The Gingerbread Boy

by Lori Lapekes

  Daniel looked at the ceiling. He seemed frustrated. “I grew up hating this kind of music, too,” he admitted. “It was considered wicked and a lot of it is. I grew up afraid of it, even afraid of the radio. Some of the villagers thought the sounds it made came from an evil spirit, and I wasn’t so certain they weren’t right.”

  “Villagers?” Catherine asked.

  Daniel looked at her. “My parents were missionary linguists in Peru. They worked with tribes of Achual Indians, descendants of headhunters. When I was twelve years old my father passed away, and we moved back to the States. My mother couldn’t stand to go back to Peru without him, so she stayed here to raise my sister and me. Finally I became… Americanized.”

  Catherine leaned back against the headboard, overwhelmed. “I’m sorry to hear about your father,” she said a little uncomfortably.

  He tipped his head in thought. “Thank you. It was a rough time. But my mother was great and helped me get through it.”

  Catherine stared intently at him, as if she could absorb some of his depth. She’d thought Daniel was complex, but this was incredible. A jungle life. No wonder Joey had called him Mowgli. He was once a jungle boy himself. “What language did your parents speak?” she asked.

  “Some local tribal dialects, plus Spanish and Portuguese.” Daniel replied.

  “Do you speak any of it?”

  “It’s kind of fractured, but I can speak a little Portuguese if it benefits me.” he said, then added a few words Catherine found incomprehensible.

  Her eyes widened. She cocked her head slyly. “All right, how did that just benefit you?”

  Daniel chuckled. “I just said, in Portuguese, that you are much too lovely to be spending time with a bum like me.”

  Catherine raised her eyebrows and shook her head. How could she tell him how fascinating she found his background, when her own father had been a cruel alcoholic, and her mother a promiscuous factory worker who ran around with anyone who would take a second glance at her? How could she tell him how she and Tony had to clean out cow stalls to help make a living and then explain that the same brother had vanished off the face of the Earth? How dysfunctional was that? Could she even admit that her best friend back East was an eccentric seventy-seven-year-old lady that little kids called ‘Witch Hazel?’

  Catherine closed her eyes against unsettling thoughts

  You have no right to be in Daniel’s house, a voice in her mind scolded. The fact you’re here now is a fluke. Daniel is just playing with you.

  Catherine recognized the voice in her subconscious as Beth’s, again. Why did so many people’s opinions flood her mind in times like this? Beth’s, Hazel’s, and sometimes, even Tony’s? Didn’t she have a will of her own?

  “Tell me more about South America,” Catherine said before Daniel could ask any questions about her upbringing. That could only lead to disaster in what she hoped might otherwise be the start of something interesting.

  Daniel folded his arms, “I don’t want to talk all about myself, it sounds vain. Let’s hear more about you.”

  “I asked first.” Catherine reminded him, “I’ll tell you more about me another time. Learning about someone as wretched as Calvin is enough for anyone to know about for a while.”

  Daniel shrugged. “If you insist. But living in South America was such a long time ago. It seems unreal to me now. I mostly remember that it was hot and sticky much of the time, and muddy. Twice a horse stumbled and fell on my mother while she was riding it along a trail, or a road, as they called it. Luckily, the horses there were small, and the mud deep,” he added, laughing.

  “And there were bugs everywhere. Some would bite so hard it’d itch and burn for weeks.” He tiptoed his fingers across Catherine’s arm as though they were an insect’s legs, and Catherine laughed and shook him off as he continued. “I wish I could remember more of the Indians, but all I can recall is the low-key nature of their lives. They were extremely friendly. They made a kind of drink called chechwa they’d sometimes offer visitors. It’s kind of how we’d offer someone coffee here, but chechwa was made from chewed up corn or yucca root mixed with water and sugar cane and left to ferment. Slimy pieces of the roots were usually still floating in it when offered. Fortunately,” he added with a wink, “Mom thought I was too young to taste it. And time wasn’t a factor there. You could never be late for anything. In the States, everything is run by the clock. The tribes we worked with in Peru and Brazil had no conception of time. Yet no one was lazy, everyone had a job to do and they did it well. When I got to the States, the pressure of having a clock control my life was the hardest thing to get used to. That…” He grinned. “…and wearing coats and boots in the winter.”

  At that, Catherine remembered his scarf in her purse. She hoped to give it back to him, as she’d forgotten about it in all the excitement last night. It was the last thing she thought of when they left the bar at two o’clock in the morning. She’d been so tired she barely remembered the ride to Daniel’s house. A late night for her usually meant turning in by ten-thirty. She sneaked a look at her wristwatch.

  “I can’t believe it,” she said, “it’s already five-thirty.”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Daniel said, eyes brightening. “I know of a little café that’s open all night, we can go there and watch the sunrise. What do you say?”

  Catherine folded her arms coyly. “Hmm, let me mull this over.” But there was nothing to mull over. Watching a sunrise with Daniel in a cozy little café was an intriguing thought. But she couldn’t let him know that. Not yet. She didn’t want to seem gushy.

  She guarded her voice. “That’s not a bad idea, I suppose.”

  Just then a tremendous noise filled the air. Catherine gasped as a large, dark shape swooped side-ways through the open doorway, then settled with a screech on Daniel’s shoulder.

  “Yoo-Hoo, you twit!” Daniel exclaimed, transferring a great bird to his arm. He looked at Catherine’s wide-open eyes. “Say you’re sorry, my great feathered fiend.”

  The pounding of Catherine’s heart subsided as the huge blue and yellow bird cocked its head at her. “You are an epitome.” It squawked.

  “Of what?” Daniel asked.

  “Of charm and grace.”

  Slowly, Catherine allowed her frozen face muscles to lift into a smile. “A Macaw,” she sputtered. “He’s beautiful!”

  Daniel grinned. “I’ve had Yoo-Hoo since he was only a few weeks old. His mother’s name was Yah-Hoo. His father’s name was Boo-Hoo.”

  “You had him in South America?” Catherine asked, laughing as she pulled her legs up under the blankets and wrapped her arms around them.

  He nodded. “I was terrified by those birds as a kid. They usually flew in pairs, screaming, and you could hear them a mile away. I had nightmares that they were spirits coming to get me, and I’d run out of the house in the middle of the night. My father decided the only way to face my fear was to get one of the birds and tame him.”

  “So who watches him when you’re on tour?”

  “My mother takes him in if it’s too long of a road trip. Other times, he comes along. He’s like a spoiled little mascot.”

  Catherine laughed, then lowered her eyes. Daniel’s mother sounded as interesting as her son. It’d be a while before she could explain her relationship with Hazel to Daniel, though. She thought of Hazel’s many warnings of ‘Think, girl, think,’ or ‘Men are vipers, Catherine, vipers!’ and the thought of disappointing her was worrisome. Catherine knew Hazel thought of her much like a daughter now, as she had no children of her own. Catherine’s own promiscuous mother certainly hadn’t been much of a parent to her. Or for that matter, the father whom she’d rarely met. She owed Hazel so much. How could she explain this peaceful, surreal emotion that now enveloped her? It was almost magical in Daniel’s presence. Could Hazel ever understand that? Had she ever felt anything like that?

  Catherine tried not to let the thoughts disturb her, but they prodded at the edges of he
r mind nonetheless. She would have to be cautious. She’d try to guard her feelings for a while.

  She and Daniel spent the rest of the morning in a little café Catherine had never known of, a tiny building north of campus sitting on the bank of the Looking Glass River. They sat next to a large window watching the darkness outside dissipate from jet black, to a watery blue, and finally to a burst of transparent yellow over the treetops. As dawn brightened, Catherine felt the invigorating pull of a new day and realized, with some trepidation, that she couldn’t have been happier.

  Chapter Five

  Years before, when Catherine first saw Mrs. Vanhoofstryver step through the veterinary clinic’s door, a stab of fear had pierced her heart. The atmosphere in the waiting area instantly hushed. People stiffened in their chairs, and pulled their pets closer to them. Even the animals seemed suddenly ill at ease. An injured rabbit that a little girl had cornered under a chair froze, allowing its wide-eyed owner to nab it before cowering behind the chair herself.

  The lady walked in slowly, her back straight as a pole. Her narrow, lined face was tipped high, her thin lips tight and pursed. She cradled a cardboard box in matchstick thin arms. Catherine held her breath and stopped working as her heart began to pound. She desperately wished Dr. Douglas would come up from the back room and handle this client. The woman strode past the gawking statues in the waiting area and set the box on the counter before Catherine, peering sideways at her with an inspecting eye. Her voice was dry, as though she had been munching sand.

  “My name,” she began grimly, her eyes pinning Catherine to her chair, “is Mrs. VanHoofstryver.” The words were pronounced in monotone except for the “hoof” syllable, in which she raised her voice high enough to crack before lowering it again.

  Catherine wondered if the starched old lady knew how much the neighborhood kids loved to imitate this.

  “It seems one of my cats, Cinder, has had some kind of accident,” she continued, scooting the box forward, her eyes never lowering. “I’m not sure anything can be done for her.”

  It took quite an effort for Catherine to force her muscles to loosen enough to allow her to stand. She nodded at the imposing old woman, then looked into the box.

  Catherine had been assisting Dr. Douglas for nearly a year now. She was used to seeing injured animals. She’d seen horses tangled in barbed wire, collies kicked square in the face by cows, cats with ears torn off from car fan belts but this this made her face go pale and the blood rush to her ears in wordless, thoughtless horror. She gripped the edge of the counter with both hands to keep upright.

  “Dr. Douglas…” she choked, forcing her voice to remain in control. “Dr. Douglas, come up front. Right away!” Her legs wobbled as she stared at the victim, trying to wash its incomprehensible pain out of her mind.

  The cat’s head had been flattened. From neck to tail, the furry black animal lying on the pillow looked normal, but from scalp to chin, its head was compressed from a normal roundish shape to a flattened oval. It attempted a pitiful meow, but stopped short, as icicles of blood would allow the mouth to open no further.

  “Dr. Douglas!” she called once again, her legs rubbery.

  Then the cat looked at her. Its unnaturally slanted eyes stared in a manner that made her feel something she hadn’t noticed at first; the feline equivalent of hope. The next thing she knew, Dr. Douglas was standing over her shoulder, clicking his tongue.

  “I’ll give her an injection,” he said softly as Mrs. VanHoofstryver stared on, her hardened face devoid of emotion, “It’ll end the pain and put her to sleep in peace.”

  “I see.” said Mrs. VanHoofstryver. She nodded briskly, straightened, and allowed her glance to drop down into the box for an instant. It’d only been for an instant… but Catherine had seen it. It’d been obvious that the old woman, hard as nails, hadn’t wanted to look at her pet, and probably hadn’t known she’d been caught doing it. Then she abruptly turned and stalked away. Her pointy heels clicked against the shiny tile in the hushed room. The door squealed as it opened, the sound seeming to penetrate everyone’s bones… and then she was gone.

  The room was bathed with sighs.

  “I bet that’s really her husband in the box,” said the little girl under the chair, still clinging to her rabbit. “I bet she got mad and tried to kill him, then turned him into a cat so no one would know. She’s a witch!”

  Catherine stared incredulously at the little girl as she continued, “They say her husband is so fat he’s almost dead and she keeps him locked away in an upstairs bedroom. My friend Rosie says he hates all her cats, too, and eats them. No one has seen him leave the house in two years! We call her Witch Hazel. I bet she put a spell on him and turned him into a cat so she could kill him and get away with it. I bet that was him in the box!”

  Catherine looked once more into the box. Mrs. Vanhoofstryver’s chilling presence had made the child’s incredible story seem nearly believable. But there had been that surreptitious glance into the box… that veiled second of pain in the woman’s eyes which made Catherine wonder…

  With a grim smile, Dr. Douglas lifted the box off the counter and carried it toward one of the examining rooms in the back. Catherine felt drained as she watched him leave. Something about this animal tugged at her heart even more so than normal. Then the enigmatic look the cat had given her flooded her mind. She left the breathless little girl and scurried after her boss.

  “Does she have to be euthanized?” she asked, “can’t we take some x-rays, try surgery…?”

  Dr. Douglas interrupted her. “There’s no point,” he said. “Even if this cat were to live, it wouldn’t be normal.”

  “But I’m sure Mrs. VanHoofstryver would want to try something if she thought there was any chance at all. We know she’s got money. Maybe…”

  Dr. Douglas cocked his head. “Why does this poor creature interest you so? You must realize it’d be better off out of its misery.”

  Catherine’s shoulders sagged. She gazed into the box once again. The cat’s eyes were now closed. There was a faint whistling of clogged blood in its nose and mouth as it breathed. It seemed foolish to want to save it.

  She told him the truth.

  “She wants to live. Please, let’s just try something. I’ll take responsibility for everything, I’ll take her home myself and nurse her.”

  It took a few moments, but Dr. Douglas’ eyes softened. Catherine could tell what he was probably weighing out in his mind: what was one cat among millions… yet what was one person among millions, and doctors tried everything they could even to save some of the most loathsome human beings. Finally, he nodded.

  ****

  Catherine closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She could do this.

  She re-opened her eyes, and the white-pillared mansion spread before her once again; forbidding and solemn, nearly a direct replica of its occupant. Catherine clutched the handle of her pet carrier harder, keenly aware of the weight of the frightened animal lurking within. Finally she summoned her courage, and strode forward. Her legs seemed to pull her forward on their own accord, and before she could draw in another breath, she found herself standing before two huge wooden doors. As intimidating as they were, she bit her lip, reached for the knocker, and rapped on the wood.

  She felt the cat turn in the carrier, heard a frightened meow.

  “Don’t worry, Cinder, you’re home now.” Catherine comforted the animal in a whisper.

  Despite her supposed courage, her knees went weak as the huge door clicked open. Her heart lurched as Mrs. VanHoofstryver was suddenly standing before her, specter-like, dressed in black, as usual. If it weren’t for another pitiful meow from the carrier, Catherine would have bolted as the old woman’s cold dark eyes bore down on her like bullets. Then her eye flickered toward the carrier, and her words stunned Catherine.

  “I can’t possibly manage to take care of even one more cat,” she said.

  Catherine’s mind went blank for a moment, then she
vehemently shook her head.

  “Oh no, you don’t understand,” she stammered, “This is your cat.”

  The old woman’s eyes looked puzzled. “There has to be some mistake. My felines are all accounted for.”

  Catherine’s lips trembled. “Excuse me,” she said, “but I’m a little nervous. Let me explain. My name is Catherine Sealy. You brought this cat into the vet’s office several weeks ago, believing the severity of its injures required euthanasia. I disagreed with the doctor and decided to rehabilitate her myself.” She tried to smile. “Cinder may never again look completely normal, but, I assure you, she is very happy and healthy now, if you’d care to take a look…”

  Mrs. VanHoofstryver’s jaw dropped slightly. Gone was the look of tough detachment that had seemed to surround her like a mantle from the first time Catherine had set eyes on her. Now there was a look Catherine felt difficult to describe; a softening of features, an almost reverent awe.

  “Cinder,” the old woman whispered, her eyes lowering toward the carrier. Catherine backed up as the lady stepped down from the doorway, shutting the door resolutely behind her. Then she lowered herself to peer into the carrier, the black folds of her dress flowing across the cement like spilled ink.

  Catherine also lowered to her knees. “I’ll open the carrier door and let her out if you like. She’s been quite upset and frightened being trapped inside, but I’m sure she’ll be fine now that she’s home.” She pinched open the metal hinges that kept the door latched, and lifted it. She watched as the cat slowly, carefully crept out, looking warily this way and that. Then Mrs. Vanhoofstyver said the cat’s name, held out her hands, and the animal climbed into her arms. The old woman glanced at Catherine. A tear charted an erratic course down her cheek.