Sink or Swim

by Bob Balaban

  “How could I forget, Marv, sweetie?” Aunt Harriet sighs. “I gave it to you.”

  “That’s right! Ahh . . . ahh . . . ahh . . . choo!!!” Uncle Marvin holds out his hand. Aunt Harriet puts another Kleenex into it. “Thanks, hon.”

  “Excuse me, guys,” I interrupt. “Was there anything out of the ordinary about those shoes?”

  “There certainly was, Charlie!” Uncle Marvin exclaims. “I had some extremely unusual specimens in there, including a pair of size eleven Gucci loafers that Donald Trump wore to his daughter’s wedding. They had some actual wedding cake stuck to the heel. They were real beauts. Every shoe has a story to tell if you listen carefully enough.”

  “Wow. That’s really . . . um . . . interesting, Mr. O’Connor,” Sam says. “Anyway. Did you maybe leave anything inside any of them?”

  “Yeah,” Lucille adds. “Like a significant letter . . . or maybe a deed to a building? Or a stock certificate?”

  “Nope.” Uncle Marvin shakes his head.

  Lucille sighs. “Anything else either of you remembers about what happened? Think hard.”

  Uncle Marvin scrunches up his forehead and shuts his eyes. “I remember taking those shoes out of my closet like it was yesterday.”

  “It was yesterday, Marv,” Aunt Harriet whispers.

  Uncle Marvin continues, undeterred. “I happen to know there was nothing inside any of those shoes because Harriet made me shake each one out to make sure I hadn’t dropped any loose change in any of them. She just loves loose change. She collects it. Don’t you, Harriet?”

  “I collect coins of all nations that begin with the letter B,” Aunt Harriet answers proudly. “I’d love to show you kids sometime.” I told you my aunt was eccentric. “The Bulgarian stotinka is one of my favorites. A hundred stotinki make up one lev. I’ll run in and bring you each a couple for a special treat. They’re a darling little coin.”

  “Maybe later, Aunt Harriet,” I say. “Isn’t there anything else you remember?”

  “Nope. Nothing in that garbage bag except old shoes. I’d swear on a stack of Bibles,” Uncle Marvin says. “I would bet my life on it. I have been training my mind to remember the slightest details for years, using the Silva Mind Control Method. Even an idiot can tune out the static of everyday challenges and . . . and . . . wait a minute.”

  Uncle Marvin’s mouth droops open a little farther, which is pretty amazing and actually sort of disturbing when you think about it. “There was something else in that bag. Why didn’t I think of that before? I took out the garbage along with the shoes, only I was in a hurry because it looked like it was going to snow and I’m just getting over a bad cold, so I tucked the garbage inside the bag of shoes and forgot all about it. That robber didn’t just make off with my rare used shoe collection, he got a jumbo portion of last night’s leftovers as well.” Uncle Marvin sneezes several times loudly.

  “So much for that stack of Bibles. Let’s put you to bed, honey. You’re not ready for company.”

  “Do you remember what was in those leftovers?” I ask.

  “I sure do,” my uncle replies, sniffling loudly. “Succotash, half of a baked potato, and a perfectly good noodle pudding. I dropped it on the floor and your aunt made me throw it away.”

  “I certainly did,” Aunt Harriet says. “Who in their right mind would eat a noodle pudding after it fell on the floor?”

  “Me,” Uncle Marvin says simply.

  “Thanks a lot, Mr. and Mrs. O’Connor,” Sam says. “That was really helpful.” We turn to leave.

  “There’s one more thing,” Uncle Marvin adds. We freeze in our tracks. “Whoever took those things smelled kind of funny.”

  “What did he smell like, Uncle Marvin?” I ask. “It’s very important.”

  “He smelled . . . sort of . . . sort of like . . . he smelled like old seaweed and rotting fish.”

  “We’d better be on our way now, Mr. and Mrs. O’Connor,” Lucille says abruptly. She gives me an anxious look.

  “Come back soon, Charlie,” Aunt Harriet says. “Don’t be a stranger!” She grabs me and hugs me a little too tightly.

  Lucille and Sam take my arms and practically drag me off the porch. We race down the road. We are halfway to my house by the time Sam finally speaks. “Are you absolutely sure you don’t have an identical twin in an alternate reality, Charlie? It would explain everything.”

  “At this point I’m not absolutely sure of anything.” I sniff my stumpy little arm. Old seaweed and rotting fish all right. The description fits me like a glove.

  But it wasn’t me. It couldn’t have been. WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?????

  “Okay. What do we know?” Lucille says. “Charlie, you start.”

  “Three crimes, one motive: hunger.”

  “I’ll buy it,” Sam agrees.

  “Do we all go with the one-perp theory?” Lucille asks.

  “I sure do,” Sam answers. “How about a description?”

  “About my height. Claws instead of hands. Smells like me.” I stare down at my big webbed feet. “Looks like me. But not me.”

  “It would be so easy if it were, Charlie,” Lucille adds.

  “But it’s not,” Sam says firmly. “The same uh . . . creature . . . cannot occupy two different spaces at the same time.”

  I am so busy trying on various crime scenarios I don’t open my big jaws to speak until we reach the corner of Lonesome Lane and Cedar Street and I am almost home. As the last ray of sunlight disappears behind a row of distant beech trees I am the first to break the silence. “There’s probably an obvious answer just staring us in the face. We are so going to kick ourselves when we finally figure out who this guy is.” I stomp my flippers on the icy sidewalk to get my circulation going.

  “Yeah,” Lucille says quietly. “I sure hope so.”

  Sam blows on his fingers to warm them up. “I have a piano recital this weekend and I promised my mom I’d practice today. I better get going.”

  “Oops, I almost forgot. I’m taking my ferrets to the vet for their shots,” Lucille says. “I’ve got to run.”

  “Fine,” I say, “but don’t forget: we have an emergency meeting of the Junior Scientists of America tonight. My house. Six o’clock sharp.”

  My friends nod their agreement, and then they take off. And I am alone.

  I don’t think we’re ever going to solve this mystery. No wonder everybody keeps thinking I did it. If I wasn’t me, I’d think I did it, too. Who else could it be? I can do the crossword puzzle in the Sunday New York Times in pen without even thinking. You’d think I could solve a little thing like a mystery.

  It’s getting dark. A full moon is just beginning its ascent, and I can feel the temperature dropping as the wind picks up. I’ve got to get home before nightfall or I’ll be in real trouble.

  I can just make out my house in the distance when that terrifying wailing sound starts again. I pick up speed.

  No need to panic, I tell myself. It’s just those pesky raccoons again. Keep moving, Charlie. You’re almost home.

  I break into a trot. I try not to think about the fact that there is a horrible monster following me and concentrate instead on the sudden increase in the raccoon population due to last winter’s favorable weather conditions. Faster, Charlie. Faster.

  All of a sudden the noise stops and everything grows frighteningly quiet. All I can hear is the sound of my own labored breathing as I break into a gallop. I barely manage to avoid tripping over the roots of the giant oak that welcomes me back to my block. Never have I been so happy to see a tree.

  Okay. You’re almost there, Charlie. Home. I can practically smell the roast beef browning in the oven. In another minute I’ll be sneaking Balthazar roast potatoes under the table and trying to explain to my mother why I got home so late.

  And then I notice the massive, hulking being lurking b
ehind the pine trees directly ahead of me. I come to a dead halt. Too terrified to utter a sound. Too frightened to move.

  It’s so dark that I can’t get a good look at the thing. I can just make out a pair of evil-looking, almond-shaped eyes peering out from behind the tree, glinting at me in the dim light of the rising moon. The thing’s massive jaws hang open, revealing row after row of razor-sharp fangs. Its raspy breath comes in fits and starts. I feel like somebody has just picked me up and dropped me into the middle of my own worst nightmare.

  “Noooooo!!!” The involuntary scream escapes from my lips, and I run for my life.

  The thing follows after me, crashing noisily through piles of leaves and fallen branches. I take a quick look back as it trips over its enormous tail and goes tumbling headfirst into a streetlight. It crashes to the ground like a giant tree, landing in a crumpled, motionless heap. It doesn’t appear to be breathing. Blood oozes from a nasty gash on the side of its scaly green head.

  Is the thing dead or just stunned? I stand frozen in my tracks, gasping for air, not knowing what to do. Finally my curiosity gets the better of me and I make my way cautiously through the misty darkness to get a better look at the fallen creature.

  The light from the lamppost above casts its eerie glow onto the thing’s head. I can tell in one shiver-inducing instant that the motionless being on the ground is a mirror image of myself. Same massive jaws. Same earflaps. Same flippers. The mystery is a mystery no more.

  I am not the only one of my kind.

  8

  ONE GOOD CREATURE DESERVES ANOTHER

  “THAT’S INCREDIBLE!” Sam’s eyes bug out and his purple hair looks like it is standing on end. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” I say indignantly. “Scales, claws, a tail—the whole nine yards. The thing is exactly like me, except a million times more ferocious.”

  “Charlie, a million times zero is still zero,” Lucille says.

  “Let me put it this way, guys: the thing makes Godzilla look like a gerbil. Okay?”

  It’s now almost six p.m. and Sam, Lucille, and I are sitting in my den, pretending to watch Invasion of the Body Snatchers for the three millionth time while we hold our emergency meeting of the Junior Scientists of America. Kevin McCarthy is running for his life as a mob of angry aliens chases him through a dark and winding tunnel. We’re not paying attention. We have bigger fish to fry. Much bigger.

  “Your clone is the robber,” Lucille announces. “I’d bet my life on it.”

  “Double ditto,” Sam says happily. “This explains everything!”

  “Yeah,” I reply. “Except who that other creature is.”

  “And what he’s doing here,” Lucille adds.

  “And where he came from,” I say. “Other than that, it explains everything.”

  “So what do we do now?” I ask.

  “Simple, big guy,” Sam explains. “We apprehend the other creature and turn him in to the police, you get your Get Out of Jail Free card, Muchnick takes you off the swim team, everyone knows you’re innocent, and things go back to normal.”

  “Define normal.” I wave my tail in the air.

  “I still think you should tell your mother, Charlie,” Lucille insists.

  “I don’t,” I reply. “If I told my mom there was a dangerous monster on the loose, she wouldn’t let me out of her sight for a second, and we’d never be able to capture the creature.”

  “True.” Sam picks at the peeling black polish on his fingernails. “And who knows if she’d believe him anyway? An identical twin monster running around getting Charlie into trouble? Even you had trouble believing it, Lucille, and you heard the monster with your own two ears. I’m with the big guy.” He nods at me.

  “Then you should talk to Mr. Arkady, Charlie,” Lucille suggests. “He’s always telling us to come to him with our problems.”

  “But what could he do to help?” I wonder.

  “You never know until you ask,” Lucille answers.

  “I’m home!” My dad slams the front door. Balthazar barks and runs into the hallway to greet him.

  “Dinner’s ready,” Mom calls from the kitchen. “Come and get it!”

  I turn off the TV. “How do you suggest we go about catching this thing?”

  “We set a trap,” Lucille suggests.

  “Just what I was thinking, Lucille,” Sam says. “All we need is the right bait.” They both look at me.

  “Uh-uh. No way. I may be big and green and scaly, but I’m not crazy. I’m not going out there looking for trouble. That creature could tear me in half in two seconds without even breaking a sweat.”

  “Lizards don’t sweat, Charlie,” Lucille explains. “It’s a commonly known fact. In hot weather the frilled dragon has been known to compensate by running around on its hind legs, thus generating a cool breeze and lowering its body temperature.”

  “That’s very reassuring, Lucille,” I reply.

  My dad pokes his head into the den. “Hurry up, kids. I’m so hungry I could eat a table and have enough room left over for some chairs.” There’s no arguing with a starving father.

  We go wash our hands and claws and then everyone runs to take their place at the dining room table, except Dave, who is still at football practice. Big surprise.

  “Please pass the potatoes, Mrs. D.” Sam places his napkin in his lap.

  As my mom hands Sam the platter, my dad lugs in the little TV from the kitchen. “Get that thing out of here, honey,” Mom complains. “Dinner is a time for relaxing and communicating.”

  My dad puts the TV on the buffet next to the dining room table. “You’re not going to believe what Al Swanson just texted me.” Al works in direct sales at Balls in Malls, the sporting goods store my dad manages. “Everybody’s talking about it.” Dad turns the TV on, and Joe Jefferson appears, as tan and perfect as ever.

  “You’re impossible, Fred Drinkwater,” my mom snorts as she heads for the kitchen.

  “Quiet, honey. Listen to this,” Dad urges.

  “This late-breaking news just in, folks: the mysterious Decatur robber strikes again. This time the innocent victim is the proprietor of a successful chain of specialty food shops called Beautiful Bites. Tell us, Mr. Hollabird, in your own words, exactly what happened?”

  “What?!” Mom exclaims. “Mr. Hollabird? That’s awful.” She rushes back to the dining room, sets the roast beef on the table, and plants herself in front of the television set. “Can you believe this, Fred? I sure hope he’s okay.”

  “Shh, Doris. I want to hear what he has to say.”

  Lucille and Sam and I get up from our seats and gather around the little set.

  “. . . the thief was gone by the time we got there, Joe.” Mr. Hollabird wipes the perspiration from his forehead with his sleeve. “He made a terrible mess of one of my kiosks. Ripped the counter right off the wall with his bare hands. Nearly tore down the door. On top of that, he stole three cases of my freshly baked sugar-free cherry pies and a box of my low-fat soy cheese croissants.”

  “Low-fat soy cheese croissants!” my mom exclaims. “Now why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Please, Doris!” My dad turns up the volume.

  “Any idea who did it, Mr. Hollabird?” Joe Jefferson asks.

  “Beats me. All I know is that it must have been one tall thief.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Those cherry pies were stored on top of a twelve-foot cabinet, Joe. And whoever stole them didn’t use a ladder.”

  “My, oh my.” Joe Jefferson shakes his head. “We’ll return with tomorrow’s weather after this important word from our . . .” My dad flicks off the set.

  One tall thief. Great. At this point not only will I be on the dreaded swimming team for eternity, I will probably have to join the football team as well.

 
“They’d better catch that guy before he hurts somebody, that’s all I can say.” My dad gets up from the table and puts the TV back in the kitchen.

  “I didn’t do it,” I say quietly. “I know it looks like I did. But I didn’t.”

  “We were with him all afternoon, Mrs. Drinkwater,” Lucille says earnestly. “He couldn’t have done it.”

  “Even if he had wanted to,” Sam adds.

  “We know you didn’t, Charlie.” My mom takes my claw and holds it firmly and carefully in her hands. “Your father and I trust you completely.”

  My dad returns to the table and puts his napkin in his lap. “You may have transformed on the outside, but on the inside you’re still the same Charlie Drinkwater you always were. And Charlie Drinkwater doesn’t go around stealing and lying. Period. End of discussion.”

  It’s sure great to have parents who believe in you. Especially when almost no one else does.

  When the phone rings in the kitchen a moment later, we all ignore it. It’s a family rule: no texting, no reading e-mails, and no answering the phone at the dinner table. But after several annoying minutes it’s apparent that whoever’s calling just won’t give up.

  Finally Mom can’t take it any longer. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she complains as she gets up and goes into the kitchen.

  I strain my earflaps to hear what she is saying, but even with my powerful hearing all I can make out is some mumbling.

  After a minute my mom comes back to the table looking extremely confused. She slowly sits back down and puts her napkin in her lap.

  “What happened, Mom?” I ask.

  “That was Mr. Hollabird,” she begins.

  “Does he love your recipes?” I ask, excited.