Badger was alone.
Badger sat in a funk and stewed. Finally, he pulled himself up off the porch floorboards and followed Skunk into the brownstone. He clutched at the first available dish towel and blew his snout into it. “Pffft—TOOOOOTpfffff, pfft . . . pfft.” Then he mopped himself up, pressed the towel over his snout, and noticed the silence in the kitchen. He looked up.
The kitchen did not easily accommodate one hundred chickens. The birds had bunched. One deluge of chickens and behold, feathered life! Badger saw not a kitchen, but a chicken biome of the Tropical Chicken Forest sort. Every surface burst forth in feathers. Cabinetry quilled. Right angles went soft and blowy. But this wasn’t plant—this was animal. Now the chicken biome observed Badger with each of its two hundred eyes (right-left-right, blink, blink).
A sound caught his attention.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Badger followed the sound and saw Skunk standing at the counter, holding a ladle. A bowl of batter and a square gadget rested on the counter next to him. The gadget’s red light blinked. A glop of something batterish dropped from the ladle.
Drip.
Eyes on Skunk, Badger stepped to the counter.
Skunk looked over his shoulder and gave a start. “Oh. Badger. There you are. Right there. Good morning. No, not good. But it is morning. That is true.” Batter spooled to the counter. DrrripP. “Would you like a waffle? We are eating waffles.” Skunk flashed Badger a tiny smile.
A trio of speckled hens stepped out of the understory. Badger saw a plate of waffles on the floor. One of the hens kicked a waffle in Badger’s direction. The waffle skittered off the plate.
“Bock?” The hen eyed him (right, left, right).
Skunk hurriedly retrieved the waffle. “I will make you a fresh waffle. The chickens have been picking at their waffles this morning, which is understandable given the circumstances.”
Understandable? Badger huffed into his dish towel and noticed the air was filled with under-feathers. There’d been a chicken sleepover. Now chickens, and chicken whatsits, covered his kitchen. Batter was dripping! Then Badger got a whiff of himself and nearly passed out.
Mid-swoon, Badger looked into the corner and saw it. Rocket Potato!
“You owe me an apology,” Badger snarled.
Skunk shook his head. “Apologize? Why? Badger, I do not think I was the problem.” He gestured toward the porch. “That Speedy Stoat Delivery stoat was in our back garden this morning. I told that stoat she was most unwelcome. I told her that delivering and leaving was her job. But she would not go away, and she had been there all night! Then she came to her pointy-toothed point: She says she will leave if I give her a chicken. Give her a chicken? Give her? Chickens are their own chickens. No one gives a chicken!”
“Bock!” “Bock-bock!” exclaimed four bantam hens stalking the floor.
“You’re welcome,” Skunk whispered.
Badger waved his paws (and the damp dish towel with them). “No, this will not do. You have soiled my place of work, defiled it, mucked it all up. You sprayed in my brownstone!”
Skunk frowned up at Badger. “Technically, it is Aunt Lula’s brownstone. And I did not spray in the brownstone. I sprayed on the back porch—where there is a brisk breeze!”
“You sprayed. Everyone knows that skunk spray is despicable, deplorable, vile. You could have woken me up. Why didn’t you wake me up? I am not afraid of a tiny stoat!” Badger glowered down at Skunk.
Skunk’s tail began twitching back and forth like a whip. He took a step toward Badger. “Okay, let me tell you how it was. This morning I told myself, ‘Skunk, Badger is right. You have filled up on fears. A Speedy Stoat Delivery stoat is a stoat with a job to do. That stoat will not be in the back garden.’ But I could not let the chickens go home until I had made sure the stoat was gone, so I went outside, by myself, to take a look. By myself! And Badger? It is too late to wake up badgers when you are standing in front of a stoat!”
Badger felt crowded by feathery poofs, beaks, and peering eyes (right, left, right).
Skunk continued, his eyes on fire: “Then Ms. Pointy-tooth moved toward me. I told that stoat to stop. I gave her a good look at my tail. Believe me, she knew what was coming! And—for the record—spraying is not so bad when you consider that I left that stoat smelly but unharmed. That stoat would not have been so nice to me. I would be lucky to get away at all! So yes, the brownstone smells, and yes, you smell, Badger. But our guests are safe. I am safe. And that stoat is now a smarter stoat. I am sorry for the smell, Badger, but it will pass.”
A “grrrrr” rumbled through Badger’s throat as he realized this was his apology.
But no one listened. The chickens broke into squawks. They flapped up off the floor, raising a cloud of chicken dander. It all sounded suspiciously like a second round of applause.
“You sprayed me,” Badger said.
“That was not my fault. You leapt!” Skunk replied.
Badger ground his teeth, put the dish towel to his dribbling eyes, and muttered, “And they wonder why no one wants to live with them! Skunks are the true nuisance animal.”
The kitchen went quiet.
Skunk let out a huh. When he spoke it was with a weak voice. “Did you call me a nuisance animal?”
Badger fidgeted.
But what about his apology?
Badger said nothing. He spotted the little orange hen. She appeared to be avoiding Badger’s gaze.
Skunk squinted at Badger and blinked as if the sight scalded. Then Skunk began to do some sort of math on his claws. “Despicable, deplorable, vile,” he mumbled and put out three claws. “Spoiling, defiling.” He put out another two claws. “Nuisance animal,” he said. Now six claws on two paws were out. “Skunks lumped together in a generality. Also, other insults.” Skunk stared at his paws. “Eight claws,” he mumbled. His shoulders drooped.
Skunk looked up at Badger and nodded. “You think I’m vermin. You think the world would be better off without skunks.”
Badger shook his head. “I did not say that!”
“You did. I added it up: nuisance, defiling, spoiling, despicable, deplorable, vile, and you said skunks, with an s. General insults too. That adds up to the definition of vermin,” said Skunk. He nodded his head vigorously.
“I would not say that!”
But Skunk no longer appeared to hear him.
“There is only one thing to be done,” Skunk said as he left the room.
“BOCK?” said the Jersey Giant.
Skunk’s “one thing” did not take long. In a blow of the snout and a wipe of the eyes on the dish towel, it was done. Skunk stood in the kitchen. In one paw was the small red suitcase tied shut with twine. With the other, he gave Badger his key.
Badger took it.
Skunk shook Badger’s paw. “It was nice to meet you. I had heard so much about you from Aunt Lula.”
Without thinking, Badger said the polite thing to say: “Maybe we’ll meet another time?”
Skunk shook his head and looked away. “I doubt it. Animals that do not like skunks really do not like skunks. Not everyone wants a skunk.”
“Oh. Goodbye?” said Badger.
Skunk hung his head. “Bye.”
The chickens left with Skunk. Badger watched from the porch (blowing his snout, blotting his eyes). There at the front was Skunk, a small, black-and-white animal holding a red suitcase tied up with twine. Behind him followed the chickens, filling the alleyway with tufts and red wattles, yellow legs and flaps of wings.
Badger thought, Isn’t this what you wanted?
Chapter Nine
Badger Was Alone In The Brownstone. Tiny Feathers eddied back and forth in the air. The brownstone stank. He stank.
Badger rushed up the stairs to the bathroom and scrubbed his entire head.
Toweling off, Badger noticed he was still wearing his pajamas. He would have liked a bath and a change of outfit, but now that his head had been soaped, he didn’t seem to mind his own
smell as much. First things first. Badger went up to his bedroom to write a letter.
Badger sat down at his desk, took out a piece of stationery, and wrote, “Dear Aunt Lula.”
He tapped his pencil. Aunt Lula must be informed—Skunk sprayed! he told himself. In addition, I must mention that I had nothing to do with Skunk moving out.
“You think I’m a vermin,” Badger heard Skunk say in his head.
“But I didn’t say that word!” Badger said out loud. Furiously, Badger scribbled, “Dear Aunt Lula.”
He saw he’d already written this. “Sludge and slurry!”
Badger dropped his pencil, crumpled the stationery, and thunked open his dictionary. He flipped to the letter v, and ran his claw down a page. He stopped at “vermin” and hunched over to read.
Badger read. He thought.
He read the definition again. And thought again.
Then Badger slowly closed the dictionary. He let out a long, low sigh.
I must speak to Skunk! Now! Badger stood up and grabbed his brownstone key. On the way out the door, he pulled on his coat.
Badger stopped on the stoop of the brownstone. He looked to the left, the direction Skunk and the chickens had gone. But up that way was only Queggly Hill Park. A park? Unlikely! This was hardly an occasion for amusement and leisure.
Badger looked to the right. The town of North Twist sprawled in every direction. When had North Twist gotten so big? Had there always been so many shops? Was that a hotel? Badger had not noticed the Double-Dice Game Shop, or the shop with a sign that read Books, or the Hot Pie Now sign.
HOT PIE NOW? Badger did a double take. Sure enough, there was a pie sign flashing in the window of the Veg & Egger Diner. How had he missed pie?
At least I recognize Posey the Toad’s Grocery Store, Badger thought. Yes, he knew Posey’s! Every Tuesday Badger visited the grocery store, pushing his cart up and down the same three aisles and filling it with the same fourteen items. At the register, Badger said “Good day” to Posey and paid with exact change. Posey replied, saying whatever she said, and Badger ignored her, his mind on Important Rock Work. Focus, focus, focus, he always told himself as he walked the sidewalk back to the brownstone.
But now, Badger shook his head and thought, It is problematic that I do not know North Twist. How will I know where to start looking? Badger recalled what he knew of Skunk: Skunk had a red suitcase tied up with twine. Inside the suitcase were pajamas, a storybook, and a chicken whistle. Skunk liked to cook. Skunk liked chickens.
It is problematic that I do not know North Twist.
Chickens! A chicken would know where to find Skunk.
Badger looked. There were no chickens in that direction or that direction. Or that direction.
Then Badger noticed something written in cursive above the Books on the bookstore’s sign. Badger took another look. “Har! Har!” The sign above the store read Chicken Books!
With a spring, Badger stepped off the stoop of the brownstone.
Chicken Books had two doorknobs, one at chicken height. Badger took hold of the higher doorknob.
“Cock-a-doodle-BING,” sounded the door as he pushed it open.
“Oh,” said Badger, as he stepped inside. Chicken Books felt like a book terrarium. Books were lined up on long, sunlit tables. Books wound around the walls. Badger longed to stretch his limbs, sip the warm air, and settle in a chair with a book from the Rock Books section. (Rock Books!)
But now was not the time for leisurely reading. Badger scanned the bookstore. A pig and a hare leaned over a book. Two crows perched on top of a display. Underneath a table, a field mouse read a book in a section labeled: For Our Smallest Readers: Least but Never Last.
No chickens, he thought.
Badger made a circuit through the store. A carrier pigeon perched in the Chicken Little the Mighty section. In the Chick Lit section, a sign read: Board books guaranteed to withstand any chick! But there were no chicks in Chick Lit, only two piglets roughhousing. Badger found it odd that no one said hello or stopped to ask if they could help him find a book. Where were the store clerks? Additionally, all the customers read with concentration.
Badger ended up at the checkout counter. No chickens here either.
A sign above the old-fashioned cash register read, Books bought and questions answered HERE. The arrow underneath the word HERE pointed at a smaller sign. Badger hunched to read it. It read, Write your questions DOWN. Buy your books LATER. A nubby pencil lay next to the sign, along with a heap of scrap paper.
On the other side of the cash register was a stack of business cards. Badger picked one up and read, “Chicken Books is chicken-owned and operated. (Bookstore run as hens see fit.)” He looked around. Where are the chickens?
Badger heard a rustle of newspaper. He turned and saw a hedgehog wearing a tam o’shanter peeking out from behind the New Yak Times Book Review. Their eyes met. The hedgehog shook his paper, tilted his head meaningfully toward his reading, and disappeared behind the Book Review.
Badger tapped the Book Review. “Excuse me. Do you know where I could find a store clerk or a chicken?”
The hedgehog lowered the newspaper. “You’re Badger, correct? The badger that lives in Lula P. Marten’s brownstone?”
“Yes,” said Badger, surprised.
“I believe the chickens think you would give them to a stoat,” the hedgehog said, pushing up an edge of his tam o’shanter and adjusting his reading glasses.
“What did you say?” said Badger, blinking.
“Surely, you know what I mean,” said the hedgehog. “We’ve all heard. And smelled! Also, your own odor has taken on an irrefutable skunkiness. This leads to my conclusion that you must be that badger, Badger.” The hedgehog turned a page of the New Yak Times Book Review.
“Oh . . . Oh . . . I see.” Badger glanced around the bookstore in horror. The hare looked away, examined her paws, and picked up a paperback. The pig’s snout was mashed into the spine of an open hardcover. And when Badger turned back to the hedgehog in the tam o’shanter, he found the hedgehog gone. The Book Review lay in a crumple on the floor, smudged with small paw prints.
Badger thought of the tiny orange hen and winced.
He opened his mouth. He looked one way, then the other, and . . . fled.
“Cock-a-doodle-BING.”
So they knew. Everyone knew.
Badger spied a bench around the corner from Chicken Books and raced for it. He slid into a seated position, and tucked his head between his knees. That’s when he noticed that he’d left the brownstone wearing his pajamas—his particularly vibrant pickaxe-and-dynamite pajamas.
“No, no, no.” Pajamas in public only happened in nightmares!
Badger began listing recent events in his mind: The chickens thought Badger would give them to a stoat. Badger had said those awful things that added up to “vermin” to Skunk. And there was this: Aunt Lula had sent the stoat-gram in response to Badger’s letter. So who had started all of this? Badger, Badger, Badger.
It was a nightmare, the worst kind—a nightmare of his own making.
Badger thought of the tiny orange hen. He thought of the leghorn, the Orpingtons, the Orloff, the Transylvania Naked Necks. Larry! Badger pictured Skunk, his red suitcase tied up with twine in one paw. “Not everyone wants a skunk,” Skunk had said.
Badger put his head in his paws. His heart ached.
Several minutes later, Badger wiped his eyes and stood. He would say he was sorry. He would see if he could make amends. But first, he needed to find Skunk. Or the chickens. Or both Skunk and the chickens.
Across the street was a hotel. Maybe Skunk had booked a room.
It was a good idea, but Badger did not cross the street. He stood on the curb and stared at the hotel. He felt a strong urge to run back to the brownstone and never, ever, ever come out.
Finally Badger thought, If everyone knows what I have done, there is nothing to hide.
But he was wearing pickaxe-and-dynamite paja
mas.
At least they’re nonrestrictive—sweat-wicking too, he told himself.
His pajamas reeked.
Surely I am not the first animal with stinky pajamas!
And with that, Badger stepped off the sidewalk and crossed the street.
The vole at the hotel’s front reception desk said Skunk had been there. Skunk had told her all about a rabbit who sucked a magician into his top hat using a shop vac: “VvvvoooooooopP!—no more magician!” But Skunk had not checked into the Twisty Hotel.
“Hey, do you know that the chickens think you’d give them to a stoat?” said the vole as Badger left.
Hastily, Badger shut the door.
“Oh yeah—the shoehorn skunk!” said the salamander at the Double-Dice Game Shop. He slapped a rubbery knee. “Said he wanted shoehorns and marched all around, elbows out, making horn-bleats with every step. Then he says, ‘Or are those only available from door-to-door sales animals?’ I had to tell him what shoehorns are. His face hit the rug. Hit. The. Rug. He says, ‘Shoehorn is the most disappointing word I have ever heard!’ I had to agree with him.”
The salamander had not seen Skunk that morning.
As Badger made to leave, the salamander grabbed Badger’s forearm. “Have you heard what the chickens think?” he said.
“Yes, I know what the chickens think!” said Badger, shaking himself free.
“Have a good day!” called the salamander as Badger bolted through the door.
Badger searched for Skunk and the chickens all morning long. He walked up and down sidewalks. He went in and out of shops. He spoke to shop clerks. He stopped shoppers. The animals that spoke to him made observations (that he stank, that he wore pajamas). They told him what they thought of his behavior (bad), and tacked on advice. How to apologize was a popular topic: “You must hear yourself say ‘I am sorry’ out loud,” said a woodchuck. A brown bat added, “Don’t say ‘I’m sorry but this’ or ‘I’m sorry but that.’” “Make sure to listen,” whispered a box turtle. All of them asked if he knew what the chickens thought. He did! He did! Sigh—yes. And for good reason!
Skunk and Badger Page 6