The Anybodies

by N. E. Bode

“No,” Fern said.

  “I told her that she could take the book, but that she was making a mistake by going off with the Bone. A terrible mistake.”

  “But, but—”

  “I know now,” Fern’s grandmother said. “I know now that she was right. The Bone found the ladder behind the barn, and when he got to the top of it, Eliza was there—her face flushed and bright. She chose love or it chose her. Love, Fern. And when she called me from the hospital, she told me that lying beside her was the book. She told me that I should come and get it, later, after. ‘After what?’ I asked. But she didn’t answer. I went to the hospital. And she was gone. I told this anxious, sputtering nurse that I wanted to look at the babies. She took me to a window, and I looked out over the sea of faces. I found you, and I knew you were one of ours. ‘There,’ the nurse said. ‘There he is. Baby Boy Bone.’ And she was pointing to a squinty baby in a blue blanket. I knew she was wrong, but I didn’t say a word. Fate. I knew it was fate. I shouldn’t interfere, that you would come to me, one day. I cried and cried. I said, ‘I’ll see you again, Baby Girl Drudger.’ And I took the book.”

  Fern was crying now, tears streaming down her face. Her grandmother lifted her chin with her hand. “Do you know why the Bone is called the Bone?”

  Fern shook her head. She’d asked once but the question had ruffled the Bone, and so she never pursued it.

  “Eliza told me his mother named him that when he was a baby because he was so sweet that it seemed he had an extra bone in his body, a sweet bone.”

  “He thinks he’s tough,” Fern said, smiling.

  Mrs. Appleplum smiled. “Let’s go save him.” She opened a drawer on her bedside table—the one spot where you’d expect someone to put a book, the most obvious spot—and she pulled out a big leather-bound book with a thin leather belt around it, just as the Bone had described. It had gold lettering on its front cover: THE ART OF BEING ANYBODY; under it, in smaller gold letters: OGLETHORP HENCEFORTHTOWITH.

  “Here,” said Mrs. Appleplum, “open it.” She handed Fern the book, and Fern took its heavy weight into her arms. She closed her eyes, held the book to her chest and thought of how her mother once had held this exact same book the exact same way. She ran her hand over the gold letters and along the thin leather belt. “Go on,” Mrs. Appleplum urged.

  Fern unhooked the belt and opened the book, but just as the Bone had warned her, it made no sense. It was in an awful, jumbled mess. Unlike Fern’s mother’s diary, there would be an occasional word, a terrible, senseless word like “notwithstanding” or “aforementioned,” but that was it. “I can’t read it,” Fern admitted.

  Mrs. Appleplum took the book back. First she pulled a purple crayon from her pocket. “No, no, not this one,” she said. Next she found a black ink pen. “Of course you can’t read this book. You can’t read it any more than I can. This book doesn’t belong to you!” Her grandmother showed her the first page of the book, where there was a sign you see in many books. It read, THIS BOOK BELONGS TO: and there was a list of names. The last on the list was Eliza, just that—Eliza. Fern’s grandmother said, “Do you know why your mother was such a good Anybody?”

  Fern shook her head.

  “She knew who she was, deep down. To become someone else or something else you have to know yourself first.” She handed her the pen. “Write your name,” she said.

  Fern thought a moment. Who was she? She wasn’t Fern Drudger. She wasn’t ever really. She wasn’t Ida Bibb. She hadn’t ever been called Fern Bone and she hadn’t ever been called Fern Gretel, her grandmother’s last name. She could say that she was the Bone’s daughter or she could say she was Mrs. Appleplum’s granddaughter. But none of those things seemed to fit. And so she simply wrote FERN, in small letters, and that seemed right.

  “Now close the book and open it again.”

  Fern did just that, and when she opened it to a page in the middle of the book, every word was clear. In fact, the page she turned to was Chapter Six: Hypnotizing and Dehypnotizing Objects. Fern thought of her mother’s diary. Maybe it wasn’t in code after all, but hypnotized! “When trying to dehypnotize said book, it is best and most appropriate to concentrate, ruminate and cogitate on the binding first, just as it’s best to concentrate on a beak when transforming into a bird….”

  “Now the book is yours,” her grandmother said. “Oglethorp Henceforthtowith had the ability to hypnotize objects, such as books, as well as people. So he wrote this book and then hypnotized it so that it could only be read by its owner. Wasn’t he a very smart writer?” The Henceforthtowiths have a long and sordid history—some wondrous and some dastardly. I won’t go into it in this book. It would be too overwhelming, for you and for me. But the answer to this question was yes, Oglethorp Henceforthtowith was a very, very smart writer. Very smart. Very smart indeed.

  Fern closed the book, rehooking its belt. She had one more question, though. There was one thing she thought she needed to put into action before going to save the Bone. She wasn’t sure why she felt she had to do it, but she was sure it was important, urgent. She said, “I think it’s better to tell people how you feel and not keep it bottled up, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do,” her grandmother said.

  “Well, then, there’s some mail that needs to be delivered. And I think I’ll need an army to do it.”

  2

  ARMED WITH A BOOK

  IF YOU WERE GOING TO TAKE ON SOMEONE LIKE the Miser in, let’s say, an old abandoned gas station where your father was being held captive, and you could shake a book and make something from inside that book pop out of it—and perhaps you can, what do I know?—what book would you choose?

  The Bible? Did someone say the Bible? Yes, yes, smart thinking. But what if the Red Sea pours out? Do you even know how to part the Red Sea? No, I didn’t think so.

  Did someone say King Arthur? Well, that’s a fine guess. Except of course the horses could get all tangled up on the way out, which is cruelty to animals and therefore illegal. And what if all of those knights don’t know whom they’re supposed to conquer, and they turn on you?

  Did someone say Robin Hood? I heard someone say Robin Hood, very softly, someone being almost too shy to say anything at all. Robin Hood is always a nice choice if you’re looking for a hero. But quite frankly the whole damsel-in-distress bit turns me off. Robin Hood goes around thinking that women can’t take care of themselves, and women can, for goodness sake, especially in this day and age! Especially Fern!

  Fern wanted to bring her mother’s diary. That was a thought that crossed her mind, but it was with Howard, although now she knew Howard wouldn’t really be able to decode it since it was most likely not in code, but hypnotized. Fern thought for a minute about what other book she could bring instead—one that could save her and the Bone. It didn’t take her long to figure out. She wanted to save the Bone herself. That meant there was only one sensible book to bring along—her own diary. This is important to remember. Sometimes you need to dig down deep, to rely on your own resources. This is a very American thing, self-reliance. Our forefathers and our foremothers, and, for that matter, our foreaunts and foreuncles, would say that self-reliance is a cornerstone of something or other. I’ve lost my train of thought, but hopefully you know what I mean. Self-reliance. Fern trusted herself—now that she knew who she was—and she brought her own diary because she knew that she could trust it. In short, she had faith in herself.

  Fern held her diary close to her heart. She had The Art of Being Anybody in her lap as she and her grandmother were bumping along back roads in her grandmother’s truck.

  “It’s an old gas station,” Fern told her. “The pumps look ancient. It’s abandoned. It seems like a perfect spot.”

  “Yes, yes,” her grandmother said. “I know the one. I know! How smart of you.”

  “I come by it naturally, Dorathea Gretel!” Fern said, trying out the name for the first time. “Dorathea Gretel. Dorathea Gretel…” There was something about it she liked v
ery much.

  The road was dusty and pocked with potholes. “Are we almost there?”

  “Almost.”

  Meanwhile, the army of fairies had Mrs. Appleplum’s address stamp and an ink pad. They were stamping Mrs. Appleplum’s address on each letter as the return address. The mailman would be there soon and so they were working fast, buzzing like a hive, the droning hum of wings. Above the dull roar, the redheaded fairy was barking orders. “Go, go, go!” she shouted. “We’ve got orders to follow!”

  Meanwhile, Howard was feeding Mr. and Mrs. Drudger monkey food that he’d ordered through the Internet. He’d been to the bank with Mr. Drudger dressed as an ape, and things had gone well. Mr. Drudger was a hit. A mother with two young kids asked Howard if his father did birthday parties. Howard said yes and gave the woman their phone number. The Drudgers seemed to enjoy the monkey chow, and it was quiet enough for the moment so that Howard could pore over Eliza Bone’s diary. He saw no patterns emerging. Nothing, which isn’t really a surprise to us, now, is it?

  And the Bone? Well, Fern was right. He was in the garage of an old gas station, one that he remembered from his youth. They used to spend long afternoons there together—Eliza, the Bone, and the Miser—listening to old records. The Bone remembered it all—the oil stains, the dust, the stacked antiques, the smell of grease. But now the Bone was tied to a chair. He was concentrating on the Great Realdo. He was thinking, I need you. Where are you? The Miser was pacing in front of him, pacing, pacing. His spies were gathered by the front door, keeping guard.

  “You are a thief, Bone. You stole Eliza from me.”

  “No, she chose me. There was nothing I could do. I loved her,” the Bone said.

  “No, you were a sneak. You hypnotized her into loving you. And I wasn’t powerful enough to turn her love back to me. But who’s more powerful now? I am! And I will have my way!”

  “But remember when we were kids, riding unicycles together? We were best friends. Remember you used to be—” the Bone said.

  “Shut up!” the Miser yelled.

  “You used to be—”

  “Stop it!”

  “You used to be so sweet, so kindhearted!”

  “I have not been myself! And it’s your fault, Bone. Your fault! If you were dead, maybe then everything would be better!”

  Fern and her grandmother parked right in front of the old station. The red van with its gold lettering—HAISERBLAITHERNESS LIGHTS, PLASTICS, AND TOILETRIES—was parked near the pumps, as if gassing up. “You go in, Fern,” her grandmother said. “You can do it.” “By myself?” “Yes!” her grandmother urged. “But he’s not alone!” “You’ll do wonderfully.” “No, I can’t. I need help.”

  “You have all the help you need.” Her grandmother nodded at the books in Fern’s arms.

  Fern popped open the door and slid off the seat to her feet. “Wish me luck.”

  “You don’t need luck,” her grandmother told her.

  Fern closed the car door and walked toward the gas station, the books clamped to her chest.

  3

  THE DUEL

  FERN KNOCKED ON THE DOOR. THERE WERE LOUD rummaging sounds and lots of whispery voices. “It’s her,” she heard. “She’s here.” The door opened slowly, but the entrance was blocked by a row of small, tightly muscled bodies—the Miser’s spies. They wore matching red jumpsuits that had HAISERBLAITHERNESS LIGHTS, PLASTICS, AND TOILETRIES stitched in gold letters over small pockets on their chests. Some stood with their arms crossed and eyed Fern menacingly, while others seemed edgy, nearly frantic, glancing around excitedly.

  “What do you want?” one asked in a loud voice; then he added in a whisper, “You should go. He’s in no mood.”

  “I want to see the Miser,” Fern told them, jutting out her jaw proudly.

  “You aren’t supposed to be here,” one from the back said urgently. “You should go, go on home!”

  “Is something wrong?” Fern asked.

  “No, no,” they all said too quickly, some wagging their heads no, others nodding.

  “She’s here!” a spy called out. “She’s right here! Now! At the door.”

  Fern heard the Miser growl. “Not now!” he said.

  “Yes!” another spy piped up. “Right now!”

  “Get going!” the Miser’s voice boomed from inside the garage. “I don’t need any of you!”

  And so the spies ran off. One muttered, “Best of luck.” They raced to the red van, each jumping up the step. The engine revved quickly, and the van sped off in a whirl of dust.

  Something was wrong. Fern knew it. She was certain of it. The Miser had been thrown off his plan somehow. Fern stepped deeper into the garage. He looked worn down, furious, but with a weariness in his eyes.

  “Do you have the book?” the Miser asked, sneering at Fern. He was trembling with nerves.

  “I do, but I want to see the Bone first. I want to make sure he’s safe.”

  “Don’t make me angry!” the Miser said, but it wasn’t so much threatening as it was pleading.

  “I want to see him now!” Fern said, and she tried to push her way past the Miser, but he was too strong. Fern could feel her grandmother watching her from the car. Her grandmother had faith in her. Fern had faith in herself. She dropped to the ground quickly and dashed between the Miser’s legs.

  “Bone?” she cried, racing around the garage. “Bone? Where are you?”

  But the Bone was gone. All that sat there was an old wooden chair with ropes tied loosely around it. There was no back door. Fern wondered where the Bone could have gone. How had he escaped? She felt a rise of chatter inside herself. She would have to start her talking. She could feel it. But then she held the books tighter to her chest. There’s no time for that, Fern thought to herself. I don’t need to chatter. I need to think clearly and calmly, to be strong.

  She was right. There was no time. She heard a high-pitched howl, a screech. There was a breeze, then another breeze, then another breeze. She turned around slowly, ever so slowly. The flapping of enormous wings, a long neck, and a pointy snapping beak. The Miser had become a vulture.

  This was worse than Fern had expected. She opened her diary. While holding on tight to The Art of Being Anybody, she shook the diary as best she could, hoping something good would slip out—something to help her. She shook and she shook. The Miser was flapping harder now. The room was gusty. Some loose pages of sheet music in the corner rose up and swirled. The vulture screeched again. The first thing to plop out was a plump, drowsy hobbit.

  “What? Where?” he sputtered. The vulture swooped over his head and the hobbit scrambled under a table.

  “Sorry!” Fern said.

  She shook some more and books tumbled out, a small pile. A book spilling books, not surprising at this point. She shook again, and there was Mary Curtain, the flustered nurse who’d accidentally swapped Howard and Fern so many years ago, sprawled on the floor in a flowered house dress and apron. Fern recognized her because, well, Marty had done a good job of being Mary Curtain after all. He’d looked just like her, and Fern had written about the real Mary Curtain in her diary, a good bit, in fact.

  “Excuse me!” she said. “I don’t know how…I was cooking muffins!” In fact, she was still wearing her oven mitts. “My husband will wonder…He’s watching his favorite TV program and—”

  But she had no time to finish the sentence. Fern was still shaking when out swung a bowling ball, connected to an arm, and Marty came flying out behind it, right into Mary Curtain, bowling her over.

  “Who are you?” Mary Curtain asked.

  “I was about to bowl on lane eight! I’m…Hey, you’re Mary Curtain, the nurse,” Marty said.

  “Marty? Is that you?”

  But there was no time for further hellos. The vulture let out a sharp cry, and Mary did too.

  “What’s this?” Marty asked, tucking his bowling ball under his arm.

  “Don’t ask,” Fern said, shaking the book some more. “Just get u
nder there.” She pointed to the hobbit, who smiled awkwardly, trying to make the best of the situation. The vulture squawked again, and Mary and Marty did as they were told.

  “C’mon!” Fern urged, rattling the diary with all her might. “C’mon now!” But Fern’s diary had almost no weight to it. She felt a rise of panic. What if it was refusing to give anything else? It felt empty.

  And then, miraculously, there was a glimpse of blue. A butterfly flapped from the pages. A butterfly? How was that supposed to help her? But, no, she’d written about the Great Realdo. She’d written about the Bone being visited by the butterfly while getting the ladder to climb to Eliza’s room that night so many years ago. Had the Great Realdo come to help her?

  The butterfly climbed and darted through the air. It flapped clumsily toward the vulture. Fern wanted to make a break for the door, but still couldn’t. There was only one door, and all of the action was taking place in front of it. She squatted down under an old wooden desk across from Mary, Marty, and the hobbit. She was still clutching the two books. The vulture beat at the butterfly with its tough wings, lunging and snapping. But the butterfly just skittered along, bouncing around in front of the vulture’s face.

  This only made the Miser angrier. He grew big furry clawed feet. The wings shrank and his teeth grew. His head became blunt, golden, and then sprouted a wild mane…a lion.

  “Oh, my!” Mary Curtain squealed, grabbing on to the hobbit, who was wide-eyed and confused.

  Just then the butterfly dipped to the ground. It began to shake its wings, and soon it had trembled into a tiny, speedy mouse.

  “The Great Realdo…,” Fern whispered in awe.

  The brown field mouse tore around, zigzagging under the lion’s paws. The lion’s mouth lathered. It pounced this way and that, but always too late. The big beast grew mad and dizzy, finally breathless.

  Fern crawled to the back of the garage. She rubbed circles on the back windows. She was looking for the Bone. She didn’t see him. She glanced around the garage again. The lion was staggering away from the front door. Now she might be able to get out. In fact, Mary Curtain had grabbed the hobbit and was running for the door with him clutched to her bosom like a baby. Marty was close behind, still holding tight to his bowling ball. The Great Realdo, as a little mouse, was squeaking at Fern, and seemed to be saying Go, go now.