"Thank you," Sam said politely.
"You're welcome. You know what, Sam?"
"What?"
Anastasia sighed. "It really makes me very sad that my only brother, the person I named, is going off to Alaska."
It made Sam very sad, too. But he didn't want to admit it.
"Maybe you'd like to go with me," he suggested.
"No," Anastasia replied. "I wouldn't. We're having lasagna for dinner tonight.
"You know what else, Sam?"
"What?"
"It's considered very grown-up to change your mind after you've thought something over. Mom and Dad thought it was very mature of me to change my mind that time, about running away."
Sam sighed. He didn't know what to say. Finally he reached into his pocket and took out the cookie-crumb-covered fangs. Carefully he inserted them into his mouth, wedging them painfully over his front teeth. Now they tasted like a combination of old plastic, used spit, stale milk, and chicken grease.
One side of his upper lip was caught on the edge of a fang. He adjusted it with his hand. He stared at Anastasia mournfully and she stared back.
"That's really cool, Sam," she said at last. "Maybe I should have named you Dracula."
6
Anastasia looked at her watch. "It's getting late, Sam. I have homework, and I have to do an errand for Mom first."
Sam frowned. Usually he was Mrs. Krupnik's errand-runner. He hadn't even left for Alaska yet, and already other people were getting his jobs.
"What sort of errand?" he asked his sister. The words came out all weird, so he removed his fangs. He stuck them back into his pocket and tried talking again. "What errand?"
"I told Mom I'd go across the street and check on Mr. Fosburgh. She called to invite him over for dinner tonight—she's making lasagna—"
"I know." Sam scowled. He didn't like being reminded of the lasagna, especially now that he was looking ahead to a lifetime of blubber.
"But he didn't answer the phone," Anastasia explained. "Probably he was just taking a nap, but I told Mom I'd check."
"Mrs. Stein is taking a nap," Sam said, suddenly remembering something. "I told her I'd wake her up before I leave for Alaska."
"Okay. Want to come with me first to Mr. Fosburgh's?"
Sam agreed, and he began to pack his bag again. He leaned over the rim of Kelly's playpen, steadying himself with one hand so that he wouldn't fall in. He picked up his bear, folded its legs, and curled it into the bag on top of the rolled-up towel and next to the knitted baby blanket that Mrs. Sheehan had given him. He smoothed the green mittens and replaced them next to the bear. He checked Gertrude Stein's cookies, mostly broken now, and noticed that Mrs. Sheehan had quietly tucked some additional food, two oranges and a small jar of peanut butter, into his bag.
That would probably last him until he got to Sleetmute and learned to eat blubber.
"Maybe they make peanut butter and blubber sandwiches in Sleetmute," Sam suggested hopefully to Anastasia.
"Maybe. Blubbernutters, those would be called," she said.
"Do you think blubbernutters would taste better than tuna fish?" Sam asked.
Anastasia thought about that. "No, actually, I'm afraid they wouldn't, Sam. But I suppose you could learn to like them, especially if there wasn't much else to eat."
Sam thought about Alaska, and what else they might have there, in addition to blubber. He remembered, from the same film that had shown walruses lying around in a pile, that there were many bears in Alaska. "I could eat bear, maybe," he suggested. "Bear meat sandwiches. Bearwiches."
Anastasia nodded and laughed. "Of course, you'd have to watch out that the bears didn't make Samwiches first."
Sam could tell that his sister was joking, that she thought it was funny, that it didn't scare her at all. But Sam didn't laugh. He didn't like the thought of Samwiches and he wished that she hadn't said it.
Sam took his fangs out of his pocket one more time and examined them, trying to figure out why they had become so uncomfortable. He picked off several cookie crumbs and a piece of walnut. Then, once more, painfully, he replaced the fangs over his teeth. He zipped his jacket.
"Bye, Mrs. Sheehan! We have to go!" Anastasia called up the stairs.
"Bye, Anastasia!" Mrs. Sheehan called back. They could hear Kelly laughing and splashing in the tub. "Thanks for coming by! You too, Sam. See you around! If you change your mind about running away, I'll send you an invitation to Kelly's birthday party!"
"Okay," Sam said glumly, heading for the door. His traveling bag felt bulky and awkward. It had seemed heavy before, but now, with the peanut butter jar and the oranges, it really was heavy. His fangs felt terrible. Sam felt weak, small, lonely, scared of bears, unhappy about blubber, and he didn't know the way to Alaska.
He took his sister's hand and they crossed the street to Mr. Fosburgh's house.
Sam liked all of the people in their neighborhood. But Mr. Fosburgh was one of his very favorites, because Mr. Fosburgh had a motorized wheelchair and he sometimes let Sam sit on his lap, ride in the chair, and operate the switches.
"Blast off!" Sam would say, sitting on Mr. Fosburgh's knees. Then he would push the forward switch so that they would whirr slowly through the first floor of Mr. Fosburgh's house.
Mr. Fosburgh had shown him how to turn right, or left, and how to reverse, and to stop.
It was a whole lot more fun than the mechanical horse in front of the supermarket. Sam always thought the horse would be fun, and he always begged and begged his mom until finally she would say "Oh, all right," and she would find some money to put into the slot. Then Sam would sit on the big plastic horse, hoping that this time it would really gallop and whinny; but it never did anything but jiggle silently up and down, which was boring.
You didn't even have to put quarters into Mr. Fosburgh's wheelchair. Mr. Fosburgh's wheelchair was free.
"Coming!" Sam and his sister could hear Mr. Fosburgh's voice through the door after they rang the doorbell.
They could hear his chair whirr into the hall.
"Well, it's the Krupniks!" Mr. Fosburgh said with a smile when he opened the door. Then he looked again. "At least it's Anastasia. But who is that? It's the size of Sam, and it's wearing Sam's jacket, but it has a strange unSamlike look." He peered at Sam's face.
"It's me, Sam Krupnik, with a mustache and big eyebrows," Sam explained.
"I see that. But what are those other things?"
"Fangs," Sam said. He took them out of his mouth and held them up so that Mr. Fosburgh could get a closer look.
"Oh, of course, fangs." Mr. Fosburgh smiled, but he looked a little puzzled. "I had fangs when I was young, but the orthodontist got rid of them for me." He smiled broadly so that Sam could see his teeth, which were stained beige from cigarettes but nice and straight, with no fangs.
Sam was astonished. "An octopus took your fangs?" he asked.
"Orthodontist," Anastasia said. "That's the kind of dentist who puts braces on your teeth and straightens them. Go on in, Sam, so we can close the door. It's cold out here." She nudged Sam inside.
"Mom called, but you didn't answer the phone," Anastasia explained to Mr. Fosburgh. "She wanted to invite you over for lasagna tonight."
"Lasagna!" Mr. Fosburgh's face lit up. At the same time, the end of his cigarette lit up as he inhaled on it. Poor Mr. Fosburgh couldn't manage to stop smoking. He had tried a million times. "My favorite! I'd love to. Thanks, Anastasia.
"My phone's out of order," he explained. "And I couldn't figure out how to call the telephone company and tell them, because of course I need a phone to call them, but mine's out of order. Now there's a problem, right, Sam?"
"Right," Sam agreed, nodding his head. He had just noticed something. When Mr. Fosburgh talked with a cigarette in his mouth, he had to squint and scrunch his face. It was a little like trying to talk with fangs. Sam put his fangs, which were still in his hand, back into his pocket.
"But I could call from your house, if I come o
ver for dinner." Mr. Fosburgh said. "Right now, though, it looks as if Sam needs a ride. How about it, Sam? Let me just put out this nasty cigarette."
Mr. Fosburgh mashed his cigarette into one of the nearby ashtrays and lifted Sam up onto his knees. They whirred down the hall with Sam's hand on the controls. Anastasia followed, carrying Sam's traveling bag.
Mr. Fosburgh's arm was around Sam, and his fingers felt the edge of the medallion attached to Sam's sweater. "What's this?" he asked.
"My fireman's badge."
"Oh, I'm so glad you're wearing your fireman's badge, Sam," Mr. Fosburgh said. "It makes me feel very secure, having fire-department representatives living in the neighborhood. You know about my problem, of course." Mr. Fosburgh's voice was a little embarrassed.
Sam nodded. Poor Mr. Fosburgh just couldn't stop smoking. Sometimes he dropped a lighted cigarette and wasn't able to retrieve it because he had difficulty walking. So sometimes he set his house on fire. The hook-and-ladder truck had had to save Mr. Fosburgh's house—and Mr. Fosburgh, too—three times in the past year.
"I rely on people like you, Sam," Mr. Fosburgh said. "Whatever would I do without people like you?"
In the past, when Mr. Fosburgh said that, it always made Sam feel proud and important. Now, though, he felt terrible. He didn't know what to say. He sat very still on Mr. Fosburgh's lap. He looked at the floor. There was a small dark burn mark on the floor from a dropped cigarette.
"I'm sorry to tell you that Sam is moving to Alaska," Anastasia said in a sad voice.
Mr. Fosburgh craned his neck around in order to look at Sam, who was sitting silently on his lap, looking down at the floor.
"Sam? Is that true?" Mr. Fosburgh asked in astonishment.
Sam nodded. "Because of fangs," he whispered. His voice came out funny.
"My mom hates his fangs," Anastasia explained.
"Fangphobia," Sam whispered.
Mr. Fosburgh nodded. "I see," he said. "It's like my cigarettes."
Sam wiggled around to look at him. "Why is it like your cigarettes?" he asked.
"Everybody hates my cigarettes. Your mom does. So does your dad."
"So do I," Anastasia pointed out.
Mr. Fosburgh nodded. "So when I go to your house, Sam—like tonight, when I go there for a great lasagna dinner—I leave my cigarettes at home. I wouldn't dream of putting a cigarette into my mouth in the presence of a wonderful woman like your mother."
Sam ran his fingers over his fangs. He thought about it. It made sense to him, what Mr. Fosburgh had said. "But it's my house, too. I can't leave my fangs at home because I am at home there."
"That's a problem," Mr. Fosburgh agreed.
"So I'm running away."
"To Alaska, you said?"
Sam nodded. "Sleetmute."
"Sleetmute? Let's check it out. Full speed ahead, Sam. Whirr me to the globe."
Sam pushed the handle and directed the wheelchair down the hall, then to the right, into the den where the huge globe stood on its three-legged stand near the window. He whirred himself and Mr. Fosburgh up close to the globe, and Anastasia joined them.
Mr. Fosburgh leaned forward and clicked a switch that lighted the globe from inside. The whole world became beautiful colors; the oceans were pale blue, dotted with tiny pink islands, and Sam could see the familiar shape of the United States, which he had on a place mat at home. Sam knew how to find his own state, Massachusetts, on his placemat, and he could see that it was in the same place on Mr. Fosburgh's globe.
Mr. Fosburgh turned the globe carefully. "I'm sorry to tell you that there's a cigarette burn on western Canada. I leaned too close to the globe when I was examining Lake Athabasca once." He slowed the globe. "Here, Sam. Here's Alaska. See?"
Sam looked where Mr. Fosburgh's finger was pointing. Alaska was very far away from Massachusetts. Very, very, very far away.
Mr. Fosburgh had leaned close to the globe, and to Alaska, and was squinching his eyes. "No sign of Sleetmute," he announced. "Anastasia, hand me the atlas, would you?"
Anastasia got the huge book from its shelf, and Sam climbed down from Mr. Fosburgh's lap so that they could open the atlas across his knees.
Mr. Fosburgh propelled his finger across Alaska and then stopped. "Bingo! Here it is. Sleetmute."
Sam looked. So did Anastasia. Nobody said anything for a moment.
Then Anastasia said, "It's sort of in the middle of nowhere."
"Well," Mr. Fosburgh suggested, "it's probably very beautiful. No doubt great scenery, Sam."
Sam nodded.
"A little cold in winter, I expect. But you probably have lots of warm clothing in your bag."
Sam nodded again. "I have mittens," he told Mr. Fosburgh, "and a blanket. I have my bear, too.
"And," he added, "I'll be lying around in a pile."
"I remember your bear," Mr. Fosburgh said. "He's been here to visit. Well, Sam, your bear will be in good company in Sleetmute. I'm fairly certain there will be a lot of live b—"
"Don't talk about that," Sam said suddenly. "Please," he added, to be polite.
Mr. Fosburgh closed the atlas. "I understand," he said sympathetically. "We won't discuss wildlife, then."
Wildlife. It had been scary enough, Sam thought, when people had mentioned bears. But now they had said that other word: wildlife. It made him shiver inside. It made him think of all kinds of beasts, with claws and growls and roars—and fangs.
Quietly he reached into his pocket and touched the wet, crumb-covered chunk of white plastic. He stood there in Mr. Fosburgh's living room, staring at the brightly lit globe where Massachusetts looked small and cozy, and Alaska looked very large and very cold and very far away.
7
"My dad will come over to get you when he gets home from work," Anastasia told Mr. Fosburgh. They walked back toward the front door while Mr. Fosburgh glided beside them in his chair, the atlas balanced on his lap.
"Fine. I'll change my shirt and smoke a last cigarette or two. Then I'll brush my teeth and gargle some mouthwash so that your mother won't have to smell the tobacco."
"Have you tried hypnotism, Mr. Fosburgh?" Anastasia asked. "My friend Daphne's mom went to a hypnotist and quit smoking that way."
"No, but I'm going to try that next, I think." Mr. Fosburgh sighed. Then he looked at the atlas on his knees. "You know what, Sam?" he said. "You're going to need a good map for your trip. Here. Unzip your bag and I'll put this in, as a farewell gift."
Sam pulled open the zipper of his traveling bag. Mr. Fosburgh leaned over from his chair and wedged the atlas on top of the curled up bear.
"Thank you," Sam said politely, although he didn't actually feel very grateful. He knew Mr. Fosburgh was correct, that he would need a map. But Sam didn't have any idea how to read a map. And the atlas made his traveling bag so heavy that now he had to use two hands to carry it, and it thunked against his knees.
Thinking about his knees, Sam remembered something else that he would probably need in Alaska.
"I forgot to bring Band-Aids," he said. "I have the ones that I stuck on myself. But what if I need new ones in Alaska?" (He was really thinking Because of bear bites, but he didn't say it.)
"Well, we have to go over and wake Mrs. Stein up from her nap. Maybe she has a few extra Band-Aids that you can have," Anastasia suggested.
"Mom does. Mom has these Band-Aids with stars and hearts on them, like this one." Sam said hopefully. He pushed his hair back so that his sister could see the Band-Aid across his forehead.
"I thought you were mad at Mom," Anastasia reminded him.
"I am. I don't like her anymore. But I still like her Band-Aids."
Anastasia sighed and opened the door to Mr. Fosburgh's front porch. "Got everything, Sam? Where are your fangs?"
Sam patted his pocket.
"Zip your jacket. It's getting chilly."
Sam zipped his jacket. If it was chilly now, in October, in Massachusetts, he wondered what it would be like in winter, in Sleet
mute. He began to worry about his ears.
At nursery school there was a picture book about Eskimo children. They all wore parkas with fur hoods.
"I think I need a fur hat," Sam said.
"Well," Anastasia said impatiently, "you should have thought of that before you decided to go to Alaska. You should have made a shopping list."
"I could ask for a fur hat for Christmas," Sam suggested.
"Fine. You do that. We'll mail you a fur hat to Alaska. Or Santa Claus can just drop one down the chimney of your igloo."
Sam remembered, suddenly, that Santa Claus lived up near Alaska somewhere. Santa Claus had a hat with fur, and he had mittens and boots.
Looking at himself, at his own light jacket, blue jeans, and sneakers, and remembering not only Santa Claus but also the picture book that showed Eskimo children bundled up with their faces barely showing, Sam began to feel that maybe he was not well prepared for winter in Sleetmute.
He wished that someone else would notice.
But Mr. Fosburgh was lighting a cigarette and Anastasia was looking at her watch.
"Come on," his sister said. "It's time to go wake up Mrs. Stein so she can get ready to come over for dinner. Look, Sam, it's starting to get dark out already."
Standing on Mr. Fosburgh's porch, Sam looked around the neighborhood and could see that the sun was beginning to set. The trees along the sidewalk were making long shadows that seemed to reach across the street. Lights were beginning to appear in people's windows.
After they woke up Mrs. Stein, he thought, and Anastasia went back home, he would be all alone. By then it would probably be seriously dark and very scary. Sam had never been outdoors alone after dark.
"I don't like the dark a whole lot," he said timidly. "I'm not scared of it," he added. "I just don't like it."
Mr. Fosburgh, about to close the door behind them, said, "Gee, Sam, you probably ought to start learning to like the dark. In Alaska, in the winter, it's dark all day long.