Eat Your Poison, Dear

by James Howe

  He wasn’t sure it was the right thing to do, but he turned back to Milo and called out, “Hey, Groot!”

  “Yes, Barth?”

  “Wait up. I’ll sign your petition.”

  14

  BEFORE SEBASTIAN had come to work in the kitchen, he’d always been impressed by the air of camaraderie that seemed to exist in the world beyond the lunch line. Dottie Swille and Bea Goode were hearty laughers; even Lillian Dribowitz was good for a chuckle now and then. But today the air held the chill of unspoken resentments and petty angers. Lillian kept “throwing darts Dottie’s way,” as Bea put it in a whisper to Sebastian. And both Dottie and Harley seemed burdened by private troubles.

  Sebastian was struck by the difference in the Harley who was now grating cheese, eyes downcast, lips moving to some secret litany, and the one he’d seen not five minutes earlier out in the hall. There was something about the boy that was beginning to fascinate him.

  He noticed Dottie shake her head. She was doing that a lot today. She seemed to be having a conversation with herself, and she didn’t appear to like what she heard herself saying. Bea shook her head from time to time too, but that was in response to Dottie’s silence and Lillian’s darts.

  He was glad when the eighth-graders arrived for lunch. At least he could make jokes with his friends about the apple croquettes. And when he’d finished serving, he could observe the lunch-time scene. He smiled to see both Corrie and Milo circulating around the crowded room with their petitions, vying with each other for signatures. Corrie, he noticed, was having greater success.

  He didn’t remember if Milo had bought lunch, or brought one with him. Perhaps he was so busy trying to get signatures that he wasn’t planning to eat at all. Sebastian was mildly disappointed to think that Milo might not eat and would therefore not be throwing up. He couldn’t believe he felt such a thing; at the same time, he couldn’t deny that he was hungry for clues, eager for substantiation that his poisoning theory was correct. He found himself watching Milo’s face for a change of color. Far from growing pale, Milo’s cheeks were growing ruddier as the pitch of his anti-gang crusade grew more and more vehement.

  All at once, he saw Jason and Brad start across the room toward Milo. The cafeteria monitor saw them too, and took a warning step forward. The buzz of conversation dwindled. Everything grew still. Milo’s cheeks lost some of their color, but he stood his ground.

  “Boys,” the monitor said.

  That was as far as it got. Just then, at a table in the corner, Justin Greer threw up. The room exploded with cheers and groans. The noise was so great no one noticed at first that Lindsay Carmichael was throwing up, too.

  But Sebastian noticed. So did Bea Goode. “Mercy,” she said, “maybe it’s all the apples.” They both turned to Dottie Swille, who didn’t say a word. She just shook her head.

  15

  THERE WASN’T much talk about rampaging gangs or girls playing football the rest of that Friday afternoon. Instead, Pembroke Middle School was buzzing with speculation about the mysterious illness attacking its students. Sebastian was no longer alone in espousing poisoning as the cause, although there was some debate as to whether the poisoning was intentional or accidental. Walking home with Corrie and David, Sebastian made it clear where he stood.

  “Miss Swille,” he said, “has been with the school twenty-five years. In all that time, whatever may have been said about her cooking, there hasn’t been one health code violation against her. She’s always run a clean kitchen, and I don’t see any reason to think she isn’t doing so now.”

  “So?” said David.

  “How do you know all this?” Corrie asked.

  “She told me herself. I know, I know what you’re thinking. Self-protection. I don’t think so. I don’t think she’d lie about it. She was really shocked when Justin and Lindsay got sick today. She practically started to cry.”

  “I repeat,” David said. “So?”

  “So I don’t think the poisoning was accidental. The question is—”

  “The question is,” said David, adjusting his backpack, “why are you so convinced it’s poisoning when the school administration says it’s flu?”

  “Wrong,” Sebastian replied. “The question is, why is the school administration lying?”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Really, Sebastian,” said Corrie, “I don’t see how they could get away with lying. Or why they would bother in the first place.”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know. Maybe they have something—or somebody—to protect.”

  “I was in the office after eighth-grade lunch today,” David said. “I was there when the report came from the nurse’s office. I was there when Miss Swille came in and called her boss, who called the Board of Health, who came right over and investigated.”

  “They haven’t finished their investigation,” Sebastian said. “I talked with Miss Swille after sixth period. She told me they came and took samples of everything served for lunch today and that they won’t have the results until Monday. The verdict isn’t in.”

  “Did she say anything else?”

  “Only that she was worried,” said Sebastian.

  “About what?”

  “About the findings of the Board of Health. She said to me, ‘I can’t have a blemish on my record, Sebastian. Not now. Not after twenty-five years.’ Then she got real quiet, and I left her alone.”

  “What if somebody is out to get her?” Corrie suggested. Sebastian looked at her. “You know, to frame her or something?”

  David laughed. “Sure. Somebody’s still got it in for her for the tunafish dreamboats. What I say is, if it is poisoning, then what if she’s the one who’s out to get somebody? Or everybody? Hey, maybe she wants to wipe out the whole student body.”

  Sebastian recalled Adam’s joking about Miss Swille’s hating kids. But that was impossible; she liked kids. Didn’t she?

  “Come on, Sebastian,” David said, “get that look off your face. You’ll see. It’s the flu, nothing more than the flu.”

  16

  THAT NIGHT at dinner, Sebastian discussed the matter with his mother and grandmother. His father was at the table too, but his attention seemed to be on problems of his own.

  “Poisoning can occur for all sorts of innocent reasons,” Katie said, helping herself to some brown rice. “If food isn’t served at just the right temperature, for instance, or hasn’t been refrigerated. Some foods are particularly troublesome—fish, chicken, mayonnaise.”

  “Mayonnaise?”

  Katie nodded. “Mayonnaise, if it’s been left out, can turn bad and cause salmonella poisoning.”

  Sebastian looked down at his poached salmon, and Katie laughed.

  “There’s no relationship between salmonella poisoning and salmon,” she said. “Relax.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “Salmonella poisoning? Chills, vomiting, diarrhea—”

  “Really, you two,” Jessica Hallem said at last. “Is the dinner table the place for this discussion?”

  “Perhaps not, Mother,” said Katie. “But it is disturbing to think that students are being poisoned at Sebastian’s school.”

  “Fiddle-faddle,” Jessica said. “Sebastian himself said that the official word is influenza. The fact that the symptoms showed themselves in the cafeteria is coincidence, surely.”

  “It’s a possible coincidence, I admit,” said Sebastian’s mother, “but an unlikely one. The thing that troubles me is Dottie Swille’s reputation.”

  “As what?” Jessica snorted. “An eccentric? She’s a pathetic soul, living alone with her twenty cats—”

  “Nine,” said Sebastian.

  “Cats are lovely pets,” Jessica said, with a downward nod to the black one curled around her left foot, “but they do not replace human companionship. Oh, I don’t mean to be unkind, but what does anyone really know about poor Dorothy Swille?”

  “I know that she cares about the children in her school,” Katie replied f
orcefully. “I know that she worries about nutrition and good health. Yes, she’s a bit of an eccentric. She must be to come up with some of the concoctions she does. But apple chili dogs aren’t going to harm anyone.”

  “Good heavens,” said Jessica Hallem, “does she really serve such things?”

  “And apple lasagna,” Sebastian said, laughing, “and apple burgers. Hey, Mom, is there anything poisonous in apples?”

  “Not that I know of. Maybe, with all the apples she’s been serving, it’s just been a case of too much of a good thing.”

  “What is it they used to say about Dorothy Swille?” Jessica said, more to herself than anyone else.

  The phone rang, and Sebastian jumped up to get it. “It’s Corrie. Can I go over to her house for a while?”

  “May I,” said Jessica.

  Katie said, “Sure. How about loading the dishwasher first?”

  Turning back to the phone, Sebastian said, “I’ll see you soon.”

  Alone in the kitchen a few minutes later, Sebastian thought about what his mother had said. If Miss Swille really cared about the children in her school, and he believed she did, how could she have poisoned them, even accidentally? If she was so careful about nutrition, wouldn’t she have noticed something was wrong before it was too late? Or was there more to her than most people knew, as his grandmother had suggested? Perhaps all those years of living with only cats for company had affected her mind.

  Maybe his mother was rallying to her cause because she was in the food business herself and knew that the same thing could happen to her. Or maybe she knew something about Miss Swille she wasn’t saying. The possibility that she just might be sympathetic to another human being in trouble didn’t occur to him then, though it did a moment later when he heard her voice from the next room.

  “Oh, Will,” she was saying to Sebastian’s father, “I’m so sorry. How will you tell him?”

  “I don’t know. What can I say? How can I make him understand?”

  “It’s so unfair. She acts like some sort of Greek goddess on high, just pulling strings and making people do what she tells them to do. It’s never been this bad, though.”

  “It’s never been this bad because the ratings have never been this bad.”

  “But to cancel his show…”

  Sebastian felt his stomach tighten. Were they talking about Uncle Harry or about him? And which would hurt worse?

  He was trying to decide whether to go in and confront his father, when Jessica entered the kitchen and said, “I’ve remembered.”

  “Remembered what, Gram?”

  “What they used to say about Dottie Swille. ‘Higgledy-piggledy Dorothy Swille, never married and never will.’”

  Sebastian frowned. “She’s a nice lady,” he said. “Why do they need to say things like that?”

  “Oh, you know how people are,” said Jessica. “One hurt is born of another. Until we stop feeling pain, we’ll be unable to stop spreading it.”

  17

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Sebastian was sitting on the worn leather hassock in Corrie’s living room, as the Wingate family whizzed by him like commuter trains at rush hour. Only the basset hound stayed long enough to keep Sebastian company, and that, Sebastian suspected, was probably because no one else was paying attention to him. When he found himself alone with the dog, he reached down and scratched him behind the ears.

  “Poor Roger,” he said, “nobody loves you.” Roger dropped the short distance to the ground and rolled over on his back. “You don’t even mind, do you? As long as there’s somebody around to feed you and rub your tummy, what do you care about love, right?”

  “Don’t be silly, Sebastian,” said Corrie’s mother, trying to fasten a strand of pearls and search for a lost shoe at the same time. “Roger needs love as much as you or I. And he gets plenty of it around here, believe me. You’re spoiled, aren’t you, boy? Isn’t that the truth?”

  “Why does he always look so sad then?”

  “He’s sad,” said Ginny Wingate, “because he hid my shoe and can’t remember where it is.”

  “Let’s not blame the dog, dear,” Corrie’s father said, coming down the stairs. He was picking at a spot on his tie. “What is this, anyway? Oh, hello, Sebastian. Been here long?”

  “About five minutes, Reverend Wingate. How are you?”

  “Found it,” said Corrie’s mother, retrieving her shoe from under a bookcase.

  “Any teeth marks?”

  “Not a one. I forgive you, Roger.”

  “You can’t forgive someone,” said Junior Wingate, “for a trespass uncommitted. What is this stain?”

  Ginny squinted at her husband’s chest. “Dog slobber,” she said, as a timer sounded in the kitchen. “Corrie! The spaghetti!”

  Her husband eyed the prone basset hound reproachfully. “Roger,” he intoned, in his God-at-Sinai voice.

  Roger whimpered.

  “Reverend Wingate,” said Sebastian, “may I ask you a question?”

  “Of course, Sebastian, I always have time for a question.”

  “The problem is, you may not have time for the answer,” Ginny said. “We’re five minutes late for the Siddonses’ as it is.”

  “Never mind,” Sebastian said, “I can ask you another time. It’s kind of, well, kind of a question of theology, I suppose.” “Oh, my. Please ask.”

  “Do you think that one hurt is born of another?”

  “Oh, my,” Junior Wingate said again.

  “That’s what my grandmother says. She says that people hurt each other because they’ve been hurt themselves. Do you think that’s true? And, if it is, then how do we ever stop hurting each other?”

  Corrie’s father continued to pick at his tie. “That’s a good question,” he said. “If we consider the words of Saint Paul in Romans, chapter twelve, verse twenty-one—”

  “Sebastian doesn’t want to hear scripture,” said his wife, returning from the kitchen. “Corrie, please come down here and finish fixing your brothers’ dinner. And tell your sister if she wants a ride with us, she’d better hurry. Dear, I’m sorry, I can’t get these pearls, will you try? I don’t mean to rush you, but we don’t have time for scriptures. Tell Sebastian what you think. That’s what matters.”

  “Scriptures would take less time,” said Reverend Wingate, fussing clumsily at the back of his wife’s neck. “Sebastian, your question deserves more than a hurried response. I will give it thought, I promise you. But I can say this. There is no way for people to stop hurting one another except to stop. Take the arms race.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Ginny, glancing at her watch.

  “If we justify building up our own arsenals because they have more weapons, then we only heap one folly on top of another. There comes a time when we must say, ‘Enough! I don’t have to have more toys than you. I don’t need the last word. I will turn the other cheek.’”

  “Mom!” Buster Wingate screamed from the top of the stairs. “Drew hit me!”

  “Turn the other cheek,” Ginny shouted back. “Let’s go, Junior. Thanks for helping Corrie babysit, Sebastian. Good luck. You’ll need it—even more than theology.”

  18

  AS THE NEXT DAY was Saturday, Sebastian and David were able to pay an early visit to Milo Groot.

  “You should have seen the spaghetti war at Corrie’s house last night,” Sebastian said, as the two boys waited at the front door.

  “Spaghetti war?”

  “Yeah. Buster was still mad at Drew for hitting him. When I suggested to him at the dinner table that he turn the other cheek, he took me literally. Drew got him with a meatball.”

  “Kids,” said David. “How much of a mess did they make?”

  “A big one. It didn’t take long to clean up, though. We had the help of an expert cleaner-upper.”

  “Corrie?”

  “Roger.”

  Suddenly, Milo appeared. “I thought you guys would never get here,” he said. “I’ve got news. Follow me.”
r />   “P.U.,” said David, when they’d closed the door to Milo’s room. “I hate to tell you this, Milo, but as Hiram Droner would say, it smells like death in here.”

  “That’s because one of my mice died.”

  “Just what I thought. Have you thought of disposing of the body?”

  “I have,” said Milo. “It’s just that I didn’t discover it right away. I was sick, remember? Anyway, I don’t want to talk about that. She was my favorite mouse. There’ll never be another one like Fritzie.”

  “At least not another one who smells like her,” said David.

  “What’s your news?” Sebastian said.

  “Well, Barth, it isn’t news exactly. More like speculation. Still, it is interesting. You see, I agree with you that these poisonings are deliberate. If so, I asked myself, who would be out to poison me, Justin Greer and Lindsay Carmichael? What’s the connection between the three of us? We’re not friends, we’re not even in the same homeroom. So what do we have in common?”

  “And?”

  Milo began to pick his nose, a habit Sebastian attributed to his being only ten, though he could remember himself being broken of it long before that age. Perhaps, he mused, geniuses didn’t concern themselves about such mundane things as appearances.

  “And,” said Milo, wiping his finger on his shirtsleeve, “there is only a connection if you look at the three of us vis-a-vis the three of them.”

  “Us?” said David. “Them?”

  “The three victims,” Milo replied. “And the three Devil Riders.”

  “I should have known you’d find a way to bring them into it,” David said.

  “Listen. Listen to me, Lepinsky. Everyone knows that Harley hates me. Okay, I said I didn’t think he had the brains to think this thing up, or to pull it off. But he isn’t alone anymore, is he? Now he has two brainy friends, Jason and Brad. Well, brainy is a relative term, but relative to Harley a maggot is brainy.”

  “Nice image,” David muttered, “in light of the odor in here.”

  “Now, it so happens,” Milo went on excitedly, “that Justin Greer and Brad West are next-door neighbors. And Lindsay Carmichael and Jason Bruxter—”