The House That Wasn't There

by Elana K. Arnold

  Today, he thought he saw it—a shimmery glint—just for an instant. But then he made the mistake of trying to stare right at it, to catch it with his eyes as a fishing hook snags a fish, and it slipped away, as if it were too clever to be caught. When he tried to soften his gaze to see it again, it was gone.

  Oak emerged from her house, Walnut tucked under one arm, the book tucked under the other. “Okay,” she said.

  They walked the short distance to Alder’s house. He pulled out his key from his backpack and wriggled it into the lock. When the door swung open, there was Fern sitting in the front hallway, her tail wrapped neatly around her paws, as if she were waiting for them.

  The kittens mewed their greeting to one another. Oak set Walnut down, and the two kittens rubbed noses, and then Fern led the way into the kitchen. Probably sharing her kibble with her brother, Alder imagined, and he felt proud about what a good host she was.

  “Oh,” he said, following Fern’s example, “would you like something to drink?”

  “Sure,” said Oak, shrugging out of her coat.

  Alder fixed two glasses of chocolate milk and returned to the front room, where he had left Oak, but she wasn’t there.

  “In here,” she called from the dining room.

  She was standing in front of the record player, thumbing through the records. “Do you mind if we listen to some music?” she asked.

  Alder set the glasses of chocolate milk on the table. “Okay,” he said.

  Oak pulled out the same album she’d chosen last time. “Alder,” she said, “we’re friends, right?”

  “Yes,” said Alder.

  “Friends shouldn’t have secrets,” Oak said, “and they should help each other when they’re sad.” She flipped the record sleeve over. There was the photo of Alder’s dad, strumming his banjo.

  Alder cleared his throat. “That’s my dad,” he said. It felt weird to say it out loud, even though it wasn’t a secret.

  “That’s what I figured,” Oak said. She looked down at the picture, then up at Alder. “You look like him.”

  “You think so?” said Alder, pleased.

  “Yes,” said Oak, looking back and forth between the picture and Alder, then up at the family portrait on the wall. “You have his hair and his smile. You don’t have his eyes, though. His are green.”

  “Were green,” Alder corrected.

  “Were green.” Oak nodded. “That’s true. And I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks,” said Alder. “Me too.”

  It could have been uncomfortable or terribly sad, but it wasn’t. It was sad, but not so sad that Alder couldn’t handle it. And it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was oddly comfortable, actually, to talk about his dad with Oak. It felt nice. “Do you want to hear my favorite of his songs?” Alder offered.

  “Yes,” said Oak.

  Alder knelt in front of the record collection and flipped through them until he found the one he was looking for.

  “Here it is,” he said. It was from his father’s final album. There was no photo of him on this jacket; Alder didn’t know why.

  The name of the album was Fly, Bird, Fly.

  “This is the only album he made after I was born,” Alder told Oak as he pulled the record from its sleeve and set it gently on the turntable. He pressed the switch to start the record spinning. The arm lifted from its place and rotated, then dropped its needle onto the vinyl. There was a moment of scritch-scratch, and then the song began.

  Little bluebird, baby guy

  Sweetest bird in the big blue sky

  One day you’ll spread your wings and fly

  Don’t know when, but I know why

  That’s what birdies do—they fly.

  Bluebird boy, my sweet hatchling

  Truest rhyme I’ll ever bring

  Sweetest song I’ll ever sing

  I’ll fly too when you spread those wings

  That’s what birdies do—they sing.

  Don’t know how, my bluebird boy

  Don’t know why, my bluebird joy

  Don’t know where, my bluebird true

  All I know is I love you

  That’s all this Canary bird can do—

  I

  Love

  You.

  Chapter 22

  “That was beautiful,” Oak said, and she wiped tears from her cheeks. The song made her miss her own dad. She missed the way he called her “kiddo.” She missed the smell of his deodorant. She missed the way he made her laugh, and Mom too. Suddenly, she didn’t know how she could be apart from him for even one more month. It seemed impossibly long but, of course, this wasn’t something she would say to Alder, who would never see his dad again.

  “He really loved you,” she said instead.

  Alder nodded. “I wish I remembered more about him.” Carefully, he removed the record from the turntable and slipped it back into its sleeve. “I’m glad I have his music,” he said. “But I wish I had more.” Then he chose another album, this one just instruments with no lyrics. Oak could hear a piano and a guitar and some sort of horn, a saxophone maybe. It was soft background music that felt sort of like texture.

  Oak picked up her chocolate milk and Feline Teleportation from where she’d set it on the table and said, “Want to read it with me?”

  Alder nodded and followed Oak back into the front room. They fell together onto the couch.

  Oak held the book on her lap, but she angled it so they could both see the pages clearly. She flipped past the title page to the next page, which read:

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Introduction:

  A Brief History of the Art and Magic of Feline Travel through Time and Space

  Chapter One:

  A Longer History of the Art and Magic of Feline Travel through Time and Space (Skip This If You’re in a Hurry)

  Chapter Two:

  Finding a Teleportation-Gifted Feline

  Chapter Three:

  Training Your Teleportation-Gifted Feline

  Chapter Four:

  The Care and Feeding of Your Teleportation-Gifted Feline

  Chapter Five:

  The Location of Teleportals

  Chapter Six:

  Teleportation Aftercare Dos and Don’ts

  Chapter Seven:

  Teleporting with Your Gifted Feline

  Chapter Eight:

  Teleportation Injuries and How to Tend Them

  Chapter Nine:

  Other Animals That Teleport

  Chapter Ten:

  Keeping the Secret of Your Teleporting Feline

  Chapter Eleven:

  CATASTROPHE! Your Teleporting Feline Is Lost. What to Do?

  Chapter Twelve:

  Fear and the Feline: Keeping Your Cat’s Courage Up

  Chapter Thirteen:

  The End of Your Cat’s Teleportation Career, and What to Expect

  They had already read the introduction; the first chapter said it was a longer history of cat teleportation, but also that it could be skipped in a hurry.

  “Are we in a hurry?” Oak asked Alder.

  “I’m not,” he said, so Oak turned to Chapter One: A Longer History.

  It may surprise you to learn that as long as the feline has cohabited with humans, it has been keeping a secret from us . . . or most of us. Most people don’t pay good enough attention to notice when their feline companion has slipped away. Most people, dear reader, don’t notice most things, feline-related or otherwise.

  Most cat owners, upon noticing their cat has gone missing (if they notice at all), assume that the tabby has simply popped over the wall to visit the neighbors’ garden, or that their polydactyl Siamese must be napping in the back of a closet. And then they scoff at how much their kitty sleeps, calling their feline “lazy” or some such nonsense, because they never know about the tremendous expenditure of energy it takes for a cat to leap through unseen windows into the secret pockets of our world. Imagine! They call their cats lethargic loafers, when the truth is that their cat
has potentially conducted a full day of interdimensional travel, visiting locations their owner could never dream of, while the human couldn’t even be bothered to rinse out the cereal bowl.

  Paying attention, dear reader, is the key to most things. And one young man can serve as a prime example of what happens when you pay attention . . . especially to your cat.

  Perhaps you’ve heard of Nikola Tesla, engineer and inventor of the first electric alternating-current motor? If not, that is not the fault of his cat. Even the finest feline cannot teach its human the art of business savvy, and that is why these days you pay your electric bill to Consolidated Edison, Inc., rather than Consolidated Tesla, Inc.

  Still, young Nikola Tesla’s cat did his best. Nikola’s marvelous Macak might truly be called the father of electricity, as it was due to this feline that Nikola became enamored of electricity’s spark. About Macak, Nikola once wrote,

  “I wish I could give you an adequate idea of the affection that existed between us. We lived for one another. Wherever I went, Macak followed, because of our mutual love and his desire to protect me. When such a necessity presented itself, he would rise to twice his normal height, buckle his back, and with his tail as rigid as a metal bar and whiskers like steel wires, he would give vent to his rage with explosive puffs: Pfftt! Pfftt! It was a terrifying sight, and whoever had provoked him, human or animal, would beat a hasty retreat.”

  And it was Macak himself who introduced young Nikola to electricity! One night, as Nikola petted his cat, something amazing happened. Nikola told the story as follows:

  “In the dusk of the evening, as I stroked Macak’s back, I saw a miracle that made me speechless with amazement. Macak’s back was a sheet of light and my hand produced a shower of sparks loud enough to be heard all over the house.”

  Yes! That stroke of static electricity was the spark of all that followed for young Nikola, who spent the remainder of his life chasing the magic of electricity, aided by Macak, as long as he was able.

  What Nikola’s letters don’t include are the many lessons in portal travel he gained from Macak. We will get into those lessons in later chapters, but suffice it to say that Macak was a first-rate feline teleporter in his younger days.

  “Static electricity,” said Alder, “is that, like, when you get a shock?”

  Oak nodded. “It has to do with things rubbing together, and dry air, I think.” But, she realized, she didn’t really know much more than that. She made a mental note to learn more about how static electricity worked, and then she turned her attention back to Feline Teleportation.

  After the section about Tesla and Macak, the author went on to talk about a whole slate of other historical cats who traveled through portals, and they all shared an important thing in common: each story had something to do with electricity.

  The end of the chapter read:

  Now, maybe you’re wondering: Why doesn’t everyone know about the teleporting abilities of felines?

  Well, dear reader, not all cats possess the same abilities, and not all humans possess the wits to notice. There are even those among us (and among my esteemed cohort of scientists) who choose to be obtuse when it comes to the miraculous. And, of the cats who teleport, it’s one in a million who decides to share its secret with its human . . . and maybe even fewer than that.

  Might you, at this very moment, be in possession of a teleporting feline? There are some ways to tell. Turn to the next chapter to learn more.

  “This is the weirdest book I’ve ever read,” Alder said. “Do you think any of it is real?”

  “I hope all of it is real,” said Oak. “Let’s check.” She set down the book. “Do you have a computer?”

  Alder went to get his laptop from his room. While she waited, Oak got up and poked around, looking for the kittens. At first, she couldn’t find them, and she wondered if it was possible that maybe they were gone. Teleporting.

  But then she found them lumped together on top of one of the afghan blankets, in a basket in Alder’s dining room. Asleep, they were almost indistinguishable, fuzzy arms and legs entwined. Were they dreaming, perhaps about portals and oversize opossums? Oak wished she could teleport into their minds to find out.

  “Hey,” called Alder, who had the computer. Oak returned to the couch and watched as he typed “Nikola Tesla and his cat” into his browser. She read over his shoulder as he scrolled through the first article that popped up.

  “It is true,” Alder said, his voice almost reverent. He looked up at Oak. “Do you think—if the electricity stuff is true—that all of it is true?”

  “Well,” Oak pointed out, “there’s nothing on your computer about Tesla’s cat teaching him about portal travel. But . . . we know that part is true already, don’t we? Because of Mort? The cats escaped from our houses and made their way into his somehow.”

  Alder nodded.

  “So, then,” said Oak.

  “Maybe,” said Alder.

  Neither of them had drunk the chocolate milk. Each picked up their glass and sank back into the couch, lost in thought.

  “I think,” said Oak, “that our kittens opened the portal. And—maybe this is where Tesla comes in!—I think it’s because of the lightning that we were pulled in after.”

  Alder nodded slowly. “I was thinking the same thing.”

  “And the portal is by the tree stump,” said Oak. “I’ve seen something there.”

  Alder sat up straight. “Like, a shimmer? Like a patch of shiny air?”

  “Yes! You’ve seen it?” Even after all the things they’d seen—all the coincidences, all the strangeness—Oak felt relieved to learn that Alder had seen the shimmer, too.

  “Uh-huh,” said Alder. “A few times. But whenever I try to look right at it, it disappears.”

  “Like you can only see it from the side. Or when you’re not really focusing on it.”

  “Exactly!” Alder sounded pleased to hear that Oak shared his experience too. Then, “We’re lucky we made it back all right. That we weren’t hurt or anything.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Oak. “And we’re even luckier that we got to go!” She remembered the wooden door, the strange creature, his little boots. “I want to go back,” she said.

  “Oh,” said Alder. “I don’t know if that’s a very good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” said Alder, “aren’t you scared?”

  “Maybe,” Oak admitted. “A little. But in a good way. I feel like . . . well, we must have ended up there for a reason, don’t you think? It’s your opossum that lives there, after all! We just have to figure out how to get there.” She tapped the book.

  As if on cue, the kittens rose from their slumber and padded into the front room. Walnut jumped on the coffee table, sat down, and licked his paw prettily, using it to smooth his whiskers. Fern hopped onto Oak’s lap and yawned, her pink barbed tongue arching out from between sharp white fangs.

  “My mom will be home soon,” Alder said.

  Oak nodded. “I’d better get home anyway. Mom’s making split pea soup for dinner.”

  “That’s my favorite,” said Alder.

  “Mine too. If you want, I can bring you a thermos-full for lunch tomorrow.”

  “Really?” Alder sounded pleased. “In that case, I’ll bring an extra dessert for you.”

  “Okay!” said Oak. “Anything with chocolate.” She passed Fern to Alder and stood, collecting her kitten and Feline Teleportation.

  “Let me know what else you find out from the book,” Alder said.

  Oak nodded. She was halfway to the door when she turned and stopped. “Hey, Alder,” she said, “what do you think is up with our moms?”

  Alder shrugged. “I know my mom is mad about the tree. I was, too. But . . . it’s not like her to hold a grudge. My mom—well, no offense, but she usually likes everyone. And she really doesn’t seem to like your mom at all.”

  Oak was not offended. “I wonder why,” she said, as much to herself as to Alder.


  It was another mystery—and Oak intended to solve it.

  Chapter 23

  When they climbed aboard the bus the next morning, Alder was relieved to find an empty bench near the front and, as he slipped into the window seat to make room for Oak, he pretended not to notice Beck in the back, waving to get his attention.

  As soon as they were seated, even before the bus pulled away from the curb, Alder was assaulted by a rapid-fire string of information that Oak had gleaned from her midnight reading of Feline Teleportation.

  “Did you know,” she said, “that cats with four white socks can’t teleport?”

  Of course he didn’t; he hadn’t read the book. But he just grinned and shook his head.

  “Did you know that cats knead because they are pressing the fabric of the world, searching for pockets?”

  He didn’t.

  “And cats purr to charge their motors, to rev themselves up for teleportation; did you know that? The book says that if you want to help them charge, pet them a lot.”

  Alder nodded and wiped the sleep dust from his eyes; actually, he hadn’t slept well, due to Fern’s kneading on his head and her incessant purring, nearly as loud as a truck’s engine, it had seemed.

  “Do you ever hear a high, ringing sound?” Oak asked.

  “Sometimes,” Alder answered.

  “That sound is the residual effect of a cat teleporting in the vicinity,” Oak said wisely.

  “Ah,” said Alder.

  “You know that little flap, that funny thing on a cat’s ear?”

  Alder did.

  “It’s called a Henry’s pocket. Do you know why?”

  Alder did not.

  “It’s named for a cat named Henry, a cat that belonged to Henrietta Swan Leavitt. She named him after herself! Have you heard of her?”

  Alder shook his head. He was trying to keep up, but it was difficult.

  “Well,” said Oak, and Alder settled back against the bus’s vinyl bench, grateful that Oak was about to launch into something that would spare him the burden of having to respond, at least for a minute or two. “Henrietta Swan Leavitt was an American astronomer. She’s mostly known for her work on luminosity—that’s how bright something is—and how you can use it to measure how far away a star is. But she studied interstellar portals, too, with the help of her cat, Henry. And Henrietta lost her hearing, which makes it even stranger that the little pocket on a cat’s ear is named after her and her cat, don’t you think?”