Locksmith

by Nicholas Maes

  “Be quiet, Alfonse!” Ms. Widget growled.

  “But it’s true,” he insisted. “I read it in the paper. He’s shutting all his factories down.”

  “How dare you!” Ms. Widget shrieked, slapping his desk with a large wooden ruler. “You’ll be performing Grumpel Service for the next two years! Please carry on,” she crooned to Elizabeth. “And I apologize for this unseemly outburst.”

  Elizabeth shrugged. “That’s okay. People are jealous of my father’s achievements. And speaking of achievements, I have something to show you. It’s called a Petriglobe. Strike someone with it and you’ll turn him into stone.”

  “Big deal,” Alfonse jeered.

  “Hold your tongue!” Ms. Widget screamed, smashing down her ruler again.

  “Don’t worry,” Elizabeth chortled. “I’ll handle this runt.”

  As Alfonse glared at her, she pulled a small orange sphere from her pocket and held it up for everyone to see. It looked a lot like a ball of gum. As the class eyed her quizzically, she tossed the sphere at Alfonse, who was on his feet and glaring at her still. The ball exploded, and a mist filled the room. The students recoiled and screamed in fear, only to start laughing when the fumes finally cleared.

  Lewis flinched. His friend was frozen in a comic posture, hands raised in front of his face, eyes bulging wide in terror. To make things worse, his face, tie, jacket, hands, and hair were orange.

  Elizabeth chuckled, tapping a nail against his cheek. “You see, he’s trapped in a micro-fine layer of metal, thick enough to hold him, yet thin enough to let him breathe.”

  Ms. Widget laughed. “Very clever, but can you change him back to normal, dear?”

  “No problem. Watch.” Elizabeth revealed a vial with yellow liquid inside. Unscrewing its cap, she sprayed Alfonse with a couple of drops. Instantly, the metal coating melted, producing the scent of oranges, carrots, and squash. Alfonse himself shivered slightly, and his nose and fingers were still a vivid orange.

  “Thank you, Elizabeth!” Ms. Widget cried as the students applauded. “Who’s next? Lewis, we haven’t heard from you.”

  Lewis winced and took his composition out. Walking to the front of the class, he cleared his throat and started to read. “My father is a locksmith. There isn’t a lock in existence he can’t open. While he often does what other locksmiths do, he usually performs specialty jobs and opens vaults, machines, and complicated engines whenever their locking systems fail.”

  “Wow!” Elizabeth drawled, pretending to yawn.

  “Three years ago,” Lewis read on, “he rescued the president of the United States when the locks in the Oval Office jammed. And last year, when the Canadian prime minister’s jet had problems, he flew to it in a second plane and released the lock on its wheels in mid-air.”

  “How unusual,” Ms. Widget said. “Now tell us about your mother.”

  Everyone stiffened, Elizabeth included. Ms. Widget was new to the school — she had been hired three months earlier to replace a teacher who had asked for a raise. As a result, she didn’t know Lewis’s history well.

  “M-my m-mother?” Lewis stammered.

  “Go on,” Ms. Widget said, glancing at her watch.

  “My mother …” Lewis faltered, not knowing what to say.

  The night he had been told his mother was gone, he had felt for the first time a weight pull him down, and had suspected there was nothing solid to rely on, that beneath his routines, his family and friends, there was nothing but a layer of … blackness and fog. To stop himself from brooding on such thoughts, he had refused to discuss his mother with people — his father, their tenants, and Alfonse included. The kids at school, even Elizabeth Grumpel, had been happy to leave the subject alone, and his mother hadn’t come up in their talk … until now.

  “Well?” Ms. Widget pressed.

  “My mother …” he repeated, unable to dispel his shock.

  “We haven’t got all day!” the teacher squawked.

  He focused hard. A memory struck home. A few years back his mother had shown him a model of the XPJ. He remembered how she had laughed when he figured out how to open its drain.

  “For the last time, hurry up!”

  “My mother was a locksmith, too,” Lewis finally said. “She designed all sorts of different locks, ones impossible to open except for someone like my dad. My parents were always betting in a friendly way that she couldn’t build a lock my father couldn’t pick.”

  Ms. Widget sniffed. “How strange. But you say she was a locksmith?”

  “She disappeared,” Lewis mumbled.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said she disappeared! A year ago she was working on a job — it was something she wasn’t allowed to discuss. There was an accident and … and she never came home.”

  “I see,” Ms. Widget observed, again consulting her watch.

  “She was from Canada,” Elizabeth snorted. “Everyone knows Canadians are dumb.”

  Lewis reacted so quickly that his motions were a blur. He gave Elizabeth’s desk a kick, causing it to twist and pin her feet together. At the same time he lifted two wooden chairs and passed their legs across her torso, at an angle that wedged them fast against each other. As hard as she struggled, she was hopelessly trapped. By now her clothes and hair were jet-black.

  “Get these off, or you’ll be sorry!” she screamed.

  “I learned this from my dumb Canadian mother,” Lewis jeered.

  “Guards!” Elizabeth yelled, straining at the chairs. “Get in here and rescue me!”

  “Hurray!” Alfonse cheered. “That should teach her a lesson!”

  “Don’t panic, dear,” Ms. Widget volunteered, even as the guards bowled into the room. Brushing the frantic teacher aside, they grabbed the chairs and tried to pull them apart. But they wouldn’t budge.

  “What’s the matter?” Elizabeth shrieked. “I thought you guys were strong!”

  “Let’s work together,” Ms. Widget said, motioning the students to help the guards. The children, except Alfonse, pulled as hard as they could, but their efforts only made the situation worse. The more they strained the more the chairs squeezed together, and the bluer Elizabeth grew in the face.

  Ms. Widget wheeled on Lewis. “Get these off, or I’ll have you arrested!”

  “You heard her, punk,” a bodyguard grunted, his breath causing his mask to puff out.

  “I’m not lifting a finger,” Lewis said, “until she apologizes for insulting my mother.”

  “It’s not my fault your mother’s Canadian!” Elizabeth cried.

  “Have it your way,” Lewis said, stepping away from the scene.

  Alfonse clapped. “That’s telling her, Lewis!”

  “All right, I’m sorry,” Elizabeth snarled. “Now get rid of these chairs!”

  Without a word Lewis approached her desk. The students and guards stepped aside and watched as he gripped the chairs and squeezed them together. They separated instantly. He then straightened the desk and freed Elizabeth’s legs.

  “Are you okay, dear?” Ms. Widget asked worriedly.

  “No! I’m not okay!” she yelled. “These chairs have cut my circulation off!”

  “Let me take you to the nurse,” Ms. Widget crooned, leading Elizabeth to the classroom door. Before exiting the room she wheeled on Lewis and roared, “As for you, Lewis Castorman, that stunt will cost you dearly! For the next four weeks you’ll remain after school. Maybe that will teach you to respect your betters.”

  “This isn’t fair!” Alfonse protested. “She insulted his mother!”

  “Is that so?” Ms. Widget growled. “Then you can share his detention with him!”

  Lewis and Elizabeth exchanged acid glances. Even as she sneered at him — her clothes and hair were a bright lime-green — he was thinking his trick was worth ten years of detention.

  CHAPTER 4

  It was 6:45 p.m. Lewis was on the porch and trading stares with an oak. The air was warm, a chorus of crickets was chirpin
g, and the fumes from a barbecue were making him faint with hunger. All in all, the atmosphere was tranquil, but he was feeling … lousy.

  Never mind that Ms. Widget had kept him after school and had forced him to write five hundred lines on the board — “I apologize for my rude and ungrateful behaviour.” And never mind that Mrs. Gibson had cooked a ghastly meal — meat loaf and potato peels — as a quick peek in the kitchen had revealed. It was really the silent phone that had him down in the dumps.

  How was it possible? he kept asking himself How could lightning strike a household twice? First, his mother had vanished without trace, and now his father had fallen off the face of the planet? Was fate bent on wiping the Castormans out?

  A curtain stirred. Mrs. Gibson. She had been looking very anxious all evening, while Mr. Todrey had gone walking to settle his nerves.

  Lewis sighed. He would wait until 7:00 p.m., at which point he would report his missing dad to the police. How would they respond? Would a car appear with a pair of detectives who would ask lots of questions and search his dad’s belongings? Would the neighbours stand outside their doors, the parents clutching their kids, and shake their heads in consternation and mutter they had always known there was something weird about that house? And would a hard-faced woman knock at the door, drenched in Grumpel’s Number Four Perfume, and conduct him to an orphanage now that both his parents were missing?

  His chest felt hollow. His tongue was all shrivelled. Would he be forced to leave? Would he see Alfonse? And what would the two tenants do?

  The phone rang. His heart exploded. Racing inside, he pounced on the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Are you watching the news?” Alfonse cried. Adelaide was playing the piano in the background.

  “I’m waiting for my dad to call,” Lewis groaned. “He still —”

  “Turn the TV on! Go to Channel 14!”

  “I’m going to phone the police —”

  “Hurry! You’ll miss it otherwise!”

  Hanging up, Lewis engaged the TV. He gasped when he saw his face filling the screen.

  “Is it true,” the reporter from the bank was asking, “that you opened a vault with a paper clip, wire, and a stick of chewing gum?”

  “Yes,” his TV twin replied, “but it was no big deal.”

  He had been so worried about his father that he had forgotten the bank. How odd he seemed in front of the camera, with the firemen and cops scurrying all over. His pride quickened. That was him on TV — Lewis Seymour Castorman! How many locksmiths, let alone kids, could open an XPJ using such basic equipment? He was pretty smart, wasn’t he?

  “Where did you learn to pick locks like that?”

  “My dad’s a locksmith. He taught me lots of stuff.”

  At this mention of his father, Lewis instantly deflated. So he had opened an XPJ — big deal. His father was missing. Something dreadful was wrong. As the reporter jabbered on about Lewis’s great achievement, he frowned and switched the TV off. It was time to call the police, no matter what, even if it meant sleeping in an orphanage that evening. His hand reached out to pick up the receiver when the phone started ringing a second time.

  “Alfonse,” Lewis said, “I can’t speak now —”

  “Is this Lewis Castorman?” a low, commanding voice inquired.

  “Oh. Sorry. This is Lewis. Who’s speaking please?”

  “This is Ernst K. Grumpel, CEO of Grumpel Chemicals.”

  Lewis was thunderstruck. Ernst K. Grumpel? Why would he be calling? Elizabeth must have told him about his stunt with the chairs. It wasn’t enough that his father was missing, but now he was in trouble with the chemist, as well!

  “Are you there?” Grumpel rasped.

  “Yes, sir. And about this afternoon, I’m afraid your daughter and I —”

  “Yes, quite,” the chemist rumbled. “An accident, I’m sure. Now see here, Lewis. I saw your story on TV, and to be frank, young man, I’m deeply impressed. Your work today was, simply put, outstanding.”

  “I see. Thank you, sir.”

  “In fact, I was telling your father —”

  “My father? You saw my father?”

  “Of course. He’s been working here these past few days, and I was telling him —”

  “Can I speak to him?”

  “Unfortunately, he’s tied up now. But why don’t you visit me in New York City tomorrow? I have a proposition to make, and afterward you can talk to your father.”

  “Great!” Lewis cried, his fingers shaking with excitement.

  “Excellent. A car will pick you up at 8:00 a.m. And don’t worry about school — I’ll arrange everything with Mr. Winbag. All right?”

  “That’s fantastic! I mean, thank you very much. And tell my dad —”

  But the chemist had hung up already.

  For a moment Lewis was at a loss — a minute earlier there had been no hope, whereas now … He whooped and turned a cartwheel in the living room, scattering a pile of books in the process. Mrs. Gibson hurried in from the kitchen and asked if he had been in touch with his father. Turning another cartwheel and upsetting a plant, Lewis explained that his father was fine and that Mr. Grumpel had invited him to New York City. With one final cartwheel, which knocked a picture off its hook, he ran to the phone to tell Alfonse the good news.

  Mrs. Gibson reached it first. With a cry of panic she ripped it from the wall. A moment later she was scrambling all over, closing windows, locking the front door, and drawing curtains that hadn’t been dusted in ages. And as soon as she had bolted the door in the kitchen, she returned to the living room with a spatula in hand.

  “I knew something was wrong,” she said. “But this is worse than I imagined!”

  “You don’t understand,” Lewis explained, not knowing what to make of her behaviour. “Mr. Grumpel said my father’s —”

  “He’s laying a trap! Your life is in danger!”

  Lewis laughed. “That’s ridiculous! Why would Grumpel —”

  “He’s after something! Believe me, I know!”

  “Let’s discuss this over supper,” Lewis suggested, even as he cringed at the smells in the kitchen. “As soon as we’ve eaten, you’ll feel a lot calmer.”

  “I’ll make you understand!” she announced in a tone that was different from her normal way of speaking. She raised her hands, and in one brusque motion snatched her bright orange hair away — so her curls had been a mop all along! As Lewis’s mouth dropped open in shock, she pulled a rag from her apron pocket and gave her face a couple of scrubs, wiping off the talcum powder to disclose a greenish-brown and scaly skin beneath.

  As hard as Lewis tried to speak, not a word would come out.

  She wasn’t done yet. Biting down on the finger of one glove, she removed its rubber to reveal a … flipper. Her gloves off, she wrestled with the ring on her neck until it loosened with a sucking sound and her face collapsed and was no longer human. Long it was and saggy and brown, as if she were … an oversized frog!

  Lewis ran for the door.

  “Lewis! Wait!” the creature pleaded, plodding after him.

  The thermal lock — why wouldn’t it open?

  “Lewis! Please! Let me explain!”

  The giant creature was three feet away, with a long tongue dangling between its jaws. As it tried to grab Lewis, the thermal lock jumped open and he rolled past the door with half a second to spare. Scrambling across the porch, he jumped to his freedom.

  Only to knock into a lurking figure.

  “Mr. Todrey! Run!” he yelled, crashing into the tenant, who dropped an armload of books. “That isn’t Mrs. Gibson, but —”

  “Gibiwink!” Mr. Todrey growled, spying the creature. “What’s going on?”

  “Just run!” Lewis cried. “Wait! Did you call this creature Gibiwink?”

  Mr. Todrey grabbed Lewis and hurled him inside. Dropping him onto the living-room couch, he seized “Gibiwink” by the apron strings. “What’s going on?” he thundered.

  “Grumpel call
ed!” Gibiwink whimpered. “He’s invited Lewis to New York City.”

  Mr. Todrey’s mouth dropped open, and he let out a shriek. An instant later he was leaping around the house and checking that all the doors and windows were locked. In his panic he didn’t duck when he drew near the kitchen, and there was a painful crash as his head struck the lintel. The impact shook his moustache free — the skin beneath was brown and scaly.

  Mr. Todrey was an alien, too!

  Despite his panic, Lewis struggled to his feet. “Mr. Todrey” was sprawled on the floor, and “Mrs. Gibson” was leaning over him. Neither of them noticed as Lewis stole to the door, fiddled with the lock, and —

  “Lewis!” Gibiwink cried. “Todrus is bleeding! Could you get me a cloth?”

  “Oh, my head,” Todrus moaned. “Is it bad, Gibiwink?”

  “Bad enough. Lewis, please, we could really use that cloth.”

  Lewis studied them from his place by the exit. Despite their strange, horrific appearance, he couldn’t help but notice how gentle they seemed. In fact, far from being scary, both were shaking with terror. Against his better judgment, Lewis entered the kitchen. With a trembling hand he took a towel from the dish rack, soaked it in water, and approached the pair.

  “Here,” he said quietly, shuddering as he took them in — wartish, slimy, and dumpy they were, with close-set eyes, enormous mouths …

  “Thanks,” Gibiwink murmured, pressing the cloth against Todrus’s skull.

  “That’s better,” Todrus sighed. “Now if the two of you could help me to the couch …”

  Feeling he had no choice in the matter, Lewis helped Todrus to his feet. It wasn’t easy. The tenant weighed four hundred pounds and was reeling still from the effects of his collision. When they dropped him onto the couch, all three of them were panting.

  “I’m sorry if we startled you,” the former Mr. Todrey said, the towel pressed against his cut. “Let us introduce ourselves. I’m Todrus, and he’s Gibiwink. He’s a male, like me.”

  “A pleasure, Lewis,” Gibiwink said.

  “L-likewise,” Lewis quavered.

  Todrus sighed. “And you’re owed an explanation. You want to know what giant, talking frogs are doing in your living room, right?”