Fabulous Creature

by Zilpha Keatley Snyder

  “Hi. Want to play a game?” The invitation was given in a tone of voice that indicated complete indifference, one way or the other.

  “Sure,” James said. “I’m pretty rusty though. You’ll probably annihilate me.”

  The blond kid shrugged and headed for the far court. “My name is Mike,” he said over his shoulder. “Mike Jarrett.”

  “I’m James Fielding.”

  Nothing more was said for some time except for game calls and a few four letter comments on faults and misses. Mike was, as James had expected, much the better player; but after the first few games James was able to give him enough competition to make things interesting. Like his sister, Mike had a sleekly sturdy build and moved with smooth control, but he played a lazy and not particularly aggressive game, as if he didn’t really care about the outcome. Even when he faulted, you got the feeling that his muttered expletives were more for form’s sake than for any real anger at himself for messing up. After the third set he said he’d better be getting home.

  “Me too,” James said, gathering up his equipment. As they left the court together and strolled across the bivouac area, he asked, “Do you spend much time here, at The Camp?”

  “Yeah, quite a bit. Most of the summer and during vacations in the skiing season. And last year my dad took us out of school for a week during the hunting season, and we came up here.”

  “Does your dad commute to work or does he have the summer off?”

  “Well, you might say he commutes. His offices are in Sacramento, and during the summer he’s usually only here on weekends. He and my uncle have a plane and they fly up on Fridays and spend the weekend. Sometimes the rest of the family flies back with him, but usually we stay at The Camp during the summer. How about you? You visiting someone here? I mean, you’re not a regular resident are you?”

  James explained about the Willowby pass. Then he started describing his visit to T.J.’s office, being amusingly satirical about Lieutenant Carnaby’s shorts and about how T.J. probably waited until no one was around and then put a couple of the fighting fish in together and thought brave macho thoughts about moments-of-truth and death-in-the-afternoon, while they chewed the fins off each other. Some of it Mike didn’t seem to get, but he did grin a few times. When they got to the beginning of Gettysburg Road, James turned up it, too. When Mike looked at him inquiringly, he explained about the footpath from the end of Gettysburg to Anzio, and how it was one of the routes he sometimes took on his way home. At the driveway to number seventeen, when Mike started saying good-by, James said, “Do you suppose I could get a glass of water? I’m dying of thirst.”

  “Sure,” Mike said. “Come on up to the house.” As they turned up the long drive, James felt his heart shift into high gear, which, of course, was not a good sign. It probably meant that his brain was, as usual, getting ready to go into atrophy. It was really discouraging, since he’d almost been able to convince himself that it wouldn’t happen again. Not with Diane, anyway. Not after he’d already managed to hold a fairly normal conversation with her that day on the beach. But it had been Jacky who had made the difference then, by golf-balling him out of his usual self-conscious seizure and then by giving him something else to talk and think about—and he didn’t suppose he could count on Jacky’s clobbering him again today. For a moment he wished, or almost wished, himself out of the whole situation and on his way up Gettysburg Road toward the west gate and home.

  In front of the Jarrett’s so-called cabin, a wide flight of stairs with rustic log bannisters led up to the first level of decks, but Mike led the way around to the back. At the rear of the house they crossed a patio paved with redwood rounds and furnished with all kinds of fancy outdoor chairs and lounges. In the large kitchen, quarry tile floors and rough-hewn wooden cabinets attempted to preserve the myth of the simple life in the face of such contrary evidence as a built-in barbecue grill, a microwave oven, a trash compactor and a refrigerator that belched ice cubes through a hole in the door. By the time the ice avalanche was over, there wasn’t much room in James’ glass for water.

  “Wow,” he said to Mike. “Some kitchen.”

  Mike shrugged. “It’s a kitchen,” he said. “If you like kitchens. Would you like to see the rest of the place?”

  James had heard about the trophy room from Fiona, but he hadn’t really visualized it accurately. At least not in the proper scale. It was on the ground level, and it stretched from one end of the building to the other. Besides massive ceiling beams, an enormous fireplace, pool and Ping-Pong tables and a lot of leather furniture, it featured, just as Fiona had said, a huge assortment of dead animals. Parts of dead antelope, zebra, mountain goat, deer, moose, elk and buffalo hung from the walls, whole ducks and pheasants sat on shelves, an elephant’s foot sat by the door holding umbrellas, a disemboweled lion sprawled in front of the fireplace, and in the far corner, an entire polar bear crouched in perpetual rigor mortis. But deer seemed to be the Jarrett’s popular victim. One whole wall was covered so densely with deer heads that it had the weird, almost surrealistic effect of dozens of pairs of sad dead eyes peering out of a wintry forest of antlers.

  James was overwhelmed. He was even more overwhelmed a moment later when Diane emerged from the depths of one of the enormous couches. Kneeling on the seat of the couch, she leaned on the back and yawned lazily. “Hi,” she said. “You woke me up.”

  “What are you doing down here?” Mike said. “I thought you went in to town with Mom.”

  “I decided against it. I came down here to read and went to sleep.” Turning to James, she smiled breathtakingly. Pointing her gun finger, she said, “Ka-pow. Look who’s here.”

  James and Mike rounded the end of the couches. Diane was wearing very short shorts and a tight brown tee shirt that said PLAIN BROWN WRAPPER across the front. There was a magazine on the couch beside her.

  “Hi,” James said, and then groping desperately for a conversational gambit, he picked up the magazine. “Is this what put you to sleep?” he asked.

  The magazine was called The Outdoor Man, and the picture on its cover was of a man holding a rifle and wearing a day-glo orange vest and cap. He was smiling down at the body of a deer that lay at his feet.

  Diane giggled. “Not really,” she said. Taking the magazine out of James’ hands, she pulled a copy of Penthouse out of the middle of it. “That’s just camouflage, in case Dad comes in.”

  “Hey,” Mike said grabbing the Penthouse. “Where did you find that?”

  “In Dad’s office. He thought he had them hid, but I found them.”

  “Hoo man!” Mike said. “Excuse me kids while I look at all the pretty pictures.”

  “Well, go away someplace. We don’t want to be disturbed by all the heavy breathing.”

  Mike went off and flopped into a chair across the room.

  “So how’s your back?” Diane asked.

  “My back?”

  “Where Jacky nailed you.”

  “Oh that. It only hurts when I laugh.” Hope sprouted. He’d said something. He’d even managed to be weakly funny.

  She smiled encouragingly and hope burgeoned. “Speaking of Jacky,” he asked, “is he around?”

  “Why? Do you want to see him?”

  “Well, not particularly. I just wondered if he was—within range.”

  “Relax. He went to town with my mom.”

  “Whew.” Pantomiming relief, James sat down on the couch.

  Diane’s smile was welcoming—friendly—heart-splintering—mind-boggling. Giving a sudden little bounce of enthusiasm, she gestured around the room. “What do you think of our trophies?” she asked.

  “Well,” James said, “it’s very impressive. I feel as if I ought to take off my hat. If I had one to take off.”

  “Well, don’t take it off to me. I didn’t kill many of them. Just a couple of lousy deer.”

  “Oh,” James said. He decided against explaining that what he’d meant was more like—as in being in the presence of the d
ead.

  “My dad wouldn’t take me when he went to Africa. He said I was too young. He took Mike though, and he’s just a year and a half older. But I’ve been going deer hunting since I was twelve years old. Come here, I’ll show you.” Getting off the couch, Diane led the way to the deer wall and pointed out two of the smaller heads. One had three points on each antler and the other had only two—probably a teen-ager as deer went—and they went fast, obviously, if they got within range of a Jarrett.

  The tour continued with Diane telling James where each of the animals had been killed and by whom. Most of the killing had been done by her father.

  “But my dad says I’m going to be a really great hunter someday,” she said. “A lot better than Mike. Mike is still a little better shot than I am, but he just doesn’t really care that much about it. Dad says he just doesn’t have the desire.”

  “The desire?”

  “Yes, that’s what you have to have, to be a great hunter. My dad has it, and so do I. Mike just doesn’t have it.”

  Glancing over at Mike, who was still avidly perusing Penthouse, it occurred to James that he seemed to have his fair share, at least in some areas.

  “My dad says,” Diane was going on, “that it’s a shame they don’t have an event for hunters in the Olympics. Don’t you think they should?”

  “Well, I guess I’ve never really thought about it,” James admitted, picturing a football field full of milling deer and a bunch of hunters running around the track taking potshots at them. “They could have a deer shooting contest and a pig sticking and maybe even a rabbit thumping.”

  Diane looked at him coldly. “Okay, funny boy,” she said. “I meant shooting at targets.”

  “Oh sure,” James said. “I was just kidding.”

  She smiled angelically. “Ka-pow,” she said, shooting James through the heart with a tan finger. “Don’t try to kid me, sweetie. Hey! Do you like to play Ping-Pong?”

  James was usually fairly good at Ping-Pong, but watching Diane jumping around at the other end of the table was hard on his powers of concentration. But he was having a wonderful time. He kept wishing that Max could see him now. Here he was playing Ping-Pong and kidding around with just about the sexiest girl he’d ever seen in his whole life. Max would be proud of him.

  “Hey, Di,” Mike called suddenly. “Was that a car?”

  Diane ran to the window. “It’s Mom,” she said. “Mom’s home.”

  Mike got up and put Penthouse under the cushion of his chair. A few minutes later the healthy-looking blonde woman came in. When Diane introduced James, “Jill Jarrett was cool but friendly. She said that Di had to go down to the pool now for her diving lesson, but that she hoped James would come again. Diane walked out to the deck with him as he left. As he turned to go down the stairs, she made a little mouth at him like a kiss and he almost fell down the steps.

  He was still walking on air as he went around the corner of the house and became aware of a rhythmical thudding noise. When he saw what was making it, he backed up and made a wide detour. It was Jacky. Dressed in pale blue overalls with bunnies on the front, he was busy squashing something with a toy shovel. He didn’t notice James as he tiptoed past.

  CHAPTER 4

  HAVING DISCOVERED THAT diving lessons were on Fridays as well as Thursdays at three o’clock, James was at The Camp on Friday afternoon. At about three-thirty he wandered over to the swimming pool. He bought himself a Dr. Pepper from the vending machine and then ensconced himself in a plastic chair in the spectator’s area. The only other spectators were two women who obviously were mothers of some of the kids in the class. They were watching the proceedings and drinking margaritas and discussing competitions and meets and the effectiveness of various coaches, and how their kids were absolutely determined to be Olympic competitors even though they’d never been pushed or coerced in any way.

  There seemed to be only five kids in the class: Diane, a boy about fourteen years old and three girls who were quite a bit younger. The other kids were practicing on the low board, but Diane was diving from the high one. Although the coach, a very tan middle-aged man, yelled at her a lot, it seemed to James that she was very good at what she was doing. At least everything she did was very impressive to look at. However, Diane Jarrett in a bathing suit was very impressive to look at even when she wasn’t doing anything. She was wearing a one-piece, light-weight tank suit of some clingy material, and while she climbed the ladder, poised at the top, jumped up and down and then fell in various graceful positions into the water, James had a perfect opportunity to make observations and check her off on Max’s girl-rating scale. On Max’s scale you rated various attributes on a scale of one to ten, and he was very particular. Not very many girls rated a ten on more than one or two points.

  James grinned, thinking what Max could do with that one. Fielding the straight man. Max had said once that the reason he associated with James was because he was such a genius at setups. Of course, he’d been kidding at the time, but James had wondered if there wasn’t some truth to that comment. James hadn’t had a great many close friends in the past, and the ones he’d had had tended to be interesting and sharp, but on the whole a bit reserved and conservative. Not at all like Max. And from things Max had said, he’d gotten the impression that Max hadn’t had many friends like James either. If James’ contribution to Max’s life was straight lines, Max’s contribution to his was definitely excitement. On a scale of one to ten, Max rated at the top in making life exciting. And on Max’s favorite scale, Diane Jarrett was obviously ten or close to it on everything from tits (super plus ten) to something Max called approachability. When her lesson was finished, Diane actually approached James.

  She came out of the dressing room area and strolled straight over to where he was sitting, swinging her beach bag and her hips. When she got there and pointed her finger, James actually chimed in on the, “Ka-pow.” He was really making progress.

  “You looking for somebody?” she asked in the special way she had that was sarcastic and seductive at the same time.

  “Well, actually, I’m here on business.” Better and better!

  “On business?”

  “Yeah. I’m on a stake-out.” And then it happened—a line that even Max would have been proud of. “Actually, I’m from the FBI, and I’m keeping an eye on someone on the most wanted list.” He even managed to raise an eyebrow when he said “most wanted.”

  Diane giggled, and a minute later she asked him to walk home with her.

  While the line about the FBI was probably the highpoint, conversationwise, things continued to go well. When she asked him why he was taking off his glasses, he explained that he didn’t wear them very often—only when there was something really worth watching—and she giggled again. Later he offered to carry her beach bag and she refused on women’s lib grounds, and he insisted and tried to grab it, which led to some very exciting chasing and pushing and shoving. Eventually she put the bag behind her back so he had to put both arms around her to try to reach it, and at that point something more might have happened, except that they were in front of the Jarretts’ cabin by then and all of a sudden a deep male voice called, “Diane.” When James recovered from almost doing a back flip, he saw that the person who had yelled was a man who was sitting in a lounge chair on the bottom deck, smoking a pipe. Obviously it was Diane’s father, and of course James had to go up and be introduced.

  Actually, he wasn’t too nervous about meeting Hank Jarrett, because all of his life he’d been good with adults. A lot better, in fact, than he sometimes was with people his own age—a situation which can result from growing up in a relatively adult environment. But Diane’s father turned out to be a slightly different proposition. For one thing, Hank Jarrett talked mostly about three subjects, in none of which James had any particular expertise: building shopping centers, killing things and winning trophies. But there was more to it than that. The usual conversation gears just didn’t seem to mesh. The whole process, q
uestion-answer, give-take, didn’t seem to apply.

  Right after Diane introduced James and said he’d walked up with her from diving class, her father said, “Diving class. What do you think of Fraser? Good coach, isn’t he?”

  “Fraser?” James had no idea who Fraser was.

  “That Clifton woman,” Jarrett went on without noticing James’ confusion, “didn’t know beans about coaching advanced divers. Can’t think why Mitchell hired her. Okay as a swimming coach, I guess, for the kids just starting out, but out of the question for divers of Di’s caliber. When I found out about her, I hit the ceiling. Got Mitchell to do something about the situation. Kids with an investment like our Di’s,” he put an arm across Diane’s shoulders, “years of training and practice, can’t be expected to go all summer without proper instruction.”

  Having deduced that Fraser was the diving coach, and still assuming that he was being conversed with, since Jarrett was continuing to look in his general direction, James felt called upon to respond. “I’m afraid I’m not much of an authority on—” he began before Jarrett interrupted.

  “Don’t need to be an authority as long as you give it all you’ve got. Get in there and give it all you’ve got. Right Di? That’s what our Di does, and that’s what counts. Isn’t that right?” Hank Jarrett’s lean, firm face was creased into a lean, firm smile. “You taking part in the Sacramento meet next week, Fielding?”

  “No, I’m not—” James would have gone on to explain that he wasn’t a swimmer and that he had only been a spectator and not a participant in Diane’s class, but somehow before he’d managed to get the misconception cleared up, he was being taken in to see Diane’s diving trophies and from there to look at trophies of other types, including all the animal parts that Diane had already introduced him to.

  The next fifteen minutes or so of conversation consisted of a lot of unilateral comments on the joys of hunting in general, on specific thrills occasioned by the deaths of several of the room decorations and with the relative merits of various body parts as far as their record book standings were concerned. Meanwhile, Diane was tagging along, poking James now and then and making funny commiserating faces behind her father’s back, which made it even harder for James to keep his mind on the information he was receiving. He learned with varying degrees of attentiveness that the polar bear didn’t quite make the book, that the elk had been within a few points of establishing a record, and that five of the large assortment of deer had nearly made it, but not quite. The whole roomful, it seemed, had died in vain. It was a sobering thought.