Charles Ardai - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 102, No. 4 & 5. Whole No. 618 & 619, October 1993

She’s holding the door handle — the screen begins to open. Startled, Mrs. Hucklebee backs away.

“But I—” she says.

The girl’s inside. Still smiling, her dark eyes innocent. The eyes, Mrs. Hucklebee’s brain reminds her faintly, it’s always in the eyes. She takes another backward step.

The girl says over her shoulder, “It’s okay, Wolf. Come on. I told you, didn’t I?”

Wolf. “I don’t like dogs,” Mrs. Hucklebee manages softly before a dark figure materializes from the porch shadows, and now she faces two strange young people in her little vestibule. The second one is a boy, a tall reed in a long black coat, his hair so pale it appears white. The upper half of his face is shrouded by wrapped sunglasses so dark the lenses look painted. Mrs. Hucklebee can’t see his eyes.

“I don’t know about this,” she begins hesitantly. But the girl has already moved past her, leaving a scent of cold and smoke, or skin not quite clean. The boy is motionless just inside the front door, blank glassed eyes fixed on Mrs. Hucklebee’s face. After a long moment he reaches behind him and closes the solid old door.

“Is this way the kitchen?” the girl asks from somewhere behind her. “Come on, Wolf. It’s so nice and warm in here.”

Both children are seated at the kitchen table, Mrs. Hucklebee’s solitary supper set before them. She hovers uncertainly near the stove.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hucklebee,” the girl says. “You’re a nice lady.”

“How do you know my name?” she asks in surprise.

“It’s on the mailbox.” The girl doles out food, three equal portions on thick white plates. “I’m Crystalbell and this is Wolf, by the way.” She smiles. “We haven’t had a real meal for days.”

The boy has not removed his dusty black coat or the heavy sunglasses. He also has not spoken. Mrs. Hucklebee eyes the plate waiting for her at the table and a little tremble starts somewhere near her heart.

“Crystalbell’s a pretty name,” she murmurs weakly.

“Well, it’s not my real one, of course. I think people should pick the name they want, don’t you? That’s what me and Wolf did. What’s your name, for instance?”

Mrs. Hucklebee answers, “Edwina,” before she can stop herself.

Crystalbell laughs, the sound as light and tinkly as her name. “There, you see? We’ll have to do something about that.”

The boy begins to eat slowly and methodically. Mrs. Hucklebee seats herself gingerly at the table.

“Wouldn’t you like to take off your coat?” she addresses him tentatively. “And those glasses?” Suddenly it occurs to her that he might be blind. She looks the question at Crystalbell. The girl grins through a mushy mouthful of banana bread.

“Two things you need to know about Wolf, Mrs. H. He doesn’t talk and he doesn’t take off his glasses. Ever. Wolf’s not too crazy about the world, so he pretty much lives in his own. Remember that and you’ll get along fine.” She hesitates. “And it’s really best if you don’t hassle him. He’s got a short fuse.”

Mrs. Hucklebee experiences a little chill. What is happening here? Where did these children come from and what are they doing eating fried chicken in her house?

Crystalbell says, “You got a nice big house here. Live all by yourself?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Hucklebee answers, trying to organize her thoughts. “Mr. Hucklebee’s been dead for years.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” the girl says. “Looks like he left you pretty well fixed, though. You got any kids?”

“A son. But I’m not sure where he lives. He — we’re not close.” Her head clears slightly. “How old are you, child? Where’s your home, your family?”

“I’m thirteen,” Crystalbell answers calmly. “Wolf here’s fifteen. We been together almost two years. Gone all over, you’d be surprised.”

Mrs. Hucklebee can’t help feeling sorry for the little waif. “But how do you live? Where do you sleep? Tonight — where will you go tonight?”

For a moment Crystalbell doesn’t answer. Then her eyes raise. She looks like she’s trying not to cry.

“I was hoping we could stay here. You got such a nice big house. You know, I was noticing your kitchen cabinets — they could use a good cleaning. And I bet you got a yard out back needs work. Wolf could do that for you. He loves to dig.”

Mrs. Hucklebee slides a fearful glance at the silent boy. Hunched over his empty plate, he’s watching her. She sees her own distorted image reflected in the black glass over his eyes. The tremble near her heart lurches.

“Oh no,” she hears herself whisper. “There must be shelters. I could call — find a place for you to stay.”

Crystalbell leans close to lay a warm hand on her arm. “It’ll be okay, Mrs. H. Honest. Kind of nice in a way — like a family.”

Mrs. Hucklebee tears her eyes from the boy’s steady blind gaze. “But most of my rooms are used for storage, you see. I don’t have—”

“Don’t worry about us,” Crystalbell assures her with a firm pat. “We can just throw some blankets down on the living room floor.”

The remark startles her. “Both of you? But surely the two of you don’t—”

“Now, Mrs. H,” Crystalbell says with a small smile, “I don’t ask you nosy questions, do I? You show me the blankets and I’ll take it from there.”

Later, after the dishes are washed and lights are out, Mrs. Hucklebee lies upstairs in her safe warm house, her head spinning. The girl did too ask nosy questions — about who lived in the house and where was her family. She remembers Mr. Hucklebee saying not long before he died, “I’m worried about you, Edwina. You’re so flighty. You don’t know how to handle things. What will happen to you when I’m not here to take care of you?”

Mrs. Hucklebee sits up in bed. Then, heart skidding, she rises and creeps down the back stairs to the kitchen, wishing she’d had the good sense to have a telephone installed on the second floor. The house is dead black but she feels her way with ease, knowing every inch of the way even in the dark.

As the stairway door creaks open and she steps down into the kitchen, Crystalbell’s voice reaches through the dark.

“I hope you’re not planning to make a phone call, Mrs. H. Wolf cut the wires. Something about a telephone ringing makes him nuts.”

Mrs. Hucklebee stands frozen, trying to calm her breathing. “I want you to leave tomorrow,” she says finally, but even she can hear the lack of conviction in her voice.

“You know, you’re lucky I’m here,” Crystalbell confides softly. “I’m the only one knows how to handle Wolf. Go on, you better get back to bed before you catch cold.”

Feeling tottery, recognizing every one of her seventy-two years, Mrs. Hucklebee obeys.

She wakes in the morning to the faint smell of coffee and her heart instantly begins to quiver. They’re down there, waiting for her in the kitchen. She can think of nothing else to do but join them.

Crystalbell’s clean, her short spiky hair soft and shining. She’s still wearing the ragged blue sweater and worn jeans, but Wolf has taken off his coat. Mrs. Hucklebee eyes the flannel shirt he wears, too large for him, billowing across his bony chest. She makes a little sound.

“Where did you get that shirt? That’s Mr. Hucklebee’s!”

Wolf freezes for a moment, then begins to turn toward her. Crystalbell lays a hand on his arm. Her smile twinkles across the room.

“It was in an old box of stuff in one of the back rooms. We didn’t think you’d care. After all, Mr. H is dead, isn’t he?” She darts across the room to seize Mrs. Hucklebee’s hand. “Come on, I fixed breakfast. The coffee’s good, but the eggs — well, I can’t cook worth a damn. You’ll have to teach me.”