The Number 7 Read online

  He was better looking than I remembered. He was taller, and his eyelashes seemed to curl forever. Girls would kill for lashes like his. He rolled up the sleeves on his mustard button-down shirt. “I’m just glad you liked them. Happy Thanksgiving!”

  He took a roll of stickers from his green apron and peeled a big, colorful turkey from the parchment paper, sticking it on my fleece just beneath my collar. It seemed like his thumb lingered a second longer than necessary. My guts seized up inside me and I couldn’t breathe. And then, putting an end to our moment, an older woman wearing a homespun sweater with cartoon Pilgrims came up and asked Gabe where the turkey basters were. Really? A turkey baster was ruining my moment? I wanted to say something to the woman to let her know where I thought she could put the turkey baster once she’d found it. Instead, I just smiled and walked away. Gabe might have just saved this from being a disappointing Thanksgiving after all.

  It was 6:45 when I heard Dad rap at my bedroom door on Thanksgiving morning. The sun was just peeking its nose over the horizon, but the house was, for the most part, still dark.

  “Dress warmly” was all the instruction I received. I could hear Greta’s loud protest from across the hall.

  He had coffee and tea in thermal mugs waiting for us in the kitchen. We each grabbed a piece of raisin toast and followed him out the back door.

  We trailed him to the heavy cellar doors leading to the underbelly of the house. Dad and I descended the stairs while Greta waited above. The room smelled damp. A naked light bulb dangled above a workbench covered in sawdust and small scraps of metal. A few stray model train cars lay in a lifeless pileup.

  Dad gestured to the table. “I guess Mom never came down here after he died.”

  He walked to a wall where a variety of tools hung from hooks and nails and grabbed a long bow saw, ancient by the looks of it.

  “Just you wait,” Dad said in response to my doubtful expression. “They don’t make tools like this anymore. And Swedes,” he added, lifting the saw for me to see, “use the best tools. My father brought this with him when he came over in ’46 right after the war. Don’t ask me how it got past customs.” Dad examined it with awe, as if it were a glistening saber instead of a rusty farm tool. He then handed it to me. “Now, let’s go find our Christmas tree,” he said with enthusiasm.

  The three of us headed deep into the woods. The snow had melted, and the leaves on the forest floor were a foot deep. I turned the saw over in my hands inspecting its wooden nails and sharp teeth and wondered about its owner. I couldn’t tell Dad what I was thinking. What would I say? How would the conversation begin?

  Dad, what happened between you and Grandma and Grandpa?

  Hey, Dad, our new house is kind of haunted.

  So, Dad, Grandma says “hi.”

  Yeah right. The entire situation was ludicrous. No. I couldn’t tell him.

  We came to a small clearing in the trees about fifty yards long and thirty yards wide. A foundation of an old stone chimney sat in one of the corners, and on the opposite side was a cluster of small, crooked headstones—mangled teeth jutting out of the earth. Many were split in half, lying in two pieces on the hard ground. Some were simple with a single initial, and others looked relatively new, having survived the elements well. The most recent date I could make out was 1802.

  “Your grandpa used to bring me to this spot when I was little,” Dad rested his right foot on a fallen log, “before everything got so complicated. He used to tell me I needed to learn how to listen to my own heartbeat. He said that people didn’t know how to sit quietly, to breathe, and to listen. I didn’t get it back then, but I think I finally understand what he was trying to say . . .”

  “What is this place?” I whispered.

  Greta silently read the epitaph on one of the stones. She bent down and ran her index finger over the chiseled indents.

  “This one was only seven months old,” she exhaled.

  “Dad did some research and found out this plot of land had been the residence of the Ashe family for three generations. They’d been slaves early on, and after the Civil War they moved on to someplace else. Naturally, there were no records of their leaving. For a long time, Dad came out here to think or read or blow off steam. It was his place of solitude.”

  “It’s kind of a morbid place to do your thinking.” Greta turned toward Dad, who was sipping coffee with his free hand on his hip.

  “My father identified most with working people. He admired more the man who built the house than the one who lived in it. I brought you here to show you a little more of our new place because this isn’t just my land and my house anymore. You’re both part of it. You’re part of the story.” He paused to clear his throat. “Now that I’m living here again, I’m getting sentimental. You girls deserve to know the truth.” Dad grabbed Greta’s hand, and I saw her wince. Dad didn’t seem to notice. Or, at least, he pretended not to.

  “What do you guys think about that one?” Greta’s eyes lit up as she subtly pulled her hand away and pointed across the cemetery toward a squat Fraser fir. It was perfect.

  The smell of turkey seeped throughout the house like thick gravy as we decorated the house for Christmas. Dad insisted on basting the bird every thirty minutes even though I told him basting dried it out. Two pumpkin pies were already baked and cooling rather pleasantly on the windowsill above the kitchen sink. They each had large cracks in their centers, which to me symbolized perfection.

  “I wonder why the can of Libby’s always makes two pumpkin pies. Seems like it’s not very accommodating to the smaller, nuclear families of America,” I commented, wrapping a garland around the tree.

  “Thanksgiving isn’t a three-person holiday for most families,” Greta replied, pouring herself a glass of diet cola. No ice. That’s how they drink it in England.

  “The average American family is 3.14 people,” added Dad from the corner where he crouched, untangling strands of Christmas lights.

  “Three-point-one-four? A family-pi eating pumpkin pie? How splendid!” I exclaimed, smug with cleverness.

  “Not to mention—” Dad added as he joined us near the tree. For a moment, I thought he looked like the Sundance kid, sans mustache. “—there are going to be four of us dining today. Half a pie each.”

  Rosemary arrived with a cast-iron teakettle in one hand—white steam rising out of its spout—and a basketful of yeast rolls in the other.

  “I 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.

  “Dad! I think I blew a fuse!” Greta called down from the top of the stairs.

  “Give me a sec,” Dad called from where he sat grading papers at the kitchen table. “The fuse box is in the cellar.”

  “Only 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.

  “Louisa,” Dad interrupted my step and I yelped with a start.

  “Dad!” I yelled.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. Hey,” he took his gaze off me and stared at the mantel, “where did that come from?”

  I silently answered him by pointing to the hole in the shelf.

  “Weird. Must have been trapped in the wall. All these years . . .” As he walked closer to inspect the small toy, a slight breeze blew through the room drawing his attention away. “Hey, when I was outside, I noticed the attic window was open. You must have left it open when you were up there.” He rubbed his hands over his upper arms.

  “No,” I thought back to that first day in the house. “I’m sure I closed it.” And I was sure. I’d been in a hurry to escape the attic after listening to the breathing in the phone. But I’d definitely walked back across the room to close the window. Anyway, I would have noticed it was open by now. I had since been back up there.

  “I was just outside and saw it open. The house is freezing. Just go take a look and close it,” he sighed falling onto the sofa and removing his glasses. “And clean up that stuff while you’re at it,” he gestured eagerly toward the train as if he couldn’t stand the sight of it. One more riddle I had to figure out on my own.

  I approached the attic door tentatively, the tin model train resting quietly in my palm. I climbed the stairs of my own free will, but I had a sinking feeling that I was being summoned. And Dad was right. The stairs were much colder than the rest of the house. The window had to be open, but I wasn’t the one who had opened it. Before I reached the top of the stairs, the telephone jumped to life.

  Gerhard and his twin brother, Lars, were different in as many ways as they were alike. In appearance, one was a carbon copy of the other. In mind and disposition, however, they were as different as could be. People said they were separate sides of the same coin, made of the same metal, but looking out at the world from opposite angles.

  No sooner were Lars and Gerhard born that the family bestowed them nicknames: Lyckliga Lasse och Gamla Gerhard. Lucky Lasse and Old Gerhard. One twin arrived in the world smaller than the other, close to death with a weak little chest; the other twin was big, red-faced, and healthy. Eventually, Lasse’s lungs developed into great, loud noisemakers, and Gerhard’s eyes, even as an infant, were pensive—the eyes of an old soul. Both survived to live up to their names.

  Lasse was never temperate; he either loved without abandon or got so angry the ground seemed to shake beneath him. There was no limit to how much Lasse could feel. Because of this, people didn’t know what to make of him. Some shook their heads at him disapprovingly, others sought him out just to hear him laugh. And Gerhard? Well, Gerhard was happy to stand back and watch.

  But one afternoon in their fifteenth year, Gerhard was mistaken for his brother.

  “Come on, Lasse!” a crowd of boys chanted as they flailed their arms wildly beckoning for him to join. “We’re going down to the beach!” There was something in the way the boys hollered and jumped, something in their youthful grins that made Gerhard incapable of telling them the truth. He didn’t want to disappoint them, so he spent the rest of the day as Lyckliga Lasse Magnusson.

  He’d never anticipated such an adventure. All afternoon he said and did things he’d never dare do as himself. But as Lasse, he was fearless. He skinny-dipped on the shore before winning an impromptu boxing match with another boy from the adjacent town; he stole a neighbor’s horse for a sunset ride and took off, bareback, through golden fields of rapeseed. It was one of the greatest days of his life.

  That evening, he walked home with a new sense of confidence and wonder.

  Things are going to be different after today, he’d told himself. I am going to be different.

  But as soon as he spied his house in the distance something changed. In the front yard, Lasse sat whittling a small, wooden horse. Gerhard stood and watched his brother meticulously shave away pieces of the body and sand down the rough edges. And in that moment, everything that had happened to Gerhard that day, all of his newfound tenacity, collapsed within him.

  “Hej, Gerhard!” Lasse welcomed his brother a little too boisterously.

  Everything about Lasse was too much: too loud, too rambunctious. It’s why people loved him. But Gerhard’s world was quiet, his soul gentle. He couldn’t compete with Lasse in that way.

  He returned to the house just as he always had; no one in the family called attention to his swollen left hand that had delivered the day’s victorious blow or noticed his sun-kissed cheeks from smiling under the high noon sun. Everything was just as it had always been. And Gerhard couldn’t help but feel like he’d lost an opportunity for something wondrous.

  X.

  When I walked into Photography Monday afternoon, I found Gabe sitting at my table just two stools away from mine.

  “Hey, Mums.” He smiled warmly.

  What is he doing here? I wondered, trying to keep my cool.

  “Hi,” I smiled, confused and elated at the same time.

  We stared at each other while I tried to figure him and myself out. He kept grinning smugly like he knew a secret about me.

  “I didn’t know you were in this class,” I said at last.

  “I didn’t know you went to this school,” he leaned in closer to me.

  “I started here last week,” I explained.

  “You have a lot to catch up on, Gabe,” Mr. Franz interrupted, approaching our table with a stack of papers. “Feeling better?”

  “You know how it is, Mr. Franz,” Gabe smiled, shrugging.

  “I know how you conveniently get the stomach flu before every Thanksgiving holiday,” Franz answered sternly, but his eyes revealed a genuine fondness. “Ask Louisa if you have any questions about this.” He pointed to the packet explaining the photo essay project. “Welcome back.”

  Throughout class, I kept feeling Gabe’s gaze. I didn’t want to look and check to see if I was right. I was too afraid I’d be wrong. But I could feel him. I was certain he was staring. My problem was that I liked Gabe. I liked him a lot. I liked the way he l
ooked at me. I liked how confident he was. But I didn’t like how vulnerable I felt around him. With Gabe, I risked betraying myself. With Gabe, I risked heartbreak.

  “So you had the flu when I saw you last Wednesday at Weaver’s?” I asked at the end of class, standing up and tossing my backpack over one shoulder. He’d looked fine to me. I flushed as I remembered the way his thumb lingered on the turkey sticker.

  “It’s an illness of necessity.” Gabe started walking with me to the door. “Thanksgiving is our busiest time of year. My parents need me at the shop.”

  So that’s why he was always there, and how he was able to give out free flowers. His parents owned Weaver’s. I bit my lip, waiting for him to say something more, but he didn’t.

  “Do you have any—” I blurted clumsily, yearning for the conversation to continue, “—cookie cutters? At the shop, I mean.”

  “Hmm,” he twisted his mouth in thought. He really was beautiful. Flawless skin, flawless eyes. “I think so. You’ll just have to come by and check for sure,” he smiled.

  I let out a quick, nervous chuckle before Allison came up in the hall behind me and grabbed my arm to walk with her.

  “I’ll see you later,” Gabe hollered after me, waving.

  “I wouldn’t say this normally, but because you’re new I feel obligated,” Allison leaned over and whispered. “Gabriel Weaver is off limits.”

  I thought about Allison’s warning as I walked down October Hill Road to Rosemary’s cottage after school, but I shook off her words of caution. Whatever her reason was for trying to dissuade me from getting to know Gabe didn’t matter. And, anyway, I had homework I needed to focus on. I’d been assigned a new project in history class, and I needed Rosemary’s expertise.

  My neighbor opened her door right as I lifted my hand to knock, letting a wave of warm air greet me from inside. Not only was it warm, but her place smelled wonderful, like peppermint and vanilla.