Wombat rushed to the front of his cage. “You will be nothing of the sort,” he declared angrily. “If Tilda needs any services, I, Fred, her boyfriend, will provide them! Can you comprehend that, Buck?” He paused, glaring at the zebra. “What kind of name is Buck, anyway?” he went on. “It’s better suited for a chipmunk than a zebra! I don’t see any buckteeth on you, BUCK!”
“That’s enough, Wombat.” Tilda’s voice was the sharpest Smalls had ever heard it. “I think you’re overreacting!”
“Overreacting?” Wombat huffed. “I apologize if I don’t like that chipmunk offering you his services!” He flopped down on his stomach, sulking.
Across the way, Juliet shook her head. “I just can’t believe you did this, Buck,” she said. “It doesn’t matter who they are. It’s beneath you.”
“Don’t tell me you’re starting to care about them, Jul,” Buck groaned.
“Of course not,” Juliet said sharply.
“Ya know what I say,” Lord Jest offered. “Caring only gets ya in trouble.”
As the Lifers argued on one side of the caravan and Tilda and Wombat argued on the other side, Smalls rested his head against the wall of his cage. He knew he should be mad at Lord Jest—furious, even—but suddenly he just felt sad for him. To go through your whole life refusing to care for anyone. . . . It made Smalls feel hollow, like his insides had been scooped out and scraped clean.
“Rigby?” he called out.
“Yeah, Smalls?” Rigby called back.
“Just making sure you’re still there.”
Rigby laughed. Smalls could just make out the faint sound of his tail swishing against the floor of his cage. “Where else would I be?”
Smalls closed his eyes, comforted by that. At least, he thought, we’re all in this together.
Chapter Thirty-four
Better Than Fuchsia Ice Cream
“Iwant the circus tent to be so sparkling clean, I can see my reflection in the floor.”
At the sound of Claude’s voice, Bertie dove into the shadows behind the animals’ caravan. Fear cut through him as he looked down at the stolen food in his hands.
“I want every nook and cranny polished,” Claude went on. Bertie heard three sets of footsteps coming closer. He pressed up against the caravan, trying to sink into the shadows. “I want every last speck of ash gone. I want every hole glued up. I want every burn painted over. Understood, boys?”
“Absolutely!” one of the Lloyds said.
“Definitely!” the other Lloyd added.
“And I want it done by practice time tomorrow,” Claude continued.
“Practice?” one of the Lloyds spit out at the same as his brother cried, “Tomorrow?”
“Is there a problem with that?” Claude asked coolly. He was close enough now that Bertie could smell him: that sharp, sour Claude essence, like cheese gone bad, barely masked by his perfumed soap and the traces of cocoa that always clung to his breath. “Because I can find a new pair of twins if you prefer . . .”
“No, Boss,” one of the Lloyds said faintly.
“We’ll take care of it, Boss,” the other Lloyd added.
“Good. Now go. There are only twelve hours until practice. And,” Claude muttered under his breath, “I am in dire need of my cocoa nightcap.”
Bertie waited until their footsteps faded into the distance before creeping out from behind the caravan. With Claude, Lloyd, and Loyd gone, the grounds were eerily quiet. I did it, he thought as he slipped into the animals’ caravan. Claude had been there, so close he could smell him, and Bertie hadn’t been found. It made him feel like he could do anything.
As Bertie clicked the door shut behind him, the caravan came alive with activity. The animals all rushed to the fronts of their cages. “That PB has my name on it,” Lord Jest said. He stuck his trunk through the bars of his cage, trying to pluck the jar out of Bertie’s hands.
“Whoa.” Bertie laughed. “Don’t worry, Lord Jest. You’ll get plenty.” He waved the sack of carrots through the air, watching as all eight animals followed it with their eyes. “You all will.”
Smalls’s stomach growled loudly at the sight of the food. He’d eaten peanut butter once before. It was as sticky as honey but thicker, the kind of food that filled in your holes and stuck to your ribs. Bertie moved quickly through the caravan, dispensing peanut butter–dipped carrots to each of the animals.
“I’ve never tasted anything quite as delicious in my life,” Wombat declared, all traces of sulking gone from his voice.
“It tastes even better than fuchsia-colored strawberry ice cream,” Rigby agreed—but the peanut butter stuck to his tongue, making it sound more like “itjaskievnbrrrthafusiiicrm.”
“Just be careful not to get it on your paws, boys,” Tilda lectured. “Peanut butter is impossible to clean out of your fur.”
Bertie stopped at Smalls’s cage last. “I saw the finale,” he said quietly as he slipped a carrot into Smalls’s cage, slathered top to bottom in peanut butter. Smalls gobbled it down in one bite. It stuck right to his ribs, like he knew it would, but it did little to fill the holes inside him. He wished he could explain to Bertie what happened, tell him that awful word: sabotage. But he couldn’t.
“I’m sorry,” Bertie said, feeding Smalls another carrot. “Something was wrong with that fire stick.” He shook his head. “I should have checked them beforehand.”
“I’m sorry,” Smalls argued. “I should have known Lord Jest would try something like that. I should have been ready somehow.”
“But we’ve got another show tomorrow night,” Bertie went on, scratching Smalls under his chin. “We’ll show them what you can do then, right, Smalls?”
“Wah, wah, wah,” Lord Jest interrupted. “You two sound like a buncha crybabies. Stop gabbing already! There’s an elephant over here who’s dying for more peanut butter.”
“I think Lord Jest is still hungry,” Bertie said with a laugh. “That or he’s got something up his trunk.”
“He’s got something up his trunk all right,” Smalls said, glaring at Lord Jest. But as Bertie fed him another peanut butter–dipped carrot, Smalls started to feel better. Tomorrow, he thought. It was a word with depth and layers, a word that could be peeled away, strip by strip, until you got to the nugget of possibility at the center. Tomorrow he had another chance.
“All right, Lord Jest, I’m coming,” Bertie said playfully. “I know you’ve got a big stomach to fill.”
“You betcha I do,” Lord Jest said, smacking his trunk in anticipation.
Bertie sat down in front of Lord Jest’s cage, feeding him several more peanut butter–dipped carrots. When the carrots finally ran out, he pulled the soapy washcloth out of his pocket. “Let’s clean out that wound, okay?” he said. “We don’t want a repeat of what happened to May.”
An image of May flashed through his mind; he imagined her looking plump and healthy, hooting loudly as she swung from one banana tree to another. “Unless we could find a sanctuary for you too,” he said softly. He reached into Lord Jest’s cage, cradling his trunk in his arms. “This is going to make it better,” he promised. Gently, he began cleaning Lord Jest’s wound with the washcloth. Lord Jest whimpered, trying to pull his trunk away, but Bertie held on tight.
“I know,” he said soothingly. “But it has to be done.” He kept talking as he cleaned out the wound, his tone soft and reassuring. Slowly, Lord Jest’s whimpers faded, and his trunk relaxed in Bertie’s arms.
Smalls furrowed his brow as he watched Lord Jest. Leaning against the bars of his cage, his trunk hanging loose in Bertie’s arms, Lord Jest looked almost calm. As the elephant murmured, “That feels better,” and looked down at Bertie, Smalls could swear he saw something soften in his eyes. But then he looked back up, straight at Smalls. “Whatcha staring at?” he snarled. And just li
ke that, his eyes were cold and hard again.
“Nothing,” Smalls said. “Nothing at all.”
Chapter Thirty-five
A Bronze Key
Susan was standing outside Claude’s caravan, clutching the wooden box in her hands. Just a minute ago, Claude had stormed inside, mixed himself a jug of hot cocoa, and then stormed back out, muttering something under his breath. The coast was clear now. All she had to do was get inside and find the key before Claude returned. Easy. Simple. She just wished her pulse would quit racing.
She glanced over her shoulder one more time. But she saw nothing but darkness, stretching on to the horizon. It’s now or never, she thought. She sprinted to the door. The handle was cool and slippery in her grip. She closed her eyes as she flung the door open, as if somehow that could make her invisible. Two steps and she was inside, pulling the door shut behind her.
It took a second for her pulse to slow. Her palms had gotten all sweaty in the dash, so she wiped them on her skirt, wincing a little as the fabric rubbed at a raw blister. But as she looked around, she forgot about the pain. “Wow,” she murmured. She’d never been inside Claude’s caravan before, and she couldn’t help but gape a little.
Everything in Claude’s caravan must have been beautiful once: the velvet sofa, the lion-clawed table, the long counter lined with jugs and urns and tins. But it was all old and worn now, the sofa torn, the table stained, the tins dented. It made her think of a sand castle after it had been washed over by the ocean: a shadow of its former self. But still, it was big. She thought of the tiny cubby she slept in, barely large enough to fit her straw sack of a bed.
“I should start sleeping on this couch,” she muttered as she pushed her way through a crystal beaded curtain to get to the bedroom. On the right side of Claude’s bedroom was his closet. Twice the size of her cubby, it was lined with outfits in every shade of the rainbow, with a whole section just for shades of gold. Along the back wall, lined up meticulously, were Claude’s top hats. There were all kinds: short, tall, satin, velvet, with beaded and feathered and sequined brims. A hat for every outfit, Susan had heard Claude brag once.
On the other side of the room was Claude’s bed—which was about ten times the size of hers. His pajamas hung off the bottom, a black velvet set with circus images embroidered in gold: tents and trapezes and tightropes galore. Next to the bed was a small wooden nightstand, littered with earplugs and an old sleeping mask and an empty jug of cocoa.
Hanging off the chipped porcelain knob of the nightstand, Susan found what she looking for: a chain, crowded with keys. She reached for it excitedly, flipping quickly through the keys. They were jumbled together and unmarked, making it impossible to tell which went to what. But at the very bottom, beneath a clump of small silver keys, she spotted it. A bronze skeleton key, with a handle that curved and looped. “Bingo,” she whispered, sliding the key off the chain.
She was just turning to leave when something sticking out of the nightstand’s drawer caught her eye. It was the edge of a piece of paper. Something to paint on, Susan thought eagerly. She glanced over her shoulder. The caravan was still, no Claude in sight. Holding her breath, she slowly opened the drawer. But it wasn’t a sheet of paper she found inside. It was a stack of old-fashioned photos. Susan’s heart pounded as she picked them up. They were all of the same little boy. She paused on an image of the boy with a stern-looking older man. Claude with his father, someone had written on the back. Susan gasped. The little boy in the photos was Claude.
The very last photo in the stack was worn thinner than the rest, as if it had been handled many times. In it, young Claude has his arm slung around a baby elephant. On the back was another note. Susan’s eyes widened as she read it. She had to show this to Bertie! Folding the photo in half, she quickly tucked it into the waistband of her skirt. Then, shoving the rest of the photos back into the drawer, she hurried out of the caravan, locked box and key in hand.
Chapter Thirty-six
The Most Miserable Traveling Circus
Claude paced back and forth through the empty kitchen caravan. “You should never stop searching for the next big thing, son,” he mimicked. “Magnificent can always become more magnificent!” Claude shook his fist at the ceiling. “Well, Father, I took your advice! And look what happened. Magnificent can also become miserable!”
Reaching into the very back of the tallest cupboard in the kitchen, Claude pulled out a half-eaten chocolate bar. With a sigh, he slid to the ground, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “The Most Miserable Traveling Circus,” he mumbled, stuffing a chunk of chocolate into his mouth. “And it’s all the fault of those Misfits,” he continued, sending several chocolate bits tumbling to the ground. “Ames Howard will never buy the circus now!”
Standing back up, he pounded his fist angrily against the counter. As he did, a single cabinet door creaked open. Claude furrowed his brow. Swallowing down the rest of his chocolate bar, he stalked over to the cabinet and peered inside. It was empty.
“The peanut butter,” Claude said slowly. “And the carrots.” He leaned in closer, squinting. Along the edge of the cabinet was a line of dust. And imprinted in that dust was a single fingerprint. He stood back up, stroking his beard. “Interesting,” he said.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the circus grounds, Bertie kneeled behind the Big Top, digging a hole in the dusty ground. He’d decided it was the best way to cover up the evidence of his crime: a jar that had once held peanut butter and a sack that had once held carrots. Feeding the animals had left him feeling good, giddy, and he dug quickly, burning off the energy stirring inside him. He couldn’t stop thinking about how the animals had all leapt to the front of their cages when he’d shown up with the peanut butter. The way they’d looked at him as they’d gobbled it down . . . it was almost as if he was some kind of hero.
“Bear Boy,” he said. “The Peanut Butter Bandit.” He smiled to himself. It had a nice ring to it.
He was almost finished with the hole when suddenly he heard it: heavy, clomping footsteps, the kind of footsteps that were made by shiny, hard-soled shoes. Bertie froze. Claude.
“There you are, boy,” Claude said, stalking up behind him. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“Hello, Uncle,” Bertie said without turning around. Thinking fast, he shoved the empty food containers into the hole he’d dug, then whirled around, dropping down on top of it cross-legged. “Just taking in the view,” he said casually. “It’s a beautiful night, don’t you think?” He glanced up at the sky, where not a single star was shining through a thick haze of fog. “I just, uh, love fog,” he added quickly.
Claude narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Any particular reason you chose this patch of dirt to sit on?”
Bertie racked his brain. “It’s, uh, very soft,” he said. He patted the ground next to him. “Really, you should give it a try.”
Claude made a sour face. “Dignified men don’t sit on the ground.” He circled Bertie, stroking his beard. “You know, it’s peculiar, boy. I was in the kitchen caravan a few minutes ago when I noticed a jar of peanut butter and a sack of carrots missing. You wouldn’t know anything about that.” He stopped suddenly in front of Bertie, staring down at him. “Would you?”
“I wouldn’t,” Bertie said quickly, averting his eyes.
“Are you sure?” Claude grabbed Bertie’s chin, jerking his head up until Bertie had no choice but to look directly at him.
“I’m sure,” Bertie croaked, attempting a weak smile.
“Of course you wouldn’t,” Claude said, shoving Bertie’s chin away. “I don’t know what I was thinking. You’re not brave enough to do something like that.” He laughed loudly. “I should thank my lucky stars that you’re a weak little boy. Now get to your room! Little boys shouldn’t be wandering around at night. Especially not ones who have to get up three hours early tomorrow to scru
b the Big Top with a toothbrush.”
“What?” Bertie burst out.
“That’s what happens,” Claude told him, “when your bear chooses to freeze up during the most IMPORTANT SHOW OF MY LIFE!” Claude coughed, taking a second to compose himself. “You can also count on skipping breakfast tomorrow. As well as lunch. And while we’re at it, dinner.” He smiled lightly as he turned to leave. “I’ll have to starve the other workers as well,” he muttered to himself. “Until somebody finally admits they stole that food.”
“No!” The word shot right out of Bertie. It felt exactly like he’d always thought it would—like a bullet, aimed right at Claude. But different too. Freeing. What had he been so afraid of all these years? “No!” he said again, loving the way it slid off his tongue. “No, no, no!”
Slowly, Claude turned around again. “What did you say to me, boy?”
“I said no,” Bertie repeated. “You will not starve the other workers.” He took a deep breath, standing up to reveal the hollow jar and empty sack beneath him. “Because I’m the one who stole the food.” He looked right into Claude’s eyes. “The animals deserved to eat.”
Claude blinked several times as he stared back at him. “You,” he said slowly. “You . . . ungrateful, vile, WASTE OF A LITTLE BOY!” He chewed furiously on a fingernail, spitting it out at Bertie. It landed on Bertie’s hand, and he quickly slipped it into his pocket to add to his jar.
“For years, I’ve fed you,” Claude went on. “For years, I’ve clothed you. For years, I’ve housed you. And this is how you repay me. By stealing from me! You are worthless,” Claude said. “WORTHLESS! And now you will have to work twice as hard to pay me back for this theft.”
Bertie looked down at his torn shirt and his dirty suspenders. He thought about the dry, hard oats he ate every meal and the straw-filled burlap sack he called a bed and the tiny storage closet he was forced to sleep in. “No,” he said suddenly. “I won’t.” The words spiraled around him like a tornado, sweeping him up in their power.
The Daring Escape of the Misfit Menagerie Page 13