“Where did he work?”
“Any number of places,” she said. “Then he settled with El Camino Construction. A small, independent place in town. It’s over on—”
“East D Street. I’ve seen the signs.”
She waggled her head left-to-right: “I must admit that he was happy with what he was doing; working construction by day to feed his family, then reading and stargazing through that huge telescope of his at night.” She didn’t quite smile, but the lines around her eyes softened for a moment.
Norman began to speak but his mother interrupted, “No, you may not use your father’s telescope.”
Norman nodded. Luigi ruffled his feathers.
“He had hair that was not quite auburn, but still not brown, and green eyes that saw right through you. He had pale, almost ivory skin; the sunburns he had while working construction were God-awful. He had long, elegant fingers.”
And then she smiled. A beautiful, sad and wistful smile.
“Norman, you resemble him in many ways. I don’t tell you often enough, but you are an important part of our family.” She pressed her lips against Norman’s forehead. Mrs. Babbit rose and stroked the wrinkles out of her skirt.
“Night, Mom.”
She opened the bedroom door. TV sounds drifted up the stairs. Mrs. Babbit cleared her throat and said, “Good night Norman.”
Norman gave Luigi some fresh water, then jumped into bed. He stared at the mirror-stars on his ceiling, then fell asleep and dreamed he was a huge purple tree frog clinging to the Great Wall of China—eating cheeseburgers.
He awoke in the middle of the night and stumbled out of bed. Luigi was wide-awake on his skull-perch. Norman stroked his lucky nickel, flicked on the computer and opened his Algebra book. He thumbed to the page he wanted and started typing. “I got you, Tom Allen. I got you.”
Chapter 14
Despite waking during the night, Norman awoke early Saturday morning. After breakfast, eight slices of cinnamon toast, only two of them overdone, he scampered upstairs and knocked on Marcus’ door.
No answer.
Norman knocked two more times, then he entered. Marcus’ bed was unmade; a pair of Nike hightops were on the desk. The mouse cage was at the foot of the bed, with a dogeared Spanish II workbook on top. Norman placed the Conversaciones en Español text on the desk next to the hightops. Bending to pick up the cage Norman had a feeling he wasn’t alone.
Turning around he remembered why he always felt like that in Marcus’ room. The near wall had no furniture placed against it; simply a wall with a door. But the entire wall, and door, was covered with color pictures of sports stars. Marcus had clipped the pictures from Sports Illustrated and wallpapered his room with the photos. Norman, the CONTROL cage of mice in hand, was spied on by the images of Michael Jordan, Kevin Garnett, Shaq, Barry Bonds, Michael Vick, Sammy Sosa, Eddie George, Tiger Woods, and a hundred others who swam, hurdled, tackled, shot basketballs, and bunted. Norman always felt uncomfortable under the inspection of so many unblinking eyes. As he left the room he wondered how Marcus could sleep with a wall like that across from his bed.
From Marcus’ room Norman walked down the hall to the left, entered the spare bedroom and disconnected the 3800 CPM buzzer from the cage. With a cage in each hand he stepped—precisely, keeping the cages level—down the stairs. Doris, still in her pajamas, with an errant pigtailed plastered to her left cheek, watched Muppet Babies.
“Hey Doris,” said Norman, “do you want to help me weigh the mice and clean the cages?”
“No way.”
“I thought you liked my mice?”
“I do like your mice. I don’t like you.”
“Thanks for sharing.”
Norman entered the pantry and placed the three cages side-by-side-by-side. Except for the labels: CONTROL, 3800 CPM, 1500 CPM, the cages were identical. Each cage contained thirty squirming white mice. In each cage at least two of the three exercise wheels were spinning and a white furry form sucked at every water bottle.
But Norman had spent every morning during the last two months in the company of these ninety mice, and the three cages, to him, were as distinct as Marcus, Doris, and himself. The CONTROL cage was calm and orderly—for mice. The rodents were plump and healthy. The 1500 CPM cage was like the CONTROL cage except for two mice. These mice were this cage’s clowns and Norman had named them Ike and Zeke. Ike always tried to run on the outside of the exercise wheel. He’d hook his claws into the wire mesh of the wheel and try to climb on top. He’d make it halfway, then fly off into the air and land on his back, scattering cedar chips and mice when he landed. Zeke was less acrobatic. He would simply climb the cage and stay there like a child who is halfway up a tree and is too scared to continue upwards or return to earth. Several times during the last two months Norman had to unfurl Zeke’s claws from the cage and return him to the cedar chips.
The 3800 CPM cage was the jewel of Norman’s experiment. The mice in this cage were just as healthy and active, but they were noticeably sleeker. Throughout the experiment Norman noticed that this group left more food uneaten than the other two groups and, hopefully, the data would support his observations.
To complete the data gathering, Norman had to weigh the mice in each cage and arrive at an Average Cage Weight. He had weighed and averaged the mice two months ago; all three cages were almost identical in weight: plus-or-minus 3% variation. The new figures should show a markedly increased deviation, which would support his theory that appetite can be controlled, to a certain degree, by systematic exposure to specific frequencies during mealtime.
Norman had designed a little jacket for weighing the mice. The jacket was a washcloth with Velcro closures sewn into the corners. He would fish a mouse from the cage, wrap him in the jacket and pop him onto the scale. Whatever the mouse weighed Norman would subtract nineteen grams, to account for the washcloth-jacket’s weight. The scientific scale with PROPERTY OF KENILWORTH JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL stenciled on its side was on a pantry shelf. Norman set the scale on the floor next to the cages and calibrated it to 00.00. He unlocked the Control cage then realized he’d left his notebook in his room. “Patience, gentlemen,” said Norman, to the mice, “I’ll be right back.
Once again, Norman sprinted upstairs. He looked in his desk’s top drawer, but the notebook wasn’t there. “That’s right,” Norman said to Luigi, “I left it by the computer last night.” Norman touched his lucky nickel, and tucked his notebook under his arm.
That’s when he heard the scream.
It started low and built to a shriek that could shatter glass. The scream peaked, stopped suddenly, and then climbed to an ear-shattering note. Norman, notebook in hand, sprinted downstairs and into the TV room. Doris thrashed around on the floor like the victim in a horror movie. Her stuck pigtail had come undone and flapped like a flag in the breeze. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her face was crimson, creeping to scarlet. She stopped rolling, knelt, faced Norman and screamed: “AHHHHHHHHHH! MOUSE!”
“You like my mice.”
“Only when they’re in the cage.”
“Doris,” said Norman, “you got a lot of rules about mice.” He spotted an escapee from the Control cage he’d left unlocked. The mouse cowered behind the TV. He tossed his notebook onto the couch and scooped up the mouse.
Doris pointed to the kitchen, “More mice.”
Norman turned and saw a procession of mice marching through the kitchen. He placed the recently captured fugitive into his left pants’ pocket. “C’mon and help me, Doris. If mom sees this she’ll kill me.”
“You deserve what you get, you stupid scientist.” Doris returned her attention to the TV, concentrating on a Froot Loops commercial.
“Thank you, Doris,” said Norman, “you’ve been helpful.” Norman walked slowly past the escapees in the kitchen and counted the mice remaining in the Control cage. “Sixteen, plus one in my pocket. Thirteen loose mice.” He plopped the mouse from his pocket into the cage, locked the door, a
nd grabbed a paper sack off a pantry shelf.
And Norman began his rodent safari.
He immediately captured two mice still in the pantry, dropping them softly into the bag. He dropped to his knees and crawled into the kitchen. A mouse cowered in a corner: Norman grabbed it. “Three down, ten to go.”
Norman crawled into the kitchen. A trio of rodents lingered by the refrigerator. Two were captured; the third scurried away. Norman stopped and listened. He heard a slight scratching sound by the cabinet where the granola and whole grains were kept. Norman crossed the linoleum on all fours like a bear stalking his last meal before hibernation. He opened the cupboard door. Five mice gnawed at a box of granola. Norman calmly plucked the mice one-by-one from the box of unsweetened multigrain cereal. “Ten down, three to go.” Norman turned and bumped into a pink bathrobe. He glanced down and saw fuzzy brown slippers. He glanced up, “Hi Mom.”
“It’s not even nine o’clock, Norman, what are you doing?”
“Saturday chores.”
“You have outdoor chores his week. Marcus cleans the kitchen.”
“I forgot.” The mice in the bag squeaked, shuffled, and shifted.
“What’s in the bag, Norman?”
“Mostly air.”
“What’s in there besides air?”
“Mice.”
“Mice?”
“White mice from my science project. A few got loose.”
“How many is a few?”
Norman’s legs ached from kneeling. He shifted positions, sat down, and said, “Thirteen.”
“Thirteen?”
“Yeah.” Norman spotted a mouse nibbling at his mother’s brown slippers. “Don’t move.”
“What?” Norman dove, nabbed the fugitive and dropped him in the bag.
“Norman, I’m going back to bed. I’m developing a—”
“Migraine?”
Mrs. Babbit nodded. “Wake me when you’ve ridden the house of rodents.”
“Including Doris?”
She stared down at her son. “That’s not funny, Norman. Not funny.”
“It wasn’t a joke.”
Mrs. Babbit turned and retreated, her slippers making a swish-slap, swish-slap sound on the kitchen floor.
Norman sat unmoving, listening for mouse noises. He didn’t hear any. He returned to the cereal cabinet and removed the box of granola. He poured a small pyramid of cereal in the center of the floor.
Marcus, dripping sweat, entered the kitchen. He looked at the pile of breakfast cereal, then at Norman. “It tastes better in a bowl with milk, Sport.”
“I’ve had breakfast. I’m trying to catch a couple of mice. That’s the bait.”
Marcus nodded as if it were perfectly normal for an eleven-year-old to use organic cereal to lure stray mice on a Saturday morning. Marcus crossed to the sink and gulped water straight from the tap. He wiped his chin on his shirt, “Where’s Doris?”
“TV.”
“Mom?”
“Migraine.”
“A migraine at nine-fifteen AM,” said Marcus. “Congrats, Norman, that’s a new record.”
“Shh.” Norman pointed at two mice inching toward the cereal. He let them almost nibble, handed the sack full of air and mice to Marcus and sprang on his prey. He captured the pair, and said, “Numbers twelve and thirteen.”
“Thirteen mice on the loose? No wonder mom’s in bed.”
“Open the sack.”
Norman inserted the final two escapees. “Thanks Marcus.”
“Are you coming to my baseball game today?”
Norman stared at his sweaty brother. “You go jogging the morning of your game?”
“Just a couple of miles. To keep loose.”
“Who are you playing?”
“Healdsburg.”
“I’ll be there. But I might be late. It takes me about three hours to weigh my mice.”
“Weigh your mice? Sometimes I worry about you, Sport.”
Chapter 15
Norman and Chris arrived at the game in the top of the third inning. Casa Grande was in the field with Marcus at second base. There was a runner on first with one out. Suzanne and several friends sat behind the Casa Grande dugout, chanting, “Defense, defense, defense.” Chris and Norman settled onto the hardwood planks of the bleachers directly behind homeplate. Chris looked at the scoreboard and said, “Zero to zero. Good, we haven’t missed anything.”
“What you’ve missed,” said a man behind them “is a great defensive game. The most interesting part of a baseball game isn’t the number of runs scored.”
Norman and Chris turned around. The man wore a Mets cap and blue bib-overalls over a green t-shirt. “The most interesting part of a baseball game for me,” said Chris, “is how the outfielders stay awake. No wonder all those pros take drugs. They need them to keep their eyes open.”
“That’s no attitude,” said the Mets fan. “There a world of activity in the outfield.”
“Yeah,” said Chris, “if you’re a butterfly.”
“Or a gardener,” said Norman.
“What sports do you boys like?” asked Mets.
“Football,” said Chris.
“Astronomy,” said Norman.
A crack of the bat returned the trio’s attention to the game. A scorching ground ball bounced to Marcus’ right. He dove and smothered the ball; from his knees he flipped the ball to the shortstop who danced across second base and strong-armed a throw to first, completing the double play. The meager crowd clapped their approval.
“See,” said Mets, “a 4-6-3 double play. That second baseman is a good one.”
“I know,” said Norman. “He’s my brother.” Chris and Norman high-fived each other and moved three rows down, away from the commentator.
Casa Grande’s leadoff batter in the bottom of the third was walked on four consecutive pitches. Marcus batted next. The front of his uniform was smeared with dirt, apparently that hadn’t been his first diving catch of the game. Healdsburg’s coach walked out to the mound to settle his pitcher down. “I’ve always wondered,” said Norman, “why baseball coaches dress like the players. Basketball coaches don’t wear shorts and football coaches don’t wear helmets. Why do baseball coaches dress like that?”
“Are you asking me?” said Chris.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“You’re a jock.”
“I don’t know,” said Chris. “Ask me a question about football.”
“Okay. Who won the first Heisman Trophy?”
“I don’t know,” said Chris. “Who?”
“Jay Berwanger.”
“How do you know that?”
“I heard it during a game of Trivial Pursuit. I remember things.”
“Just watch the game, Einstein.”
Healdsburg’s coach had finished his instructions to the pitcher. Marcus entered the batter’s box and the runner took a short lead off first. The pitcher wound up and delivered the ball. The pitch was high and inside. Marcus ducked back but the ball sailed inside and hit him on the jaw. He crumpled to the ground.
He wasn’t moving.
Norman bounded down the bleachers to the Casa Grande dugout. An overweight coach, dressed like his players, tried to stop him but Norman scooted around the coach and sprinted to Marcus.
Marcus still hadn’t moved. A thin stream of blood trickled from his mouth and puddled in the dirt. The umpires and coaches from both teams huddled around Marcus. Norman squeezed his skinny frame between two umpires and knelt beside Marcus. An umpire grabbed Norman by the shoulder. “I’m staying right here,” said Norman. “He’s my brother.”
“I’ve called an ambulance,” said the other umpire, snapping shut a tiny green cellphone.
One of Casa Grande’s coaches arrived with towels and a bag of ice. He used two towels as a pillow. Norman had snatched the ice from him and pressed it against Marcus’ jaw, which was already swollen and discolored. The soprano whine of a distant ambulance disturbed the hus
hed silence of the baseball diamond. Norman looked up and saw Chris, standing beyond the circle of players and coaches, with Suzanne. Chris looked confused and concerned at the same time. Suzanne, pale and trembling, could barely hold back her tears.
* * *
“All the X-rays are negative, Mrs. Babbit,” said the doctor.
“My God,” said Mrs. Babbit, “I knew it.”
“Mom,” said Norman, “negative is good. It means they didn’t find any internal damage.”
“Really?” she asked the doctor.
“Yes. You can take him home tomorrow,” said the doctor. “We’d like to keep him overnight for observation.”
“Can we see him now?” said Suzanne.
“For a few minutes, no problem,” said the doctor.
Suzanne, Mrs. Babbit, and Norman followed the pink-faced doctor down the corridor. “Where’s Doris?” asked Mrs. Babbit.
“She’s watching television in the lounge,” said Suzanne.
“Go sit with your sister, Norman,” said Mrs. Babbit.
“I want to see Marcus,” said Norman.
“Go sit with your sister,” said Mrs. Babbit.
“After I see Marcus,” said Norman.
“I suppose she’ll be fine. Come on, Norman.”
Marcus was drowsy, but managed a weak smile. Mrs. Babbit held his hand. Norman almost managed to look away as Suzanne kissed Marcus on the side of his face that wasn’t swollen. Norman stood at the foot of the bed and said, “How you feeling?”
“Big headache,” mumbled Marcus.
“I can imagine,” said Norman. From the point of Marcus’ chin to an inch below his left eye Marcus’ face was purple. Both eyes were puffy.
“Go home?” said Marcus, trying to speak without moving his jaw.
“Tomorrow,” said Mrs. Babbit.
Marcus nodded and said, “Won?”
“What?” said Suzanne.
“Who won?” repeated Marcus.
“Casa Grande did,” said Norman. “Five to four in the bottom of the eleventh. The coach just called.” Marcus, looking like a Halloween goblin, smiled and fell asleep.