The Daring Escape of the Misfit Menagerie

by Jacqueline Resnick

  “Oh yes,” Claude simpered. “I know.”

  “We all know,” one of the burly twins muttered under his breath. He whipped several cards out on the table.

  “It’s not your turn, Loyd,” his twin scolded, tossing the cards back at him.

  “Well, it’s not your turn either, Lloyd,” Loyd argued back.

  “It’s Mumford’s turn, boys,” Claude said smoothly. He narrowed his eyes at the twins and they both fell silent, sinking down in their chairs.

  Mumford looked back and forth between the twins. They were even dressed the same, in identical, tight black shirts and matching fedoras. “You havtha samename?”

  “Of course not!” Loyd said, looking offended.

  “How silly!” Lloyd added, looking insulted.

  Mumford blinked rapidly. “So you’re Loyd.” He pointed at the first twin. He looked at the second twin. “And you’re . . . ?”

  “Lloyd,” the second twin said.

  Mumford took another gulp of cordial, looking befuddled.

  Claude cleared his throat. “It’s simple, really,” he explained in his nasal voice. “He’s Loyd with one L.” He pointed at the first twin. “Or maybe he’s Loyd with one L . . .” he corrected, pointing at the second twin. He waved his hand through the air. “Well, one of them is Loyd with one L and the other one is Lloyd with two L’s. Now.” He clapped his hands together. “I believe it’s your turn again, Mumford.”

  “My turn?” Mumford mumbled, staring blankly at his cards.

  Next to him, Claude drummed his fingers against the table. His fingernails were sharp and jagged, several bitten down to the quick. “That’s right, old boy,” he said cheerfully.

  “Lessee . . .” Grabbing his glass, Mumford took another swig. A drop splashed onto Claude’s shoe. “Whoopsie.” Mumford chuckled.

  Claude leapt up, his face reddening. “Why, you sloppy, dim-witted—”

  Suddenly he fell silent, his eyes widening. Loyd and Lloyd jumped up behind him, their fists clenched. Mumford’s eyes darted from the twins to Claude and back again. Claude quickly cleared his throat. “Ha ha,” he sang out. “Just a little joke, of course.” His voice was suddenly as sweet and sugary as cotton candy. He gestured for Loyd and Lloyd to sit down, and they both dove back into their chairs.

  A vein bulged on Claude’s neck, but he kept his voice cheerful. “A little spill never hurt anyone!” He walked over to Rigby, stopping only inches away from him. Rigby held his breath, lying stock-still. “Besides,” Claude continued, wiping his shoe on Rigby. “It’s on your mop now!”

  He gave his shoe a final shine on Rigby’s fur before returning to the table. “Now, where were we? Oh, right. Come on now, Mumford. Clock’s ticking.”

  Mumford rubbed his bleary eyes. He ran a hand through his messy hair. Finally, he pulled out several cards, throwing them onto the table.

  For a split second, Claude looked worried. Then, ever so slowly, he nodded. “Bajumba,” he whispered. His fingers flew nimbly across the table as he spread out his cards. When he looked up, his brown eyes were glowing. “Don’t forget what we agreed on, Mumford,” he said. “This game is for everything.”

  Meanwhile, Rigby peeked through his fur, looking up at the window behind the table. His gaze grew distant as he watched a golden leaf float gently to the ground outside. Slowly, his eyes drifted shut. His breathing deepened. His paw twitched. And right there, in the middle of Mumford’s living room, he dozed off.

  Chapter Seven

  A Bush, a Tree, and a Pile of Dirt

  The longer Rigby was gone, the more lists Smalls made. He’d already made a list of all the times Tilda had called herself beautiful in the last week (sixty-three), all the four-syllable words Wombat had used (thirty-nine), and his favorite foods other than honey (zero). Now he’d moved on to

  Reasons Why Rigby Is Taking So Long

  1. He found Mumford’s stash of jasmine roasts.

  2. He can’t tear himself away from Mumford’s painting of the apple orchard.

  3. He is trying to determine if Mumford’s chairs are more silver or gray.

  4. He’s fallen asleep.

  Smalls laughed to himself. Who could fall asleep on a spy mission? He mentally scratched that off his list, replacing it with:

  4. Mumford is blocking the exit.

  Over by the tree stump, Tilda was frantically running through her sixteen-step grooming process, which she always did when she was nervous. “Step twelve,” she muttered to herself. “Shine tail.” She rubbed up against Wombat, giving her tail a nice buffing. “Step thirteen, sharpen nails.” Lifting a paw, she filed her nails against a tree stump.

  Smalls paced to the creek and back. That word—bajumba!—had left his nerves feeling all frayed. What did it mean? And who had said it? And why had Rigby been in there for so long? He couldn’t take it any longer. “I think we should investigate,” he said.

  Tilda stopped mid–nose glossing, her ears perking up. “Like a spy game?”

  “Yes!” Smalls nodded fervently. “What do you think, Wombat?”

  Wombat peered irritably at Smalls. “The name is Fred,” he said.

  “Of course,” Smalls said quickly. “What do you think, Secret Agent Fred?”

  Wombat cocked his head. “Well, we’d have to be extremely clandestine. And,” he added, “it would be beneficial to camouflage.” He scooped up a handful of dirt, smearing it over his paws. Then, using his teeth, he plucked several leaves off a nearby bush and held them out for Tilda.

  “You want me to cover my fur in that?” she gasped.

  “Wombat’s right,” Smalls said. Wombat shot him a look. “Fred’s right,” he corrected. “The more we blend in, the better.”

  Wombat carefully wove several leaves through Tilda’s fur. “Une belle lapin,” he declared. “A beautiful bunny.” Tilda brightened slightly. “Well,” she said. “It is a little like dressing up . . . ”

  By the time the animals took off to investigate, they were completely camouflaged. Tilda was so covered in leaves that she looked more like a bush than a rabbit. Smalls had fashioned himself after a short tree. And Wombat was slathered head to toe in dirt.

  “Look,” Tilda breathed as they rounded the yard. Behind the house sat an old black motorcar. It was dirty and a little lopsided, with peeling paint and a black fabric roof that had a tear down the side.

  “Mumford doesn’t have a motorcar,” Smalls whispered. He sniffed at the air. There was an odor wafting from the car, a mix of old dirt and moldy straw and something else, something he couldn’t place. Quietly, Smalls crept closer until he was peering in through the car’s window. The front seats were empty, but something caught his eye in the backseat. It was a boy.

  The boy was fast asleep, huddled beneath a threadbare blanket. He had red hair that stuck out in wisps from beneath a baseball cap and dozens of tiny freckles the color of chocolate. A scratch ran down his cheek, a thin line of blood clotted over it.

  Smalls inched toward the back window, wanting to get a better look. He had just pressed his nose against the glass when—CRACK!—a twig snapped in half beneath his feet. He froze in place, his heart leaping into his throat. Inside the car, the boy tossed under his blanket. Smalls held his breath, not moving a single muscle. But still the boy shifted. He yawned. He opened his eyes.

  Chapter Eight

  A Deal’s a Deal

  Inside the car, Bertie blinked several times. When his eyes landed on Smalls, they widened in surprise. There’s a bear at my window, Bertie thought. The bear was small (for a bear) and coal black except for a yellow marking in the shape of a horseshoe on his chest. A cluster of leaves poked out from the fur on the top of his head. This wasn’t just any bear, Bertie realized with a start. This was the bear.

  That morning, Bertie had noticed a newspaper artic
le sitting in the trash can. Before anyone could see him, he’d snatched it out, stuffing it under his shirt. Then he’d hurried into his room to read it. Misfit Menagerie Melts Hearts! the headline said.

  Immediately, Bertie had been drawn into the article. His uncle didn’t allow him to have books—“They fill boys’ heads with rubbish,” he claimed—but as Bertie read about the four unusual animals of Mumford’s Farm & Orchard, he felt that warm rush of excitement that comes from a great story. And now, as he looked out at the bear pressed up against his window, Bertie was positive. This was him. Smalls, the bear with the never-ending tongue.

  Slowly, Bertie placed his hand against the glass. “Hi,” he whispered, looking into Smalls’s dark brown eyes.

  As the boy’s bright blue eyes met his, Smalls thought of a hundred things at once: pillows made of leaves, the creek rippling softly over his paws, the way he used to curl up next to Mumford’s hearth when he was a cub, letting the fire warm him deep in his bones.

  Inside the car, Bertie moved closer to the window. “I’m Bertie,” he said, even though he knew the bear couldn’t understand him. He was about to say something else when he noticed a movement over by the blue-shuttered house. The back door of the house flung open and out stepped Loyd. Or maybe it was Lloyd. Bertie never could tell them apart. But he could read their expressions, and right now Loyd (or Lloyd) looked unusually happy.

  Bertie gestured frantically for Smalls to run. If one of the Lloyds were coming, then his uncle could be close behind—and the last thing any bear needed was a visit from Claude Magnificence. “Hurry,” Bertie whispered, trying to shoo him away. For a second Smalls just looked at him, something softening in his eyes. Then he turned and he ran. Two other animals followed behind him: a fluffy rabbit covered in leaves and what looked like a very dirty little piglet. They slipped out of sight just as Lloyd (or was it Loyd?) reached the car.

  He opened the door, pushing Bertie roughly aside. “Forgot this,” he grunted, grabbing a silver pen from the backseat. “And,” he added with a dopey grin, “it looks like we’re going to need it.” Slamming the door shut, he stomped back to the house, leaving the motorcar quivering in his wake.

  Inside the house, Rigby was slumbering away peacefully. Until suddenly: “Bajumba!”

  Rigby bolted awake at the sound of the yell. Claude had leapt out of his chair and was now dancing around the living room. Lloyd and Loyd jumped up after him. “I won!” Claude shouted, tossing his top hat into the air.

  The top hat landed on the table, right in front of Mumford. Wrenching his chair back, Mumford stood up. “You—you can’t . . .” he stammered. “You can’t really mean to . . .”

  “Oh, but I can.” Claude reached up to stroke his white beard. “And I do.”

  Behind him, Loyd and Lloyd guffawed gleefully, but when Claude glared at them, they both snapped their mouths shut in unison. “You know the rules of the game, Mumford,” Claude said. “A deal’s a deal.” He paused next to a velvet-covered basket. Bending down, he wrested out a scroll of paper. As Lloyd, Loyd, and Mumford all gazed at the scroll, Rigby took it as his chance. With Claude’s laughter ringing out behind him, he squeezed through the doggie door, slipping back into the world outside.

  Chapter Nine

  A Game for Everything

  “Finally!” Tilda squealed as Rigby came trotting toward them. She looked out at him through a mask of green leaves. “What happened to you, Rigby?”

  “I should ask you the same thing,” Rigby replied, staring in disbelief at Tilda’s leaf-covered coat. Smalls and Wombat had already jumped into the creek to wash off, but Tilda, who hated getting wet almost as much as she hated mud, had refused. She’d spent the past few minutes using her teeth to pick out each leaf one by one. So far she’d made it through two paws. “I haven’t seen you this dirty since the lawn mower incident.”

  “It’s not dirt,” Tilda sniffed. “I’m in camo-flotch.” As Wombat mouthed “camouflage” to Rigby, she picked another leaf out of her fur, spitting it onto the ground.

  “What happened in there, Rigby?” Smalls asked anxiously. He’d just started on a new list when Rigby came trotting back from the house. He called it Who Are Mumford’s Guests? So far he’d come up with three possibilities.

  1.Professional card game players teaching Mumford a highly classified new game.

  2.Apple pie bakers searching for the juiciest red apples in the land.

  3.Salesmen of children, here to pawn off their latest shipment of little boy.

  Smalls knew that number three was highly unlikely, but he couldn’t help but cling to the tiniest hope that Mumford’s guests would be leaving the boy from the car behind. It would be nice, he thought, to have a boy living on the farm. Bertie, the boy had said his name was. Smalls fiddled with one of the four-leaf clovers behind his ear. He could invent so many new games to play with a Bertie.

  “Well,” Rigby began, but before he could continue, a door slammed in the back of the blue-shuttered house. Smalls signaled for silence as he strained his ears toward the sound.

  On the other side of the house, Claude, Lloyd, and Loyd sauntered toward the rickety black motorcar. “Now that is how you play a game of cards,” Claude said in his nasal voice. His red top hat was back on his head, and he reached up, carefully adjusting it. “Don’t you agree, Loyd?”

  “Absolutely,” Lloyd said at the same time Loyd exclaimed, “Definitely!”

  Lloyd glared at Loyd. “He was talking to me, Loyd.”

  Loyd elbowed Lloyd. “He was talking to me, Lloyd.”

  As they reached the black motorcar, both twins eyed the empty passenger seat. At the same time, they sprinted forward, elbowing and scratching and kicking each other to get to it.

  “Mine!” Loyd gasped, hurtling forward.

  “Mine!” Lloyd yelled, leaping in next to his twin.

  They landed in a tangle of arms and legs, Lloyd sitting on top of Loyd, who was sitting on top of his fallen fedora. “Lloyd!” Claude scolded. “Get in the back!”

  “He means you,” Loyd said, his voice muffled from underneath his brother.

  “No, he means you,” Lloyd said, his scrunched-up knees knocking into his teeth.

  “You!” Claude sounded exasperated. He grabbed Lloyd’s arm. “Whichever one you are, get in the back NOW!”

  Lloyd blew out a frustrated breath. He climbed into the backseat as the motorcar let out a sputter and a gasp, slowly kicking to life.

  In the front of the house, Smalls caught a glimpse of the motorcar as it sped off down the road. For a second, right before a cloud of dust rose behind it, he saw a small, freckled face peering out the back window. So they didn’t leave Bertie, he thought, feeling a pang of disappointment. He looked over at Rigby, who was watching, mesmerized, as the dust settled back on the road. “What did happen in there, Rigby?” Smalls asked.

  “They were drinking cordial and playing cards,” Rigby said. “The game was For Everything. I’ve never heard of a card game called ‘For Everything,’ but that’s what Claude said.”

  “Who’s Claude?” Wombat asked.

  “He’s the boss. He was dressed completely in crimson. The color of blood,” Rigby said with a shudder. “I don’t know why he wouldn’t choose a nicer shade of red. Like raspberry! Or ruby.” He held up a paw, examining it. “A nice streak of ruby right here . . .” he murmured to himself.

  As Rigby continued to ponder shades of red, Smalls paced up and down the length of the creek. “A game called For Everything,” he mused out loud. Smalls loved games; he knew almost every card game Mumford played. But he’d never heard of a game called For Everything. Maybe number one on his list was right. Maybe they really were professional card players and For Everything was a highly classified new game. Or . . .

  Suddenly, a thought occurred to Smalls. What if that wasn’t the name o
f the game? What if, instead, it was what they’d been betting? Smalls had seen Mumford bet on card games before with Percival. Usually they played for caramels or malted milk balls. But what if this crimson Claude wanted to play for everything?

  It made Smalls wonder: what, exactly, was everything?

  “What else did you see, Rigby?” he asked.

  “There was some kind of dance party,” Rigby said thoughtfully. “It was very lively. The guests all danced around the living room.”

  “A dance party?” Smalls grunted, confused. What did a dance party have to do with a card game? “Anything else?”

  Rigby thought for a minute. “There was a silver pen. And a scroll of paper.”

  “That’s it?” Smalls crouched in front of Rigby. “Think hard, Rigby. Are you sure that’s all you saw?”

  Rigby shifted in place. He looked down at the ground, letting his fur flop into his eyes. “Yes,” he said carefully. “That is all I saw.”

  Smalls paced faster along the creek. None of it made sense. Stopping next to the house, he rose onto his hind legs and peered in through the window. The downstairs was empty, no more shadows darkening the living room. All Smalls could see on the table was the faint outline of an empty glass and a small slip of paper.

  He dropped back down. Mumford must have gone upstairs. On Sundays, when there were no crowds, Mumford liked to change into his pajamas before making the animals their evening meals. Smalls relaxed his jaw, which he hadn’t realized he’d been clenching.

  The game, whatever it was, was over, and Mumford was upstairs changing. It didn’t matter what everything was; things were back to the way they should be. Soon, Mumford would come out with the animals’ meals, the cuffs of his flannel bottoms trailing behind him. Feeling better, Smalls turned from the window.