But an hour later, when they got off the school bus, it made John Henry cringe to see Tim rush straight off toward Great-aunt Winifred’s hilltop. It was a crisp, sunny day, the first of October, and with the leaves hitting their peak, the hill looked as if a rainbow had melted all over it. Tim’s Fall View would probably be so gorgeous, their parents would want to fly it from the flagpole.
The days were shortening, and Tim hated to waste easel time on such a perfect afternoon, so after checking Great-aunt Winifred’s mailbox—it was empty—he actually broke into a jog. But the first section of the dirt road was the steepest, and after a couple of hundred yards he had to plunk down on a mossy roadside stump to catch his breath. While he was resting there, a pair of ruffed grouse—Great-aunt Winifred called them “partridges”—paraded out from behind a fern. The beautiful birds were usually hard to spot, what with their camouflaging plumage, and these were the first he’d ever seen with winter leggings half grown in.
He didn’t jog the rest of the way, but he walked at a good clip, eager to tell Great-aunt Winifred about his sighting. It was a still afternoon. Even up on the hilltop, which was usually blowy, there wasn’t a breath of wind, so as he came around the final switchback, he didn’t hear the tinkling of the wind chimes on the porch. And when he slipped in the back door and dumped his books on the woodpile, he didn’t smell anything baking. He walked through the kitchen and dining room and front hall. On Labor Day they’d moved their easels inside, into the living room, but Great-aunt Winifred wasn’t there.
“Aunt Winnie?”
She didn’t answer. But he’d just walked past her Chevy, so she had to be home. He went back to the kitchen and opened the cellar door. It was dark, but he called down anyway. No reply. He went out onto the front porch. She wasn’t rocking on the glider or out in the garden cutting the last chrysanthemums. Staring at the silent wind chimes, he could hear his heartbeat.
Though Great-aunt Winifred wasn’t a napper, he clomped upstairs and knocked on her bedroom door. No answer. He tentatively opened the door. The curtains were drawn, and at first the room was so dim that all he made out were the bunches of white roses in the wallpaper. But as his eyes adjusted, he saw a lump in the old four-poster bed.
“Aunt Winnie? Are you sick?”
She didn’t answer. He tiptoed up to her bedside.
“Aunt Winnie?”
Her eyes opened. But her glasses were on the night table, and after blinking at him blindly, her eyes closed again.
“Aunt Winnie! What’s wrong?”
Again her eyes opened. So did her lips. But all that came out was a gurgling sound, like a baby.
There used to be only one phone in the house—down in the kitchen—but Dr. Tuttle had insisted on having one installed in her bedroom in case of emergency. Tim grabbed it and called the lab. One of his father’s grad students picked up.
“I need to speak to Dr. Tuttle,” Tim said in a hoarse voice.
“He’s in the clean room,” the student said importantly.
But Tim was so urgent that she went to get him, and after a minute Dr. Tuttle came on the line.
“What is it, Tim?”
“Something’s the matter with Aunt Winnie! She can’t talk!”
“Where is she?”
“In bed. She’s— she’s—”
“Slow down. Is she breathing all right?”
“She’s breathing, but she’s— Something horrible’s wrong, Dad!”
“Try to keep calm, Tim. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Dr. Tuttle’s lab was right next door to the Fletcher-Allen Hospital, and in less than twenty minutes he and two paramedics pulled up in front of Great-aunt Winifred’s house in an ambulance. They found Tim standing by her bed, holding her hand. Dr. Tuttle opened the curtains and joined Tim at the bedside. By the look of his poor old aunt, he guessed that she’d suffered a coronary or a serious stroke.
“You’ll have to move, Tim,” he said sadly. “So they can get her on the gurney”
Tim wouldn’t budge. Finally Dr. Tuttle had to pry the boy’s hand from Winifred’s and pull him aside.
While the paramedics shifted the old lady onto the gurney and rolled her out of the room, Tim stared out the window at the view.
“Don’t you want to come along to the hospital?” Dr. Tuttle said, laying a hand on Tim’s shoulder.
Tim shook his head.
“You’re sure?”
Tim nodded.
“Don’t give up hope, son.”
Dr. Tuttle gave Tim a hug and hustled off after the paramedics.