Seven Dead Pirates Read Free Page B

joined Lewis at the window just as a gust of wind lifted the lace curtain. It draped itself over Mr. Dearborn’s bald head like a bridal veil. Lewis hid a smile.
    Mr. Dearborn brushed away the curtain, then caught his breath. “Gosh! Will you look at that?” Leaning both hands on the windowsill, he gazed at the Atlantic Ocean. “Quite a view, Lewis. I bet if you had binoculars, you could see Portugal out this window. Heh, heh. France and England. Maybe Africa, too.”
    Lewis knew this was silly, but he scanned the horizon all the same. Those places
were
out there. His chest swelled with sea air—and something he couldn’t name—as he took in the enormous expanse of open sky, and beneath it, the waves rolling in from …
    Everywhere!
    In that moment, he knew what he wanted. Desperately.
    “Dad?”
    “Yes?”
    “Can I have this room?”
    It wasn’t just the view. It was something much stronger, and more than a little strange. Lewis had never been in this room before. But he felt as if he
belonged
here, as he had never belonged anywhere in his life.
    Mr. Dearborn cleared his throat. “Your mother’s already picked a room for you, Lewis. Downstairs. I suppose you can ask, though.”
    Slow footsteps sounded in the hall, punctuated by cane clicks. A moment later, Mrs. Dearborn’s frame—large and sturdy, firmly encased in a beige pantsuit—filled the doorway. It’s no use, thought Lewis, she’ll never agree. It was amazing she had climbed up here at all.
    Lewis wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to have
young
parents. The kind who wore jeans.
    “Charlotte, look,” said his father. “Lewis found his ship.”
    Lewis held it up.
    His mother let out a sigh. “Lewis, it’s filthy.
You’re
filthy! Look at your hands. And what have you done to your shirt?” She beckoned him to come and began brushing at the smears.
    “But …” Lewis looked at his father pleadingly.
    If his father understood, he didn’t speak.
    Lewis screwed up his courage. “Mom? I was wondering … I’d like … I mean, I’d
really
like to have this room. For me. To be my bedroom.”
    Mrs. Dearborn frowned. “This room? But that’s ridiculous. It’s miles from anywhere.”
    “I don’t mind.” Lewis was shocked to hear himself arguing. He almost never argued with his mother. But here he was, continuing. “I
like
to be by myself. I’ll clean it and fix it up. I like this room because it’s so …” He thought quickly. “Round!”
    Mr. Dearborn chuckled. “That’s true, Charlotte. It
is
much rounder than the other rooms. Lots of space, too. Lewis could spread out here. Invite his friends home.” He smiled cheerfully, having never noticed, apparently, that Lewis didn’t invite friends home.
    “Gerald, please,” said Mrs. Dearborn. “What if he has one of his night terrors?”
    “I haven’t had nightmares for years,” protested Lewis. Would she bring up the bed-wetting, too? He hadn’t done
that
since he was five!
    Mr. Dearborn cleared his throat. “Well, of course, it’s up to you. But he
is
getting older, isn’t he? Quite a young man, really, and—”
    “He’s
not
a man,” said Lewis’s mother firmly. “He’s an eleven-year-old boy.”
    In the silence that followed, there was the soft
chuk
of something hitting the floor. All three Dearborns turned to look. A toy soldier had fallen off the cabinet.
    Mrs. Dearborn sucked in her breath. “Oh!” she said. “Lewis, bring it to me, please.”
    He ran to obey.
    She cradled the toy in her hands. “I
know
these soldiers. When I was little, and my parents brought me here to visit Granddad—Grandmother was alive then, too, of course—I sometimes played in this room. I’d forgotten.” As she stared at the tiny figure, her gaze softened.
    Lewis suddenly knew that this moment—now!—was his only chance. “Can I stay here, Mom? Please? It’s the kid’s room, right? For the kid in the family?”
    She didn’t speak.
    Mr. Dearborn sniffed