by M. E. Kerr
“You love that boat.”
“I love you more, Jimmie. I’ve got to get you into a good school. You’re going to miss out on your teen years if I don’t. I want you to have normal teenage years.”
“Why? So I can hang out with kids who all dress alike? They all have on the same kind of clothes. Ralph Lauren, Tommy Hilfiger, Armani. Do you want me to be a carbon copy?” She was exaggerating, of course, and what truth there was to it hadn’t bothered her at all. She imagined it was something like belonging to a club. In fact, the time at the Star-Tintrees’ was passing quickly, and Jimmie was easy with everybody. But she knew her father was about to try and sell boarding school again.
“You sounded just like your mom tonight: Jimmie Spheeris, Jimmie Spheeris, Jimmy Spheeris.”
Jimmie laughed. “I didn’t start it.”
“That little girl never heard of Spheeris before tonight.”
“Actually, she did,” Jimmie told him. “She heard of him when I dropped off the Magic House, on my way into the Ballbat audition. I lent her my CD of ‘The Dragon Is Dancing.’”
“You have lots of CDs. You had to lend her one by Spheeris?”
“I always listen to him before an audition, for luck.”
“Luck?” her father said. “Is that what you call it?”
From the other room they could hear the beginning of the countdown.
At five, the scythe went over Sam Twilight’s shoulder, and Jimmie stuck the Velcro banner across her body, announcing the new year.
They went into the Magic House through a tunnel of blankets.
“I’m old and I’m weary and my job is now done.” Sam Twilight was shuffling away from the Magic House wrapped in a sheet, carrying the scythe. “There’s a new year that’s coming—stay well and have fun!”
Then Twinkle Toes danced out of the Magic House in her white spangled tutu, a white net sequined skirt over it, a glittering crown on her head.
“Miss New Year brings doves of peace!”
She was twisting a balloon to make a white dove.
“May all your pains and troubles cease!”
She tossed up the dove and someone caught it. She began another, saying, ‘“Auld Lang Syne’ now shall we sing! Ring it out and ring it in!”
Then everyone began to sing while Twinkle Toes made more dove balloons.
Although she had played to larger rooms and livelier audiences, her heart was thumping with the pleasure of performing.
She could see Walter with the snake wrapped around his neck, standing beside his father. She could see Sun Lily with her school friends all grinning at her and clapping. There was Mrs. Tintree. Ginny. Nell. Mrs. Splinter. Mr. Larissa.
She sailed by them on her toe taps, while she made more white doves from her balloons.
Dotty D, the dog-faced woman, had taught Jimmie how to sculpt balloons at lunches in the pie car. It became an art with Dotty; she could make a balloon into anything: an angel, a duck, a swan, a rooster. Now so could Jimmie.
Someone had let the Pekingese and the greyhound back into the room, and they were running after the balloons.
Dancer used to do that too. That was what dogs did. But Jimmie was thinking of Placido. She was saving one white balloon to take home. It would not be turned into a dove either. It would not be pushed playfully by black dog noses or barked at. Jimmie knew exactly what would happen to it when she blew it up and presented it to Placido.
32
33
We All Make Mist
BECAUSE HER BROTHER WOULD not buy her eyeglasses, Ursula Uttergore had to be very close to things to understand what her eyes weren’t seeing clearly. She spoke the letters aloud. “W. e. a. l. l. m. a. k. e. m. i. s. t.”
“Madam?” a voice called from the deck of the large boat. “Is that you, Madame U?”
“Yes! I am Madame U.” True to her brother’s rules, she never told anyone her last name, for Percival Uttergore was too well-known—and, as he enjoyed adding, too well liked—to be doing the things he forced his ailing older sister to do.
“I think you came here about the dog,” the fisherman said.
“The boat I have been sent to is not called We All Make Mist, though that is quite a poetic name for a lobster boat, quite a poetic thought.”
“We All Make Mistakes is her name, ma’am!”
“Yes, yes, we do,” said Ursula Uttergore, whose biggest mistake in life had been answering the fatal postcard ten years past, imploring her to come “just for the summer” to care for poor young Percival, suffering from gout and greed.
“Come aboard, Madame U. I’m Robert Ketchum.”
She slowly huffed and puffed her way up the gangplank.
“He’s a beautiful dog,” said the fisherman. He opened the small cabin door for Ursula Uttergore.
She could see that he was a beautiful dog. Splendid, he was!
But Ursula Uttergore had not spent a decade with Percival Uttergore and learned nothing.
She said, “He looks a bit downtrodden, captain. Did you say you were selling him?”
“No, no. I’m trying to find his owner, or at least to find someone who will give him a good home. Do you have a good home for him?”
“Does he come with bedding, with dog food, with combs, brushes, all that a dog requires?”
“I see,” said the captain. “I see. He’s going to be an expense for you.”
“Oh, no, no, no. I am willing to undertake the obligation. I am happy to. I was just asking routinely. Just wondering routinely.”
“I do believe we can put a little money into the kitty (ha ha ha ha) toward all those things you mentioned.” The fisherman reached into his back pocket for his wallet.
“Does he have a name?” she asked. She was quite sure, oh, more than quite sure, what this dog’s name was, but go slowly, she told herself. She wanted her ploy to work. It was, after all, her specialty: to get a little money for herself.
“I named this fine animal after me. Bob.” Thump thump thump went the dog’s tail.
“He seems to like that name,” said Ursula Uttergore, who knew he would like the name Rex even better. But no point in getting the dog excited and unable to be controlled.
The fisherman put three twenty-dollar bills on the table and said, “This is to pay some of your expenses, Madame U.”
“Thank you, kind sir.” One percent of whatever Rex netted (from his owner? from the medical laboratory?) plus this delightful surprise: sixty dollars.
Behind a framed travel magazine cutout of the Eiffel Tower, Ursula kept her stash. For she was planning an escape.
To where?
She could hear the family’s most wretched disappointment deriding her, saying, “I would send you away, but away to where, worthless, old, ailing sister? To where?”
Paris, dear failure!
Paris, unsuccessful sibling!
Paris, Percival, far from you and your furnace room and your frugal bent. I dream of Paris.
“Well, Bob,” said the fisherman to the dog. “What do you think?”
Goldie looked up at Mr. Ketchum from his paws.
He wished he could say, “Can’t you keep me until the real Bob finds me? I know he’s looking for me. He has to be!”
“Bob wants to come home with me,” Ursula Uttergore crooned in a saccharine tone Goldie sensed was shallow. “Ready, Bob? Ready?”
No.
Not ready.
34
A Snake Is a Snake Is a Snake
EVEN THOUGH A SNAKE is accustomed to sensing pejorative remarks about his appearance, his movements, and his eating habits, do not believe for one minute that it is okay with him. In truth, it affects his self-esteem dreadfully.
When it happens on the first day of the new year, a snake wonders just how he is expected to slither through three hundred sixty-four more days.
“—not my idea of a pet!” the world-famous globetrotter said in his deep and important CNN voice.
Marshall slid down the nec
k of Walter’s shirt and lumped himself inside, feeling the boy’s warm skin.
“But you said I could have any kind of pet I wanted,” Walter complained.
“I doubt very, very much that they even allow snakes at Ritzy Riverview Apartments, son. Snakes are slimy.”
“Feel, Daddy. Put your hand inside my shirt. He’s not slimy.”
“I just had a manicure, Walter. I have to do World Roundup tonight.”
Over by the fireplace, Catherine and Peke lay huddled together, listening.
Guy Splinter said, “Of all the pets in the world you could have, why would you choose one who’s always sticking his tongue out at you?”
“Good point!” Peke said.
“Dad, that’s how Marshall investigates his surroundings.”
“Want to bet Walter ends up adopting Posh and not Marshall?” Catherine asked Peke.
“You have nothing to bet, Catherine.”
“Just bet. You don’t need anything to just bet. I bet this famous newsman will want an unusual pet so people will say he’s unusual too.”
“He’s already unusual, Catherine. You said yourself he’s famous.”
Guy Splinter said, “Marshall has no eyelids. His eyes look ominous staring at you.”
“He smells, too,” Catherine told Peke.
“He smells?” Peke said.
“I never smelled him, but it’s rumored that when he’s very afraid, he smells.”
“Look over there by the fireplace, son,” said the world-famous globe-trotter who broadcast from anyplace but where his family was. “See them? They are my idea of pets…. I can understand why Ginny and Nell are adopting the greyhound. If I had a dog that sleek and loving, I wouldn’t take it back to Critters either.”
Catherine stood up. “Peke? Peke? Did you hear that? I’m being adopted.” Catherine was just about to bark blissfully.
“Hush, Catherine!” Peke commanded. “Don’t bark! I want to hear the rest of this. I knew you were being adopted last night.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“Purposely.”
“But why, Peke?”
“You have a lot to learn about canine psychology, Catherine.”
“I thought you liked me.”
“Enormously, yes. But I will not be top dog anymore. That makes me quite sad, Catherine. You wouldn’t understand because you have never been top dog.”
“But Peke, I—”
“Shhh. Hush, please. I want to see if Walter can convince his father to accept a snake.”
“I’ll bet he can’t,” said Catherine. “Want to bet, Peke?”
“No, Catherine. And now that you are joining the Star-Tintree family, you had better shape up. We are not a dissolute family like some. There is no alcoholism, no one smokes, no one watches daytime TV, and, my dear new sister, no one gambles!”
“I still bet Walter won’t get his father to adopt Marshall.”
“Children manipulate parents, Catherine. I’ve seen it time and time again.”
“Not Walter or Sun Lily, though.”
“Oh, Catherine, you are so naive. It’s a good thing you’re joining the family. You wouldn’t last a day in the cruel world outside these walls.”
Walter was saying to his father, “Maybe if you won’t let me have Marshall, Mother will. Maybe I should live with Mother in New Jersey.”
“Now it begins,” Peke said.
35
Belonging
“‘THE LAST TIME I saw Paris,’” sang Ursula Uttergore, who had never seen the French capital. “Yes, my dear dog, you are in good hands now. We are walking the gangplank! Heel, dear, heel, oh, my, you mind very nicely.”
Goldie knew he was very far from Critters, because there was no water near any of the paths the volunteers walked dogs down.
He might have tried to break away and run, for he could tell the woman leading him could probably not hold him.
But what good would running do, even if he had the strength left to do it?
The fisherman had not fed him, only put down a bowl of water for him. He had not had very much to eat for a day and a night. He believed this woman would give him a meal, and a place to sleep, for she did not appear to be a cruel woman. She seemed to want him badly. Would he have to accept the idea that he had lost both his home and his friends at Critters, and now he should take whatever he could find for a home?
At least he was safe from the dogcatcher, for if he stayed with this woman, he would belong to someone.
The woman continued singing about Paris, walking with Goldie by the water, the brown Bronco following at a safe distance.
36
That Could Be Me!
ANYONE COULD TELL YOU that the brains behind BrainPower were not the brains of Quintin Quick. They were the brains of his wife, Myrna Quick, B.S., M.A., Ph.D., and founder of W.O.E., Wives of Executives.
New Year’s Day found them breakfasting in their luxurious suite at the Waldorf-Astoria.
“Remember the young fellow you called loopy?” she said as she dug into her eggs Benedict. “What was his name?”
“Cane. Cole Cane. Loopy looking. I used my memory trick on that boy. Trouble. Raise Cain. A soul as black as coal. Cole Cane.”
“And what is the name of the model you finally hired?”
“Oh, I’d have to look that up. He had a very high I.Q. Perfect for the part of Art Smart.
“Fire him,” said Myrna Quick. “Get Cane.”
“Ha ha, that’s a good one,” said her husband, who didn’t think it was that good a joke, but who knew it was wise to humor his beloved.
“I’m serious, Quintin! You can remember Cole Cane, but you can’t remember the one you hired. Do you think the televiewing and Internet audience is going to remember him?”
“Well, I—”
“Hire the loopy one! Pass the salt, please. I even like his name: Cole Cane. We don’t want a real brain to represent us. A real brain, Quintin, has no use for us. We’re selling Brainstorm.”
“Oh, my, oh, my. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Because you don’t have to. You have me. Next, Jane Brain. It’s all right to call her that for now, but we’ll probably use her real name. She could have a room-temperature I.Q. and it wouldn’t matter for now. We want someone with potential. Pretty, personable, young, and not the smug type who isn’t capable of mispronunciation, misspelling, and making mistakes!”
“I see your point, Myrna,” said Quintin Quick.
“We want our audience to sympathize with her.”
“Quite true,” said Quintin.
“To identify with her!”
“Quite true,” said Quintin.
“We want to educate her in full view of everyone!”
“Is that what we want?”
“And everyone will think: That could be me…. Not a bad title for the Brainstorm television segments. That could be me.”
“That could be me,” Quintin Quick murmured, munching on his caviar popover, swallowing his coffee, remembering someone suddenly.
“Who did you hire for Jane Brain?” his wife asked as she buttered her toast and watched out of the corner of her eye The Bag and Shoe Shopper on channel 345.
“No one yet, dearest, but I’m going to take care of that now. Hand me the phone, please.”
“Who are you calling on New Year’s Day?”
“Fiona Fondaloot,” her husband answered, looking for the name on his speed dial.
“We’ll see Jane Brain through high school, college—we’ll go the limit with her,” said Myrna Quick. “With some tutors, and a good private school, she’ll be living proof that Brainstorm works!”
“Ms. Fondaloot?” her husband said into the telephone. “I’m sorry to bother you on New Year’s Day. But we at BrainPower want very much to reach Consensus of Opinion.”
“Quin-tin,” Myrna Quick whispered with a frown across her forehead. “What are you saying? Consensus means opinion!”
“That’s right
, Ms. Fondaloot,” said her husband. “You remember her. She spoke out of turn.”
37
A Flying Lesson
POP! AND IT HAD been the start of a new year. Placido had seen it in grandly, drunk on high-quality catnip Jimmie had given him after he broke the balloon with one sure bite.
Then Placido had rolled around the floor of the galley, run madly through the cabins, nudged Dancer’s picture back down the crack beside the tongueless Roscoe the Robotic Frog, gobbled up a bit of Friskies sliced beef in gravy, urped, and chased his tail madly as Jimmie hollered, “Oh, no, Pla-ci-do!”
But Jimmie was laughing, for she had begun to appreciate the true Placido: playful, distinguished with his one blue eye, superior, as all Siamese are, and deserving of adoration. Placido fell into a tipsy sleep knowing that he adored her, too.
When he woke up on New Year’s Day, he strolled around groggily for a while, until he jumped up on her bunk and enjoyed an early-morning siesta curled beside her pillow.
His new life aboard Summer Salt II was turning out satisfactorily. He had never believed it could, after living with his first owner (whom he never discussed), but what was he if he wasn’t happy?
He got up when Jimmie and her father did, accepted a few pieces of bacon from their breakfasts, cleaned his paws atop the small refrigerator, and tried to decide which one to hang out with.
It should be Sam Twilight, he knew. He had yet to win him over. He hadn’t dared perch near him and purr, for fear he would be thrust to the cabin floor. You could never gauge a male’s reaction to soft, seductive moves. Placido would have to plan his approach carefully, do a few darling things first like drape himself across a bureau top, hang a paw down, fling a leg back, look at the gentleman with eyes half closed, purrrrrr.
As it turned out, there was no way he could hang out with Sam Twilight. The man still had carpentry left to do on the aft deck.
Placido hopped across to Jimmie’s desk, where she sat doing her homework on the computer. He liked to see the strange shapes she brought up on the screen. He liked to purr and have her see him near, reach out, and tickle him under his chin. What was that if it wasn’t bonding? Big time!