His old-fashioned suitcase looked like a small coffin, or so Nick thought in the midst of his overwhelming anxiety that morning after Christmas. His parents were rushing around the house, preparing to go on their grand holiday cruise without him, leaving him instead with the Keenans for the rest of the week. He dreaded the whole idea the way he dreaded the last day of summer and the prospect of school, or the semiannual torture in the dentist’s chair, the wet kiss from Nana when she came to visit. He dreaded it the way he hated tuna noodle casserole and rope climbing in gym class and cleaning out his room. Dread sat like a troll on his stomach the whole time he had to wait for his parents. They had planned the trip months ago, but even now were wondering where was the hair dryer—no, the travel-size one—and did you remember to pack sandals? He sat on the sofa in his coat and hat, his suitcase at his feet, but he was not surprised to hear his father and his mother ask, independently, if he was all set and ready to go. I’ll never be ready, he thought, but I’ll go.
Strapped in the backseat of the car, Nick the prisoner was being driven to his place of execution. The early hour and overcast skies combined to extend the gloom of the night, and in the windows of the car, he could make out his reflection superimposed over a scattershot of frost. His glum face peppered white. In the front seat, his parents were discussing still what they might have left behind, and he secretly wished they had forgotten about him, like that Home Alone kid, to live by his wits. He could picture himself fighting the bad guys, outsmarting anyone who tried to break in.
The drive to the Keenans was much too short, and when they pulled up to the house, Nick realized that he just could not bear the idea of a week with Jack Peter, that he had changed his mind and would visit his grandparents in Florida after all, or if that was out of the question, would they consider smuggling him aboard the ship? He had always wanted to see the Caribbean and play the pirate, savvy?, but it was all too late. His father had killed the engine. His mother had already left the car and was jabbing the doorbell.
Mrs. Keenan answered the door in her robe, and Nick had the uneasy feeling that they had awakened the whole house with their early arrival. Tangled against one side of her head, her hair was unbrushed, and she still had a line from the pillowcase creasing one cheek. When she bent over to pick up the morning newspaper on the stoop, her robe and nightgown gaped open, exposing her naked breasts, heavy and full, with brown nipples at the curve, and he felt both a surge of strange excitement and awful embarrassment in a single instant. She did not seem to notice either the momentary exposure or his dumb amazement, and she waved them all in and clutched at her collar against the chill. Nick was not sure if his father, trailing behind him, had caught the same peep show, but if he had he kept the matter to himself.
Mr. Keenan was nowhere to be seen, and Nick wondered if he had forgotten and was still asleep. Jack Peter, of course, was up and dressed, a ball of excitement and anticipation. Without being asked, he took Nick’s suitcase and propped it against the banister, and he bounced around aimlessly, waiting for the adults to finish their business so that the fun might begin.
“I hope we didn’t wake you,” Nick’s mother said. “It wouldn’t be so early, but it’s all so complicated. We’ve got to be in the airport an hour ahead, just to make it through security, though I don’t expect we’ll see too many people the day after Christmas. And then we have a connecting flight in Atlanta, of all places. You can’t get theah from heah. And we have to make that, or we miss our boarding time. I’ll be glad when it’ll be over.”
“We’ve been up for hours,” Mrs. Keenan said. “Coffee?”
His father winked at her. “Only if it’s already on. We can’t stay too long. Time waits for no man, and neither does our airplane.”
“Won’t be a sec.” She headed off to the kitchen, and Nick was inclined to follow her, but he stayed put. Mr. Keenan came lurching down the stairs, alert to the guests in his house, his hair mussed from bed and a shadow of whiskers on his cheeks. He waved to the Wellers but saved his real greetings for Nick.
“Nicholas, moving in with us, I see.” He bowed formally like a butler in a comedy of manners. Not knowing what was expected, Nick returned with a bow of his own, and not to be left out, Jack Peter bowed as well, as stiff and angular as a T square.
Mr. Keenan asked, “You have come about the bones, Herr Veller?” They played these games all the time with Nick. Mr. Keenan acting like a clown, nearly desperate to make him feel welcome.
“Ja.” Nick answered, taking up his part. “I have come to see about ze skeleton.”
Nick’s father wanted in on the fun. “What’s all this about skeletons and bones?”
Mrs. Weller ignored her husband and said, “Tim, you’re looking better. Your throat.” She raised her fingers to her neck, and Mr. Keenan copied her gesture.
Nick turned to Jack Peter to see if her remark had registered, but the kid had his usual blank expression and he seemed to be caught in a game involving his interlocking fingers.
With her rump, Mrs. Keenan pushed through the door from the kitchen. She carried a tray with a package of store-bought muffins, the coffeepot, cream, sugar, and mugs, and Mr. Keenan sprang to help her. “Oh, you’re up. Give me a hand with these things. Nell and Fred only have time for a quick nip.”
“A nip and a nibble,” Mr. Weller said. “Now what’s all this talk about bones? Got a skeleton in the closet?”
“You’re right, Fred,” said Mr. Keenan. “But not the closet. In a hole on the beach.”