Chocolate Fever (6 page)

As the police car turned out of sight at the end of the treelined dirt road, they were still laughing.

“Come on, kid,” said Mac, between chuckles, “we’ve still got some candy to deliver!”

His NAME WAS ALFRED CANE, but his friends called him Sugar. Sugar Cane was the owner of one of the largest candy distributing companies in the East. Chances are, if you’ve ever bought a candy bar east of the Ohio River, it came from Alfred Cane’s warehouse.

It was a very large business.

But Sugar Cane was still interested in every one who worked for him. So when he saw Mac’s big rig pull up in the warehouse yard, Mr. Cane was very much relieved.

So was Mac. And Henry. They had made that telephone call to Mrs. Green, you see, and a happy, tearful conversation it was. As soon as Mac dropped off his load of candy, he was going to take Henry home.

Henry liked Mr. Cane the minute he saw him. There was something about the twinkle in his eyes that even his spectacles didn’t hide, that made him seem friendly. And with his gray hair and mustache, Mr. Cane looked not a little like Santa Claus.

Henry liked Mr. Cane’s office, too. It was warm and cozy. And the walls were lined with shelves containing every single product the big warehouse handled. Imagine seeing every kind of candy bar, cookie, and cake all in one spot. It made you hungry just to be there.

When they had seated themselves and recounted their adventures—laughing quite a bit in the bargain—Mr. Cane leaned forward in his chair and took a long, close look at Henry. “Henry Green,” he said, “if it won’t offend you, I would like to ask you something about those big brown spots you seem to have all over.”

It seemed to Henry that he had explained a million times already, but he went through the story again from beginning to end. Mr. Cane was listening closely, paying keen attention to Henry’s every word.

When Henry finished, Mr. Cane spoke. “And so you say that this Dr. Fargo of yours called it Chocolate Fever, eh? Hmmm. I find that terribly interesting.”

“I find it just plain terrible,” said Henry. “Big brown ugly spots all over . . . looking like a freak . . . people staring at me. And all because of chocolate.”

“And all because of chocolate,” Mr. Cane echoed. He shook his head once or twice, and a strange look came over his face.

There was a long silence. When Alfred Cane spoke again, it was in a quiet voice. “Henry Green,” he said, “let me tell you a story.

“It’s about a boy I once knew. A boy like you. Oh, this boy loved chocolate, too, like you once did. Chocolate in the morning? Yes. Morning, noon, and night he ate the magic stuff. And if you think you have invented new ways of chocolatiness, so did this lad. Chocolate-covered fried chicken! Chocolate french toast . . . with chocolate syrup. There was no end to the ways of chocolate with this boy I’m speaking of.

“And, like you, a strange thing happened to him. In fact, the very same thing.”

“You mean?” said Henry, suddenly excited.

“Yes,” said the old man with a nod, “big brown spots all over.”

“Chocolate Fever!” Henry exclaimed.

“The very same.”

Henry could hardly contain himself. “But how did he—”

“How was he cured, you mean?” Alfred Cane was smiling now. “Well, the cure was in two parts. And the first was the most important. You see, this boy I once knew had to learn a very sad lesson, as all young people must do. Although life is grand, and pleasure is everywhere, we can’t have
everything we want every time we want it
! It’s a hard lesson, but it comes in time.”

“Yes,” said Henry, “I think I understand. Maybe I have had too much of a good thing.”

“Indeed.”

“I’ll eat less chocolate, then. Only when I really, really want to.”

“Very good. That is half the battle.”

“And the second half?” Henry asked.

Alfred Cane smiled. “Very simple, when you think about it. What is the exact opposite of chocolate? What is the one flavor that is the reverse of the chocolate we know and love?”

“Vanilla!”

Mr. Cane walked slowly to his desk, opened the top right-hand drawer, and brought out a small white box. “Vanilla pills, Henry Green. The very thing that will cure your Chocolate Fever within the hour. That is, if you have truly learned the first—and hardest—part of your cure.”

Henry could hardly speak. He wanted to laugh, he was so happy. He wanted to cry, he was so sad. But all he could do was nod.

“Wahoo!” said Mac with a whoop. “Vanilla pills! Who would have thought it?”

“There’s one more thing,” Mr. Cane said. “That young man I spoke about, the one who reminded me so much of you.”

“Yes.”

“When he grew up, he decided to spend his life bringing joy and happiness to others. And the way he did it, you see, was to bring chocolate to the world. To make sure that when anyone wanted pleasure, there would be chocolate someplace close by.”

Henry thought he knew who that other boy was. “His name?” he asked.

“His name was Alfred Cane,” said Alfred Cane, “but his friends called him Sugar.” Mr. Cane stepped forward and shook Henry’s hand. “Now you run along with Mac. And if you take those pills on the way, I guarantee that your Chocolate Fever will be gone by the time you get home. Good-bye now, and remember what I’ve said.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Cane,” said Henry.

“You can call me Sugar.”

“And you can call me Henry.”

“HEY, SLEEPYHEAD,” said Mrs. Green, shaking Henry’s shoulder ever so gently, “are you going to sleep forever?”

Henry stretched and yawned, smiling up at his mother. It was good to be back in his own bed. Good to be where he belonged.

It was Sunday in the Green household. In fact, it was Sunday all over the world. And in the dining room, all the Greens were having a late and lazy breakfast.

“If you can shake a leg just a little,” Mrs. Green went on, “I think we might manage to have some pancakes ready for you, dear. Just the way you like them.”

Henry hopped out of bed. He felt wonderful this morning. The way he always used to feel. He brushed his teeth carefully and paused on his way to the breakfast table only to make a few ugly faces at himself in the mirror. With all those big brown spots gone (forever, he hoped) he didn’t look half-bad, except when he crossed his eyes.

There was a big greeting for Henry when he sat down at the table. Elizabeth, who was wearing her special blue dressing gown, even kissed him. And Mark stopped eating long enough to stick out his hand and ruffle Henry’s hair.

“There is lots of news for you today, Henry,” Daddy Green said as Henry was drinking his orange juice. “The company that makes all those candy bars sent me a letter. They want to give you some kind of award for helping to foil that hijacking.”

“Really, Dad?” said Elizabeth. “That’s super.”

“Yes, indeed,” Henry’s father went on, “it surely is. And Mac called just a few minutes ago. Wanted to know if we could go over to his house tomorrow and have dinner with his family.”

“Could we, Dad?” asked Henry. “Gee, that’s swell.”,

“Right, son, we certainly can. And Nurse Molly Farthing is dropping by this afternoon, just to say hello, and there’s even more news.”

“My goodness,” said Mrs. Green on her way to the table with Henry’s pancakes, “everything seems to happen at once to our Henry. Dr. Fargo wants to see you after school on Monday.”

“Do I have to?” said Henry.

“Yes, you have to,” Daddy Green said.

“Okay,” said Henry, although he didn’t like it.

“He’s a good doctor, dear,” Henry’s mother said, “and if you like, I’ll go with you.

“Now here’s your pancakes,” she said as she placed a steaming stack before Henry, “and for a special treat, just this once, I have your favorite chocolate syrup.”

Henry’s face lit up. His hand shot out and took hold of the syrup pitcher, but just as he was about to pour the sweet brown mixture over his pancakes, he changed his mind. “You know what, Mom?” he said. “Just this once I think I’ll skip it. Plain old maple syrup will do.”

The family stared at Henry, as well they might. It was the first time they had ever seen Henry turn away from anything that had to do with chocolate.

His father’s smile was as wide as a river. “Enid,” he said, “I think our little one is growing up fast.”

Henry was into his pancakes now, and they were quickly disappearing. The syrup was good and mapley, the pancakes had a delicious wheat flavor, and washed down with cold milk it was extra good. But still, something was missing. Some taste. Some kind of spark that would make it even better.

There was a small can of cinnamon on the table which Elizabeth sometimes used on her toast. Henry wondered how cinnamon would taste on what was left of his stack of pancakes. He reached out for the canister and sprinkled just a little bit of cinnamon on his plate. Then he tasted it.

Hmmm,
Henry thought,
that’s pretty good. In fact, it’s very good. I wonder how cinnamon would be on cereal? Like oatmeal, maybe. Or cream of wheat. And maybe cinnamon would be good on other things. Ice cream or French Fries or maybe even . . . cinnamon milk!

And then Henry had still another thought.
Could you ever have too much cinnamon? Could a person overdo it and . . . was there such a thing as Cinnamon Fever?

What do you think?