’s wrong with the ones you’re wearing?” her father asked sharply, without removing his head from the refrigerator.
Penelope stared down at her wrinkly gray legs. She supposed Dirk didn’t understand her need for clothes since he himself hadn’t taken off his bathrobe in weeks. So she went into the upstairs study, where her mother was sitting at a rolltop desk staring blankly at a pile of long white envelopes.
“Mother, I could really use some—um—clean pants,” said Penelope. She spoke softly and tried not to sound too demanding. She hated to bother her mother, who was nervously twirling her hair with a finger, but she did need pants.
“I know, dear,” said Delia both guiltily and quietly, without looking up. “There are just so many things to do—how do people manage it all? I’ve been trying to remember what it was like before I married your father and got used to having so much help.” She sighed. “I’m going to the Laundromat soon, I promise. Once I’m through making ends meet.” She bravely tore open one of the envelopes.
Penelope looked down at her elephant legs and took a deep, brave breath. “Mother,” she said gently. “I think maybe—maybe you need to do the laundry first. Maybe you need to do it now. Or at least show me how to do it.”
Delia glanced up and registered that her daughter was dressed as a pachyderm. Then she looked down at her own pink shirt, which had been slightly spattered with burnt spaghetti sauce the day before. Her chin began to quiver. Two tears rolled down her cheeks. She wiped them away and tried to smile. “How did we come to this?” she whispered softly, setting down the envelope and looking at her lap. “How did this happen?”
Penelope wished she hadn’t said anything. “I’m sorry, Mother,” she said. “It’s okay. I don’t really need pants. These are fine.” She swung her gray tail in what she hoped was a fun-loving gesture. “See?”
