* * *
After lunch everyone went off to their afternoon activities, just like at summer camp. Libby went to work at Ickle’s Ice Cream Parlor. Grandma and Buzzy Senior went for a hike in Acadia National Park. Mom and Dad took Tootsie to the pond to see the ducks. The Tubmans went to visit friends. And Sheila took Fudge down to the beach.
So for once there was no one around to bother me . . . no one to ask stupid questions. This is the life, I thought, as I stretched out in the hammock in the backyard. I can do anything I feel like doing now. I can finish my Gary Paulsen book . . . or ride my bicycle out to the lighthouse . . .
I looked over at Turtle, who was sleeping in the sun. I could tell he was having a dream by the way his legs and tail twitched. I thought about taking him for a walk. He could use the exercise. Since we got here he’s been sleeping a lot. A walk to the beach would do him good. I jumped up and called, “Come on, boy . . . let’s go have some fun!”
Turtle opened his eyes and looked at me. He yawned. “Don’t you want to go to the beach?” I asked, tugging at his collar. But he still wouldn’t budge.
“Okay . . . fine,” I told him. “Just sit there!”
I walked away, sure he would follow me. But when I turned back to check he was asleep again. Who cares? I thought. I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone. I can have plenty of fun on my own.
I walked through the woods to the beach. Sheila and Fudge were out in front of Mrs. A’s house, rock hunting. What a joke! The whole beach is made of pink rocks. When the tide is out you can walk on rocks for miles.
I headed in their direction. At first they didn’t notice me. They were too busy choosing rocks to dump in their bucket. So I snuck up right behind Sheila and made a loud barking sound. Rrruuufff!
Sheila jumped about three feet. She was really mad when she saw it was me. “Who invited you?” she shouted.
“It’s a public beach,” I told her. “I don’t need an invitation.”
“I want you to know, Peter Hatcher, that even if you spend all day, every day with us, you’re still not getting a penny of my baby-sitting money!”
“I don’t want your money!”
“Then what are you doing here?” she asked.
“Anyone who feels like being here can be here,” I told her.
“So how come you didn’t feel like being here before? How come you suddenly feel like it now?”
I spread my arms wide and sang as loud as I could. “Who can explain it, who can tell you why?”
Fudge started laughing.
“Don’t encourage him!” Sheila said.
I kept on singing. “Fools give you reasons, wise men never trrrrrryyyyyy . . .” I learned that song last night, from Buzzy Senior and Grandma. It’s called “Some Enchanted Evening.”
“This is too embarrassing for words!” Sheila said.
I would have kept on singing, but Mrs. A called from her porch. “Yoo hoo . . . yoo hoo, boys . . .” She waved to us. “Did you find your uncle?”
“He was at home,” Fudge called back. “He was hiding.”
“That’s a relief. I was worried.”
“What uncle?” Sheila asked.
“Uncle Feather,” Fudge said. “She thinks he’s my real uncle.”
“Why would she think that?” Sheila said.
“She just does,” Fudge said. “Right, Pete?”
“Yeah . . . right,” I told him.
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Sheila said.
“A lot of things don’t make any sense,” Fudge said.
Like a bird breather, I thought.
“Yoo hoo . . .” Mrs. A called again. “Come up and have a snack. Mitzi’s here.”
Fudge took off and Sheila panicked. “Wait for me, Fudgie . . .” she called. She tried to lift the bucket. But the Perfect Baby-Sitter hadn’t stopped to think about how much rocks weigh.
“Want some help?” I asked.
“I don’t need your help!” She dumped all the rocks out of the bucket, then turned it upside down over them.
“Worried someone’s going to steal your rocks?” I said.
“These rocks are special.”
“Oh . . . I guess I didn’t notice since there’s about two zillion more exactly like them.”
“You’re hopeless, Peter . . . really hopeless!”
“That’s better than what you are!” I called. But I don’t think she heard me. She was already running up the beach after Fudge.
I followed. Not that I wasn’t perfectly happy on my own. But why miss out on one of Mrs. A’s snacks?
The Best News of the Century
Mitzi was smaller than Fudge, with long hair tied in a ponytail. She wore a baseball glove on her left hand. Mrs. A introduced us to her as soon as we got to the house.
“This is Fudge Feather,” she said. “And this is his big brother . . .” She put her finger to her mouth and paused.
“Peter,” I said, helping her out. I don’t know why people can always remember Fudge’s name but not mine.
“Yes,” Mrs. A said. “Peter Feather.”
“Feather is a funny name,” Mitzi said.
“Actually, it’s Hatcher,” I told her, setting the record straight.
“But I thought your uncle’s name is Feather,” Mrs. A said.
“It is,” Fudge told her.
“His first name is Feather,” I explained, before things got any more confused. “Feather Hatcher. Uncle Feather Hatcher.”
“Oh . . .” Mrs. A said, laughing. “I get it now. So you’re the Hatcher boys . . . not the Feather boys.”
“That’s right,” I told her.
“I like Feather better,” Mitzi said. “And Fudge isn’t a name . . . it’s a candy.”
“It’s a name too,” Fudge told her. “Right, Pete?”
“That’s right,” I said.
“Doesn’t he have another name?” Mitzi asked me. “A real name?”
“It’s Farley,” Fudge said. He stuck out his chin, daring her to say anything more.
“Farley?” Mitzi said, opening her eyes really wide. “That’s a real name?”
“Yes!” Fudge said.
“Grandma . . .” Mitzi said, “is Farley a name?”
“It’s a beautiful name,” Mrs. A said. “There was once a handsome movie star named Farley Granger . . .” She closed her eyes and kind of sighed. Then she went into the house to get us a snack. Sheila went with her.
As soon as they were gone Mitzi got shy. She looked at the floor of the porch. Then she looked at the ceiling. She socked her fist into her baseball glove to make the pocket deeper. But she didn’t say a word.
Fudge watched her and hummed a little tune. He didn’t have anything to say either.
I decided it was up to me to get things going between them. So I said, “That’s a good-looking baseball glove.”
“I call it my mitt-sy,” she said, hugging it to her chest. “Big gave it to me.”
“Who’s Big?” Fudge asked.
“My grandpa,” Mitzi said. “Big Apfel.”
“Big who?” I asked, sure I’d misunderstood her.
“Big Apfel,” she said again.
I couldn’t believe this! I kneeled beside her and spoke very slowly. “Are you telling us your grandfather is Big Apfel, the baseball player?”
Mitzi nodded.
“I have his baseball card,” I said. “I know his stats by heart!”
“You want to play in his game?” Mitzi asked.
“His game?” I said.
She nodded again. “We play every Sunday.”
“Are you saying that anyone who wants to play ball with Big Apfel, can?”
“You have to
pass the over-under test first.”
“What’s the over-under test?”
“You have to be over four and under a hundred and four.”
“And that’s it?” I asked.
“That’s it,” she said.
“Ya-hoo . . .” I yelled, jumping so high I almost knocked over one of Mrs. A’s hanging plants. “This is the best news I’ve heard in a long time!”
“Is it the best news of the century?” Fudge asked.
“It could be!” I told him, as I ya-hooed again.
In a minute all three of us were jumping up and down and ya-hooing all over the porch.
That’s when the Perfect Baby-Sitter appeared, holding a pitcher of juice. “I’m gone for five minutes,” she said. “Five minutes and look at you . . . carrying on like a bunch of monkeys.”
“But, honey,” Fudge said, “it’s the best news of the century!”
“What’s the best news of the century?” Sheila asked.
“Who knows?” Fudge said. “I don’t even know what a century is!”
I ran all the way home. As soon as I got there I called Jimmy Fargo. I’m not supposed to make long-distance calls without permission. But this was definitely a special occasion.
I was still trying to catch my breath when Jimmy answered. “Are you sitting or standing?” I asked.
“Standing.”
“Well, sit down.”
“Okay . . .” he said. “I’m sitting.”
“Where?” I asked.
“What’s the difference?”
“I want to imagine how you look when I tell you the news.”
“I’m sitting on the floor in the kitchen,” Jimmy said. “With my back against the refrigerator.”
“Okay . . . I’ve got the picture.”
“So what’s the story?” Jimmy asked.
“You’re never going to believe who our neighbor is up here.” I paused for a second and took a deep breath. Then I dropped the news. “Big Apfel.”
Jimmy didn’t say anything.
“You fainted, right?” I said.
“No.”
“But you’re speechless . . .”
“No.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I believe you,” Jimmy said. “But I don’t get it. Did you say Big Apple is your neighbor or what?”
“I said Big Apfel! Boston Red Sox. The greatest center fielder of all time.”
“Ty Cobb was the greatest center fielder of all time . . . or maybe Willie Mays.”
I wasn’t going to argue with Jimmy. Instead, I explained that this was a chance for us to play ball with one of the greats. I reminded him to bring his glove and his Mets cap to Maine. Then I waited for him to say something. When he didn’t I asked, “Are you still there?”
“I strike out a lot,” he finally said.
“Who doesn’t?”
“Probably Big Apfel.”
“We’re not talking about the major leagues. We’re talking about your basic Sunday ball game.”
“Speaking of basic . . .” Jimmy said, “how’s it going with the Queen of Cooties?”
“Uh . . . I hardly ever see her. She’s got a job, baby-sitting.”
“That’s a relief!” Jimmy said.
I didn’t tell him who she was baby-sitting.
* * *
I couldn’t get to sleep that night. I kept thinking about Jimmy and me playing ball on Big Apfel’s team. But that reminded me that Jimmy still doesn’t know we’re sharing a house with the Tubmans. I have to come up with a good excuse—and soon—or I’ll never hear the end of it from him.
I tossed and turned, as Fudge babbled in his sleep. I gave him a kick and he rolled over. After a while, I got out of bed and tiptoed down the hall to the bathroom. It’s so quiet in the country . . . and dark. In the city it’s never dark. You can always look out your window and see lights. It’s never quiet either. You can hear the buzz of traffic even in the middle of the night.
I used the toilet, then flushed. And that’s when it came to me . . . the perfect excuse for sharing a house with the Tubmans!
I flushed again and imagined myself telling Jimmy the long, sad story. I’d say: See . . . when we first got to Maine we moved into this big, old house. It had seven bedrooms and four bathrooms and you could see the ocean from every window. But unfortunately, there was a big problem.
What problem? Jimmy would ask.
Poison gas, I’d say. Poison gas in all the toilets. Green, steamy, gurgling stuff that bubbled up every time we flushed.
Blechhh . . . Jimmy would say, making a terrible face.
Dad had to call the Health Inspector, I’d continue. She took one look and went nuts! “This is a disaster!” she cried. “This is a serious environmental disaster!”
So then what? Jimmy would ask, biting his nails.
She condemned the place. Even though she was sorry about ruining our vacation, she had no choice. The police came and boarded up the house. They nailed a sign to the front door:
WARNING! POISON GAS IN TOILETS.
FLUSH AT YOUR OWN RISK!!!
Wow! Jimmy would say. You’re lucky you got out alive!
And I’d say: Yeah . . . I know.
A brilliant story! I told myself as I turned out the bathroom light. Jimmy’s very big on environmental issues. He’s got posters all over his room—Save the Whales, Save the Dolphins, Save the Rain Forest. So he’ll understand that the Tubmans were just trying to Save Our Vacation when they let us share their house.
I went back to my room and got into bed. This time I had no trouble falling asleep.
Fudge-a-mania
“How come you’re in such a bad mood?” Sheila asked me the next morning.
“It must be the weather,” I grumbled. Actually, it had nothing to do with the weather, which was as gray and damp as usual. It had to do with my brilliant idea from last night. Somehow, when I woke up this morning my poison-gas story sounded really weird. I wasn’t sure Jimmy would buy it. And where would that leave me?
After breakfast I went back to bed. Dad says falling asleep when your body’s not tired is a way of avoiding your problems. Maybe he’s right. Because when I woke up, an hour later, I still didn’t know what to do about Jimmy. I looked out the window. The sun was making an effort to break through the clouds. Maybe I shouldn’t worry yet, I thought. A lot can happen in a week. The Tubmans might decide they’ve had enough of Maine. They might be gone by the time Jimmy gets here.
I got out my baseball cards and went down to the porch. I was laying them out alphabetically, by players’ last names, when Mitzi showed up. I still can’t believe Mitzi’s grandfather is Big Apfel. I wonder why Mrs. A didn’t tell us about him? Unless she’s sick of people falling all over themselves when they find out who he is. I suppose I’d feel the same way if Dad were famous.
Mitzi looked at my baseball cards. “That used to be Grandpa!” she said when she spotted Big.
“What do you mean, used to be?” I asked. “He’s still your grandpa, isn’t he?”
“Yes . . . but he’s different now. He has more fat.”
“He was probably a lot younger when they took this picture,” I said, holding up his card.
She nodded. “Where’s Fudge?”
“He’s planting a garden with his baby-sitter.”
“Where’s the garden?”
“Behind the house.”
“Will you take me?”
I started to tell her to go by herself. After all, she’d walked all the way to our house on her own. But she looked at me with these big eyes. “Sometimes monsters live behind houses,” she said. “And I didn’t bring my monster spray.”
“Monster spray?” I said.
“Grandma makes it for me. It’s a secret formula. When you spray the monsters, they melt.”
“Sounds like an interesting product.” Dad would have a field day with it, I thought. He’s in advertising. Commercials are his business. I can see it now:
Mitzi’s Monster Spray
Made from a Grandmother’s Secret Formula
Spray Twice a Day and Melt Your Monsters Away!
Mitzi held out her hand. “Will you walk me around the house?”
How could I refuse? I walked her to the backyard, where Sheila and Fudge were hard at work. They’d already dug out a plot of land. Now they were lining up rows of pink rocks from the beach. “You’re planting rocks?” I asked.
“Yes,” Fudge said. “Rocks don’t need sun or water. They don’t get slugs. Animals can’t eat them. And they never die.”
I looked at Sheila.
“It was his idea,” she said.
“It was my idea,” Fudge repeated.
“I like this garden,” Mitzi said. She got down on her hands and knees to help.
“Mom and Dad are going to be surprised when they see your garden,” I told Fudge.
“I know,” he said.
“They’re going to be surprised that you dug up this much grass to plant rocks. Especially since this backyard doesn’t belong to us.”
“Who does it belong to?” Fudge asked.
“The people who own this house,” I told him.
“So . . .” he said, “the people who own this house will be happy when they see my garden.”
“Maybe,” I told him. “Or maybe they’ll say, Who dug up our backyard?”
“Really, Peter,” Sheila said. “You’re such a worrier!”
“Yeah, Pete,” Fudge said. “You worry too much.”
“I don’t worry!” I told them. “I think ahead.”
When the rocks were all planted—six rows of them, with ten in each row—Mitzi scooped up a handful of dirt. “Now let’s make mud pie!”
“Mud pie,” Fudge said. “That’s what they have for dessert at Tico-Taco. Right, Pete?”
“But it’s not made of mud,” I told him.