Chapter Three: The Letter
The next day began almost as terribly as the previous one had ended. Elliot awoke to the sound of tense whispering coming from the downstairs. At first, he didn’t know if he should leave his bedroom –– perhaps his parents didn’t want him to hear whatever they were talking about. But curiosity soon prevailed and Elliot convinced himself that they were surely just whispering out of politeness to keep from waking him.
Without bothering to comb his hair or change out of his pajamas, Elliot bounded down the stairs, stopping only when he heard someone whisper his name. He paused on the landing and craned his neck around the corner, hoping to make out more of the muted conversation coming from the kitchen. His parents had gone quiet –– they’d evidently heard him moving around upstairs and wanted to make sure they were not being overheard. After a moment or so of silence, the whispering continued, this time quieter than before.
Though he couldn’t quite make out every word, Elliot thought he heard his father say something like, “How do we know the letter isn’t some sort of joke?”
His mother was harder to hear, but he was almost certain she said, “I’m worried about Elliot ...” He missed a few words in-between, but then he distinctly heard her say, “This man could be dangerous!” Mrs. Bisby was apparently too flustered to control her volume anymore, and she added, “What was he doing at Elliot’s school?”
Elliot could not piece the conversation together in his head. Who had sent them a letter, and what did it have to do with him? Nobody but his parents ever seemed to acknowledge that he even existed, so who would write about him in a letter? His grandparents used to write to him and send him birthday cards and things, but they had all died back when Elliot was little –– no one else was left. Perhaps the school had written his parents? Elliot thought fearfully ... but who from the school would his parents possibly consider “dangerous”? St. Bartholomew’s had just suspended him for being dangerous.
Elliot knew one thing for sure ... he was determined to read that letter! He rounded the corner purposefully and walked through the foyer and into the kitchen. Todd and Nora Bisby were seated at the table with a stack of unopened mail in front of them. They both ceased whispering and looked worriedly at Elliot as he entered the room. In Mr. Bisby’s right hand was a pale-blue envelope that had already been opened, and in the other was the neatly folded letter they must have been talking about. Mr. Bisby quickly remembered the letter in his hand and jerked it behind his back. “E-Elliot! Good morning! Slept well I hope? How about some eggs for––”
“What’s that you’ve got in your hand?” said Elliot, interrupting his father’s nervous greeting.
Mr. Bisby laughed excitably, “What? ... This?” he said, holding up the pale-blue envelope. “Why it’s ... it’s, you know –– just junk mail.”
“Elliot dear, don’t pester your father,” his mother said tunefully, but she beamed proudly at him and kissed his forehead. Before Elliot could ponder this curious act, she began bustling about the kitchen retrieving a frying pan, spatula and eggs, clearly intent on distracting Elliot with some breakfast.
Just as Elliot was about to ask to see the letter, the old rotary telephone hanging beside the refrigerator rang noisily, and Mr. Bisby jumped in alarm. “Ah, well –– better get that!” He leapt out of his son’s way to answer the phone, leaving Elliot even more bewildered than before.
At first his father seemed happy to talk to whomever had called, no doubt thankful he hadn’t had to explain the letter to Elliot any further, but when Mr. Bisby hung up the phone a few minutes later, it was clear from his heavy sigh and the way he ran his fingers through his hair that it had not been good news. Mrs. Bisby had just finished scrambling eggs and placing plates on the kitchen table when Mr. Bisby sat down, propping his head up with his hands.
Though still immensely curious about the contents of the letter, Elliot knew it was going to have to wait. “Dad, what is it?” he asked, sitting down next to his father at the table.
Mr. Bisby sucked in a breath and tried to shake the troubled look from his face with a half-hearted smile. “Nothing we can’t handle, I suppose, son,” he said, turning to grab his wife’s hand after she’d hung up her apron. Now looking at her, he said, “I called the hardware store this morning about that valve for my cart ... that was Joe calling back with a price.”
Mrs. Bisby gripped her husband’s hand a little tighter and seemed to brace herself for an undoubtedly large figure.
“They have to special order the part from a company in London ... along with shipping fees it’s going to be about three-hundred and fifty dollars,” said Mr. Bisby. “We’re really going to have to cut back around here, Nora.”
Mrs. Bisby patted his hand and leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Of course we will, dear. And we’ll be just fine.” She flashed Elliot a somewhat forced but comforting smile and slid a forkful of scrambled eggs into her mouth.
As he ate his breakfast, Elliot thought about how badly he wanted something really good to happen. Something so his parents wouldn’t have to worry about money ever again.
And he forgot all about the letter that’d consumed his thoughts earlier.
* * *
After breakfast had been eaten and cleared away, Elliot’s father began opening the rest of the mail that lay stacked on the kitchen table. Everyone should have known this would be a bad idea. There was very little reason to expect that it would not be a bad idea. With money as tight for the Bisbys as it was, especially on this day, the very worst idea was for Mr. Bisby to go digging into that pile of mail that surely included the odd bill or two. Unfortunately for the Bisbys, each of the five envelopes they had received in the mail that day (short of the letter which Elliot had momentarily forgotten) included the odd bill or two.
Elliot feared his mother’s typically tireless optimism would not last much longer, and after a particularly ugly electric bill, he thought his father was going to burst into tears. But, being as it was still only 10:30 a.m., the Bisbys were not about to accept defeat –– no tears were shed, nor pessimism spread.
* * *
The something good that Elliot had wished for at breakfast didn’t happen later that morning, and it didn’t happen that afternoon either. Elliot and his mother were on their way home from the bank with some much needed money when a mass of ominous gray clouds crept into the sky. Soon, it was thundering so loudly that Elliot could scarcely hear the rumbling of his mother’s car over the din of the storm. As strikes of lightning lit up the dark sky and waves of rain pummeled the windshield –– the wipers barely able to keep up –– Elliot prayed that he was not hearing the terrible clanking sound that he was suddenly sure he was hearing coming from the car. But as hard as he prayed, nothing could turn that clanking sound into a figment of his imagination.
“Oh dear ... oh dear,” Mrs. Bisby moaned. “Please, no –– not today,” she said, pumping the gas pedal. The car began slowing down and choking out puffs of smoke from under the hood, making it even more impossible to see out the windshield.
Mrs. Bisby steered the car onto the shoulder of the road, and it sputtered to a complete stop only a few feet away, emitting a low and taunting death rattle before fully leaving this earth. His mother just patted the steering wheel, muttering, “no ... no”.
Elliot didn’t know what to say or do. He felt anger erupting inside of him –– why did all of these bad things keep happening? A day ago, he had personally wished death upon the wretched and embarrassing old car, but now that his wish had come true, he’d have given anything to resurrect it. He could only hope that his wishes for some reason required a day to process, and that tomorrow something really good was actually going to happen to them.
Elliot was snapped from his thoughts by an ear-splitting crash of thunder. He found his mother removing the keys from the ignition and reaching for her umbrella in the back seat. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to walk,” she said apologetically. “There’s a gas station a few blocks up.” Ordinarily, this is where a cell phone would have come in handy, but alas, his parents could not afford cell phones either. So they stepped out of the car, and Mrs. Bisby hurried over to his side, opening the umbrella so that they could both crouch beneath it.
The rain was pouring so hard now that the umbrella merely shielded their faces from the dead branches, litter and road debris that flew at them from all sides. They staggered along the flooded roadway, propelling themselves against the force of the wind, and in a matter of seconds they were drenched from head to toe. A moment later, a mini-van then came blowing past them, spraying mud and muck up the sides of their clothes. In the van’s wake, Mrs. Bisby’s umbrella flipped inside out and was snatched from her outstretched hand by the windy fortress swirling about them. She and Elliot both cried out in disgust at their ruined clothes, and at the loss of their only protection from the weather.
Up ahead, Elliot thought he could see the break-lights of the van. Was it possible they were stopping to help? he wondered. He quickly forgot his anger toward the driver and began waving his hands wildly in the air. “Come back!” he hollered futilely through the storm.
“Elliot!” his mother chided him. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He paused only long enough to yell, “Admit it, Mom, we need help!” before continuing to flag down the van, rain dripping into his eyes and mouth. After another crack of thunder, Mrs. Bisby needed no more convincing, and she too waved her arms in the air.
They could see for sure now that the van was indeed backing up, and Elliot and his mother ran to meet it halfway.
* * *
The young couple that gave them a lift home apologized profusely for having splashed them with mud and swore they hadn’t seen Elliot and Mrs. Bisby on the road until it’d been too late to slow down. When they arrived home, Mrs. Bisby kindly invited the couple in for coffee, but they said they needed to be on their way. It was still raining as hard as ever, so Elliot and Mrs. Bisby thanked them properly before exiting the van and making a mad dash for the front door.
Mrs. Bisby was soon to be quite thankful that the young couple had not accepted her invitation for coffee. There was no way she nor Elliot could have predicted the misfortune unfolding within the walls of their very house. Neither of them had removed even one piece of wet clothing before they heard the anguished cries of Mr. Bisby coming from inside the kitchen.
“Todd, what is it?!” Mrs. Bisby called to him from the foyer, but before he could even answer, she and Elliot had dashed to his side and seen for their own eyes exactly what the matter was.
Water was spilling from a number of disintegrated ceiling tiles to the floor where Mr. Bisby was tending to several buckets, trying to keep some sort of control over the soppy situation. “The roof’s leaking!” he spat over the hammering of rain water against the tin of the buckets.
Elliot and his mother grabbed as many towels as they could find and began sponging up the puddles of water that engulfed the kitchen floor. Meanwhile, Mr. Bisby persisted in his attempt to empty each of the buckets in the sink before they ran over.
“What are we going to do?!” Mrs. Bisby howled from the perils of the warping laminate tile beneath her hands and feet.
“Pray that it stops raining!” roared Mr. Bisby as he heaved a full bucket of water over the edge of the sink and–––
BAM!
The sink exploded in a cascade of water as the bucket landed on the stainless-steel faucet, snapping it free.
“AHHHHHHHhhhhhh!” Mr. Bisby screamed as he nearly drowned in the fountain spraying directly in his face.
Elliot and his mother dropped their towels and ran to his father’s rescue, Mrs. Bisby throwing an empty bucket over the gushing hole to force most of the water down the drain.
Mr. Bisby scrambled away from the sink, clutching at his eyes and stumbling amidst the overflowing buckets. His right foot landed clumsily into one of them, and his left foot slipped in the puddle beside it, sending him crashing to the floor in one tremendous thud.
Elliot hastened to help his father up off the floor, but before he could lift him even an inch, Mr. Bisby clutched at the leg trapped beneath his body and hissed in pain through clenched teeth. “Elliot, my boy, put me down –– I think it’s broken.”
* * *
One bumpy ambulance ride and several hours later, the Bisbys were leaving the Penobscot Bay Medical Center in lower spirits than they’d ever been in their lives. Mr. Bisby had fractured his leg and was now wearing a long leg cast and hobbling around on crutches. On top of that, all of the money that Mrs. Bisby and Elliot had braved the storm to retrieve that afternoon had been needed to cover the emergency room bill. The only bright spot was that the rain was now pouring perhaps a little less hard.
As they waited for the taxi a nurse had kindly called for them, Elliot wondered what condition they were going to find the house in when they arrived back home. His parents seemed to be wondering the same thing, but no one dared to mention so. He couldn’t imagine how they would ever be able to afford a new car, new roof and new sink –– not to mention anything else that might have succumbed to the house while it lay unattended, watering itself.
The taxi arrived shortly, and not ten minutes later they were helping Mr. Bisby carefully out of the car and rummaging about their pockets for enough change to pay the driver. Eight dollars, nine dollars, ten ... Mrs. Bisby dug deeper within her purse, her face turning a deep shade of purple as she realized they were two dollars short.
The driver quickly recognized her embarrassment. “Never you mind, miss –– we all have a bad day now and then,” he said with a toothy grin, waving off the money. “You take care of that leg now, sir!” And he drove off before they could thank him. The Bisbys had never accepted charity in all their lives, however, and they weren’t soon to forget the hole that neediness now left in their spirits.
No one spoke a word as they made their way warily up the drive toward the front door. Elliot held his breath and shut his eyes as they stepped inside, as if this action would prevent the scene they’d encounter from being true; but all hopes that a miracle had taken place were quickly dashed. From the other side of the house, the kitchen sounded like it played host to a waterfall, which perhaps was not far from the truth.
Everyone sighed collectively, wishing they could snap their fingers or summon a magical housemaid to make all of their problems disappear.
“I suppose there is no way out of this,” said Mrs. Bisby, looking quite forlorn. “Best get cleaning up,” she added, more to herself and Elliot given Mr. Bisby’s leg. She tried to insist that Mr. Bisby rest in the living room, but he refused. “I can at least help hold the trash bag, Nora,” he protested.
The water now covered the hardwood floor of the foyer, and by the time they had waded through the kitchen over to the sink, it was ankle deep. It seemed that Mrs. Bisby’s unshakable optimism had been shook one too many times, for not even she had the confidence to reassure them at the sight of the deluge that was now their kitchen. She helped Mr. Bisby onto a chair and found a trash bag for him, and then set about locating a broom with which to coax water out the back door.
“Elliot, dear, would you help your father pick up?” Mrs. Bisby called from the hallway.
Elliot began scooping up the bits of soggy ceiling tile floating around the pool at his feet, grabbing the salt and pepper shakers while he was at it, for they were now bobbing up and down in the water below, apparent victims of the sink blast. As he reached to pick up the broken faucet as well, he saw what looked to be a beetle swimming the breast-stroke in the direction of the back door. Even the bugs wanted out, Elliot thought.
When he had finished with the floor, he moved onto the countertops, throwing out the newspapers, coupons and such that had been ruined during the sink’s little tantrum. Just as Elliot was about to toss the prior day’s edition of the Camden Herald, a pale-blue envelope slipped from within the paper and landed in front of him with a splash. He was reminded at once of the letter he had so desperately wanted to read that morning. And there it was –– right within his grasp.
Checking to make sure his father hadn’t seen, Elliot snatched the letter from the floor and slipped it back inside the newspaper. He jumped when his father called his name.
“Elliot –– will you fetch me another trash bag?” his father asked. “This one’s full.”
Elliot yelped a quick “Yup!” and fled to the hall closet while Mr. Bisby tied up the bag they’d filled.
Behind the shelter of the closet door, Elliot held the envelope in front of him, his hands shaking in anticipation. It was addressed simply to “The Bisbys”. He pulled the letter out of the envelope and unfolded it, revealing a tidy scroll in thin black ink. It had suffered some smudging, but it read:
Dear Bisby Family,
I do hope this letter will find you happy and well! My stay in your great country this week has afforded me the immense pleasure of witnessing a young boy in the most noblest of acts at St. Bartholomew’s Middle School. This brave boy was indeed your own young Mr. Elliot, who placed himself in harms way to avert a carton of milk being poured onto another boy’s head during a grievous case of bullying.
After leaving the school, I soon had a brief but illuminating encounter with the senior Mr. Bisby at his place of employment. This meeting left me positively certain that I had found the most perfect people. I do hope you will allow me to explain myself in person. Naturally, the offer I wish to extend to you would provide your family with a lovely new home and a rewarding career for the senior Mr. Bisby. Please do me the great honor of telephoning me at the Lord Camden House. Ask for me ...
Yours most sincerely,
Wally Noodle
Senior Officer of the SMR
Elliot’s concentration was torn from the beautiful cursive on the page when he heard a loud gasp come from the kitchen. At first he thought one of his parents had seen him reading the letter, but when he popped his head around the closet door, he saw his mother gaping out the window above the sink with an expression of horror upon her face.
“Nora, what’s the matter?” asked Mr. Bisby, very concerned. He struggled to rock himself out of the chair with his crutches, but was unsuccessful.
When Mrs. Bisby turned to her husband, there were tears in her eyes. Elliot couldn’t imagine how this day could have gotten any worse, but he knew that it had.
“The old oak tree came down out back,” she said, taking several deep breaths. “It fell into the Lewis’s yard.”
Mr. Bisby was speechless.
Elliot knew there was nothing that could be done ... the letter was their only hope. It was the “something good” he had wished for at breakfast –– he was sure of it!
He walked over to his mother and held out the damp pale-blue envelope.
Mrs. Bisby’s face fell as she remembered the contents of the letter that was now in her hand. The tears that had filled her eyes a moment ago had completely dried up, and Elliot thought she looked as if a million things were racing through her head. A million possibilities ...
“Todd,” she choked, a shred of hope back in her eyes. “Would it really hurt to speak with him?”
Mr. Bisby took one last look around at the remnants of their very wet and exasperating day and nodded. This time he knew exactly what to say.
“We’ll call first thing in the morning.”