The Hole in the Wall by Lisa Rowe Fraustino Page A

not say hump. I didn’t know what to say. Grum had told us enough times to go ahead and lie around the house slouching and not drinking our milk if we wanted our backs to look like question marks without answers for the rest of our lives. There wasn’t any cure for osteoporosis.

    From the top of her dahlia bulb nose to the bottom of her long, white, unwrinkled neck, Miss Beverly turned red. “It’s, oh my, ’twas my own fault, really. Stanley warned me not to use the . . . , but, oh dear, I can’t really say, I’ve said too much already. . . .”

    She stepped outside, looked nervously around the yard, came back into the barn, shut the door behind her, and said, “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.” With her long neck she looked ludicrous, like Alice in Wonderland when she grew tall.

    “We actually came to visit you,” I said, “and we—” I looked to Barbie for help, but she was looking warily into the closet. I was on my own. “We were on our way to see you and just stepped in here to get out of the rain.”

    Miss Beverly opened the blinds and let the sun in. “Would you like to try that again?”

    Hey, when did the sun come out? The only thing I could think of to do next was cock my left eyebrow. A unique charm I got from Pa. He said the ol’ Daniels eyebrow could get a fella anything he wanted from the ladies.

    Sure enough, Miss Beverly melted into a smile. Then she looked closer at me and squinted. “Sebby, do you have something hidden under your raincoat?”

    “What?” My hand went to Celery’s head, and I imagined those chicken eyes moving. “Oh, that. It’s . . . kind of embarrassing, actually. It’s a . . . rare medical condition.”

    “Oh, dear. I’m sorry to hear that,” Miss Beverly said. Then, after an awkward pause, “Look, you children are welcome to visit me at the house anytime, but Stanley doesn’t allow guests in his workshop. He usually keeps it locked when he’s not here. He must have gone off in a hurry. He did leave the place a sight.” She stiffly bent to pick up the empty paint cups.

    On her way to the garbage can she paused in front of the map with the swirling patterns sketched under the ocean back to Kokadjo. To turn her head she twisted her whole body around, not just her neck. “Such an imagination he has,” she sighed, tracing her finger along the lines.

    And then my sister surprised me. Instead of taking the chance to get out of there unscathed, she started pulling items out of Odum’s closet, saying, “Sorry, Miss Beverly, don’t worry, I’ll put everything back. I just have to find out what bit me!”

    Out came a lampshade, lawn chairs, computer parts, pails of rocks and bones—bones? no, fossils—while Miss Beverly fussed. “Something bit you? Oh, dear! But if you just . . . Barbie, please don’t. Child, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Dear, if Stanley comes home and finds you—”

    She put her hand to her heart and gasped.

    “That bit you?” I said.

    We were gaping at the statue of a poofy giant poodle. It would have been cute if not for the horrified look on its face, its mouth in a wide-open howl of terror. The dog was made of beautiful white stone, every hair carved in place, except for a missing tail and one broken ear, complete with severed blood vessels. The sculptor had a sick sense of humor. The details looked so real, my skin prickled with the heebie-jeebies.

    Barbie was blushing now. “Well, my hand definitely got caught in some teeth. Sorry, Miss Beverly.” And she hustled to bury the dog again.

    Miss Beverly started to shake her head but stopped and put her hand to her neck, her lips set in a grim line while I helped Barbie return everything the way we found it. All but one thing that might possibly have fallen into my raincoat pocket. And then Miss Beverly shooed us out. I stayed as far away from the bathroom as possible, just in case Celery still had any funny ideas about getting together with