Ferris, page 9
“What?” she said.
“Mrs. Mielk is bereft, right?” said Billy.
Ferris nodded.
“And remember how you said that the word ‘bereft’ was like a raft that had floated out to sea?”
Ferris nodded again.
“We got to pull in the raft that Mrs. Mielk is on,” said Billy Jackson.
“I wonder what in the world you children are talking about,” said Ferris’s father.
“We got to go to Mrs. Mielk’s and invite her over here,” said Billy Jackson. “For the chandelier dinner. I asked your mother if it was okay, and she said, ‘Why not? Shirley’s coming. We might as well have Mrs. Mielk, too.’ ”
“Shirley’s coming to dinner?” said Ferris.
“Yes,” said Billy Jackson. “And then your mother said maybe we should go ahead and invite Glenn the exterminator while we’re at it.”
“I’m guessing that she was joking about that one,” said Ferris’s father. He closed the encyclopedia and stood up. “Here we go,” he said. “The caravan approacheth.”
Was approacheth a word?
Ferris didn’t think so.
But still, she knew what her father meant.
Something momentous was on the horizon, coming toward them.
Or maybe they were moving toward it—walking out to greet it, whatever it was.
Mrs. Mielk lived two blocks from school. Her house was small and tan-colored, and the yard around it was mowed and precisely edged. It was an entirely unassuming house. You would never guess that it concealed someone as remarkable as Mrs. Mielk.
“You knock,” Ferris said to Billy Jackson. “It was your idea.”
Billy shook his head. His glasses slipped down his nose, and he pushed them back into place. “I can’t do it.”
Boomer was standing between them, panting nervously. Ferris was just thinking that they should turn around and leave when a gray cat appeared out of nowhere and twined himself through her legs. Boomer, who was terrified of cats, yelped in horror. He leapt off the porch and landed in an azalea bush.
The front door opened, and Mrs. Mielk appeared before them. Her eyes were red. She was wearing an old sweater and bedroom slippers that looked like dirty pink clouds.
“Billy Jackson,” said Mrs. Mielk. “Ferris Wilkey.”
She said their names like she always said their names.
Emphatically.
Without doubt; clearly.
It was a relief to hear Mrs. Mielk sound like herself, even though she didn’t look like herself.
“What is your dog doing in my azalea bush?” said Mrs. Mielk.
Ferris turned and looked at Boomer. “He’s hiding from the cat.”
“Hiding,” said Mrs. Mielk. “I see.” She bent down and spoke to the cat. “Come inside now, Samuel Clemens.”
The cat went marching into the house with his tail held high.
“The cat is named Samuel Clemens?” said Billy Jackson.
“Correct,” said Mrs. Mielk. “Samuel Clemens was Mark Twain’s given name. Mark Twain was a nom de plume.” Mrs. Mielk narrowed her red eyes. “Who can define nom de plume?”
“A pen name,” said Billy Jackson.
“A pseudonym,” said Ferris.
Billy Jackson spelled out nom de plume, and Mrs. Mielk stood up straighter. “That is correct,” she said.
“Mrs. Mielk,” said Billy Jackson when he was done spelling, “we know that you are bereft.”
Mrs. Mielk nodded. She looked suddenly diminished.
Diminished.
Made less.
Ferris thought about Charisse. Charisse was diminished, too. A cold wind blew over Ferris’s feet. What happened if someone just kept diminishing? What happened if the diminishment never stopped?
“Do you want to come to a chandelier dinner at my house tonight?” said Ferris.
“A chandelier dinner?” said Mrs. Mielk. She blinked. She looked down at her feet in their fuzzy slippers, and then she looked back up at Ferris and Billy Jackson. She seemed confused.
“We’re going to light an old chandelier using real candles,” said Billy Jackson.
“For what purpose?” said Mrs. Mielk.
“Because it has never before been lit,” said Ferris.
“I see,” said Mrs. Mielk. “So it would be a christening of the chandelier?”
“I’m not sure,” said Ferris.
“Christening,” said Mrs. Mielk. “A ceremonial first use.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Billy Jackson. “It’s a christening, then.”
Ferris looked into Mrs. Mielk’s grief-stricken eyes. “Please?” said Ferris.
Samuel Clemens came back out onto the porch. He looked in the direction of Boomer, who was still cowering in the azalea bush.
“You children,” said Mrs. Mielk. She dabbed at her eyes with a crumpled tissue.
“Yes, ma’am,” agreed Billy Jackson.
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Mielk.
“You’re welcome,” said Ferris.
Mrs. Mielk bent down and addressed the cat. “Samuel Clemens, you will leave that dog alone.”
The cat let out a single meow, and then he went back inside. Mrs. Mielk stood up.
“I’ll see you tonight, children.”
“Six o’clock,” said Ferris. “My house.”
Mrs. Mielk nodded. She closed the door softly, and her bereft face and fuzzy pink bedroom slippers disappeared from view.
When Ferris and Billy Jackson got back to the house, Allen Buoy was standing on the front porch. He had on a black suit and a red bow tie, and he was holding a bouquet of flowers.
Boomer barked at him.
“Hey, Mr. Buoy,” said Ferris.
Allen Buoy smiled. He reached up and fiddled with his hearing aid, and then he said, “Well, hello. I see that you have had your hair trimmed since we last met.”
“Who are the flowers for?” said Ferris.
“Charisse, of course. Charisse, Charisse, forever Charisse.” He sighed. “I have been standing here attempting to screw my courage to the sticking place. As Lady Macbeth says. At least I believe it is Lady Macbeth who says it. In any case, someone in some Shakespeare play talked about courage and screwing it to the sticking place, and the phrase has always resonated with me. Perhaps because when it comes to Charisse, I have been attempting to gather my courage for almost sixty years now.”
Mr. Buoy pulled a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and wiped at his forehead.
“You see,” he said, “I always knew that she was the one for me, but I never spoke up, and she went off and married Fred Wilkey, if you can believe it. I have to say that I couldn’t. Believe it, that is. No disrespect intended to your grandfather, but Fred Wilkey, heavens, what a bore.” Mr. Buoy dabbed at his forehead some more. “I considered writing Charisse a letter, of course . . .”
Ferris thought of Uncle Ted and his billet-doux to Aunt Shirley and how happy her answer had made him.
My heart is like a singing bird because my love is come to me.
“But,” said Allen Buoy, “the time for letter-writing is past. There is no time left to waste, fritter, dream.”
“Do you want me to tell Charisse that you’re here?” asked Ferris.
“You could stay for dinner,” said Billy Jackson.
But Mr. Buoy was not done talking. “I have brought Charisse a bouquet of daisies because I believe them to be an unpretentious flower. They are also the flower of new beginnings. Which is to say that I am done regretting, and that I stand here before you in hope of beginning anew.”
Ferris’s mother came out onto the porch with a dish towel in her hands.
“Mr. Buoy?” she said.
Allen Buoy pivoted on one heel to face Ferris’s mother. He held the daisies up above his head. “I have come to proclaim my love,” said Mr. Buoy. “I have come to claim Charisse.”
“Well, for heaven’s sake,” said Ferris’s mother. “What next? You might as well come inside. Along with everyone else.”
In the dining room, Uncle Ted was standing with his hands on his aproned hips, looking up at the chandelier. Ferris looked up, too.
“I believe this will be beautiful,” Ted said with his head still bent back. “I believe this will be sublime, luminous, numinous, unforgettable. It is time for us to get to work.” He lowered his head and pointed at Ferris. “You, Ferris, will be first up the ladder. You will put the first candle in place. And then you will come down the ladder, and Billy Jackson will ascend and place the next candle. Up, down; one, then the other. I will hold the ladder. I will supervise.”
“Somebody better supervise,” said Ferris’s mother. “I can tell you that much.” She turned and shouted up the stairs. “Charisse! You have a gentleman caller!”
It took a few minutes, but Charisse appeared at the top of the stairs. She descended slowly, holding on to the banister. Mr. Buoy was watching her. He held the bouquet of daisies up higher, and then higher still. It was as if the flowers were emitting some kind of light and he wanted to shine their brilliance over the stairway, over Charisse, over the whole house, the wide world.
“Allen Buoy,” said Charisse. “Are those flowers for me?”
Pinky came down the stairs behind Charisse. She was holding her Houdini book and scowling at no one in particular. Since when did Pinky follow Charisse everywhere? It was annoying.
Charisse reached the bottom of the stairs, and Mr. Buoy bowed and handed her the bouquet.
And then he looked at Pinky and said, “I see you are reading about Harry Houdini.”
Pinky nodded.
“I will admit to having harbored a lifelong fascination with Houdini,” said Mr. Buoy. “It seems I have a talent for harboring lifelong fascinations.” He smiled at Charisse.
Billy Jackson sat down at the piano and started to play “Mysterious Barricades.”
The smell of roasting chicken wafted from the kitchen.
“Is a celebration of some sort planned?” Mr. Buoy asked the room at large.
“Stay for dinner, Mr. Buoy,” said Ferris’s mother. “Move into the basement and paint a history of the world while you’re at it.”
“I really don’t know much about history,” said Mr. Buoy.
Charisse stood at the base of the stairs, holding the daisies. Their light shone onto her face, and she did not look at all diminished. Rather, she seemed enlarged, radiant, immortal.
Every story is a love story.
“Please,” said Charisse to Mr. Buoy. “Stay for dinner. Stay for the lighting of the chandelier.”
Pinky demanded, of course, to be a part of things.
“It’th not fair,” she said. “I’m alwayth getting left out.”
The three of them—Ferris, Billy Jackson, and Pinky—took turns going up the ladder and fitting the candles into their holders. Some of the candles didn’t fit, so Uncle Ted had to shave them with his pocketknife until they were the right size and shape.
When it wasn’t his turn to go up the ladder, Billy Jackson went and played the piano. And Pinky, in between her turns, sat beside Mr. Buoy. They looked at the Houdini book together.
Boomer stood at the base of the ladder beside Uncle Ted. He watched each of them as they ascended and descended.
The house felt festive. It felt like Christmas. Or maybe like some holiday that they had all forgotten about and were just now remembering.
More light, thought Ferris every time it was her turn to climb up the ladder. More light.
At one point, she heard Mr. Buoy say to Pinky, “Magic, if you ask me, is mostly about believing in yourself so much that you make other people believe in you, too.”
Charisse was sitting on the other side of Mr. Buoy. The two of them were holding hands.
It was almost six o’clock when they finished. The shadows were lengthening, and the crickets had started to sing in earnest.
“Now,” said Ted. “I must make myself presentable before Shirley arrives. You children should set the table.”
Ferris and Billy Jackson counted. Her family was five. Billy Jackson was number six. Uncle Ted and Aunt Shirley made eight. Mrs. Mielk was nine. Mr. Buoy was ten.
Ten people.
Ten place settings under the chandelier.
“Use the good china,” said Charisse. “And the Phineas family silver. It has been in the family for a very long time. It could be that she remembers it.”
“It could be that who remembers it?” said Ferris’s mother.
Charisse was saved from having to answer this question by a knock at the front door.
It was Mrs. Mielk. She had on a skirt and a blouse, but on her feet were the pink bedroom slippers. She must have been so undone by her grief that she forgot to take them off and put on regular shoes.
It made Ferris’s heart hurt.
“Come in,” she said to Mrs. Mielk.
“What about me?” said Shirley. “Should I come in, too?” She was standing behind Mrs. Mielk. She was so dressed up that she glittered. As she stepped over the threshold and into the house, Shirley’s feet looked tinier than ever, especially next to Mrs. Mielk’s gigantic slippers of grief.
“Everyone should just come on in,” said Ferris’s mother.
“Everyone, everyone,” said Ferris’s father. “The caravan is here.”
It was dusk and the table was set with the good china and the Phineas family silver, and they all stood together and watched as Ted, clean-shaven and dressed in a suit and tie, went up the ladder with the matches in his hand. He started by lighting the candles in the center and then he worked his way out and around. It was like watching someone light a birthday cake that had been suspended from the ceiling.
When all the candles were lit, Ted came back down the ladder and folded it up and leaned it against the wall.
It was utterly silent in the dining room.
No one spoke, not even Pinky.
Ferris thought that the chandelier was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She thought it was too beautiful for words. Billy Jackson said, “It’s like being on the roof of the steakhouse and looking up at the stars.”
Ferris nodded. She reached out for Billy Jackson’s hand and found it and held it.
“That is truly something to behold,” said Ferris’s father.
“Magic,” said Mr. Buoy. He was still holding Charisse’s hand. As far as Ferris could tell, he had not let go of it once.
“Well,” said Ferris’s mother, “we should eat, I suppose.”
Billy Jackson said, “I want Pop to see this. He needs to see this.” And then he said, louder, “I’m going to go and get my pop.”
Before Ferris could stop him or offer to go with him, Billy had run out of the dining room. She heard the screen door in the kitchen wheeze open and close with a half-hearted thud.
“Get another plate, Ferris,” said her mother. “Set a place for Big Billy. We’ll wait for him.”
There were eleven plates under the chandelier then.
Everyone sat down at the table, but they kept looking up. You couldn’t look away for long. It was too beautiful.
Charisse put her hand on top of Ferris’s hand. “Thank you, darling.”
“Do you think she’s here?” whispered Ferris.
“Not yet,” Charisse whispered back. “But I have no doubt that she will appear.”
“Should I carve the chickens?” said Ferris’s father. “Or should we wait for Big Billy to do that?”
“Wait for Big Billy,” said Uncle Ted, who was sitting next to Shirley and who couldn’t stop smiling.
Mrs. Mielk was looking up at the chandelier. Big tears were rolling down her face and landing on her blouse.
“Mrs. Mielk?” said Ferris.
But then Big Billy came into the dining room. Every room that Big Billy entered seemed suddenly smaller and also more filled with life, joy.
“Howdy!” shouted Big Billy to the room at large.
“Look up, Pop,” said Billy. “You got to look up.”
Big Billy tilted his head and looked at the chandelier. He whistled a long, slow whistle. He said, “You’re right, son. Your mama would have loved it. It’s just exactly the kind of thing she would have loved.”
“Sit down, Big Billy,” said Ferris’s father. “Let someone feed you for a change.”
Big Billy sat down next to Mrs. Mielk, but Billy Jackson stayed standing, looking up at the chandelier and smiling.
“Come sit next to me,” Ferris said to Billy. And she thought how it was the same thing she had been saying to him one way or another since the day she first met him.
Big Billy carved the chickens. There were two of them, which was good, because there were more people under the chandelier than anyone had thought there would be.
The dining room windows were open. A breeze came through the room, and the candle flames bent in the wind and then came back stronger, more certain.
“It’s mushroom gravy,” Uncle Ted said to Big Billy as he passed the gravy boat to him.
“There is a way, I do believe,” said Mr. Buoy to Pinky, “yes, indeed, there is a way out of every locked box.”
Mrs. Mielk was sitting to the left of Billy Jackson. She was holding her fork up to her mouth, but there wasn’t any food on it.
Another gust of air blew through the room. The candle flames swayed back and forth as if they were dancing, and Ferris wondered if the ghost had arrived.
But it wasn’t the ghost. It was moths—a great cloud of them. They appeared all at once, as if they had been conjured. The moths gathered around the lights of the chandelier and flapped their small white wings.
“Look,” said Ferris to Billy Jackson.
“I wonder what you call a big old group of moths,” said Billy.
Mrs. Mielk, her foodless fork still suspended near her mouth, said, “The collective noun for moths is eclipse. This is an eclipse of moths.”
Eclipse.
An obscuring of light that happens when one celestial body passes in front of another.
Eclipse had been a Mielk vocabulary word.
Charisse suddenly leaned in very close to Ferris, and Ferris smelled Florida water and baby powder. “Turn around and look, darling,” whispered Charisse. “Look at the stairs.”
“Mrs. Mielk is bereft, right?” said Billy.
Ferris nodded.
“And remember how you said that the word ‘bereft’ was like a raft that had floated out to sea?”
Ferris nodded again.
“We got to pull in the raft that Mrs. Mielk is on,” said Billy Jackson.
“I wonder what in the world you children are talking about,” said Ferris’s father.
“We got to go to Mrs. Mielk’s and invite her over here,” said Billy Jackson. “For the chandelier dinner. I asked your mother if it was okay, and she said, ‘Why not? Shirley’s coming. We might as well have Mrs. Mielk, too.’ ”
“Shirley’s coming to dinner?” said Ferris.
“Yes,” said Billy Jackson. “And then your mother said maybe we should go ahead and invite Glenn the exterminator while we’re at it.”
“I’m guessing that she was joking about that one,” said Ferris’s father. He closed the encyclopedia and stood up. “Here we go,” he said. “The caravan approacheth.”
Was approacheth a word?
Ferris didn’t think so.
But still, she knew what her father meant.
Something momentous was on the horizon, coming toward them.
Or maybe they were moving toward it—walking out to greet it, whatever it was.
Mrs. Mielk lived two blocks from school. Her house was small and tan-colored, and the yard around it was mowed and precisely edged. It was an entirely unassuming house. You would never guess that it concealed someone as remarkable as Mrs. Mielk.
“You knock,” Ferris said to Billy Jackson. “It was your idea.”
Billy shook his head. His glasses slipped down his nose, and he pushed them back into place. “I can’t do it.”
Boomer was standing between them, panting nervously. Ferris was just thinking that they should turn around and leave when a gray cat appeared out of nowhere and twined himself through her legs. Boomer, who was terrified of cats, yelped in horror. He leapt off the porch and landed in an azalea bush.
The front door opened, and Mrs. Mielk appeared before them. Her eyes were red. She was wearing an old sweater and bedroom slippers that looked like dirty pink clouds.
“Billy Jackson,” said Mrs. Mielk. “Ferris Wilkey.”
She said their names like she always said their names.
Emphatically.
Without doubt; clearly.
It was a relief to hear Mrs. Mielk sound like herself, even though she didn’t look like herself.
“What is your dog doing in my azalea bush?” said Mrs. Mielk.
Ferris turned and looked at Boomer. “He’s hiding from the cat.”
“Hiding,” said Mrs. Mielk. “I see.” She bent down and spoke to the cat. “Come inside now, Samuel Clemens.”
The cat went marching into the house with his tail held high.
“The cat is named Samuel Clemens?” said Billy Jackson.
“Correct,” said Mrs. Mielk. “Samuel Clemens was Mark Twain’s given name. Mark Twain was a nom de plume.” Mrs. Mielk narrowed her red eyes. “Who can define nom de plume?”
“A pen name,” said Billy Jackson.
“A pseudonym,” said Ferris.
Billy Jackson spelled out nom de plume, and Mrs. Mielk stood up straighter. “That is correct,” she said.
“Mrs. Mielk,” said Billy Jackson when he was done spelling, “we know that you are bereft.”
Mrs. Mielk nodded. She looked suddenly diminished.
Diminished.
Made less.
Ferris thought about Charisse. Charisse was diminished, too. A cold wind blew over Ferris’s feet. What happened if someone just kept diminishing? What happened if the diminishment never stopped?
“Do you want to come to a chandelier dinner at my house tonight?” said Ferris.
“A chandelier dinner?” said Mrs. Mielk. She blinked. She looked down at her feet in their fuzzy slippers, and then she looked back up at Ferris and Billy Jackson. She seemed confused.
“We’re going to light an old chandelier using real candles,” said Billy Jackson.
“For what purpose?” said Mrs. Mielk.
“Because it has never before been lit,” said Ferris.
“I see,” said Mrs. Mielk. “So it would be a christening of the chandelier?”
“I’m not sure,” said Ferris.
“Christening,” said Mrs. Mielk. “A ceremonial first use.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Billy Jackson. “It’s a christening, then.”
Ferris looked into Mrs. Mielk’s grief-stricken eyes. “Please?” said Ferris.
Samuel Clemens came back out onto the porch. He looked in the direction of Boomer, who was still cowering in the azalea bush.
“You children,” said Mrs. Mielk. She dabbed at her eyes with a crumpled tissue.
“Yes, ma’am,” agreed Billy Jackson.
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Mielk.
“You’re welcome,” said Ferris.
Mrs. Mielk bent down and addressed the cat. “Samuel Clemens, you will leave that dog alone.”
The cat let out a single meow, and then he went back inside. Mrs. Mielk stood up.
“I’ll see you tonight, children.”
“Six o’clock,” said Ferris. “My house.”
Mrs. Mielk nodded. She closed the door softly, and her bereft face and fuzzy pink bedroom slippers disappeared from view.
When Ferris and Billy Jackson got back to the house, Allen Buoy was standing on the front porch. He had on a black suit and a red bow tie, and he was holding a bouquet of flowers.
Boomer barked at him.
“Hey, Mr. Buoy,” said Ferris.
Allen Buoy smiled. He reached up and fiddled with his hearing aid, and then he said, “Well, hello. I see that you have had your hair trimmed since we last met.”
“Who are the flowers for?” said Ferris.
“Charisse, of course. Charisse, Charisse, forever Charisse.” He sighed. “I have been standing here attempting to screw my courage to the sticking place. As Lady Macbeth says. At least I believe it is Lady Macbeth who says it. In any case, someone in some Shakespeare play talked about courage and screwing it to the sticking place, and the phrase has always resonated with me. Perhaps because when it comes to Charisse, I have been attempting to gather my courage for almost sixty years now.”
Mr. Buoy pulled a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and wiped at his forehead.
“You see,” he said, “I always knew that she was the one for me, but I never spoke up, and she went off and married Fred Wilkey, if you can believe it. I have to say that I couldn’t. Believe it, that is. No disrespect intended to your grandfather, but Fred Wilkey, heavens, what a bore.” Mr. Buoy dabbed at his forehead some more. “I considered writing Charisse a letter, of course . . .”
Ferris thought of Uncle Ted and his billet-doux to Aunt Shirley and how happy her answer had made him.
My heart is like a singing bird because my love is come to me.
“But,” said Allen Buoy, “the time for letter-writing is past. There is no time left to waste, fritter, dream.”
“Do you want me to tell Charisse that you’re here?” asked Ferris.
“You could stay for dinner,” said Billy Jackson.
But Mr. Buoy was not done talking. “I have brought Charisse a bouquet of daisies because I believe them to be an unpretentious flower. They are also the flower of new beginnings. Which is to say that I am done regretting, and that I stand here before you in hope of beginning anew.”
Ferris’s mother came out onto the porch with a dish towel in her hands.
“Mr. Buoy?” she said.
Allen Buoy pivoted on one heel to face Ferris’s mother. He held the daisies up above his head. “I have come to proclaim my love,” said Mr. Buoy. “I have come to claim Charisse.”
“Well, for heaven’s sake,” said Ferris’s mother. “What next? You might as well come inside. Along with everyone else.”
In the dining room, Uncle Ted was standing with his hands on his aproned hips, looking up at the chandelier. Ferris looked up, too.
“I believe this will be beautiful,” Ted said with his head still bent back. “I believe this will be sublime, luminous, numinous, unforgettable. It is time for us to get to work.” He lowered his head and pointed at Ferris. “You, Ferris, will be first up the ladder. You will put the first candle in place. And then you will come down the ladder, and Billy Jackson will ascend and place the next candle. Up, down; one, then the other. I will hold the ladder. I will supervise.”
“Somebody better supervise,” said Ferris’s mother. “I can tell you that much.” She turned and shouted up the stairs. “Charisse! You have a gentleman caller!”
It took a few minutes, but Charisse appeared at the top of the stairs. She descended slowly, holding on to the banister. Mr. Buoy was watching her. He held the bouquet of daisies up higher, and then higher still. It was as if the flowers were emitting some kind of light and he wanted to shine their brilliance over the stairway, over Charisse, over the whole house, the wide world.
“Allen Buoy,” said Charisse. “Are those flowers for me?”
Pinky came down the stairs behind Charisse. She was holding her Houdini book and scowling at no one in particular. Since when did Pinky follow Charisse everywhere? It was annoying.
Charisse reached the bottom of the stairs, and Mr. Buoy bowed and handed her the bouquet.
And then he looked at Pinky and said, “I see you are reading about Harry Houdini.”
Pinky nodded.
“I will admit to having harbored a lifelong fascination with Houdini,” said Mr. Buoy. “It seems I have a talent for harboring lifelong fascinations.” He smiled at Charisse.
Billy Jackson sat down at the piano and started to play “Mysterious Barricades.”
The smell of roasting chicken wafted from the kitchen.
“Is a celebration of some sort planned?” Mr. Buoy asked the room at large.
“Stay for dinner, Mr. Buoy,” said Ferris’s mother. “Move into the basement and paint a history of the world while you’re at it.”
“I really don’t know much about history,” said Mr. Buoy.
Charisse stood at the base of the stairs, holding the daisies. Their light shone onto her face, and she did not look at all diminished. Rather, she seemed enlarged, radiant, immortal.
Every story is a love story.
“Please,” said Charisse to Mr. Buoy. “Stay for dinner. Stay for the lighting of the chandelier.”
Pinky demanded, of course, to be a part of things.
“It’th not fair,” she said. “I’m alwayth getting left out.”
The three of them—Ferris, Billy Jackson, and Pinky—took turns going up the ladder and fitting the candles into their holders. Some of the candles didn’t fit, so Uncle Ted had to shave them with his pocketknife until they were the right size and shape.
When it wasn’t his turn to go up the ladder, Billy Jackson went and played the piano. And Pinky, in between her turns, sat beside Mr. Buoy. They looked at the Houdini book together.
Boomer stood at the base of the ladder beside Uncle Ted. He watched each of them as they ascended and descended.
The house felt festive. It felt like Christmas. Or maybe like some holiday that they had all forgotten about and were just now remembering.
More light, thought Ferris every time it was her turn to climb up the ladder. More light.
At one point, she heard Mr. Buoy say to Pinky, “Magic, if you ask me, is mostly about believing in yourself so much that you make other people believe in you, too.”
Charisse was sitting on the other side of Mr. Buoy. The two of them were holding hands.
It was almost six o’clock when they finished. The shadows were lengthening, and the crickets had started to sing in earnest.
“Now,” said Ted. “I must make myself presentable before Shirley arrives. You children should set the table.”
Ferris and Billy Jackson counted. Her family was five. Billy Jackson was number six. Uncle Ted and Aunt Shirley made eight. Mrs. Mielk was nine. Mr. Buoy was ten.
Ten people.
Ten place settings under the chandelier.
“Use the good china,” said Charisse. “And the Phineas family silver. It has been in the family for a very long time. It could be that she remembers it.”
“It could be that who remembers it?” said Ferris’s mother.
Charisse was saved from having to answer this question by a knock at the front door.
It was Mrs. Mielk. She had on a skirt and a blouse, but on her feet were the pink bedroom slippers. She must have been so undone by her grief that she forgot to take them off and put on regular shoes.
It made Ferris’s heart hurt.
“Come in,” she said to Mrs. Mielk.
“What about me?” said Shirley. “Should I come in, too?” She was standing behind Mrs. Mielk. She was so dressed up that she glittered. As she stepped over the threshold and into the house, Shirley’s feet looked tinier than ever, especially next to Mrs. Mielk’s gigantic slippers of grief.
“Everyone should just come on in,” said Ferris’s mother.
“Everyone, everyone,” said Ferris’s father. “The caravan is here.”
It was dusk and the table was set with the good china and the Phineas family silver, and they all stood together and watched as Ted, clean-shaven and dressed in a suit and tie, went up the ladder with the matches in his hand. He started by lighting the candles in the center and then he worked his way out and around. It was like watching someone light a birthday cake that had been suspended from the ceiling.
When all the candles were lit, Ted came back down the ladder and folded it up and leaned it against the wall.
It was utterly silent in the dining room.
No one spoke, not even Pinky.
Ferris thought that the chandelier was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She thought it was too beautiful for words. Billy Jackson said, “It’s like being on the roof of the steakhouse and looking up at the stars.”
Ferris nodded. She reached out for Billy Jackson’s hand and found it and held it.
“That is truly something to behold,” said Ferris’s father.
“Magic,” said Mr. Buoy. He was still holding Charisse’s hand. As far as Ferris could tell, he had not let go of it once.
“Well,” said Ferris’s mother, “we should eat, I suppose.”
Billy Jackson said, “I want Pop to see this. He needs to see this.” And then he said, louder, “I’m going to go and get my pop.”
Before Ferris could stop him or offer to go with him, Billy had run out of the dining room. She heard the screen door in the kitchen wheeze open and close with a half-hearted thud.
“Get another plate, Ferris,” said her mother. “Set a place for Big Billy. We’ll wait for him.”
There were eleven plates under the chandelier then.
Everyone sat down at the table, but they kept looking up. You couldn’t look away for long. It was too beautiful.
Charisse put her hand on top of Ferris’s hand. “Thank you, darling.”
“Do you think she’s here?” whispered Ferris.
“Not yet,” Charisse whispered back. “But I have no doubt that she will appear.”
“Should I carve the chickens?” said Ferris’s father. “Or should we wait for Big Billy to do that?”
“Wait for Big Billy,” said Uncle Ted, who was sitting next to Shirley and who couldn’t stop smiling.
Mrs. Mielk was looking up at the chandelier. Big tears were rolling down her face and landing on her blouse.
“Mrs. Mielk?” said Ferris.
But then Big Billy came into the dining room. Every room that Big Billy entered seemed suddenly smaller and also more filled with life, joy.
“Howdy!” shouted Big Billy to the room at large.
“Look up, Pop,” said Billy. “You got to look up.”
Big Billy tilted his head and looked at the chandelier. He whistled a long, slow whistle. He said, “You’re right, son. Your mama would have loved it. It’s just exactly the kind of thing she would have loved.”
“Sit down, Big Billy,” said Ferris’s father. “Let someone feed you for a change.”
Big Billy sat down next to Mrs. Mielk, but Billy Jackson stayed standing, looking up at the chandelier and smiling.
“Come sit next to me,” Ferris said to Billy. And she thought how it was the same thing she had been saying to him one way or another since the day she first met him.
Big Billy carved the chickens. There were two of them, which was good, because there were more people under the chandelier than anyone had thought there would be.
The dining room windows were open. A breeze came through the room, and the candle flames bent in the wind and then came back stronger, more certain.
“It’s mushroom gravy,” Uncle Ted said to Big Billy as he passed the gravy boat to him.
“There is a way, I do believe,” said Mr. Buoy to Pinky, “yes, indeed, there is a way out of every locked box.”
Mrs. Mielk was sitting to the left of Billy Jackson. She was holding her fork up to her mouth, but there wasn’t any food on it.
Another gust of air blew through the room. The candle flames swayed back and forth as if they were dancing, and Ferris wondered if the ghost had arrived.
But it wasn’t the ghost. It was moths—a great cloud of them. They appeared all at once, as if they had been conjured. The moths gathered around the lights of the chandelier and flapped their small white wings.
“Look,” said Ferris to Billy Jackson.
“I wonder what you call a big old group of moths,” said Billy.
Mrs. Mielk, her foodless fork still suspended near her mouth, said, “The collective noun for moths is eclipse. This is an eclipse of moths.”
Eclipse.
An obscuring of light that happens when one celestial body passes in front of another.
Eclipse had been a Mielk vocabulary word.
Charisse suddenly leaned in very close to Ferris, and Ferris smelled Florida water and baby powder. “Turn around and look, darling,” whispered Charisse. “Look at the stairs.”
