Double Fudge

by Judy Blume

  “Advertising?” Cousin Howie’s face clouded over. “Advertising!”

  “That’s right,” Dad said, and I was glad he sounded proud of his job.

  “But how can that be, Tub?” Cousin Howie asked. “Are you saying you broke your vows?”

  “Howie . . .” Dad said, “we were boys. Boys often change their minds when they become men.”

  “Well, I am certainly disappointed to hear that,” Cousin Howie said. “I never expected you to sell out.”

  “What did you sell, Dad?” Fudge asked. “How much did you get for it?”

  “It wasn’t a question of selling out, Howie,” Dad said, ignoring Fudge. “It was a question of growing up and following my interests.”

  You tell him, Dad! I thought. Then I got this picture in my mind of Jimmy and me meeting about twenty years from now. Jimmy’s wife will remind me that he and I vowed to become professional sock hockey players. And I’ll be—I don’t know—a web designer or a movie director and Jimmy will get all worked up about it because he’ll be star of the Vermont Blue Socks, the national sock hockey champions, and he’ll tell me I sold out.

  “This is saaaad news, Tubby,” Cousin Howie said, stretching out the word. “Advertising doesn’t help make the world a better place.”

  “Oh yes . . .” Fudge said. “I learn a lot from commercials.”

  A lot of nothing, I thought.

  “Commercials?” Cousin Howie said. “You write commercials?”

  Fudge licked his spoon and said, “My dad invented the Juicy-O commercial, and the Toddle Bike commercial, and the one for X-Plode cereal.”

  The Natural Beauties gave Fudge a blank look.

  “You know . . .” Fudge told them, “from TV.”

  “We don’t have TV,” Fauna said.

  “Pete,” Fudge said, “did you hear that? They don’t have TV.”

  “And they aren’t missing anything either,” Cousin Howie said.

  Dad didn’t respond. He was trying to be diplomatic, I could tell. But Fudge was like a train that couldn’t be stopped. “And last year my dad wrote a book,” he announced.

  Now Cousin Howie relaxed his brow. “A book! Well, that’s more like it,” he said. “Isn’t that more like it, girls?”

  “Yes, Daddy,” the Natural Beauties chanted. “That’s more like it!”

  “What kind of book, Tub?” Cousin Howie asked.

  But did Dad have a chance to answer? No! Turkey Brain wouldn’t shut up. “Longer than a Dr. Seuss book,” he said, “but shorter than an encyclopedia. Right, Dad?”

  Dad tried to smile. He and Mom exchanged a look. Then Dad said, “Actually, Howie, I was researching the history of advertising.”

  Howie’s face clouded over again. I noticed that when he scrunched up his forehead, his eyebrows crept together as if they were living things. “History is one thing, Tub . . . but the history of advertising is a . . . is a . . .”

  Eudora put her hand on Cousin Howie’s arm. “Now, Howie . . . let’s remember it takes all kinds to make the world go round.”

  The Natural Beauties jumped up, put their heads close together, and hummed a note.

  Oh no! I thought. They’re going to do it again. Get me out of here!

  This time it was some song about how love makes the world go round. Not only did they sing, they danced. All around the coffee shop. Fortunately, only three other tables were occupied.

  Fudge leaned close and whispered, “Is this a show, Pete?”

  Yeah . . . a freak show, I thought. But instead of answering Fudge’s question I moaned and buried my head in my hands, grateful we weren’t in New York, where I might have known someone, someone from school who would say, Saw you having ice cream with those weird sisters. Hope you’re not related.

  During the show, Mini buried his face in his ice-cream bowl and lapped up what was left of his ice-cream sundae. Cousin Howie and Eudora didn’t notice, not even when Mini reached for the side order of hot fudge and lapped that up, too. He reminded me of Turtle. That’s exactly what he does when you give him leftover scrambled eggs.

  When the Natural Beauties finished their act, everyone in the coffee shop applauded, even our waiter. Eudora beamed. “They’ve been performing since they were six,” she told us. “They’re known across the Hawaiian Islands as the Heavenly Hatchers.”

  This was even more embarrassing than I’d thought!

  When the waiter brought the bill, Dad grabbed it. “My treat,” he said.

  Cousin Howie didn’t argue. Neither did Eudora, who said, “Thank you, Tubby. That was mighty fine ice cream. This is a day we’ll always remember.”

  I was thinking, Oh yeah . . . we’ll definitely remember today! Then I pushed back my chair and stood up. “So, Dad . . . we better get going.” I tapped my watch. “Remember . . . the Air and Space Museum?”

  “Air and Space Museum?” Fudge said. “Do they have a gift shop?”

  * * *

  That night Mom called Grandma from our hotel, to find out how she was doing with Tootsie. The second she hung up, the phone rang. It was Cousin Howie. When Dad got off the line he said, “Well, boys . . . Cousin Howie’s invited you on a VIP tour of the National Zoo tomorrow morning.”

  “Zoo?” Fudge asked. He was playing with the airplane he got at the Air and Space Museum.

  “Yes,” Dad told him. “And you know what they have at the National Zoo?”

  “Tigers?” Fudge guessed, getting ready to launch his plane.

  “I’m sure they do,” Dad said.

  “How about elephants?” Fudge asked, pulling back the rubber band.

  “Probably,” Dad said. “And they also have pandas.”

  “Pandas . . . like in the IMAX movie?” Fudge let go of the plane, which came flying across the room right at me. I held up my new book—A History of Aerial Warfare—to protect my face and the plane crashed to the floor.

  “Pete, look what you did to my plane!”

  “That’s nothing compared to what your plane would have done to my face.”

  “Okay, boys . . .” Mom said. “How about getting into bed? Dad and I are pooped. And tomorrow’s another busy day.”

  I fell asleep and dreamed that the woman in the red suit, the one Fudge spit banana on, was my math teacher. She asked me to show her how I solved my problem. I kept trying but I couldn’t get the right answer. Then I was in a small plane. It was so dark I couldn’t see the pilot’s face. I had no idea who he was until he said, “So, Pete . . .” That’s when I jumped, even though I had no parachute. As I fell I passed the Natural Beauties, who were slowly floating down. “Catch him,” Flora said. “What for?” Fauna asked. Then I woke up. My heart was racing. I checked my watch. It had only been twenty minutes since Mom turned out the lights.

  * * *

  At eight the next morning, Dad delivered Fudge and me to Cousin Howie. Howie was dressed in his park ranger uniform, sitting in the driver’s seat of an official golf cart at the entrance to the zoo. “You see, Tub . . . if you were a ranger you could get special privileges, too.” Eudora sat next to him, with Mini in her lap. The Natural Beauties sat in back.

  “Hop aboard, boys,” Howie called. “Really sorry we can’t invite you to join us, Tub. But we’re at the limit now.”

  Dad didn’t look at all sorry he couldn’t go with us. “Keep an eye on Fudge, Peter,” he called as he dashed off. I wanted to run after him. Going to a museum with him and Mom had to be better than this. But before I had the chance, Howie floored it. “Hang on, everybody!” he sang as he nearly mowed down a group of early morning joggers. Fudge grabbed hold of me as we zoomed along the road through the zoo. At one sharp curve the golf cart almost toppled. Mini laughed like crazy. The Natural Beauties shrieked and the one next to me—I think it was Flora—grabbed my arm and
dug her fingernails into my flesh. On the next curve she practically ended up in my lap. She cried, “Daddy . . . slow down!”

  But Cousin Howie yelled, “Yip-peeee!” as he swerved and curved and drove like a total maniac.

  “Yip-peee!” Mini yelled with him.

  Finally, Eudora shouted, “Howie, think of the example you’re setting for our children!”

  Cousin Howie slammed on the brakes. The rest of us fell forward. “Got carried away there for a minute,” Cousin Howie said. “What do we do when we get carried away?”

  “We stop and count to ten,” the Natural Beauties said, sounding relieved.

  “And if that doesn’t work?” Cousin Howie asked.

  “We count to ten again,” the girls said.

  “And that’s exactly what I’m going to do,” Cousin Howie said. “Let’s all count together.” He took a deep breath, then counted to ten. The Natural Beauties counted along with him. “I don’t hear everybody counting,” Cousin Howie said, turning to look at me and Fudge. This time we counted along with the others. When we got to ten, Mini kicked his feet and shouted, “Yip-pee!” again.

  “Good . . . very good,” Cousin Howie said.

  * * *

  Later, when we met up with Mom and Dad, Fudge said, “Look what Cousin Eudora got for me at the panda gift shop.” He held out a tiny stuffed panda. I’d bought the same one for Tootsie.

  “How thoughtful of Eudora to buy you a souvenir,” Mom said.

  “It’s not the one I wanted,” Fudge said.

  “The one he wanted cost four hundred and seventy-five dollars,” I told Mom and Dad. “It was life-size.”

  “Fudge is such a scream,” Flora said.

  “We’ve never met anybody like him,” Fauna said.

  Who has? I thought.

  “And look at this,” Fudge said, waving a certificate in Mom’s face. “I’m an official member of the Panda Poop Club.”

  “The Panda Poop Club?” Mom said.

  “Yes. I’m the only one who sniffed the poop and held it in my hands.”

  “It was on a paper towel,” I reminded him.

  “Even so, Pete . . .”

  It’s true he was the only one of us to hold it. We all sniffed it. But that was before we knew what it was. We thought it was a peeled sweet potato. It was the same color as a sweet potato. It was shaped like one, too. So how were we supposed to know it was poop? It smelled like grass to me. That was before I found out grass and bamboo smell a lot alike.

  Jane, the panda keeper, had signed Fudge’s official certificate. “When I get enough money, I’m going to buy my own panda,” he’d told her.

  “Where will you keep him?” Jane had asked.

  “In my apartment. I’ll have a very big apartment with a panda room. And when it’s nice out, I’ll walk my panda in Central Park. Mom will cook him sweet potatoes and I’ll have another room filled with bamboo. And I’ll take his poop to school for sharing and let all the kids sniff it, especially Richie Potter.”

  Now Fudge began to tell Mom and Dad everything he’d learned about pandas. “Even though they look soft and cuddly, they’re still wild animals. They have claws and sharp teeth. You know why their heads are so big? Because pandas are born to chew. Their jaws are so strong they can crunch bamboo. And they use their hands like raccoons do.”

  “It sounds as if you learned a lot this morning,” Dad said.

  “I did. Jane said I was a very good listener. And guess what else? We got to feed carrots to the pandas. Everyone but Mini. He ate the carrot himself.”

  Cousin Howie offered to drive us to the train station in his van. On the way we passed the White House. If Dad or Mom were president, I thought, this is where we’d live. I’d ask Jimmy to come down to hang out. We’d bowl and swim and have sock slides down the longest hallways. Then we’d see movies in the screening room and the family chef would make us popcorn. I’d give just one interview a week, maybe two, on MTV or Nickelodeon. I’d have an opinion on everything, especially books, video games, music, the Internet, and movies. When Peter Hatcher speaks, young America listens! That’s what they’d say about me.

  I was enjoying my fantasy until Fudge leaned close and whispered, “I wonder what the President said?”

  “About what?”

  “About the banana on that lady’s suit.”

  “Probably he didn’t even notice. And if he did, he’d be too polite to mention it.”

  “You know what, Pete?” Fudge said, looking out the window of the van. “Someday this will all be mine.”

  “What will all be yours?”

  “This place,” he said, as we passed the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument. “It’ll be called Fudgington then.”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” I told him.

  “I never hold my breath, Pete. Unless I’m under water.”

  * * *

  When we got to the train station Dad asked Cousin Howie where they were heading next.

  “New England, Tub,” Cousin Howie said, pulling into a passenger drop-off area.

  I noticed Dad had stopped trying to get them to use his real name.

  “And a few weeks from now,” Cousin Howie continued, as we got our stuff out of the van, “we’ll be showing our little tribe the sights and sounds of your city.”

  I dropped my suitcase. Our city?

  “Only problem,” Howie said, “is that we haven’t been able to find a place to stay.”

  “Maybe I can help,” Dad said.

  “Why thanks, Tubby. We’d love to spend a few days in New York with you and your family.”

  “What I meant,” Dad said quickly, “is that maybe I can help you find a hotel.”

  “A hotel?” Howie asked. “Now why would we prefer a hotel to staying with you?”

  “Our apartment is small,” Mom said. “The boys share a divided room and Tootsie’s crib is in a remodeled closet.”

  “Not a problem for us,” Cousin Howie said. “We have our camping gear right here, in the van. Never travel without it. The Honolulu Hatchers are ready for whatever comes their way.”

  “Yes, but you see . . .” Mom began.

  Eudora covered Mom’s hand with her own. “We’re family, Anne. Wait ’til you see how little space we take up. We’re used to making ourselves practically invisible, aren’t we?”

  Mini-Farley growled.

  Eudora said, “He’s showing you how well he fits into the forest.”

  West Sixty-eighth Street isn’t exactly the forest, I thought.

  “Up with the sun,” Cousin Howie said, “and asleep with the moon. You’ll hardly know we’re there.”

  Mom had this weak smile on her face as she looked at Dad.

  Just say no! I begged, inside my head.

  “Well, Howie . . .” Dad said, “you’d be more than welcome at our place. Just let us know when.”

  “And give us some warning,” I said. So I can arrange to stay at Jimmy’s, I was thinking.

  “What Peter means,” Dad said, “is give us some warning so he can clean up his room. Isn’t that right, Peter?” Dad looked at me and I got the message.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Sure. That’s exactly what I mean.”

  Bird on Strike

  When we got home Grandma told us Uncle Feather hadn’t said a word since we left. “I’m worried,” Grandma said. “He could have a sore throat.”

  “Uncle Feather’s fine,” Fudge told her. “He’ll talk tonight.”

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “I know my bird, Pete.” Fudge pulled a chair over to the kitchen counter, stood on it, climbed up, opened the cupboard, and pulled out a package of rice cakes.

  “Don’t spoil your appetite,” Grandma said. “I’ve
made you a nice supper.”

  “Couscous and Moroccan chicken?” Not that I had to ask. Just catching whiffs from the oven was enough to make my mouth water.

  Grandma nodded. “And Buzzy’s coming up to join us.”

  “Great,” I said. Grandma and Buzzy Senior met over the summer, in Maine. And as Mom likes to say, One thing led to another. They were married at the end of August. I really like Buzzy Senior. The only problem—and it’s a big one—is he’s Sheila Tubman’s grandfather. The idea that I could be Sheila Tubman’s step-something is revolting.

  “Sheila’s coming, too,” Grandma said.

  I groaned.

  “Now, Peter . . .” Grandma began.

  I didn’t wait for her to finish. “Come on, Grandma . . . you knew about Sheila and me before you married Buzzy.”

  “That doesn’t mean you two can’t be civil to one another.”

  “What’s civil?” Fudge asked, climbing onto Grandma’s lap with his rice cake.

  Grandma stroked his hair. “It means not being rude,” she told him, looking right at me.

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll be civil.”

  “It could even mean being pleasant and respectful,” Grandma added.

  “I’m pleasant and respectful,” Fudge said, munching away. “Right?”

  “Oh yeah,” I told him. “You’re the most pleasant and respectful person ever.”

  He laughed and when he did, half of the chewed-up rice cake inside his mouth wound up on the floor. Turtle lapped it up like it was the world’s best treat.

  Grandma suggested Fudge try to keep his food in his mouth but Fudge told her, “Turtle loves chewed-up food. Look . . .” And he let another mouthful go.

  “That’s enough, Fudge,” Grandma said. “Finish your rice cake, then tell me all about Washington.”

  “You mean Fudgington?” he asked.

  That’s when I took off for my room. Turtle padded down the hall after me. I stopped to have a look at Uncle Feather. “How’s it going?” I asked, standing right in front of his cage. He looked at me but he didn’t say anything. So I said, “Bonjour, stupid.” That’s one of his favorite expressions. Once you get him started on that one, forget it. You can’t turn him off. But this time, instead of repeating it over and over, he scratched his head with his foot.