The Thief of Lost Time

Chapter 17: Her View of Boston

I begged Aunt Ellen to let me stay up late, but she shook her head. "You remember what your father said. "In bed by eight and no exceptions. Now scoot." She laughed and gave me a gentle spank, which was funny because at ten I was as big as she was. "I'll wake you in time for the surprise."

"Tell me what it is," I pleaded, but she only smiled and closed the door.

Aunt Ellen was Grandma's sister but calling her great-aunt Ellen sounded funny. Leslie and I simply called her aunt. Never married, she treated Leslie and me as her own grandchildren. She was thin and short, even shorter when she took off her black 'old lady' shoes with laces and thick heels. She cut holes on the side of her leather shoes to relieve the pressure on her corns.

Aunt Ellen lived alone on the top floor of a two-family house she owned on Highland Avenue. The rooms were large and airy with window awnings that kept the house cool in summer. Ivy covered the stucco exterior of the building from the basement to the attic. In a breeze, the dark green leaves rippled in waves across the walls as if swallowing the house. She rented the first floor to a young couple who taught at the high school.

My parents almost canceled their trip to New York when the sitter called to say she couldn't come. When I asked if I could stay with Aunt Ellen, my mother was doubtful. "Aunt Ellen is old, and you're too much responsibility." But I promised to behave.

Before leaving, Mom reminded me, "You two have to look after each other."

Then Dad took me aside. "I don't want you giving Aunt Ellen any trouble. Understand?"

I told him I did. Why did they think I'd be any trouble?

A band of light appeared beneath my bedroom door and I wondered if it was already ten o'clock. But I heard Aunt Ellen close her bedroom door and the light went out. Had she forgotten the surprise?

At eighty, Aunt Ellen often forgot my name and called me Walter. He was Grandma's husband who died when I was three. All I remember of Grandpa was sharing his breakfast in his sickroom. At first, her forgetting was great fun because if I caught her calling me Walter, she gave me a penny.

Sometimes she forgot details. That afternoon, we'd gone downtown to shop, but when we got off the bus, she had to ask a policeman where the store was. After shopping, she bought me ice cream at Brigham's and told me a story about riding with her sister on a train out West in 1918. Her sister was having a baby and needed to stay in New Mexico for her health.

"Did Indians attack you?" I asked, imagining her hiding under a seat to avoid the arrows.

"Good heavens, no. We saw Indians, but they were friendly. They sold beads and moccasins at the ranch." She stopped speaking and stared out the window of the ice cream parlor. I thought she'd forgotten the rest of the story, but with no Indian attacks and no cavalry coming to the rescue, her story wasn't as exciting as I'd hoped.

"The train was luxurious. We had a compartment all to ourselves. A bed folded down and I climbed up top to sleep. All the passengers treated us like princesses..."

Her voice trailed off again. Her eyes narrowed as if trying to see something more clearly. I finished my ice cream and wiped my sticky fingers on a napkin.

"Every morning when we woke up on the train, your grandmother was sick." She whispered to prevent the waitress with the bill from hearing.

"She was? What made her sick?"

"She was having a baby. It was a long time ago, Walter."

She'd forgotten my name again. Carefully counting out the coins on the table for the bill, she thought a moment and then added another dime. She acted tired. Leaving the ice cream parlor, I took her arm. I didn't have the heart to ask for another penny.