The Number 7 Read online

  “He accidently knocked on my house first,” Rosemary explained, thumbing toward Gabe. “And I just thought,” she shrugged, “I’d see if your dad wanted to come by for a cup of coffee?”

  I ushered my guests into the mudroom, quickly shutting the door behind them. Rosemary unwrapped her black cashmere kerchief and let her red locks fall into place around her face. She shook her scarf free of stray snowflakes and stomped her rubber galoshes on our braided area rug. Gabe danced a balancing act while holding the large, potted plant and stepping out of his own soaked boots. He didn’t seem nervous, only eager, but I was quivering inside. Gabe Weaver was inside my house.

  I graciously accepted the plant from Gabe so he could remove his coat. “It’s gorgeous!”

  “I love your portico! I haven’t seen one like it in all of Brandywine,” Gabe replied enthusiastically, staring wide-eyed at the mudroom around him. I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Your doorway,” he motioned to the place he’d just stood. “I helped my dad restore our house a couple years ago. I’ve got a whole glossary of architectural jargon up here.” He tapped his temple with his index finger. He walked over to a wall and lightly rapped on it with his knuckle, “Horse hair plaster?”

  I stared at him dumbfounded while he grinned. We entered the foyer, and Gabe’s eyes moved delicately over the crown molding and the staircase: its banister, the decorative brackets, and the worn walnut steps.

  Dad stood in the entry to the living room. He’d removed his reading glasses and was casually holding a model train car in his left hand, but I could tell he was nervous. As far as I knew, this was the first time he’d seen Rosemary since Thanksgiving.

  “Hey there, Rosemary.” Then Dad noticed Gabe crouching next to the stairway running his hand over the wood. Dad cocked his head, unsure what to make of him.

  Gabe stood and walked across the foyer, hand extended. “Hi, I’m Gabe Weaver. My parents own the grocery store in town.” Gabe motioned to the stairwell. “Walnut floors. You don’t really see those around here anymore. They’re in great condition!”

  Dad took Gabe’s hand.

  “Christian Magnusson, Lou’s father.”

  I let out a slow breath of relief as Dad relaxed his stance. He wasn’t acting like a maniac; he wasn’t even mildly embarrassing. And then it was over. After the introductions, Dad turned back to face Rosemary.

  “Do you want to come in?” he gestured.

  “I thought maybe you’d like to come down to my place for a cup of coffee?” Rosemary glanced at me for approval. I nodded hopefully at them both.

  “Ah, but I just put a pot on here! Come on in!” While the two retreated into the warmth of the living room, Rosemary glanced back at me and mouthed a silent “Sorry.”

  In that moment, I wanted to throw my arms around my redheaded neighbor and thank her. How did she know I’d need a dad diversion? Maybe she really was psychic.

  I led Gabe through the hallway to the kitchen, his gaze studying the architectural detail in every room.

  “Thanks for the flowers,” I blushed. Gabe was the only guy who had ever given me flowers except for my dad.

  “My pleasure,” he answered.

  I handed him two eggs and nodded toward a bowl on the countertop.

  “Have you got one of these for me?” He fingered the strap of my apron and the small motion made me weak.

  If I knew nothing else about Gabe, it was that he didn’t follow the normal rules of personal space. He stood where he shouldn’t stand, but I loved the closeness. I welcomed his innocent intimacy. He made me feel nervous and excited, and I loved that feeling.

  “You can have mine,” I said, eager to pawn the blue bulk onto someone else. I began untying the apron from behind me.

  “But your sweater . . . ” He didn’t look interested in going forward with the handoff. “Is that what you’re planning to bake in?” He looked me over, seemingly unimpressed with Greta’s “baking clothes.”

  “I’ll be right back. Crack that egg in there. The recipe’s on that card on the table, and the trash can’s under the sink.” I was already out of the kitchen, shouting down the hallway as I went to my room.

  Back in skinny jeans and an oversized plain cotton shirt, I rolled up my sleeves to prepare for work. I smiled knowing that Greta’s outfit now lay rolled in a heap at the foot of her bed. Gabe gave me an approving nod as he slowly beat the egg with a whisk.

  “So about that photography project,” Gabe began. “Who are you going to feature?”

  “My mom,” I answered hesitantly. Did I really want to go into it? Wouldn’t it just spoil the mood?

  “Are your parents divorced?”

  “She died when I was eleven. Breast cancer.”

  It wasn’t hard to say anymore because it was so frequent a question that it didn’t really bother me, but I looked at Gabe to see if he was uncomfortable. But he just continued whipping the eggs, and I was thankful. Most people felt uncomfortable when I told them my mom was dead; they looked away, sighed really loudly, or looked at me full of pity. I always felt the urge to apologize. And I didn’t want to apologize for my mom dying. But Gabe just kept whisking. I had never felt so good after telling someone about my mom. How did he do that?

  “It’s really special that you picked her for your project, then. I just picked my weird Great-Uncle Bob,” he grinned.

  “If he’s weird, why did you pick him?” I opened a cupboard to take out the flour and sugar. Measuring three-quarters cup of sugar, I added it to Gabe’s bowl and cut in two whole sticks of softened butter.

  “Uncle Bob’s missing his nose.” He said it so matter-of-factly that I let out a nervous laugh.

  “What?”

  “He’s missing his nose,” Gabe smirked mischievously. He certainly loved to shock and awe. “Lost it to frostbite in Korea, in 1950. He refused to get a nose job even though the Army offered to pay for it.”

  With Gabe, I never knew what to expect. Whether he was standing too close, grabbing my hand next to a stack of yams, making me smile after telling him my mother was dead, or telling me stories about his noseless great-uncle, I was constantly on alert. There was something very special about this long-lashed boy.

  The evening continued with storytelling from us both. He told me how he grew up in Brandywine Valley, how he had hopes of going to Penn State, and how he wanted to own his own nursery one day. The last part I found especially endearing. How many teenage boys would admit to wanting to grow flowers for a living? Gabe was different. He was sure of himself, and his passions were honest.

  At the end of the night, Gabe and I were both covered with flour. I was thankful I’d changed my clothes. I wrapped a dozen of the treats in aluminum foil as payment for Gabe’s help. Orange cardamom cookies happened to be his mother’s favorite, so he was grateful for the gift. I walked him to the foyer where his poinsettia sat in the corner. The room looked much more inviting with the red leaves. Indeed, it was beginning to look like Christmas.

  “That,” he pointed to the planter, “don’t put it outside. You might even want to put it in there, by the fire.” He pointed to the living room. “They don’t like to be cold. Be sure to water it when it feels dry.”

  I opened the door to the mudroom, where he started putting on his boots and overcoat. I stood watching him, wishing he didn’t have to go.

  “Wait!” he exclaimed, jumping up with one boot on. He hopped carefully on his bootless leg to the entrance of the living room.

  “It was great meeting you, sir,” he waved to Dad and Rosemary sitting on the couch. “And sorry again about before.”

  “Come back anytime, Gabe,” Dad saluted happily to my friend.

  Rosemary waved with a giant smile. They sat with their socked feet propped up on the coffee table with two empty mugs on the table next to the couch. They seemed giddy with each other despite the late hour. For a moment, I felt like I had exchanged roles with my dad. He was acting like the love-struck teenager, a
nd I, the responsible adult.

  As Gabe hopped back to the mudroom to put on his other boot, I wondered how this night could have gone any better.

  “Thanks again for the cookies.” Gabe held up the mound of tinfoil.

  “Thanks for helping.” And then there was the moment. That uncomfortable moment of new goodbyes. Should I hug him?

  Ironically, for once, Gabe didn’t come in for the type of personal touch we’d already shared at Weaver’s. He stayed in the mudroom while I stayed in the doorway.

  “I’ll see you on Monday, Louisa,” he smiled as he pulled on the gloves he’d promised he’d wear. And then he left, disappearing into the dark winter air.

  After Gabe had gone, I cleaned up the kitchen while trying to eavesdrop on the conversation in the living room, but I couldn’t hear anything over the clanking of dishes in the dishwasher. Once I’d finished, I went to say good night to Dad before retiring to my bedroom. I caught him and Rosemary sharing an afghan, laughing in unison at something Dad had just said, and I was sad to have missed the joke. If I were a betting woman, I would have bet anything that the two were holding hands under the blanket.

  “Night, Rosemary.”

  “Night,” she smiled.

  Climbing the stairs, I was consumed with excitement for new beginnings. Dad and Rosemary were a good match. Dad deserved companionship. The type of companionship neither Greta nor I could provide him. He’d been flying solo long enough: over five years. I closed my eyes and quietly hoped the relationship would blossom into something more permanent than chance encounters and late-night chats over coffee.

  “It is getting late . . .” I heard Rosemary say as I reached the top of the stairs. To which Dad answered, “Are you free tomorrow?”

  I stayed up the rest of the night waiting anxiously to hear a ringing from above. But unlike other teenage girls, the phone call I was waiting for wasn’t coming from the boy I’d just spent my evening with. I was waiting to hear more about a man I’d never meet. But the old rotary never rang.

  XIV.

  “Good night?” I teased Dad at the Saturday morning breakfast table.

  Greta rolled her eyes at my badgering; unlike me, she seemed completely indifferent toward Dad’s new love life. He reached across the cream-colored vintage tablecloth I’d found in the attic and grabbed one of my cookies from their plate on the kitchen table. Tossing the small morsel into his mouth, he squinted, making a face.

  “Gabe was cute!” Greta exclaimed through spoonfuls of cereal. “Taller than I expected.”

  “I like his eyes,” I added.

  Greta agreed, lifting her eyebrows as she sipped her tea. “Absolutely!” she dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Those lashes!”

  “He was very nice,” Dad interrupted, an emblematic plea for us to tone down our girlish musings.

  “Rosemary stayed late, Dad,” Greta stated matter-of-factly.

  “She and I are going into the city today. We can give you girls a ride if you want to check it out. I know we haven’t sufficiently explored Philly yet. I’m sorry about that,” he said, reaching for another cookie.

  “I’ve got plans,” Greta replied. Neither Dad nor I was surprised.

  “I’d like to go, but I don’t want to cramp your style, Dad,” I harassed while smugly taking a bite of breakfast.

  “I have no style, Louisa. The offer is on the table.” He spread his paper out on the table, smoothing its crease.

  “Then I accept.”

  Dad and Rosemary dropped me off at the Philadelphia Convention and Visitors Bureau while they headed off to Little Italy for lunch. I’d brought along my 35mm, hoping I would be inspired. It hung at my side as I stepped into the reception area of the visitors center.

  Colorful displays of brochures and business cards lined the walls. I leafed through the first display, waiting for something to catch my eye. As I began on the second shelf, my index finger landed on a blue-and-yellow brochure for the American Swedish Historical Museum. I slowly lifted the glossy pamphlet from the wood case.

  “Excuse me?” I leaned over the Welcome Center desk toward the fragile-looking old lady who sat behind it. I held up the brochure for her to see and pointed, “What can you tell me about this museum?”

  The woman’s skin hung loose around her cheeks and her pink lipstick looked like it had been applied by a raccoon. She lifted her eyeglasses from the gold chain that hung around her neck.

  “The American Swedish Historical Museum,” she read aloud, and I wondered if she’d be any help to me at all. “Seems to me you’d want to go there if your family came from Sweden.” She really was something. “A third of the Swedish population left during the immigration boom at the end of the nineteenth century, you know.”

  Each word she said was delicate and spoken with determination. Her voice was soft and high-pitched. “It’s open from noon to four today. But it’s a ways away, so you’d have to take a cab. It’s probably a $10 fare.”

  “Thanks,” I nodded, satisfied.

  “Good luck,” her voice wavered as I spun around, en route to find a cab.

  The museum’s exterior was massive and loomed ominously at the bottom of a long, empty parking lot. An embossed sign, drilled into the mortar next to the door, advised me to ring a bell to be let in. A preoccupied middle-aged woman hurried me inside.

  “Five dollars for student admission,” the woman said while shuffling through a stack of envelopes. Bills, to be sure. I handed her a ten and she gave me a look of disapproval like I was inconveniencing her.

  “It’s a self-tour.” She handed me my change and a map of the museum. “You start over there.” She pointed to the back of the lobby before scuttling away.

  I folded the map and put it in my back pocket, straining my neck to stare up at the lobby’s ceiling. Blue-and-gold painted squares framed a canvas of a newly discovered America: bare-chested natives meeting colonists in pewter helmets on a desolate sandy shore. English? Swedes? I didn’t know.

  I crossed the empty lobby to an adjoining room where I read about Alfred Nobel and the Nobel Prize. I studied the wall of black-and-white photographs of Nobel Prize winners. All their expressions were somber, serious, and studious. This museum wasn’t anything like I thought it would be. Where was my grandfather in this lonely place? Where were the answers to my questions? Where was Gerhard? Trelleborg? Me? I trudged on. Maybe I’d made a mistake in coming. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to be here.

  Once I was done exploring the main exhibits, I came to the final room of the museum—a simple library with thickly bound books with cracked spines, rows of VHS tapes, and a small selection of DVDs. Across the library, a small, feeble man with white hair sat at a wooden table leafing through a photo album. On the bridge of his nose rested a pair of rimless square spectacles, and he eyed me suspiciously as he turned the page. He wrinkled his lips as he let out a long yawn. Waving it away, he covered his mouth and turned his attention back to the book in front of him. On the back of his chair hung an old herringbone jacket, and I noticed his shoes were untied and positioned next to his socked feet resting on the carpet below. Clearly, this man had settled in for the afternoon.

  “Är du svensk?” The man grumbled halfheartedly. For a moment I wasn’t sure if he was addressing me or not.

  “Swedish?” He inquired again sleepily; his voice seeped in a singsong accent. The library was warm, and even I found myself a little drowsy. I looked out the window; the clouds looked dark and heavy.

  “No. Well, yes,” I answered unsure of the right answer. The man smiled, his eyes bright.

  “You look like my granddaughter. Come here, I want to show you something,” he reached over to pull a second chair closer. I draped my jacket across the back and took a seat next to his.

  “That handsome young man—” he began, pointing to an old photo of men in old sports uniforms with their socks pulled up to their knees and their shorts shorter than modern fashion, “that man is me. I was seventeen.”

  I
leaned in closer to get a better look: some of the men were smiling, though most were not. But the boy the man pointed to was looking straight into the camera with a large grin.

  “Soccer?”

  “Handball,” the man replied. “Not very popular here in America.” The man let out a deep sigh and turned another page.

  “Me,” he pointed to another picture where the smiling boy could be seen again, still grinning. “We had just lost the match.”

  “Then why are you smiling?”

  “Because my girlfriend was taking the picture,” the old man winked at me and chuckled. He sat back in his chair and placed his palms on his chest, under his suspenders. “So, we seem to be the only ones here today. What’s your excuse?”

  “Curiosity,” I said as rain began to sound against the window. Pit, pit, pit, pit.

  “Aha . . . ” The man smiled running his hands up and down the elastic straps. His eyes were gray, kind, old. His skin was loose and blotchy: like droplets of brown watercolor had fallen from a suspended paintbrush above. His ears had tufts of white cotton sprouting from inside, and his eyebrows sat low and bushy.

  “Can I help you?” He cocked his head to the side, with budding interest.

  “I don’t know.” I bit my lip, uncertain how to proceed. “My grandfather came from Sweden. I need to know more about him.”

  “Need to, huh? Solving some ancient family mystery?” He chuckled before scratching his nose and becoming serious.

  What an odd thing for him to guess, I thought, my mouth slightly ajar.

  “Well I happen to be from Sweden, too,” he continued, “But first . . . ” The man looked down at a brass watch on his wrist. “It’s time for fika.”

  “Fika?” I asked, unaware of its meaning.

  “Coffee, dear,” the man pushed away from the table and I watched him stretch his arms out and flex his toes before placing his shoes back on his feet. “It’s a terrible thing, getting old.” He stood and I reached for our jackets, but he just waved me on. “Leave them, we’ll be back. And you can see,” he held out his arm and gestured around the room, “there’s no one to take them.”