by Zondervan
Now there’s someone that nobody wants to see come through the circle.
No one knew if a character could enter Real World in one circle and leave it through another. Not Ophelia, at least, and she certainly wouldn’t take that chance with somebody as nice as Quasimodo. Besides, if she put him back in Book World, she’d do so at a time that would implicate Frollo as a witch, and then Quasi would be free to live the sort of life he deserved.
“I definitely remember him,” Jack said. “Let me look him up in the book I use to keep track of my customers’ info — just in case they don’t show up to get their shoes.” He reached under the counter and pulled out an old composition book (the black and white speckled notebook you most likely used in school when learning how to form letters).
“Don’t you have a computer?” Linus asked.
“Yes, of course I have a computer,” Jack said in a mocking voice. “I just prefer not to use it for the really important stuff. Now, let’s see …” Jack ran a finger down one page, flipped it to the next one, and then finally the next. “Here it is. Cato Grubbs. 461 Bovary.”
Ophelia leaned over to look at the page. “Oh look! That is him!”
Next to each entry, Jack had drawn a tiny cartoon portrait of the customer. “I’m a bit of an amateur cartoonist.” He blushed.
“Nicely done!” said Walter.
“Do you recognize that street name, Ophelia?” asked Linus. “I don’t.”
“I’ve never been there,” Ophelia said.
“It’s close by,” said Jack. “Just take a right onto Heathcliff Street at the corner there, go one block, and then turn right onto Bovary.”
“Thanks,” she said. “We’d better get a move on. Nice meeting you.”
“Anytime.” He pushed a bowl of peppermint candies forward, and they each took one unwrapping the cellophane as they exited the shop.
Walter shoved the candy to the side of his mouth and placed his hands in the front pockets of his shorts as they set off down the sidewalk. “So off to Bovary, then. I wonder if the new enchanted circle is there?”
They walked up the hipster street lined with one bike shop, two vintage clothing boutiques, three bars offering live music every night, and four coffee shops. Oh, and I’m forgetting the CD exchange store.
Kingscross really is a lovely town, with flowers and trees growing all over the place. Some of the streets are still paved in brick, such as the one the threesome traversed (moved over) now. Heathcliff Street, the center of the good goings-on, ribboned across the highest point in town. And one important detail to know right now is that Rickshaw Street (where Seven Hills Better Books sits) is at the lowest point in town where the Bard River runs through it. So it was a bit of a climb to find Cato Grubbs.
Doing the things that one has to do for the sake of the greater good usually involves a climb of some sort. Get used to it. Life is not easy. There is room for only so many talentless pop stars and reality TV nincompoops, believe it or not, and thank goodness for that. The rest of us have to rise by the sweat of our own brow.
Walter chewed up the candy and then swallowed. “So, here we go then. What about a game plan, mates? Truly you’re not thinking we’ll simply pop on over, knock on the door, and say, ‘Hello there, Mr. Grubbs. We’ve come to take back our hunchback.’ “
“Not hardly,” Ophelia chuckled. “We do need a plan though. The good thing is they probably don’t know what we look—wait. Cato saw me lying on the sofa this morning. Drat.”
“Walter’s our best bet.” Linus pointed at the street sign for the next intersection. “Bovary.”
“Right, then.” Walter stopped. “Let’s think about this. You two probably shouldn’t walk down the street with me. And I’ll have to knock on the door under false pretenses. What should I say?”
Ophelia looked up, clearly thinking. “It can’t be that you’re selling something to raise money for school. First off, it’s summer vacation; and second, they might just slam the door in your face.”
Linus thought about the door-to-door sales he used to do back in Arizona to raise money for a band trip. He shuddered. Who wants a bunch of wrapping paper and candles? Now candy bars or popcorn, those he could work his mind around! And can’t we all?
“Keep it simple,” Linus said. “You’re lost and need directions.”
“Yes! And your accent will be perfect, Walter!” Ophelia added.
“Right.” Walter inhaled deeply. “Just keep watch from up the street in case something goes wrong.”
seventeen
Don’t Ever Underestimate the Brilliance of Street Smarts
Walter and worry rarely mixed. In London, Walter was what people back in my day called a “juvenile delinquent” (what’s known today as a “troubled teen”). In other words, sometimes he got into things that he really should have avoided. The police (or “bobbies” as they call them over there) delivered Walter to his mum’s doorstep from time to time, and they even tried to frighten him with a night in jail.
No wonder Auntie Max offered him a year at Kingscross School.
But Walter wasn’t stupid—or evil. He was undeniably bored and just seemed to fall in with people who were always looking for trouble. Kingscross was to be his fresh start, so what he used to do in the past is none of our business. He was as ready for a clean slate as anyone else would be. Looking over your shoulder becomes tiresome after a while.
Therefore, knocking on somebody’s door and asking for directions was less than nothing, perhaps a negative fifteen, to a young man like Walter.
The houses on Bovary stood shoulder to shoulder and shared the sidewalls. Some people call such dwellings “rowhouses.” Not at all large, they were gathered together in a humbler section of town than where the Kingscross School stood. Yet each owner lovingly cared for their property by painting the façades (front outside walls) a variety of cheerful hues. And all of the homes were friendly and welcoming, festooned with wreathes and other seasonal decorations such as birdhouses and cinnamon brooms. Except, naturally, the house in front of Walter.
Cato’s neighbors must really be chapped, Walter thought as he compared the peeling, sickly green coat of paint on the house in front of him to the sunflower gold on his right and the Caribbean blue on his left.
Walter rapped on the door and waited.
He rapped again.
“Hold your pants on! I’m coming!” a gravelly female voice yelled.
When the door opened, Walter’s intuition kicked in. Say what you will about kids with street smarts, but sometimes it comes in handy.
“I’m looking for Cato Grubbs,” he said with confidence.
“That bum!” the woman squinted at him, her beady eyes practically disappearing into a rather large face framed by long straight hair that was blacker than black. “He doesn’t live here anymore. You’re not related to him, are you?”
Walter sighed. “Wouldn’t you know it? And somehow I got the job of informing him about some family matters.” He leaned forward as if to share a secret with her, “I’m only fourteen, yet I’m the sanest one in the bunch, I can tell you that.”
She leaned against the doorframe and said, “That doesn’t surprise me. He was sure an odd one. Hardly ever here. Almost every night around ten o’clock, he’d head out the door with a big satchel over his shoulder or a box of junk under his arm.” She pointed in the direction from which Walter had just come. “And he always went thataway.”
Back to his lab, thought Walter.
“So I take it he no longer lives here?”
“Kicked him out.”
“Was he your —” Walter leaned forward again and turned on the charm “— boyfriend?”
She laughed and, despite her distrustful appearance, the sound was pleasant and clear.
Maybe she just needs to laugh more, thought Walter.
“Definitely not! He was just a boarder here. And he was three months behind on his rent, too.”
“Was there, perhaps, a circle painted
on the floor of his bedroom?”
“How did you—”
“Family crest,” Walter said quickly. Please, dear God, let her believe that miserable explanation.
“Ah,” she nodded, “you’re English.”
“Yes, ma’am. I am. Right, then. Well, thank you very much, Miss …” Walter held out his hand.
She took it and gave it a shake. “Fanny. Just call me Fanny.”
“Thanks again ever so much, Fanny,” he said with a courtly little bow. He hoped she might think: It’s a shame more young people aren’t like him nowadays. If they were, I’d have hope for the future.
“He’s moved, but she said he used to come this way every night,” Walter told Linus and Ophelia once he’d rejoined them.
“So enchanted circle number two clearly wasn’t there,” said Ophelia.
“Yes, it was. But apparently if he can make a second circle, then he can make a third one as well.”
“Improving upon the design as he goes,” said Linus. The man’s a genius. And mad. But he’s a genius still.
They headed back toward the bookshop.
“What do we do now?” asked Ophelia.
Walter stopped to scratch his ankle. “We go get a decent cup of tea and put on our thinking caps. Maybe Father Lou will help us. He used to be involved with a rather unsavory segment of society.”
“And Cato Grubbs certainly fits that description,” said Ophelia, remembering his plan to steal Esmeralda’s necklace. She didn’t like Esmeralda, but the Gypsy woman didn’t deserve to have her only prized possession snatched from around her neck. But that tambourine she danced around with was another matter.
Ophelia hated folk songs.
eighteen
Why Does It Seem Like a Crime to Stop for a Bite of Lunch?
The Bard River was running high, no doubt about it. If it rose another foot, the basement of All Souls, as well as the first floor of the manse, would be a muddy mess when the waters finally abated (decreased).
The riverbank could be seen from Father Lou’s kitchen, where they all sat wondering about their friend Quasimodo. Father Lou set the teapot and mugs on the kitchen table and told the young people to help themselves.
“So you’ve lost Quasi,” he said.
“Yes!” Ophelia heard herself wail. She hated it when people talked like that. “It’s horrible,” she said more calmly. “And we have only —” she looked at the kitchen clock, “twenty-one hours left to find him.”
“Does he know what will happen to him if he doesn’t get back to the circle on time?”
The three shook their heads simultaneously. Ophelia shuddered and explained. It was terrible to even think of it, let alone talk about it.
Father Lou tightened the band on his white ponytail. “In my experience with finding the more unsavory elements of society, people don’t usually move up when they get kicked out of a place. So don’t look for Cato in a nicer neighborhood. You’re going to have to go over to the east end of town. And I’m going with you. Let me go change clothes first.”
“Wow,” whispered Ophelia, “Is it that rough over there? Oh, man.”
Excitement tripped along Walter’s nerves.
Tea is fine, thought Linus, but are we ever going to grab some lunch? It’s two o’clock!
They stepped outside.
“No rain,” said Ophelia. “Hopefully the dam will hold.”
“It’s still raining further upriver, so don’t let this beautiful day fool you,” warned Father Lou, now dressed in biker boots, jeans, and an old blue T-shirt.
Walter took out a pack of gum and offered a piece to everyone.
“It just depends on how old the dam is,” said Linus, who knew all too well how so many of the structures that we take for granted are in desperate need of repair. I shall forego the details or you might never get in a car again.
Father Lou pointed beyond Paris Park and said, “The worst part of all this is that the place most likely to be destroyed by a flood is that summer camp on the other side of the park.”
Linus knew of it—a camp for disabled and terminally ill children. If a flash flood came through and whisked away those kids, the level of tragedy would be higher than most people could bear to think about.
“Has anybody warned them?” Linus asked.
“Not that I know of. Let’s go there first.”
They turned right and headed up Rickshaw Street.
Walter picked up a stick and flipped it end over end, catching it as he walked along. “Most likely the dam won’t burst. If we weren’t worried about it then, yes, it most certainly would.”
Father Lou laughed. “It will or it won’t, Walter. I doubt our attitude has anything to do with it.”
“I don’t know,” Linus said. “The only reason Chuck Yeager broke the sound barrier was because he was the first pilot who really thought he could do it. There was nothing different about the plane he used or anything.”
Ophelia looked at her brother in surprise. “That’s more words than you usually say in an entire day.”
“I’m hungry,” Linus changed the subject.
“We’ll get some lunch after we find Quasi,” she said.
Exactly what Linus didn’t want to hear.
The Bard River Camp for Kids had been in operation since 1933. A collection of dark brown wooden buildings, the camp was spread out on about three acres of land. Shade trees stood around the cabins and the lodge. A swimming pool glistened in the sunlight.
As Father Lou and the three teens walked into the lodge, across the room they saw a wall of windows overlooking the rushing river. Several children rolled by them in their wheelchairs, others wore leg braces; some sported bald heads — an unfortunate result of their cancer treatments. In short, they all faced challenges that most of us do not. Yet the volume of their laughter disguised the seriousness of their conditions.
A young man looked up from where he sat playing a board game with three children. He walked over and introduced himself, “I’m Eric, the camp director. Can I help you folks?”
Father Lou asked if he knew about the dam.
Eric, eager and obviously good with kids since he seemed like a big kid himself, nodded. “Yes, we heard about it. But the weatherman says the rain has stopped for good, so I think we’ll be all right. I appreciate you coming by, though.”
“All right, then,” said Father Lou, handing the young man his business card. “Call me if you need anything or, God forbid—”
“Mr. Eric!” a child called from a nearby table where several girls were doing a craft.
“Thanks for coming by,” said Eric. “Gotta go.”
As they walked down the drive, Walter commented, “Eric didn’t seem too worried.”
“Does the camp have an evacuation plan?” asked Ophelia.
“I don’t know,” said Father Lou, “but at least we tried.”
Twenty minutes later they stood in the middle of the infamous (famous for being bad) east end of town. Linus gazed around, wondering what the neighborhood looked like when freshly built homes waited to be inhabited and people held a little more hope in their hearts. Most of the homes were single-story ones with small yards surrounded by chain-link fences that sagged with age. And apparently only a few people had ever heard of a lawn mower. At least a third of the houses were boarded up, and it seemed ten degrees hotter over here.
Somebody was grilling close-by. As Linus inhaled the delicious aroma, his stomach growled. He felt a little guilty that right now he’d rather find a hamburger than Quasi.
Ophelia pulled out the old photograph of Cato and handed it to Father Lou. “This is the only picture we have of him.”
He examined it. “That’s some fancy dude right there.”
“That’s good,” said Ophelia. “He’ll be easily recognizable to people.”
Walter snorted at her optimism.
Father Lou laughed and turned to him, “Exactly, Walter.”
“Huh?” asked Linus.
“No matter how distinct Cato Grubbs looks, people in this part of town won’t be willing to say much.”
“Precisely,” said Walter.
Ophelia sighed. “I guess we have a lot to learn about this stuff.”
“Seems so.” Father Lou looked up and down the street and then pointed to a steeple. “But here’s where we have the advantage: Mutual respect of the clergy. Let’s go.”
Now Walter might have chuckled at the twins’ obvious clue-lessness about the less-than-savory element of society, but he was a touch envious that they’d never have to know the things that he did.
The steeple grew from the roof of a small church called East End Assemblies of God.
“This should be interesting,” said Father Lou. “These folks are a heck of lot less reserved than we Episcopalians are.”
Linus wanted to laugh at that mental image. Yeah, Father Lou’s problem is his shyness and his tendency to clam up around people, Linus thought.
Soon enough, the church secretary showed them into Pastor Bob Campbell’s office. Pastor Bob stood at Linus’s height, had perfectly combed hair, and wore a well-cut suit. To be truthful, he looked like a stockbroker. The pastors introduced themselves and joked about how, judging by their clothing, they should probably switch churches.
Father Lou pulled out the photo of Cato. “We’re looking for someone. And I won’t lie to you, Bob, he’s not a nice person. But we need to find him. He’s believed to be with someone very important to us, and let’s just say his intent toward our friend isn’t good.”
Pastor Bob raised his eyebrows. “Oh my! Well, let’s have a look.”
Father Lou placed the photo in Bob’s hand.
“Oh my!” Bob said again.
“Do you know where he is?” asked Ophelia hopefully.
“No. But that suit sure is ridiculous!”
“Drat,” Ophelia said. “We were hoping you’d know him.”
“I moved here just a couple of weeks ago,” he said as he turned toward the office door. “Molly! Can you come in here for a second?”
The middle-aged secretary returned to the pastor’s office. She had tomato-red hair, and she was wearing a pair of tight jeans and a shirt she must have purchased when her midsection wasn’t quite so apparent (exposed).