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

All in the Eyes by Barbara Owens

© 1993 by Barbara Owens

San Jose, California resident Barbara Owens is becoming one of our most regular and dependable contributors. This time she weaves a sinister tale of what the media nowadays calls “elderly abuse...”

Mrs. Hucklebee collects things. Not fine crystal, burnished copper, or brass; not antique dolls, elaborate thimbles, or quaint salt and pepper shakers. All are easily obtainable within her city, but such items do not strike a responsive chord in this lady’s individualistic heart.

No, Mrs. Hucklebee is drawn to the ordinary. Everyday things that flick by at vision’s edge, easily overlooked — like wedding announcements in the newspaper. A regular weekend highlight is the clipping of these announcements, careful scrutiny of each smiling face, and then the verdict: an inked X in the picture’s upper right-hand comer — red if the couple will live together long and faithfully, black if their future is doomed by death, divorce, or who can tell. Then placement into a scrapbook, its predecessors lining shelves along one living room wall, and Mrs. Hucklebee sits back, satisfied.

“It’s in the eyes,” she always announces aloud. “All in the eyes.”

The opposite wall shelves contain her dried-leaf scrapbooks, each specimen carefully preserved under plastic wrap, and recently she’s embarked upon a new and exciting accumulation. Already jelly, pickle, and mayonnaise jars soldier the window sills, holding clear-colored glass marbles like those used in flower arrangements. Mrs. Hucklebee loves to sit watching little rainbows slide slowly across the room.

However, it’s a leaf that absorbs her on this sharp bright October day. She has discovered it while walking home from the pharmacy, and when she spies a neighbor in the park Mrs. Hucklebee can’t resist sharing her good fortune. Joining the younger woman on the bench, she unwraps the leaf from its pocket tissue, gently stroking its golden face.

“Look at that. See how coppery the veins are?”

“A beauty,” Mrs. Gambrelli responds warmly. “What a fine one for your collection.”

While Mrs. Hucklebee folds the leaf back into its protective tissue, Mrs. Gambrelli says, “One of the last of the season, I’m afraid. Winter’s knocking. Sometimes I worry about you, Mrs. Hucklebee, alone in that big house. You call if you ever need anything, you understand?”

Mrs. Hucklebee smiles tolerantly. Mrs. Gambrelli is new to the neighborhood.

“Don’t you worry about me, dear. Mr. Hucklebee’s been gone so long I’m used to being on my own.”

Suddenly a wail sounds. Little Joey has swooped down the playground slide and landed hard. Before Mrs. Gambrelli can move a figure appears, scoops up the boy, and trots toward the bench, whispering close against his ear. When Joey is deposited into his mother’s lap he’s sunny again.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Gambrelli says, cuddling her son to her breast. “Where did you come from so fast?”

The figure is that of a young girl, scarcely more than a child herself. Thin-faced, with dark ragged hair, she wears worn jeans and a dirty windbreaker that seems too light for such a chilly day. As Mrs. Hucklebee looks up at her the girl’s brown eyes pass slowly across her face.

“I could use a dollar,” she says to Mrs. Gambrelli.

Mrs. Gambrelli looks flustered. “Oh, I’m sorry. I haven’t brought my purse.”

Magnanimously, Mrs. Hucklebee opens her own. “Here.” She presses a bill into the girl’s small cold hand. “Get a cup of hot chocolate. Aren’t you cold in that little jacket? You should go home and put on something warm.”

The girl murmurs, “Thanks.” Before turning away, she studies Mrs. Hucklebee’s face again. The women watch her walk away and disappear into a tangle of shrubbery nearby.

“Sad to see children begging on the streets,” Mrs. Gambrelli says, tightening her hold on Joey.

Mrs. Hucklebee has already forgotten the girl. She’s gazing fondly at her house on the comer across the boulevard — dark and tall, a high stone wall enclosing its backyard. She is unaware of its slightly shabby appearance, a darkening tooth in the street’s otherwise pleasant smile. Mrs. Hucklebee’s home is her haven. It holds all her treasures.

She stands up abruptly. “So nice talking to you, Mrs. Gambrelli. I must go and see to my new leaf.”

She hurries across the boulevard, eager, not feeling the eyes that follow her all the way home.

With winter approaching, dusk lowers earlier each day. By the time the golden leaf is shrouded in plastic and placed inside a scrapbook the lights are on, glowing valiantly in cavernous old rooms, dimmed by dark wainscoting and faded wallpaper. Mrs. Hucklebee hums in her kitchen while chicken pops and fizzles in a black iron skillet and the aroma of baking banana bread wafts into the far recesses of the house.

The doorbell stirs her from her complacency. In the feeble pool cast by the porch light the girl from the park smiles at her through the screen.

“I’m hungry,” she says in a small clear voice. “You’re so nice I know you’ll want to give me something to eat. I’ll work for it. Is that fried chicken I smell?”

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.”

Suddenly Mrs. Hucklebee sees the long carving knife Wolf holds in his hand. All her kitchen knives are spread across the drainboard. Her throat tries to close. “What are you doing with my knives?” she asks helplessly, knowing he won’t answer.

Crystalbell takes the knife from him and urges him to the table. “They were all dull. Wolf sharpened them for you. Wasn’t that nice of him?” Her eyes flash an unmistakable warning.

“Very nice, yes,” Mrs. Hucklebee says quickly. She feels the sting of tears as she adds, “Thank you, Wolf.”

A smile opens suddenly beneath the black glasses. Wide and toothy, canines sharp as needles. Mrs. Hucklebee suddenly imagines herself dashing for the door, fleeing down the steps and into the street. But Crystalbell’s firm hands are seating her at the table and they are once more gathered to eat.

“Mrs. H,” Crystalbell says with a grin, “I think I got the perfect name for you. Feather. What do you think?”

Mrs. Hucklebee can’t respond. Eggs stick in her throat and her knees tremble. She shakes her head, mute.

“Well, maybe not,” Crystalbell concedes brightly. “But don’t worry. I’ll come up with the right one yet.”

After breakfast, while Crystalbell cleans the kitchen cabinets and Wolf goes out to the walled backyard, Mrs. Hucklebee sits in her living room, hands tightly folded in her lap. The day is gray and cheerless — the marbles in the windows send no rainbows chasing each other across the floor. Periodically, Mrs. Hucklebee stares longingly at the front door. Once, as she does this, she sees Crystalbell watching her from the hall archway.

“Why you looking at the door like that, Mrs. H?”

When she receives no answer the girl comes to her, kneels, and takes both her hands.

“Wolf and me just want to stay awhile, that’s all,” she says softly.

Mrs. Hucklebee gazes down into the warm brown eyes. “This is my house,” she answers stoutly. “I don’t want you here.”

Crystalbell sighs heavily. “Well, we’re here, so we’ll all just have to make the best of it until Wolf’s ready to leave. The thing is, he likes it, especially all those pretty marbles you got.”

“How can you tell?” Mrs. Hucklebee asks in despair. “The boy doesn’t even talk?”

“He does sometimes, to me. But mostly I just been with him so long I know what he’s thinking.” The girl leans closer. “I’ll tell you something for your own good, Mrs. H. You got to be careful with Wolf. I didn’t tell you this before, but I think he might’ve killed someone before we got together.”

Mrs. Hucklebee’s breath catches. “No!”

The girl nods. “Least he says he did. So you got to go easy. Say you decide to sneak out and call the police or something. Well, I don’t know what he’d do.” She glances up at the shelves ringing the room. “If he couldn’t do something bad to you, I bet he’d at least do something to all this stuff you save. Probably set it on fire.”

For a moment, Mrs. Hucklebee fears her heart has stopped. She squeezes the girl’s hand, hard. “Not my collections! Crystalbell, you’ve got to get away from him. We both do!”

Crystalbell looks serious. “I’ve been thinking that very same thing. Hang on, Mrs. H, let me figure something out.”

They are suddenly allies and Mrs. Hucklebee feels better. “But right now,” Crystalbell says, jumping up, “I got to go to the store for you. You’re low on some things, you know. Come on, you help me decide what to get.”

“You don’t have to go,” Mrs. Hucklebee answers. “I always just call the market and they—” She stops, remembering her disabled phone.

“I don’t mind,” the girl says gently. “It’s too cold out for you anyway. Can I help cook supper tonight? I really need to learn.”

“But if you go — don’t leave me here alone with him.”

“I told you,” Crystalbell repeats patiently, “you’ll be okay if you just don’t hassle him. Come on, Mrs. H, you and me are in this together now.”

After the girl is gone and Mrs. Hucklebee is alone in the house, she parts the kitchen curtains and peeps into the backyard. Wolf is spading up her dying vegetable garden, the strength in his arms belying their puny size. There are piles of fresh dirt lying everywhere. Before she can close the gap in the curtains the white head lifts and turns toward her, as if he feels her watching. Mrs. Hucklebee scurries back to the living room. She wants to run, but her collections — what would he do to them? She’s still sitting in the living room when Crystalbell returns.

“Guess what I got for you!” the girl greets her. Her hair is ruffled, her eyes shining. She holds up a deep orange leaf, a perfect specimen, and waves it before Mrs. Hucklebee’s delighted eyes. “Look at that. Not even one little chunk missing.”

Cradling the leaf, Mrs. Hucklebee follows her into the kitchen. Crystalbell lifts a hand-wrapped package from her grocery bag.

“I met the lady from the park yesterday. She was bringing you some homemade cookies.” The girl busies herself putting groceries away. “I hope you don’t care, but I said I was your granddaughter. She wondered why we didn’t recognize each other yesterday, so I told her we hadn’t seen each other since I was a baby, you know, with your son living so far away and all. Anyway, she says she won’t bother you while you have company — she’ll see you some other time.”

Mrs. Hucklebee smoothes her rich orange leaf, scarcely hearing. The kitchen smells of pine cleanser. When she opens the cupboard to reach for the plastic wrap, everything inside is neat and clean.

“Thank you, Crystalbell,” she says. “Thank you for my leaf. What a thoughtful thing for you to do.”

During the second week that Wolf and Crystalbell are with her, Mrs. Hucklebee discovers that Mr. Hucklebee’s gold watch is missing from her bureau drawer. It has lain there with her hankies since he passed away. Crystalbell is wearing a new red sweater and jeans but Mrs. Hucklebee is too distraught to notice.

The girl listens attentively. “And you think Wolf took it? He wouldn’t do that, Mrs. H.”

“Well, I don’t know what else to think. What should we do?”

Crystalbell looks apprehensive. “No telling what’ll happen if you just walk up and accuse him,” she says in a low voice. “You better let me talk to him.”

They’re huddled together in the kitchen. Across the hallway Wolf is sitting by the living room window, staring gloomily into the rain. He gets tense and edgy when he can’t go outside to dig.

While Crystalbell goes in to him, Mrs. Hucklebee stands at the kitchen door. She longs to go outside, to smell the rain, to stop and see Mrs. Gambrelli or buy her own food at the market. She’s growing ever more fond of Crystalbell, but the boy with those blank glass eyes — she shivers. She’s hurriedly tugging on her rain boots when Crystalbell returns.

The girl kneels at her feet. “What’re you doing, Mrs. H?”

Mrs. Hucklebee’s voice trembles. “I need some air. I haven’t been outside since I don’t know when. I want to take a walk.”

Crystalbell’s small hands stay hers. “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.” Gently, she begins to remove the boots. “Wolf’s pretty mad that you think he stole Mr. H’s watch. You’d better make up with him before he does something.”

And Mrs. Hucklebee’s boots are off, aligned back on the floor. She looks at them, at the girl, and shivers again.

Crystalbell coaxes her to her feet. “Show me your wedding collection, okay? Come on, you can take a walk some other time.”

Wolf doesn’t look up as they settle together on the sofa. Hunched over, he’s staring at the jars of marbles on the window sill.

Crystalbell nudges her. “Maybe if you say something he’ll feel better,” she whispers. “You know, like you made a mistake about the watch.”

Mrs. Hucklebee’s heart knocks against her ribs. She moistens her lips. “I’m sorry, Wolf,” she manages in a small voice. “I’m sure I was mistaken about the watch.”

“Sure,” Crystalbell chimes in. “It’s going to show up, I bet.”

The big old room is silent. After a moment, Wolf’s head turns. Mrs. Hucklebee wants to close her eyes against those black pools facing her, but she forces a smile. He’s wearing a sweater that belonged to Mr. Hucklebee, and for a moment Mrs. Hucklebee wants to cry. Then he stands and walks slowly from the room without looking back. Footsteps on the stairs, then a door closes somewhere up there. Pacing, the sound of footfalls back and forth above their heads.

Mrs. Hucklebee clenches her hands. “When is he going to leave?”

Crystalbell pats her. “I’m working on it. Trust me, Mrs. H. And, honest, he really likes you. Now can I see your collection?”

After only a few moments, Mrs. Hucklebee is lost in the comfort of the scrapbook’s pages. Crystalbell seems interested in the X marks.

“So how do you do it — know which ones will work and which ones won’t?”

“The eyes,” Mrs. Hucklebee responds wisely. “Everything a person is — it’s all there in the eyes.”

The girl is bent low over a page. For a moment she’s silent. Then, “Of course, you could be wrong.”

Something amiss in her voice, an edge, a barb of amusement. Mrs. Hucklebee pauses, a page half turned. Then the young face lifts, eyes clear and guileless under the ragged bangs.

“I mean, you don’t really know what happens after, do you?”

Mrs. Hucklebee relaxes. “I know,” she answers a trifle smugly. “I’m very good at reading eyes.”

Crystalbell smiles, leans back, arms flung along the sofa’s back. “Well, that’s good, Mrs. H,” she says softly. “Real good. That must be a handy talent to have.”

Mrs. Hucklebee is too absorbed in the pages to hear. Everything else, the rain outside and the overhead footsteps, has faded away.

As Thanksgiving approaches, Crystalbell begins to plan a holiday feast.

“Turkey. Yams. Oh, and oyster stuffing, Mrs. H, we have to have that. Pumpkin pie. All that good family stuff, won’t it be fun?”

“Wouldn’t you rather be home with your real family?” Mrs. Hucklebee asks plaintively. “Where are they? How long have you been away from them?”

Crystalbell hugs her. “There you go again with nosy questions,” she chides, and darts away to the backyard to tell Wolf of the meal to come.

Mrs. Hucklebee looks after her helplessly. Crystalbell can’t seem to do enough for her. The old house preens from top to bottom, but she wants her old life back. Quiet days alone in her comfortable home, walks in the park, meals in her kitchen without a sinister blind-eyed boy sitting close beside her.

He has taken to walking the house at night. On several occasions she’s risen to find him standing at the head of the stairway or walking stealthily through the upstairs hall. The shadowy sight of him in the darkened house always sends her fleeing back to her bedroom, where she lies awake for hours, hands pressed flat across her thumping heart.

Once Mrs. Gambrelli comes to invite her over for coffee. Mrs. Hucklebee answers the door and suddenly he’s there, close to her shoulder, just out of sight behind the archway, his whole body rigid. Mrs. Hucklebee is so frightened that she hears herself saying, “No, thank you, my granddaughter is still here and I’m so enjoying her company. Maybe some other time.”

And coins are missing that were left to her by her father, rare old coins that have rested in a little wooden box since she was a child. The box is empty now, but Mrs. Hucklebee is too afraid to mention it. Only Crystalbell stands between her and the boy.

But it can’t continue. She must do something. After Thanksgiving, she promises herself fiercely. Then we’ll see.

Crystalbell is learning how to cook. She makes a cheese omelet for breakfast one morning and it turns out nicely. The sun is shining, thin and bright. Before Wolf goes outside to dig he sits for a while in the living room, watching marble rainbows creep across the floor. As Mrs. Hucklebee rises for more coffee, he looks through the hall at her and smiles, a white flash of sharp teeth before she looks away, trembling.

“Mrs. H,” Crystalbell whispers, leaning across the table, “tomorrow’s Wolf’s birthday. He’ll be sixteen. Why don’t we fix something special? What’s that thing you make with the apricot stuff? That’s his favorite — he told me.”

“Just pork roast with apricot glaze,” Mrs. Hucklebee answers.

Crystalbell leans back triumphantly. “That’s it. And I’ll make a cake. It’ll be fun.”

All Mrs. Hucklebee feels is dread.

Crystalbell makes the birthday cake, then leaves the kitchen to Mrs. Hucklebee to prepare the main course. Wolf is digging. Mrs. Hucklebee doesn’t like to look outside anymore — there are deep holes all over her backyard.

The weather is dark and cloudy, threatening rain or snow. By three in the afternoon the kitchen grows dim, but Mrs. Hucklebee is so intent on trimming the roast with one of her newly sharpened knives that she delays turning on lights until she’s finished. The pork is a good cut, rich and red. The long butcher knife easily pares marbled fat away from succulent lean.

The kitchen is quiet and cozy, apricot glaze simmering on the stove. Mrs. Hucklebee is feeling almost content when something suddenly brushes against her arm.

Startled, she begins to turn. There’s a hand on her arm, a thin pale hand. She hears a sound in her throat before she lifts her eyes to see him close behind her, touching her, his free arm reaching. Dead black glass where his eyes should be, teeth bared inches from her face, and Mrs. Hucklebee doesn’t realize she’s moving, pushing at him, until she feels the knife hesitate, meet resistance, then break through and slide easily to its hilt. She removes it, looks at it, then uses it three more times before she stops herself, arm hanging limply at her side.

Wolf crumples slowly, sagging against her. Mrs. Hucklebee backs away, and he continues gracefully to the floor, settling finally on his back. She hears something like a sigh; otherwise he makes no sound.

Her next awareness is of Crystalbell on the floor beside him. The girl feels for a pulse, a heartbeat, then looks up at Mrs. Hucklebee with wide eyes.

She doesn’t ask what happened. She only says in her clear little voice, “He’s gone, Mrs. H. Wolf’s gone.”

Joints creaking, Mrs. Hucklebee plunges to her knees beside him. Her hands shake as she snatches away the black glasses. No use, no use! His eyes are closed.

“He touched me, Crystalbell. He touched me!”

Crystalbell reaches across the body, takes the glasses from her, and gently replaces them over Wolf’s eyes. Then she takes the bloodied knife from Mrs. Hucklebee’s hand and slowly settles back on her heels.

“Me and Wolf sure been a lot of places together,” she says. Their eyes meet. “He was only going to hug you. I told him about the apricot pork and he wanted to give you a hug.”

Mrs. Hucklebee regains her feet with difficulty and sinks into a kitchen chair near his shoulder. She sits for a while, watching blood pool on her freshly waxed floor.

“What am I going to do?” she asks in wonder.

“Well, they’ll put you away for it, that’s for sure,” Crystalbell says. “Let me think.”

“Away?” Mrs. Hucklebee echoes.

After a few moments Crystalbell goes down to the basement and returns with arms full of plastic dropcloths from the last time Mr. Hucklebee painted the house, years before.

“Help me,” she says, and together they wrap Wolf carefully, securing him with duct tape, then drag him to a spot near the kitchen door while Crystalbell meticulously cleans the butcher knife and Mrs. Hucklebee’s kitchen floor.

After that, they wait. When it’s dead dark outside, they carry him between them out into the raw November night and place him in one of his own deep holes against the stone wall, smoothing dirt over its top when they are done.

Back in the kitchen, Crystalbell makes cheese sandwiches and they both drink scalding black coffee. Mrs. Hucklebee feels numb.

Finally, Crystalbell says matter-of-factly, “He never would have hurt you. Ever. I made all that up to scare you so you’d let us stay. Wolf wouldn’t hurt anybody. He had a real bad life, Mrs. H. I don’t know all of it, but I know enough. He needed someone to look out for him and that’s what I did.” Her voice sounds different, older and not so warm.

“His family,” Mrs. Hucklebee whispers. “Someone will miss him.”

Crystalbell shakes her head. “Not from what he told me, they won’t. Besides, I don’t even know his real name.” She lays a firm hand on Mrs. Hucklebee’s arm. “If any of the neighbors saw him and mention it, we’ll just say he went away.” Her eyes look flat and her lip curls. “Who’ll care? He’s just another street kid, right?”

Mrs. Hucklebee is trying to concentrate, but her brain feels splintered. “I simply don’t know what to do.”

“You let me worry about that,” Crystalbell says sharply.

“But you can’t stay here. Not now.”

The girl leans close. Her words are slow and precise. “Now that’s where you’re wrong. You and me are the only ones know about this. We got to stick together. See, I worked hard on setting this up, getting me some kind of family. I won’t let you mess it up. One peep from me and it’s off you go, Mrs. H. Locked up, you understand? What’ll happen to all that stuff you collect then?”

A terrible pain drives itself into Mrs. Hucklebee’s heart. All her treasures. Her eyes rise slowly to meet the brown ones across the table. Pretty puppy eyes.

“I see,” she says. “I understand. Of course you’ll have to stay.”

The first snowfall begins the following morning, tiny wet flakes that sting. Mrs. Hucklebee pores over the weekly wedding announcements while Crystalbell goes to the market with a list of her own making — peanut butter, cookies, potato chips, and pop.

Mrs. Hucklebee is thinking more clearly today. Her treasures are safe. Crystalbell will help her guard what happened here. And the girl has promised they can have the telephone reconnected. When she hears quick footsteps on the porch, she hurries to open the door. Crystalbell has snowflakes sparkling in her hair.

“Look what I found!”

A bag of marbles is thrust into Mrs. Hucklebee’s hand. They are the color of warm caramel.

“Amber!” Crystalbell exults. “I bet you never saw that color before. And it’s the perfect name for you, too — Amber. I told you I’d come up with one.”

Mrs. Hucklebee peers behind the girl to see who’s standing there. Very tall, thick in the chest. Hair black and oily, a gold ring dangling from one ear. This one is a man, not a boy, and something is sitting on his shoulder. Mrs. Hucklebee draws a quick breath. “I don’t like monkeys,” she says softly.

They’re moving past her, into the house. “This is Midnight,” Crystalbell says, clutching the man’s ragged sleeve. “And the little guy is Demon.”

The monkey bares yellow teeth and reaches for Mrs. Hucklebee with leathery little fingers. He smells foul. She shudders, gazing hopefully into the man’s eyes. One is pale blue, watery, shot with red. The other is made of glass. A cold marble eye looking back at her. His face shows no expression.

The front door is closing. Mrs. Hucklebee glances wistfully through it. The girl is pulling the big man into the kitchen.

“Wait till you see,” she is telling him. “We’re loaded with food, all kinds of good stuff. How about some pork roast? Or birthday cake? I made it myself.”

Mrs. Hucklebee looks down at the cluster of clear tawny balls inside the plastic bag. Such a lovely warm color.

“Hey!” Crystalbell is in the kitchen doorway, beckoning. “Come on, Amber, time for something to eat.” Her face is bright. “You really like the marbles?”

Mrs. Hucklebee turns away from her front door. “I do,” she says earnestly. “They’re beautiful. You’re so thoughtful, Crystalbell.”