“I quit,” said Francine.
“What are you saying to me?” said Mordus. He adjusted his chipmunk toupee.
“I’m saying I quit,” said Francine.
“You have battled many a snake and outwitted many a squirrel,” said Mordus. “You have stared a bear, that dark and ferocious mystery, in the eye, and that dark and ferocious mystery blinked first.”
“True,” said Francine.
“And now you have reached this impasse of the soul, this gloomy, doomy time of self-appraisal. I wonder: Will you dwell here in your small shame and sad defeat? Will you truly allow yourself to be undone by one ignoble screaming raccoon?”
“Yes,” said Francine.
Mordus Toopher shook his head. His toupee slipped a little. “Unbelievable,” he said. He shook his head again. He righted his toupee.
“I am deeply saddened,” he said. “Deeply saddened, yes. It is the end of an era. It is the end of an era that began with Nanette Poulet and continued with Clement Poulet and now it ends; it ends. The era ends with a dull, inharmonious thud. It ends with Francine and a raccoon.”
“Can I have my trophies?” said Francine.
“I am afraid that the trophies must remain here,” said Mordus, “property of Gizzford Animal Control Center, procured under the auspices, et cetera, et cetera. And et cetera.” He smiled a sad smile.
“Right,” said Francine. “Okay. Well, thanks for all the good times.”
Mordus Toopher raised his right hand and waved good-bye. “The end of an era,” he said. “The end.”
Francine Poulet walked out of the Animal Control Center. She did not look back.
But that evening, Francine limped down to Fleeker Street and hid in a rhododendron bush. She studied Mrs. Bissinger’s house.
She watched the dusk turn into a velvety darkness. She watched as a gibbous moon rose in the sky and shone on Mrs. Bissinger’s empty, extremely tall, extremely steep roof.
There was no raccoon in sight.
“You weren’t even a ghost,” said Francine to the empty roof. “You were just a raccoon. I panicked. And Poulets never panic.”
“Why are you hiding in my rhododendron?” said a voice.
Francine looked up. Mrs. Bissinger was standing above her, bejeweled and gleaming.
“I am not hiding,” said Francine. “And so on.”
“And so on,” agreed Mrs. Bissinger. She sighed. She twinkled. “It is time to move on, Francine. The raccoon is gone. You must go, too.”
“Okay,” said Francine.
Mrs. Bissinger walked away. Francine continued to crouch in the rhododendron bush. She looked away from the roof, up into the dark sky. She could see some stars, but not many. Shouldn’t there be more stars? The world seemed very dark.
Her arm ached. And her heart. Francine’s heart ached, too.
She didn’t know who she was. She was not an animal control officer. And she was not a Poulet, because Poulets never panic.
“Who am I?” said Francine to the dark sky.
There was no answer.
“Tell me who I am!” shouted Francine.
And then, from somewhere far away, there came an answer.
“Go home, Francine!”
Francine looked up. Mrs. Bissinger was standing in a lighted window. “Go home!” she shouted again. She waved her arms around.
Francine stood up. She exited the rhododendron bush. She went home.
Francine Poulet got a job as a cashier at Clyde’s Bait, Feed, Tackle, and Animal Necessities.
Her left leg, the one she had broken when she fell from Mrs. Bissinger’s roof with the raccoon in her arms, continued to ache. So Francine sat on a stool as she rang up dog chow and plastic worms, chicken feed and rawhide bones, fishing poles and horse bridles.
For some reason, Clyde’s Bait, Feed, Tackle, and Animal Necessities was bedeviled by flies. Francine kept a fly swatter in one hand at all times. She got very good at whacking flies.
Other than the flies, it was a quiet existence.
There were no emergency calls. There were no dramatic chases. There were no raccoons who called her name. There was no Mrs. Bissinger. And so on.
Clement Poulet did not show up in the brightly lit aisles of Clyde’s. There was no smell of cigar smoke. There was no suggestion that Francine was disappointing anyone or that she was not as solid as a refrigerator.
Also, a stool was not a chair. It was very, very hard to tip backward on the legs of a stool. Francine did not even try. It seemed too dangerous.
Francine sat. The days passed.
She rang up a lot of dog chow.
She killed a lot of flies. In fact, she kept a running tally of how many flies she had whacked, just so she could convince herself that she was making progress of some sort.
On the day that Francine killed her 238th fly, a girl and a boy came into Clyde’s Bait, Feed, Tackle, and Animal Necessities.
The girl said, “Where are your sweets?”
“We don’t deal in sweets,” said Francine Poulet.
She could hear Fly 239 buzzing at her ear.
“Not even licorice?” said the girl.
“No licorice,” said Francine.
Fly 239 zoomed back and forth in front of her, taunting her.
“Hey,” said the boy, “I know you.”
Francine took her eyes off the fly and looked at the boy.
“My name is Frank,” he said.
“Good for you,” said Francine.
“And you are Animal Control Officer Francine Poulet,” said Frank. “Once you were on official business on our street. Also, I saw your picture in the paper.”
“What about cough drops?” said the girl. “Do you have cough drops? Sometimes when a store doesn’t sell candy, they will sell cough drops.”
“Stella,” said Frank, “there aren’t any sweets here.”
“That just doesn’t seem right to me,” said Stella. “That seems wrong. How can you run a store without selling sweets?”
“You are a highly decorated animal control officer,” said Frank to Francine. “You are from a long line of animal control officers.”
Francine’s toes felt funny. Her stomach was squiffy.
“Why are you working here?” said Frank.
“That’s none of your beeswax,” said Francine. She swung the fly swatter through the air in a menacing sort of way, even though Fly 239 had disappeared.
“You fell off a roof with a raccoon in your arms,” said Frank. “You took a tumble.”
“It was not a tumble,” said Francine. “It was way more than a tumble.”
“I read about it in the paper,” said Frank.
“Frank reads the whole paper. He reads it from back to front,” said Stella. “He reads every word of it, and he remembers it all. That’s what Frank does. That’s the way he is.”
“I pay attention,” said Frank.
“He worries,” said Stella.
“The raccoon got away,” said Frank. “And the raccoon that got away is a screamer.”
Francine’s toes twitched. Her heart thumped.
Clement Poulet had called the raccoon a screamer, too.
“So?” said Francine. “So what?”
“So, I know where your screaming raccoon is,” said Frank.
“He is not my raccoon,” said Francine.
“He is on the roof of the Lincoln Sisters’ house. I have heard him and I have seen him. I have watched him through my binoculars. I own a very good pair of binoculars.”
“Good for you, kid,” said Francine Poulet.
“I keep an eye and an ear on things on Deckawoo Drive,” said Frank.
“He worries,” said Stella.
“Deckawoo Drive?” said Francine. “I once caught a pig on Deckawoo Drive.”
“That’s Mercy Watson!” said Stella. “She likes to eat toast with a great deal of butter on it.”
“Raccoons carry rabies,” said Frank. “Raccoons bite. Raccoons steal things.
I read an article about a raccoon who stole a baby right out of its cradle.”
“What?” said Stella.
“It’s true,” said Frank.
“What was the baby’s name?” said Stella.
“That is an unimportant detail,” said Frank. “The important thing is that it happened. Raccoons are dangerous.”
Francine felt her toes curling up. Her arm ached. Her leg ached. Fly 239 flew by. Francine looked down at her hands. They were shaking.
“You’re afraid,” said Frank.
“I am not afraid,” said Francine.
“Yes, you are,” said Frank. “Your hands are shaking. That is a sign of fear.”
“I’m not well,” said Francine. “I don’t feel good.”
“You’re never going to feel good until you face that raccoon,” said Frank.
“Get out of here, kid,” said Francine. She swung her fly swatter in the direction of the door.
“What would your father say?” said Frank.
“What?” said Francine. She felt her heart skitter and stutter inside of her.
“Your father. Animal Control Officer Clement Poulet.”
“You didn’t know my father,” said Francine.
“No,” said Frank. “I did not. But I read about him. He was a very brave man, and in the article in the paper, it said that he was proud of you.”
Francine stared at Frank.
Frank stared at Francine.
Stella sighed a deep sigh. “You know what I wish? I wish we could go someplace where they sell sweets. I wish we could go to a place where they sell jelly beans or chocolate-covered peanuts or gumdrops. I love gumdrops.”
“You were an outstanding animal control officer once,” said Frank.
“I was,” said Francine. “I was one of the greats. And then I panicked. Poulets do not panic.” She stared down at the fly swatter in her trembling hands.
“Maybe you are still a great animal control officer,” said Frank. “Why don’t you find out? Come to Deckawoo Drive and help us capture the raccoon.”
Frank took hold of Stella’s hand. “Come on, Stella,” he said. “We’ll go and get you some sweets.”
Frank and Stella left Clyde’s Bait, Feed, Tackle, and Animal Necessities.
Francine sat on her stool. Fly 239 buzzed around her head. A great shaft of sunlight came in through the plate-glass windows of Clyde’s and made the bags of dog chow glow like misshapen ghosts.
Frank’s words echoed in Francine’s head. Maybe you are still a great animal control officer.
Maybe.
Could it be true?
The door to Clyde’s opened, and Stella walked in.
“Close your eyes and hold out your hand,” said Stella.
Francine Poulet closed her eyes and held out her hand. She felt a small tickle in the center of her palm.
“Okay,” said Stella. “You can look now.”
Francine looked down. In her hand was a gumdrop, a green one.
“You should come and get the raccoon,” said Stella. “It would make Frank happy. He worries.”
After Stella left Clyde’s Bait, Feed, Tackle, and Animal Necessities, Francine put the gumdrop in her mouth. It tasted sweet.
Francine rocked her stool back and forth. She felt one leg of it lift the tiniest bit off the floor.
And Francine Poulet made a small noise that sounded almost like a hum.
Former Animal Control Officer Francine Poulet stood in the darkness on Deckawoo Drive.
She held a net. Her hands were trembling. The net was moving up and down and swaying back and forth.
Frank was standing at Francine’s side.
“Shhhhh,” said Frank.
“I didn’t say anything,” said Francine. The net bounced up and down.
Frank handed Francine the binoculars.
“Look,” he said. “Is that your raccoon?”
Francine put the net on the ground. She took the binoculars. She held them up and looked through them. She saw the raccoon sitting on the roof, staring at her.
The moon was bright, and it was shining on the raccoon’s fur. The raccoon shimmered.
“Eeep,” said Francine.
“What?” said Frank.
“That is the raccoon,” said Francine. “That is him. He is that. Oh, oh, oh. Whoop. Eep.”
“Calm down,” said Frank.
“I’m afraid,” said Francine.
Frank took hold of her hand.
“That doesn’t help,” said Francine.
Frank squeezed her hand very hard. “Okay,” said Francine. “Maybe it helps a little.”
“This is the plan, Miss Poulet,” said Frank. “I will hold the ladder. And you will climb up it, and you will take your net with you. You will capture the raccoon with your net, just as you have captured other raccoons with your net. Remember, you have forty-seven trophies.”
“Forty-seven,” said Francine in a voice of wonder.
“You got into a staring contest with a bear and you won,” said Frank.
“I did?” said Francine.
“You did,” said Frank. “Climb the ladder, Miss Poulet.”
“Okay,” said Francine. “I will climb now.”
Francine grabbed hold of the ladder. She took a step up and then another step up. She tried to hum, but she couldn’t remember how. Suddenly, humming seemed like a very complicated thing.
“Just climb,” whispered Frank.
So Francine climbed. She climbed some more.
And suddenly, there she was, standing on the roof, her whole body trembling like a tiny leaf in a ferocious November wind.
From somewhere on the roof, the raccoon screamed.
“Miss Poulet?” said Frank.
“Yes?” said Francine.
“Be brave,” said Frank.
“Okay,” said Francine. She sat down. She put her head between her knees.
“Miss Poulet?” said Frank. “Miss Poulet?”
And then from down below came another voice. The other voice said, “Franklin Endicott, I would like it very much if you explained yourself.”
“There is a raccoon on your roof, Miss Lincoln,” said Frank. “And I have arranged for the best animal control officer in the county, in the country, maybe even in the entire world, to catch your raccoon. That animal control officer is on your roof right now.”
A door slammed. “Sister!” said a different voice. “Are you all right?”
“Most certainly not! Some strange woman is on our roof.”
Francine raised her head from her knees. She peered over the edge of the roof. There were two old women in bathrobes staring up at her.
One of the women waved. She said, “Hello, my name is Baby. And this is my sister, Eugenia.”
“We’re not at a garden party, Baby,” said Eugenia. “There is no need to introduce yourself.”
“And who are you?” said Baby to Francine.
“Um,” said Francine. Her stomach felt squiffy.
“Are you truly an animal control officer?” shouted Eugenia. “Or are you just some nut job gallivanting on my roof? And more to the point, who says I have a raccoon on my roof to begin with?”
“Oh, but Sister,” said Baby Lincoln, “we do have a raccoon living on our roof. I have seen him many times. And I have thought it would be wonderful if we could name him.”
“Name him?” said Eugenia. “Name him?”
A door banged open. A woman shouted, “Frank? Eugenia? Baby? Is everything okay?”
“Hello, Mrs. Watson,” said Frank. “Everything is fine. There is a raccoon on the Lincoln Sisters’ roof, and we are in the process of capturing it.”
“Are you sure it’s a raccoon?” said Mrs. Watson. “It looks like a woman.”
“That’s Animal Control Officer Francine Poulet,” said Frank.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Watson. “Of course. I didn’t recognize her in the dark. Hello, dear. You once helped us locate our porcine wonder. Hello.”
; And then, in the middle of this slightly inane exchange of pleasantries, there came a terrible, bloodcurdling scream.
Francine shivered. She trembled.
The raccoon screamed again.
“What a rude noise,” said Eugenia.
“It is just the raccoon,” said Baby. “He screams. Have you never heard him scream before, Sister?”
“No,” said Eugenia. “I have never heard him scream before. I am too busy to listen for screaming raccoons.”
“Frannnnnnnnnnyyyyy!” screamed the raccoon.
“I think he is lonely!” said Baby.
“For heaven’s sake, Baby,” said Eugenia, “the raccoon is not lonely.”
Francine’s heart skittered and skipped and thumped. She stayed crouched on the roof.
“That animal control woman is worthless,” said Eugenia. “She is doing absolutely nothing.”
“I must say that she was very helpful when Mercy went missing,” said Mrs. Watson.
“She looks like a fraud to me,” said Eugenia.
“She is not a fraud,” said Frank. “She is the genuine article.”
The genuine article!
Those were the words that Francine’s father had used. That was exactly what Clement Poulet had said: You are the genuine article, Franny.
“Raaaaaaaaaannnnnnyyyyyy!” screamed the raccoon.
Francine listened closely.
What was the raccoon saying?
“Grannnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnyyyy!” he screamed.
Why, he was saying absolutely nothing.
The raccoon did not know her name.
The raccoon was just screaming a scream. That was all.
Francine looked down at her hands on the net. They were not shaking. She was not trembling.
And why was that?
It was because she was the genuine article.
It was because she was as solid as a refrigerator.
It was because she was Francine Poulet.
Francine stood up.
“I am Animal Control Officer Francine Poulet!” she shouted. “I am the daughter of Animal Control Officer Clement Poulet and the granddaughter of Animal Control Officer Nanette Poulet.”