Chapter 2
The doorbell chimed, waking Maxine with a start. She heard noises in the entry hall----the front door opening and closing and then a shout.
"Ahoy! Anybody home?"
Maxine sat up straight in her chair and rubbed her eyes. "In here," she called tentatively.
A moment later the double doors to the library burst open with a bang.
"Hello," said a boy who looked to be close to her own age. "I figured you must have shown up already. The cabdriver told me this was his second trip out here today."
He was as thin as a soda straw, with blond hair and enthusiastic blue eyes, and short trousers the showed a pair of skinned knees.
"Do you remember me?" he asked, shaking himself like a waterlogged dog.
"Not really," said Maxine, which was mostly the truth, though she knew perfectly well whom she was looking at.
"That's okay. You're Max, right?"
"Maxine," she replied coolly.
"I'm your cousin Willian," said the boy. "William Battersea. Your family came down from Chicago to visit us in Kansas City a few years ago. You had less freckles back then, though." he added with concern.
Maxine struggled mightily to resist the urge to look at the end of her nose. She considered her freckles tone impolite material for conversation. Not that she was particularly concerned with her cousin's opinion of her looks, of course. Generally speaking, when she glanced in the mirror, the girl saw staring back struck her as perfectly ordinary---- shoulder~length brown hair, brown eyes, limbs and features all roughly where they were expected to be. Nothing to make babies cry or cause pedestrians to cross the street shuddering, certainly, just nothing likely to make anyone notice at all. Except the freckles. People always mentioned her freckles, as if they were the most important thing about her. It was tiresome topic she had come to despise, and as a result, she had taken to wearing the color red as a kind of misdirection----a single scarlet embellishment on any given day, like the silk ribbon she wore now in her hair. Something that stood out. Something impossible to ignore.
She was about to say a word or two about the rudeness of commenting on other people's appearances, but William was already galloping on.
"It's a swelling old house, isn't it?" he said, craning his neck to take in the expansive library.
"I guess so," she replied. "It's certainly . . . big."
"Yeah, and mysterious, too. Think of the fun we'll have this summer exploring all the dark corners and secret rooms."
Maxine frowned with disapproval. "I'm sure we don't have permission to poking around in every----"
"Say, you don't suppose this old place is full of hants, do you?" interrupted William.
"Hants?"
"You know, spooks, ghosts, murdered people whose souls can have no rest and all that."
"I think that's perfectly morbid," she said, and was on the verge of changing the subject when William beat her to it.
"Have you seen Grandpa yet?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"Really?" said William. "How about a housekeeper or butler or something?"
"Nope. I just let myself in."
"That's a little funny, don't you think?" said William, scratching an eyebrow. "I hope Grandpa's all right. I mean, I hope he's not soft in the head, as long as we're stuck with him for summer and all. My folks seemed sort of worried about packing me off to stay here while they were traveling. Mom says he was always strange old bird, even before Grandpa died."
Maxine was lost in reflection for a moment, trying to recapture something from the past. "He used to bounce me on his knee when I was little and pretend I was riding Man o' War in the Derby. It made me laugh----" She stopped short. She hadn't meant to say the words aloud, and she glanced at William, expecting to catch him sniggering at her, but he only nodded in a thoroughly genuine sort of way.
"You still remember all that,?"
"Not exactly," she said, cocking her head self~consciously. "It's a story I heard from my father. I can't really even picture what Grandpa looks like."
"It's kind of odd, isn't it?" said William. "Meeting your grandpa for the first time, like a perfect stranger?"
"I don't know," Maxine replied. "No odder than meeting your own cousin, I guess."
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Which is how William Battersea and Maxine Campbell made each other's acquaintance on a rainy day in New Jersey in 1929. Because they shared the same grandfather and had both just finished the seventh grade, they might have expected to have a fair amount in common. But as the conversation rambled on, they began to suspect that their respective apples had fallen on opposite sides of the Battersea family tree and had apparently rolled down the hill into entirely different countries.
"You know, if we're going to be here all summer," said William at length, "we probably ought to come up with some nicknames for each other."
"Nicknames?" replied Maxine, using the most patient tone she could manage.
"Sure. Something I can call you that's short for Maxine."
"I guess I didn't realize it needed shortening."
"You don't care much for Max, right?" he said, squinting at her like an artist studying a bowl of fruit. "How about I likely to overtax your brain."
William stared at the ceiling, contemplating the daunting prospect of using multiple syllables to address his cousin for the whole summer.
"Well," he said, "if you don't like it, maybe we could think of something else. What do they call you at school?"
"Who?"
"I don't know, teachers, classmates . . . friends . . ."
Maxine ignore the question and turned toward the window.
"You have friends, right?" he asked.
"Sure, " she said, watching the rain patter on the trees outside. "I'm absolutely rolling in them. I mean, does it really matter?"
"Personally, I wouldn't have any use for school if I didn't have friends there."
Maxine glanced at William, wondering if he expected a response. "The truth is," she said at last, "the kids at school aren't much interested in me, and I'm not much interested in them. And what difference does it make anyway? The boys are all oafs, and the girls are a pack of silly geese."
"Well, that pretty much covers everything," said William with a smirk, "but at least nobody can accuse you of playing favorites." He paused. "You know what you are? You're a mis----a misslethroat!" he said, snapping his fingers.
"A what?"
"You know, a sourpuss, a----a mankind hater."
"It's misanthrope, dumbbell, and no I'm not. It's just that I think they're all so childish. I watch their playground games and their popularity contests, and the whole thing makes me yawn. There must be about a million ways I'd rather spend my time."
"Such as?"
"Such as anything. Making real decisions. Meeting important people. Whatever it is grown~up," said William with a serious nod. "What's your big hurry?"
"For one thing," Maxine said, "when you're an adult, people ask your opinion. And when you give it, they listen."
"People don't care about your opinions?"
Maxine snorted delicately.
"Not even your family?"
"I'm the baby," she said. "Nobody cares what the baby thinks. My sister, Anne, spends her life in front of the bathroom mirror, and Remy's off to college in the fall and everyone acts like he wrote the book. And ever since my mom got sick, Dad's been too busy fussing over her to pay any attention to me. My mother was the only one who ever really thought I was worth listening to."
William cocked his head and bent at the waist to meet her downward gaze. "I think you're worth listening to, M."
Maxine raised her eyes from the floor and glanced at him to see if he was serious.
"And as near as I can tell," he added playfully, "you're already grown~up."
Maxine managed a dour smile and paused to look her cousin over more carefully. He gave the distinct impression of a puppy in the park----tail wagging constantly, nose poking under every unexplored stone, eyes always watching for a game or a tease. The general effect was a pleasant one.
"So if we're going to have nicknames," she said, "I guess I'll have to start calling you Will."
"Naw, dumbbell is fine, thanks," he replied, and gave her arm a pinch.