Double Fudge Page 11

  Do Not Pass Go

  Okay, so I was wrong. They weren’t laughed off stage and nobody threw food at them. The Heavenly Hatchers were a big hit. So what? That doesn’t change my mind about them.

  By the end of the day Sheila and the Natural Beauties were getting along like they’d known each other all their lives. Sheila could even tell them apart. “It’s easy,” she claimed on the way home from school. “That is, if you’re a person who notices details, which obviously you aren’t, Peter.” Sheila invited them to stay overnight at her apartment. “Since Libby’s gone away to school I have a big room all to myself.”

  Yes! I thought. Go directly to Sheila’s. Do not pass go. Do not go back to my apartment. Ever.

  The Natural Beauties begged and pleaded but Cousin Howie wouldn’t go for it. “You know how we feel about sleepovers. You don’t want to expose yourselves to bad influences, do you?”

  I looked around at the row of sleeping bags on our living-room floor and said, “Isn’t this a sleepover?”

  “No, Peter, my boy,” Cousin Howie said, “this is a family reunion.”

  But Eudora said, “You know, Howie . . . maybe it’s not a bad idea to give our girls just an itsy-bitsy taste of freedom.”

  “Spidah?” Tootsie asked, thinking Eudora was going to sing “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider” with her.

  Cousin Howie looked at Eudora as if she’d suggested something totally shocking. “What are you saying, sweetheart?”

  “I’m saying the sleepover would take place right in this building, just two floors away.”

  “But what do we know about this Tubman family?” Howie asked.

  I was thinking I could tell him plenty about the Tubmans, but before I had the chance Mom said, “We’ve known the Tubmans for years.”

  “We spent our summer vacation with them,” Dad added. “Shared a house in Maine for three weeks.”

  “My mother is married to Buzz Tubman’s father,” Mom said. “You can’t get much closer than that.”

  The Natural Beauties held their breath. I saw their fingers crossed behind their backs.

  “What about their morals?” Howie asked. “What about their values?”

  Mom said, “Morals?”

  Dad said, “Values?”

  While Mom and Dad looked at each other I jumped in. “Uh . . . excuse me . . . but I happen to know that Sheila thinks a lot about stuff like that.” I didn’t add that she thinks my brother has no values.

  “Aaaaand . . .” Fudge stretched out the word until he was sure he had everyone’s attention. I knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut much longer. “I might even marry Sheila,” he told the Howies. “Last summer we played husband and wife.”

  “Played husband and wife!” Howie said.

  “It was an innocent game,” Mom said, trying to reassure Cousin Howie.

  “We didn’t even sleep in the same bed,” Fudge said.

  “Sleep in the same bed!” Eudora said.

  “Neither did Grandma and Buzzy Senior,” Fudge added. “Not until they got married. Now they play kissy-face all the time.”

  “Kissy-face!” The Natural Beauties shrieked with laughter.

  Mini licked Tootsie’s arm. She petted his head the way she pets Turtle.

  Finally, Howie and Eudora agreed to go down to meet Sheila’s family. They returned half an hour later with Sheila, and announced to Mom and Dad they’d decided to let the Natural Beauties have a sleepover. Sheila and the Natural Beauties hugged, then jumped up and down to celebrate the good news. I felt like jumping up and down, too.

  “I’m still not entirely comfortable with the idea,” Cousin Howie told the Natural Beauties as they rolled up their sleeping bags and threw a few things into their backpacks.

  “They’ll be fine, Howie,” Dad said.

  “If you don’t mind, Tubby . . . I’ll handle this myself.”

  Dad raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything else.

  “Okay,” Cousin Howie said. His bulky frame blocked the door, so the Natural Beauties couldn’t escape. “First, I need some assurances from you.”

  The Natural Beauties eyed each other.

  “Number one . . .” Cousin Howie said, “no pop music.”

  I almost laughed.

  But the Natural Beauties nodded and repeated, “No pop music.”

  “Number two . . .” Howie said, “none of those fashion magazines with advice to the lovelorn.”

  The Natural Beauties nodded again.

  “Number three . . . no TV.”

  “What do you mean by no TV, Mr. Hatcher?” Sheila asked Cousin Howie.

  “I mean no TV,” Howie said.

  “Except Sesame Street,” Eudora added, smiling sweetly. “Sesame Street is okay, don’t you think, Howie?”

  “Tootsie watches Sesame Street,” Fudge said.

  “We’ve all watched Sesame Street,” Sheila said.

  “I don’t approve of TV, period,” Howie said. “It turns thinkers into vegetables.”

  “What kind of vegetables?” Fudge asked. “I like carrots and corn.”

  “Never mind,” Cousin Howie said.

  “Richie Potter likes broccoli,” Fudge told him.

  “I said never mind,” Howie told him again.

  “What about books?” Sheila asked. “Books are okay . . . right?”

  “None of those series books,” Howie told her.

  “What about friends?” Fudge asked.

  “Our girls are lucky to have each other,” Eudora said.

  “I have Pete,” Fudge said, “but I still like to choose my own friends.” He pranced around the living room. “Know who my best friend is in mixed group? It’s Richie Potter. Know who my best friend is in this building? It’s Melissa Beth Miller. She lives in Jimmy Fargo’s old apartment. Her cat’s name is Fuzzball.” He dropped to the floor and crawled around, meowing. “Fuzzball’s going to be a wizard for Halloween.” Now he was back on his feet, spinning. “Know what I’m going to be for Halloween?” He spun until he was so dizzy he fell to the floor. “I’m going to be a miser. I’m wearing my money tie from Fudgington.”

  Cousin Howie’s mouth opened but no words came out.

  * * *

  Mini cried when the Natural Beauties left, until Mom promised him a sleepover, too.

  “Where’s he going?” Fudge asked.

  “To your room,” Mom said, as Mini dragged his sleeping bag down the hall.

  Fudge took Mom’s hand and led her into the kitchen. “I don’t want Mini in my room.”

  “He’s our guest, Fudge,” Mom said. “He looks up to you.”

  “So?”

  “So, sleeping in your room will be a treat for him.”

  “He might lick my arm in the middle of the night.”

  “Cousin Eudora says licking is Mini’s way of kissing. It means he really likes you.”

  “I don’t want him to lick me.”

  “You can keep your arms inside your blanket.”

  “Suppose I forget?”

  “Once he’s asleep you’ll be safe.”

  “Suppose he doesn’t go to sleep?”

  “I guarantee he’ll go to sleep,” Mom said.

  “I still don’t like it,” Fudge told her. “Why can’t he have a sleepover with Pete, instead?”

  “Oh no,” I said. “I stay up way too late for him. Besides, Turtle might bark all night.”

  Mom settled it. “Mini’s going to sleep on the floor in your room, Fudge.”

  “Okay,” Fudge said. “Then I’ll sleep on the floor in Pete’s room.”

  “No way,” I told him. Then I went to my room, locked the door, and lay down on my bed with the Dave Barry book I borrowed from Grandma. She say
s he’s always good for a laugh, and a good laugh was exactly what I needed.

  * * *

  With the Natural Beauties out of the way, Mini started talking for himself. His voice was such a surprise I looked around to see if maybe Fudge was talking for him, the way he had for Uncle Feather. But no, it was Mini himself, standing on Fudge’s step stool, peering into Uncle Feather’s cage. “Nice bird,” he said.

  “His name is Uncle Feather,” Fudge told Mini.

  “Nice bird,” Mini said again.

  “Call him Uncle Feather,” Fudge said. “That’s his name.”

  “You’re Uncle Feather,” Mini said, pointing at Fudge.

  “No, I’m Fudge!”

  “No, I’m Fudge,” Mini said.

  “No, you’re not!” Fudge told him. “You’re Farley but we call you Mini.”

  “No, he’s Farley,” Mini said, pointing to me.

  “No, he’s Pete!” Fudge said.

  “Who’s Pete?” Mini asked.

  “I give up!” Fudge shouted in frustration.

  “No, I give up,” Mini said, laughing.

  “You’re a Turkey Brain!” Fudge shouted at him.

  “Gobble gobble,” Tootsie said as she toddled past Fudge’s room.

  * * *

  It rained all weekend. Not that the Howies minded, because by Saturday morning they were hooked on TV. I’m not sure how it happened. It could be that on Friday night when Dad checked the Weather Channel, Eudora was intrigued. “Why look at that, Howie! Isn’t that fascinating? You can follow the weather all over the country. They even show the Hawaiian Islands.” For the next two hours she and Howie watched the Weather Channel. Then Howie got hold of the remote control and that was it. Talk about turning into vegetables! It was amazing. For all I know they pulled an all-nighter. I got up once to pee and could still see the flickering lights coming from the living room. I think they were watching reruns of I Love Lucy. They were laughing their heads off as if they’d never seen anything like it. I realized then, they probably hadn’t.

  * * *

  Mom had to go to work on Saturday morning and Dad had his usual list of errands. But because of the heavy rain he didn’t want to take Fudge or Tootsie with him. I knew what was coming. “Peter, I won’t be gone more than an hour. I’ve put Tootsie in for a nap. So if you can just keep an eye on Fudge . . .”

  “Don’t worry, Tubby,” Eudora said, yawning. “I’ll keep an eye on the little ones.” Cousin Howie was surfing from Saturday morning cartoons to the Weather Channel, to CNN Headline News, to a rerun of an Oprah special.

  I went to check on Fudge. He was on the floor of his room, building a LEGO rocket. Mini was back on the step stool keeping watch over Uncle Feather. “Nice bird,” I heard him say.

  As soon as Dad left, Turtle started barking at the door. That’s what he does when he has to go out. I should have walked him when I first got up, but walking Turtle in the rain isn’t exactly fun. I figured the Howies have three kids and another on the way. They could manage without me for fifteen minutes.

  I pulled on my rain jacket and grabbed an umbrella. The second we were in the elevator, Turtle knew it was raining out. Don’t ask me how he knows, but he always does. He can smell it, I guess. He hates rain. When we reached the lobby I had to pull him toward the door. When we got to the door, he whimpered. When I tugged on his leash, he lay down and rolled onto his back, trying to get me to feel sorry for him. He’ll do anything not to set foot on wet pavement.

  Henry watched, shaking his head. “How’s the bird?” he asked.

  “The same.”

  “Still not talking?”

  “Not a word.”

  I crouched down beside Turtle and talked to him very softly. “Look, you have to do your thing, like it or not. It’s not good for you to hold it in for so long.” He turned his head, pretending not to hear me.

  Olivia Osterman offered a doggie treat. “Thanks,” I said.

  “He could be rebelling against his name,” she said. “If he had a proper name like George or Rufus . . .”

  “It’s the rain,” I told her. Turtle sat up and ate his treat. I suppose I should have saved it for after he did his thing, as a reward. I held the umbrella over his head as I urged him outside. He cowered next to the building. “Okay. Fine. You want to do it here, go ahead, but we’re not going back inside until it’s done.”

  For the longest time, he just stood there. Finally, when he realized I wasn’t going to change my mind, he did it, without taking two steps away from the building. I scooped it into a baggie and threw the baggie in the trash basket. As soon as he was back inside, he shook himself off, spraying water everywhere, especially on me. All the way up in the elevator, he looked at me like I was beyond stupid for making him go out in the rain.

  * * *

  The minute I opened the door to our apartment, I was hit in the face by a flying Nerf ball. Everybody was racing around, screaming—Eudora in her nightgown, Cousin Howie in his pajamas, Fudge, Mini, even Tootsie. “What’s going on?” I yelled. They were carrying on like it was the end of the world. Turtle took one look and ran, probably to hide under my bed.

  I caught Fudge as he raced by. “Pete . . .” he cried, “Mini let Uncle Feather out of his cage, and Uncle Feather’s going crazy.”

  “He’s not supposed to have free time unless Mom or Dad are home.”

  “I know that.”

  “So where is he?” I asked, just as Uncle Feather zoomed through the living room, dropping poop like miniature bombs. Pow! A direct hit on Cousin Howie’s head. Pow! There goes the sofa. Pow pow pow! He hit the bookcase, the lamp, and the coffee table.

  My first thought was, Mom’s not going to be happy about this. But then I thought, Never mind the furniture . . . we have to protect Uncle Feather. I started shouting orders. “Fudge, shut all the doors except to your room. Eudora, pull down the shades . . . fast! Cousin Howie, we need to get the mirrors covered.”

  I ran for the closet where Mom keeps the old sheets, but tripped over Mini on the way. He was chasing Uncle Feather, arms outstretched, little hands in the air as if he could catch a bird bare-handed. “Nice bird . . . nice bird . . .”

  Tootsie followed Mini, calling, “Peep . . . peep . . . birdie!”

  I made it to the closet and tossed Fudge a sheet. “Take that to Cousin Howie.” Instead, Fudge threw the sheet over his head and kept running, like a Halloween ghost.

  You could hear the thud when Uncle Feather crashed. He crashed into the kitchen window and fell, lifeless, to the floor. “My bird!” Fudge cried.

  Suddenly, it was absolutely silent in the apartment.

  “Don’t touch him,” Cousin Howie said. “I’ve been trained to handle situations like this. Everybody stay calm. Fudge, get a blanket. We need to keep him warm.”

  Fudge came back, dragging the queen-size blanket off Mom and Dad’s bed.

  “Something smaller,” Cousin Howie told him.

  “A towel,” I said. “Get a clean towel . . . the small kind.”

  “And a box, please,” Cousin Howie said.

  I ran into my room, dumped my baseball cards on my bed, then tore back to the kitchen with the box. “We don’t want to cause any harm,” Cousin Howie said. “He has to be lifted very carefully.” Uncle Feather looked so small lying in the box. So still.

  “Peter,” Cousin Howie said, “do you know the vet’s number?”

  Mom keeps the emergency number for the twenty-four-hour-a-day animal hospital on the refrigerator. I picked up the phone and dialed. I don’t think I did a very good job of explaining the situation. I managed to get out key words—Myna bird. Crashed. Window. I asked if there was a pet ambulance. The voice at the other end said we should bring him in ourselves.

  “We’ll take the van,” Cousin Howie
said, throwing a rain poncho over his pajamas. “Eudora, stay here with the children. Peter, you come with me. I’ll need a navigator who knows this city.”

  “Don’t forget the van keys,” Eudora said, tossing them to Cousin Howie.

  “What about me?” Fudge asked. “He’s my bird.”

  “Get your raincoat,” I told him. “And hurry.”

  The heavy rain made it hard to see, but the van was equipped with flashing red lights, so at least people could see us. I called out directions as Cousin Howie drove. “Across Sixty-fifth Street through the park . . . to the East Side . . . stay on Sixty-fifth until we hit York Avenue. It’s on Sixty-second between York and the FDR Drive . . .”

  Fudge stroked Uncle Feather all the way to the animal hospital. “He’s going to be okay, right, Pete?”

  “I hope so.”

  “He has to be okay.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “He can’t die, right?”

  “I just don’t know, Fudge.”

  “You have to know. You’re the big brother.”

  I choked up when he said that and moved closer to him. “Please don’t die, Uncle Feather,” he whispered. But Uncle Feather just lay there.

  Cousin Howie dropped us off in front of the animal hospital. I carried Uncle Feather’s box inside my rain jacket. Fudge clung to my sleeve. The rain was still pouring down. So were Fudge’s tears.

  “Let’s have a look,” the vet said once we were inside the examining room. He unwrapped the towel. Uncle Feather looked up at him. “Well, look at that,” the vet said, as if he was surprised to find a myna bird.

  “His name is Uncle Feather,” Fudge said.

  “Hello, Uncle Feather,” the vet said.

  “Bonjour, stupid.”

  At first I thought it was Fudge, imitating Uncle Feather’s voice again. But when I heard it the second time, I was looking right at Fudge, and his lips never moved. The third time there was no doubt. “Bonjour, stupid . . . stupid . . . stupid . . .”