Suddenly Pat jumped to her feet, dropping a cup. Fortunately it fell on top of a half-filled box and the newspapers kept it from breaking.
"What's the matter?" Josef looked at her with concern.
"Mark," Pat said. "He and Kathy, up there… He didn't argue with us. He's helping her pack, and he hasn't mentioned lunch."
Comprehension lighted Josef's eyes. As Pat pushed through the door and ran along the hall, she heard him close on her heels. He did understand Mark. Their minds worked rather similarly, allowing for the difference in age. That was probably a hopeful sign. But at that moment Pat forgot her personal concerns in a more urgent matter. What was Mark doing up there in Kathy's room? She would have laid odds that he was not helping her pack.
She pounded up the stairs, with Josef close behind. Together they made almost as much noise as Mark could have made. But the two young people did not hear them until they burst into the room. They had other schemes afoot.
They were sitting close together, at Kathy's desk. A sheet of blank paper lay on the desk top, and Mark's hand, holding a pencil, was poised above it.
Mark jumped several inches as his mother flung the door open. The pencil jabbed into the paper, tearing a hole, but Pat was infinitely relieved to see that there was no other mark on the virgin surface.
"What the hell are you doing?" she shouted.
"Nothing." Though visibly shaken, Mark tried, simul taneously, to put the pencil in his pocket and hide the paper.
"You were trying that-that automatic writing," Pat exclaimed. "How dare you! Of all the stupid, dangerous-"
"Well, we have to do something. He came through once before. I thought maybe if we gave him another chance he'd say something that-"
"You-horrible-" For once Pat was so angry that she moved faster than her son. Her hand shot out, avoiding the hand he lifted, as if in anticipation of a blow, and snatched at the paper. She had nothing particular in mind; she only wanted to claw at something, crumple it, crush it between her hands… Better a blank sheet of paper than Mark's face.
Then she realized she was not the only one who was reaching for an object on the desk. A small white hand slid swiftly but surreptitiously toward something half hidden by the sheet of paper.
Pat's calloused hand slapped down hard on Kathy's fingers, and the girl let out a squeal. Pat snatched up the book Kathy had reached for.
Even in her rage and fright she knew that the book was no ordinary object from a library or bookstore. The cover felt slick and damp under her fingers.
She stepped back and for a moment or two they were silent, staring at one another and breathing hard. Josef looked in bewilderment from his beloved, whose infuriated face was barely recognizable, to his daughter, whose big blue eyes filled with tears as she nursed her stinging fingers.
Luckily for Josef, he did the right thing. After a baffled moment he stepped to Pat, put his arm around her shaking shoulders, and included his darling daughter with Mark in an all-inclusive scowl.
"All right, you two. Speak up. Kathy, apologize to Mrs. Robbins."
Pat's saving sense of humor came to the rescue. With a laugh that was half sob, she said, "I guess I should apologize to Kathy. I didn't mean to hit you, honey; it was pure reflex. Mark can tell you I've done the same thing to him."
"She sure has," Mark said coolly. "She's a very impetuous lady. Where she loves, there does she chastise most heavily-"
"And you!" Pat turned, with pleasure, to a worthier opponent. "You and your stupid half-baked quotations! This is all your fault. Your idea. You nasty young… person, you've been holding out on us all along. What is this book? Where did you get it? It's old. It's…"
With a dramatic gesture, worthy of Mark at his ham-miest, she opened the volume, and the words died on her lips as a sentence seemed to leap up from the page at her. She read it aloud.
"Peter told Eddie he must get the cake while cook was not looking. He didn't want to, but Peter…"
"It's Susan Bates's diary," Pat gasped.
Mark made a gesture of resignation and defeat.
"You've got it, lady."
II
Mark took the little book from his mother's nerveless hand and put it gently on the desk.
"It's in bad shape," he said reproachfully. "You shouldn't handle it so roughly."
"Where… what…" Anger and amazement robbed Pat of speech.
"So that's where you've been getting your information," Josef said. "I knew there was something. Where did you find it, Mark?"
"In the oak tree," Mark said. "You see, it was like…" He glanced at Kathy, whose cheeks had bloomed into a lovely pink blush, and grinned rather sheepishly. "I told you this was going to be complicated, Kath. Let me think just how to put it…"
Pat collapsed onto the bed. Josef stood by her, his hand on her shoulder. Mark was too immersed in his own difficulties to see this gesture, but Kathy did; her blue eyes took on a look of guileful speculation, and she spoke without embarrassment.
"We met there, Mark and I. After you told Mark we couldn't see each other. It was only a couple of times. The tree is awfully old, there are holes in the trunk. Mark found the book one time when he was waiting for me and I was late. It was wrapped in several layers of cloth and oiled paper."
Pat wondered, with some apprehension, how Josef would take this revelation. His heavy dark brows drew together, but when he spoke his voice was milder than she had expected.
"I'm sure you enjoyed meeting clandestinely, thwarting the heavy father. Romantic as hell, wasn't it? Well, never mind. May I see the diary, or is it reserved for those under thirty?"
"Be careful," Mark said, handing him the book. "It was well wrapped, but damp got in, all the same, and since it's been exposed to the air it has deteriorated. If you don't mind, Mr. Friedrichs, I've got a suggestion…"
"Well?"
"Maybe Mom could transcribe it," Mark said. "She's pretty good on the typewriter." He grinned at his mother, the recollection of last-minute term papers hastily typed fresh in his mind. Pat did not grin back at him.
"It will take forever," she protested.
"Not so long. She didn't keep a day-by-day diary, she just wrote things down when she was in the mood, or when something important happened. And a lot of the text is illegible-rotted by damp, or too faded to read."
"But you've already read it-so I assume," Pat said. "We've got a lot of packing to do. If the poltergeist comes back tonight, it may smash the things that are left."
"Mom-trust me, will you?" Mark leaned forward. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead, and his eyes burned with sincerity. "I'm right on the verge. I really am. Let's go over it once more. Anyhow…"A look of such consternation came over his face that Pat recoiled, wondering what horrific revelations were in store. "Anyhow," Mark went on, "it's way past lunchtime. No wonder my brain is so weak. You type, I'll read aloud… and Kathy can get lunch."
III
Pat found it easier than she had expected to keep up with Mark's dictation. Damp had disfigured the edges of the pages, so that the only legible portions were in the middle. There were no dates; presumably they had been written on the illegible tops of the pages. Yet, scattered and broken as the fragments were, floating in time, they formed a picture in Pat's mind as her fingers reproduced the words.
Three children, growing up in the wilderness of western Maryland… The girl, small and delicate and blond, dressed in the calico simplicity her father's spartan creed required: had not the Apostle Paul warned against vanity in women? Her brother, as dark as she was fair, trained to sobriety by the same rigorous faith, yet fascinated by and tempted to mischief by the imperious older cousin.