Things Invisible to See by Nancy Willard Read Free Book Online

after so many years, the skull and winged man flashed in the morning light. Going into hiding had not tarnished them. Wanda said it wasn’t the coin but his own courage that had carried Ben across the pool. Ben guessed she was right; but couldn’t the coin still have a power of its own, the accumulated courage of the unknown soldier who lost it, and of his father who’d found it long ago, and of himself, who’d both found it and lost it, and found it again?
    “I could send it to her with a note,” said Ben at breakfast. Willie stopped chewing his cornflakes. “Who?”
    “Clare Bishop.”
    “Who?”
    “Clare Bishop. The girl I hit. She’s still in the hospital.”
    “You called the hospital?”
    Ben nodded. “They wouldn’t tell me how badly she was hurt.”
    “Get yourself a good lawyer,” said Willie. “I’m not loaning you a cent.”
    “I’ve got to talk to her.”
    “You’re off your trolley.”
    Wanda came into the kitchen, ready to leave for work—she always left a half hour before they did—and they both stood up to kiss her good-bye.

6
A Book of Gold
    T HE ATTIC DOOR STOOD open. Grandpa Ericson sat in the overstuffed chair, his hat in his hand, his coat thrown over his shoulders like a cape, singing,
    “Thro’ many dangers, toils, and snares,
    I have already come;
    ’Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far—”
    “Good-bye, Grandpa,” said Davy from the doorway.
    Grandpa stopped singing.
    “Davy, who sat under the terebinth tree?”
    “The men of Shechem. And Abraham,” answered Davy.
    “And why did they sit under the terebinth tree?”
    “Because when the leaves rustled, they were whispering the secrets of the future.”
    “Correct,” said Grandpa. “Take a penny from the jar. I’m leaving the penny jar in your care while I’m gone. Is your aunt from Grossey Pointe here?”
    It amused him to speak of his own daughters as if they were other people’s relatives. And he had a way of saying “Grosse Pointe” that reminded Vicky she hadn’t always had it so good.
    “You forgot to pack your books,” said Davy.
    “They’ve got a public library in Grossey Pointe,” said Grandpa. “And before you know it I’ll be back. Let’s go downstairs.”
    He took Davy’s hand and pulled himself up. They both sang the last verse.
“When we’ve been there ten thousand years, Bright shining as the sun, We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise Than when we first begun.”
    Halfway down the second flight of stairs, he asked, “Is your grandmother in the house?”
    “No, Grandpa. You’re safe.”
    Here’s where I saw Clare, thought Davy. And that other lady. In my dream.
    At the dining room table, Helen and Vicky and Nell sat with the book of days open on the lace tablecloth before them, a leather-bound account book in which Vicky had recorded, for the last three years, Grandpa days and Grandma days. Grandpa’s were blue, Grandma’s bright red. They were worked like cross-stitch over the empty spaces under the names of Helen and Nell and Vicky. A simple pattern: when Helen and Nell had Grandma, Vicky had Grandpa. When Vicky had Grandma, Helen and Nell had Grandpa. Nobody needed credit for having Grandpa. He was no trouble to anyone.
    Vicky kept strict account of their payments. Now she was showing Helen and Nell how many Grandma days they owed. One hundred and eighty days came to six months. No credit extended on account of illness.
    “I don’t know how we’re going to manage when Clare comes home,” said Helen. “If only Grandma doesn’t try to run away.”
    “Keep her busy,” said Vicky. “She loves to scour pots. She scoured a hole clean through my double boiler.”
    The aroma of roast chicken appeared in their midst like an unannounced guest, and Vicky, remembering that she never stayed for dinner, rose and announced that she never stayed for dinner while Helen, remembering that it was good manners to offer people a drink at this hour, waved toward the sideboard and