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Show Twisters . . . 21 We went up the sidewalk and stepped quietly onto the broad front porch of Belle Smiley's old house. Hers was the sort of place that, on Hallowe'en, you half-way didn't want to trick or treat there. It always looked so spooky under those giant Cottonwood trees. "Arthur, you nuts or something?" I said in a hoarse voice. "You're not going to ask her for cookies!" (We'd done that once or twice in our lives.) "Don't you notice anything different?" Arthur asked, standing there with a dumb smile on his face. I looked around, but I couldn't see much. It was dark as a skunk's insides on that porch. Then Arthur was pushing the doorbell, "I'll let Mrs. Smiley tell you," he said. "Arthur, you're crazy! She doesn't want us here." I felt like running off, but Arthur had already pushed the bell a second time. Then, bold as brass, he looked right in through her front window, "There's a light on. Looks like she's back in the kitchen." "I'll bet she's turned off her hearing aid. Let's get out of here." Then Arthur pointed to the new aluminum storm door with a screen on the top half. "You've got to be more observant, Dan," he riled at me. "What is this," I croaked, "an I.Q. test?" "Yeah, and you just flunked." I could sense Arthur's disappointment in me, so I stood there, observing Mrs. Smiley's door the way he wanted me to. What am I_ doing here? I kept thinking. All I'd wanted was to see Stacey Darlington in her natural habitat. |