The Mystery Guest

In my mind’s eye, I’m a child again. Gran and I are sitting at our old kitchen table having breakfast the day after Mr. Grimthorpe transformed from a man into a ravenous wolf right before my eyes. I’m swinging my legs back and forth under my country-kitchen chair as I always do, but nothing will ever be the same again. At least that much I understand. Usually, in the mornings, I hurl a barrage of childlike questions at Gran, my existential quandaries and would-you-rather quizzes. But not that day.

I push my oatmeal down my throat, but when Gran tells me it’s time to go to the Grimthorpe mansion, I don’t move. I can’t.

“It’s not right,” I say. It’s the first mention I’ve made of what I saw in that parlor. I pause. “Gran, you can’t go back there.” I don’t know how to say what I want to say, because I don’t have words for what I saw.

“Molly, today is a brand-new day.” Gran jumps up from her chair so quickly it screeches against the floor. “The sun is shining. The birds are chirping.” She takes our barely touched bowls to the sink, turning away from me. Her hands clutch the edge of the counter. “Let’s go now,” she announces. “It’s time.”

When she turns to face me, she’s smiling, and I swear to you that smile is genuine. She has willed it from some wellspring deep within, and now she offers it like a bouquet of fresh roses. She dons her bravest face because what other choice does she have?

That rhetorical question had kept me up the night before. I lay awake in bed with Gran’s lone-star quilt pulled up to my neck. I stared into the darkness and contemplated our options. A plan emerged in my mind. Suddenly, I saw it clearly. I knew what I had to do.

Gran once told me that sometimes in this life, you have to do something wrong to make something right. I’ve never forgotten that. It has become a motto to live by.

As I swing my legs under the table, I’ve already decided.

It is a brand-new day. The sun is shining. The birds are chirping. I have a plan, and there’s nothing that will stop me from seeing it through. Nothing.

—

We arrive at the mansion right on time. The invisible gatekeeper has buzzed us through the gate. Now, Gran and I are standing on the path. Suddenly, I’m filled with doubt. What if I can’t do it? What if it’s the wrong thing to do? What if I’m making a terrible mistake? No. I won’t listen to doubt. We must escape the monster. We must run from the wolf.

I haven’t mentioned a thing to Gran, and I won’t, but my feet are tethered to the ground before we’ve even reached the front door. Gran puts a warm hand on my arm. My feet loosen and release. Together, we walk up the rest of the path toward the Grimthorpe mansion.

The roses flanking us are all expired now, every last one, their blooms spent, their heads bowed and withered. Jenkins is up the path, sweeping crispy fallen petals into a pile that he rakes into his wheelbarrow. There’s a new smell in the air, the sweet scent of expiration.

“Good morning, Flora,” Jenkins says as we pass. “How are you and the little mite on this fine day?”

“Well enough, Jenkins, I suppose,” Gran replies.

“Rose season is over,” he replies, “but there’s always next year.”

“Something to look forward to,” Gran replies.

“We all need that, don’t we?”

Gran nods. “Indeed we do.”

We continue up the path until we reach the front door. I grab the lion’s brass mandible and knock three times. The massive door swings open, and Mrs. Grimthorpe lets us in. Gran and I take off our shoes, wiping them down as usual and slipping them into the space at the back of the vestibule, in the dark corner reserved for the help.

Mrs. Grimthorpe starts in without delay. “Today is wash-and-dry day. Flora, go upstairs and collect all the laundry. Be quick about it. Lots to do.”

Gran flinches ever so slightly. It’s something I wouldn’t have noticed before, but on that day I do.

“Once you’ve got all the dirty laundry, bring it downstairs to the cellar. Stay down there and monitor the machines. The washer has been acting up again. And do be careful with the bleach. Last time, you used so much on the whites, you burnt a hole into one of Mr. Grimthorpe’s shirts.”

“There was a stain, madam,” Gran says. “I was trying to remove the blot.”

“Is burning it to oblivion the only way?” Mrs. Grimthorpe asks. “Surely any half-decent maid knows better.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Gran replies.

“Child, you may read upstairs in the library,” Mrs. Grimthorpe says. “You can polish silver in the afternoon.”

“Would it be all right if I read in the parlor?” I ask. “Just for today?”

Mrs. Grimthorpe’s forehead scrunches up, then she says, “I suppose, provided you sit in one chair only and touch a grand total of nothing. Do not clean or polish anything, you understand? Keep your paws off Mr. Grimthorpe’s treasures.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say.

“Off you go, then.”