The Doldrums

“What’s that?” asked Archer.

“A cloud,” said Oliver. “I said I’d like to be a cloud.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you think it’d be nice to be a fluffy white mass looking down on the earth while floating high above it from a safe distance? I think that would be very pleasant.”

But these clouds were neither fluffy nor white.

“What about a storm cloud?” asked Archer.

Oliver didn’t want to be one of those.

The boys walked up the steps to Oliver’s house. Archer wanted his binoculars. Oliver had borrowed them to spy on a new neighbor who’d just moved in across the gardens.

“What’s she like?” Archer asked.

“Horrible,” said Oliver. “She was shouting at the moon last night, and I think she ate a beetle.”

“A beetle?”

“Maybe it was just a raisin,” Oliver admitted.

They stepped inside the tall green door of house number 377. Oliver dashed up the stairs. Archer sat down on a bench and glanced around the foyer. The Glubs’ house always looked as if a giant had picked it up and given it a good shake. And it was styled like a sweater your grandmother knits for you—having too much in the sleeve and too much about the waist but providing more warmth than any other you own. Archer liked it. He didn’t have a grandma sweater.

A crash of pots sounded in the kitchen. The door flew open and a mouse scurried across the rug with a look of terror blazing in its beady little eyes. The mouse was followed shortly by Claire, Oliver’s younger sister, who chased the creature with a piece of toast hanging from her mouth.

“Afer-noon, Ar-chur!” she cried, and was gone before Archer could reply.

Mrs. Glub poked her frazzled-looking head through the kitchen door. “Get that creature out of the house!” she shouted. “If you don’t get that—oh, Archer dear—didn’t know you were here.”

Mrs. Glub took a moment to compose herself, but a composed Mrs. Glub didn’t look any different.

“You look wet. Are you hungry? You look hungry. Tea with milk, or toast with jam perhaps?”

“No, thank you,” said Archer. “I can’t stay.”

Mrs. Glub nodded. “Well, you know where to find me if you change your mind,” she said. “You mustn’t be afraid to speak up.”

“Did someone say Archer?” called a voice from upstairs.

It was Mr. Glub.

“Yes, someone said Archer,” Mrs. Glub replied. “But please—the mousetraps!”

Mrs. Glub gave Archer a smile and stepped back into the kitchen. Mr. Glub descended the stairs with the air of a conquering hero. He was a portly fellow who wore weathered suits and had bright blue eyes that were always glad to see Archer.

“Hello, Mr. Glub. How are you?”

Mr. Glub lifted his hands. “You know what they say, Archer. Just bouncing along—bouncing merrily along. Or something along those lines, I suppose.”

He popped Archer on the head with a closed fist, a ritual Archer had grown to enjoy.

“You don’t look half as excited as Oliver does now that summer’s arrived. Two and half months’ parole, isn’t it?”

For Archer, summer was not two and a half months’ parole. It was just the opposite. During school, Archer at least had the Button Factory and the library. During summer, he only had Helmsley House, with very few exceptions.

“You must enjoy being a plump, ripe tomato while you can,” Mr. Glub said. “You’ll be a sun-dried tomato like me in no time.”

This sun-dried tomato was the editor-in-chief of a small newspaper called The Doldrums Press. It was not a terribly successful paper by any stretch, but it had a decent, dedicated following. It was The Doldrums Press, in fact, that had delivered the iceberg story to Archer’s doorstep, and Archer was in the habit of asking Mr. Glub if he’d heard any news about his grandparents.

“Still nothing,” Mr. Glub admitted as he pulled on his raincoat and hat. “But there’s an expression out there, Archer. Everyone says ‘no news is good news.’ And while that’s bad news for us in the business, in situations like these, it’s always for the best, wouldn’t you say?”

Archer wasn’t sure if no news was for the best in this particular situation, but he nodded all the same.

“I knew them well—your grandparents, I mean,” Mr. Glub continued, using Archer’s shoulder to balance as he slid into his boots “Ralph once told me we’re all explorers, which was a fine observation. The only problem, I said, is that a great many of us have embarked on fantastically drab expeditions.”

Archer agreed. “My expedition is pretty drab,” he said.

Mr. Glub shook his head and opened the front door. “I can’t imagine that’s true,” he replied. “No, I saw that sparkle in your eyes the moment I met you, and I knew it meant something was on the boil. Never told your mother, of course—not sure she goes in for such things. But I was glad to see it. Either way, chin up.”

And with that, Mr. Glub shut the door and whistled his way down the rainy sidewalk.

“Found them!” shouted Oliver from atop the stairs. He took the steps three at a time but missed the final few. He valiantly grabbed hold of the railing, spun around, and collapsed in a heap on the floor.

“I hope I didn’t break them,” he said, handing Archer the binoculars.

“I hope you didn’t break yourself,” said Archer, helping him up off the floor. “You have to stop closing your eyes.”

“I guess so,” Oliver mumbled, dusting his sleeves. “But listen, I was thinking about this whole adventure idea. And before anything else, you should talk to your mother about leaving your house this summer. Otherwise you’re not going to get very far. It’s been two years. How long are they going to keep you in there?”

Archer hung the binoculars around his neck. “Until I’m too old to walk,” he replied.

Oliver grinned. “Well that’s only what? Seventy more years at the most.”

Archer said good-bye and stepped back into the rain. When he walked up to Helmsley House there was a soggy note on the door.

Archer,

There’s been an opossum ravaging the gardens and threatening owners. I’m next door at Mrs. Leperton’s. It nearly chewed her ankle off. You’re to remain inside the house and out of trouble. I’ll be home shortly.

Oliver was right. He had to get permission to leave his house this summer. But it wouldn’t be the first time Archer had the discussion with his mother and he knew what she would say: icebergs and tendencies. It was hopeless. Still, as he took one last look down Willow Street and shut the door, he was desperate to make it happen.

CHAPTER (#ulink_39fb1521-6272-5516-8299-da64e6ccf3d5)

FOUR (#ulink_39fb1521-6272-5516-8299-da64e6ccf3d5)

♦ DOERS & DREAMERS (#ulink_39fb1521-6272-5516-8299-da64e6ccf3d5) ♦