The Orphan of Awkward Falls Read Free

Howard.
    Josephine just shook her head and groaned. “That’s not what I mean,” she said, barely loud enough to hear. What was the use? The idea of yet another new house, another new room, another school where she was the new girl was depressing.
    “Speaking of houses,” said Howard, “I wonder what sort of abode we’ll get this time.” Whenever Howard was transferred, the new school always provided a furnished house for the family.
    “Something old, I hope,” said Barbara. “With lots of charm!”
    “Say, where is that street, anyway?” asked Howard. “Shouldn’t we have come to it by now?”
    Barbara scanned the map she had spread across her lap. “I think you’re right, dear. Let’s stop and ask someone.” Barbara spotted a man in a huge overcoat walking down the sidewalk and had Howard pull over. She rolled down her window and waved him over.
    “Sir, could you help us please? We’re a bit lost. Are you familiar with the area?”
    The man took a slug from a small brown bottle and hobbled over to the car. He stuck his craggy, unshaven face too far into the window, eyeing the Cravitzes as if they were some strange new species he’d never seen before. As politely as she could, Barbara slowly leaned away from him. Josephine’s nose twitched as the strong smell of alcohol and cigars wafted into the car. What kind of person still smoked? She pulled Eggplant down over her eyes and nose and tried not to breathe.
    “Americans, are ye?” He squinted up at the conglomeration of goods on top of the car.
    “Yes. We’re moving here from Wisconsin,” said Barbara proudly, if a bit nasally from trying not to inhale.
    “Americans don’t get this far north too often.” He turned his head and spat. “Don’t like Americans m’self.”
    “Yes, well, my husband has a new job here. We’re very excited about living in Canada.”
    The man frowned. “You won’t like it. Awkward Falls ain’t like balmy Wisconsin, ya know. We have real winters up here. In a coupl’a months, the nights’ll be so long, you’ll think they’ll never end.”
    “I’m sure we’ll get used to it,” Howard broke in. “But do you know where we might find Oleander Alley?”
    The man’s forehead wrinkled up like a prune. “Aye, I know it. You’re not goin’ to live out that way, are ye?”
    Barbara smiled politely. “Yes, of course we are. Why wouldn’t we?”
    “I wouldn’t live there if ye paid me,” the man grunted. “Some bloody goings-on thereabouts years back. Used to be real high- society folk up that way, but not no more. Some say Death himself walks the woods out there. I’d turn around and go back where I came from, I was you.”
    Josephine peeked out from under her cap at the mention of “bloody goings-on.”
    “It’s easy to find, though, if you’re set on it,” the man said. “Turn left at the sauerkraut works at the top of the hill, go to the end of Birch Road, and there’ll be Oleander on your right.” From the alley a couple of boozy voices called to the man, and he began to shuffle away.
    “Wait!” called Josephine. “What do you mean by bloody goings-on?” The man seemed not to hear her and disappeared into the alley. “What do you think he was talking about, Dad?” she asked Howard.
    He chuckled. “Who knows? I wouldn’t worry about it, though. I think maybe he’d had a few too many.”
    “I should’ve taken his photo,” said Barbara. “He was our first Manitoban!”

A wet fog began to drift in as the Cravitzes turned into Oleander Alley. It was one of the oldest streets in town, lined with dripping, black-trunked hemlock trees and old-fashioned street lamps that did not work anymore. Josephine gazed out at the houses sitting atop the large lawns that sloped up from the street. The houses had a dignified air about them. It was obvious they had once been grand, but they were now slumping and careless in their old age. The entire neighborhood had a dank, soggy look, as if the place