Facing the Hunchback of Notre Dame (11 page)

“Shouldn’t we do it now?” asked Linus.

Walter shook his head. “Quasi doesn’t seem to be the kind of person I’d want to wake out of a dead sleep.”

He doesn’t seem to be the kind of person who goes into a dead sleep at all
, thought Linus. But he held his tongue. He didn’t realize it then, of course, but had he spoken up, it might have made all the difference. He should have listened to his newfound intuition.

Naturally, the morning’s events failed to go exactly as planned.
Uncle Augustus had arisen early, made it to the hardware store by 8:00 a.m., and then enlisted the help of his niece and nephew by 8:30. As they were sitting around the breakfast table, he announced his horrible plans for the day. Dusty, dirty, filthy, disgusting plans.

Uncle Augustus buttered his toast bite-by-bite, while expounding (stating in detail) how to properly rip up carpet—the carpet in the living room, to be precise.

It was terrible carpet, to be sure. It should have been ripped up when Auggie and Portia moved into the building two decades before. Why anybody thought vines and frogs — disgusting dirty, slimy frogs — seemed a delightful motif (a repeated form in a design) for persons to walk across remains a mystery to this day. Thankfully, it is no more.

“So after you’ve removed all of the furniture, you’ll pull up the carpet from the nail strips around the edges of the room. Then take those utility knives” — he pointed to a paper bag sitting on the counter—”and cut the carpet into four-foot wide strips. Roll up the strips and secure them with duct tape, a roll of which can be found, for your convenience, in that same bag. And wear those face masks while you’re working, please. Who knows what’s lurking in all of that dust and dirt?”

I find I cannot even think about that right now. Moving right along
…

At 11:11 a.m., even with Walter’s help, and with only twenty-four hours left in Quasimodo’s visit, the twins were still slaving away. Now they were prying up the nail strips with a flathead screwdriver and a hammer. Linus found that part to be quite satisfying.

Ophelia grumbled, “There’s no telling what Cato and Frollo will do. We’ve got to think of something.”

Linus knew this to be true. Heavens, but he knew. Besides, she’d already muttered the exact same thing at least twenty times that morning. And poor Quasi was upstairs in the attic by himself. At least they’d managed to sneak up some cold cereal and a bottle of milk.

When he took a bite of the sugary cereal that Aunt Portia wasn’t savvy (worldly wise) enough to know not to buy for teenagers, a look of amazement crossed his face. “This is delicious!”

“I know!” said Ophelia, who also loves sweets. Right then she realized she would put together a backpack of goodies to send home with him — a care package, if you will. She figured if objects from Book World could make the trip into Real World, then it stood to reason that the opposite was also true.

Finally, around noon, they’d stripped the living room floor bare. Uncle Augustus sidled into the room to have a look. “Well done! Take the rest of the day off.”

They all sat back on their heels and sighed in relief.

“Oh, and the town’s engineers think the dam is going to hold just fine. Good news that, eh? Take a look outside!”

Linus pulled back the curtain to reveal not exactly a sunny day, but the rain had finally stopped.

“See you later, Uncle Auggie,” Ophelia said as she hurried from the room.

“Nothing like a clear in the weather to raise your spirits!” Uncle Augustus cried to their backs.

Walter headed over to Kingscross School to shower and change clothes. Meanwhile, the twins hurried up the steps to the attic, only to find that Quasimodo was gone!

“Cato knew I was awake!” Ophelia fumed. She’d been duped, deceived, and felt more gullible than the nerdy girl who’s suddenly taken under the wing of the cool group in one of those awful teen movies.

She did not care for this feeling one bit.

Clearly, I was happy not to be Cato Grubbs at that particular point in time. You would have been as well.

L
inus fetched Walter as Ophelia, still angry but trying her best to remain calm, searched the room for a clue as to where the other, and obviously new and improved, enchanted circle might be found. Surely Cato would take their friend there. She hoped they could get to Quasi before it was too late. Quasi simply couldn’t go back to Book World under those circumstances—right back into the stocks. It would be too cruel!

Ophelia looked under and around the scientific equipment, on the bookshelves, and then finally began rummaging through an old dresser. Just then, the little wooden carving of the dove came to life. At this point Ophelia wasn’t surprised, but she was certainly surprised that she wasn’t surprised! The dove alighted on a shoebox full of receipts that sat tucked in the top dresser drawer, then flew away to sit on the edge of an empty beaker.

Well, whatever, thought Ophelia as she began searching through the box.

Most of the receipts were from the hardware store or the grocery store, the usual electronically printed curls of paper. One, however, was a handwritten receipt from a shoe repair shop: Clean up and re-stitch red spangled party shoes—twenty dollars.

Cato stole Dorothy’s ruby slippers! Ophelia couldn’t believe it; but then again, yes she could. If she could travel into a book, she’d definitely abscond (steal and run) with those shoes. She might even
try to bring back that little picnic basket in which to carry the little dog she hoped to own one day. (No dog yet, by the way. Aunt Portia is severely allergic.)

According to the address on the receipt, the shoe repair shop was located about three blocks away, not far from that street where college students go to drink coffee and feel—what do they say now? — hip.

Ophelia went downstairs and showed the receipt to the boys. She said, “It isn’t much to go on, but at least it’s something.”

In ten minutes time, the three stood before Mr. Pine’s Shoe Repair, 56 Scout Alley. An old brass bell clanged against the door as they entered, and a man looked up from the worktable at the back of the shop. He pulled off his half eyes (reading glasses that rest on the end, not the bridge, of the nose) and squinted at them. His pale blue eyes reminded Linus of a Siberian Husky. And his facial hair, dark sideburns leading into a white beard, helped the overall sled dog image as well. The man quickly stood to his feet—he was Ophelia’s height.

“Can I help you?”

“Are you Mr. Pine?” asked Ophelia.

“No. Mr. Pine was the original owner. I bought the place several years ago and just kept the name. I’m Jack.”

“We’re trying to find the man who brought these shoes to you.” She handed Jack the receipt. “He used to live where we live now. Yesterday we brought up a bunch of stuff from our basement — just in case it flooded—and a lot of the stuff is his.”

Nicely done, Ophelia! Not a lie to be found. Of course, her stated intent was hardly on the up and up, so you must decide whether or not what she did was wrong. I’m not one to make that kind of judgment in a situation so dire. They simply had to find Quasimodo, you see, because less than twenty-four hours remained for him to get back inside the enchanted circle or end up like the Wicked Witch of the West.

Now there’s someone that nobody wants to see come through the circle.

No one knew if a character could enter Real World in one circle and leave it through another. Not Ophelia, at least, and she certainly
wouldn’t take that chance with somebody as nice as Quasimodo. Besides, if she put him back in Book World, she’d do so at a time that would implicate Frollo as a witch, and then Quasi would be free to live the sort of life he deserved.

“I definitely remember him,” Jack said. “Let me look him up in the book I use to keep track of my customers’ info — just in case they don’t show up to get their shoes.” He reached under the counter and pulled out an old composition book (the black and white speckled notebook you most likely used in school when learning how to form letters).

“Don’t you have a computer?” Linus asked.

“Yes, of course I have a computer,” Jack said in a mocking voice. “I just prefer not to use it for the really important stuff. Now, let’s see …” Jack ran a finger down one page, flipped it to the next one, and then finally the next. “Here it is. Cato Grubbs. 461 Bovary.”

Ophelia leaned over to look at the page. “Oh look! That is him!”

Next to each entry, Jack had drawn a tiny cartoon portrait of the customer. “I’m a bit of an amateur cartoonist.” He blushed.

“Nicely done!” said Walter.

“Do you recognize that street name, Ophelia?” asked Linus. “I don’t.”

“I’ve never been there,” Ophelia said.

“It’s close by,” said Jack. “Just take a right onto Heathcliff Street at the corner there, go one block, and then turn right onto Bovary.”

“Thanks,” she said. “We’d better get a move on. Nice meeting you.”

“Anytime.” He pushed a bowl of peppermint candies forward, and they each took one unwrapping the cellophane as they exited the shop.

Walter shoved the candy to the side of his mouth and placed his hands in the front pockets of his shorts as they set off down the sidewalk. “So off to Bovary, then. I wonder if the new enchanted circle is there?”

They walked up the hipster street lined with one bike shop, two vintage clothing boutiques, three bars offering live music every night, and four coffee shops. Oh, and I’m forgetting the CD exchange store.

Kingscross really is a lovely town, with flowers and trees growing all over the place. Some of the streets are still paved in brick, such as the one the threesome traversed (moved over) now. Heathcliff Street, the center of the good goings-on, ribboned across the highest point in town. And one important detail to know right now is that Rickshaw Street (where Seven Hills Better Books sits) is at the lowest point in town where the Bard River runs through it. So it was a bit of a climb to find Cato Grubbs.

Doing the things that one has to do for the sake of the greater good usually involves a climb of some sort. Get used to it. Life is not easy. There is room for only so many talentless pop stars and reality TV nincompoops, believe it or not, and thank goodness for that. The rest of us have to rise by the sweat of our own brow.

Walter chewed up the candy and then swallowed. “So, here we go then. What about a game plan, mates? Truly you’re not thinking we’ll simply pop on over, knock on the door, and say, ‘Hello there, Mr. Grubbs. We’ve come to take back our hunchback.’ “

“Not hardly,” Ophelia chuckled. “We do need a plan though. The good thing is they probably don’t know what we look—wait. Cato saw me lying on the sofa this morning. Drat.”

“Walter’s our best bet.” Linus pointed at the street sign for the next intersection. “Bovary.”

“Right, then.” Walter stopped. “Let’s think about this. You two probably shouldn’t walk down the street with me. And I’ll have to knock on the door under false pretenses. What should I say?”

Ophelia looked up, clearly thinking. “It can’t be that you’re selling something to raise money for school. First off, it’s summer vacation; and second, they might just slam the door in your face.”

Linus thought about the door-to-door sales he used to do back in Arizona to raise money for a band trip. He shuddered. Who wants a bunch of wrapping paper and candles? Now candy bars or popcorn, those he could work his mind around! And can’t we all?

“Keep it simple,” Linus said. “You’re lost and need directions.”

“Yes! And your accent will be perfect, Walter!” Ophelia added.

“Right.” Walter inhaled deeply. “Just keep watch from up the street in case something goes wrong.”

W
alter and worry rarely mixed. In London, Walter was what people back in my day called a “juvenile delinquent” (what’s known today as a “troubled teen”). In other words, sometimes he got into things that he really should have avoided. The police (or “bobbies” as they call them over there) delivered Walter to his mum’s doorstep from time to time, and they even tried to frighten him with a night in jail.

No wonder Auntie Max offered him a year at Kingscross School.

But Walter wasn’t stupid—or evil. He was undeniably bored and just seemed to fall in with people who were always looking for trouble. Kingscross was to be his fresh start, so what he used to do in the past is none of our business. He was as ready for a clean slate as anyone else would be. Looking over your shoulder becomes tiresome after a while.

Therefore, knocking on somebody’s door and asking for directions was less than nothing, perhaps a negative fifteen, to a young man like Walter.

The houses on Bovary stood shoulder to shoulder and shared the sidewalls. Some people call such dwellings “rowhouses.” Not at all large, they were gathered together in a humbler section of town than where the Kingscross School stood. Yet each owner lovingly cared for their property by painting the façades (front outside walls) a variety of cheerful hues. And all of the homes were friendly and
welcoming, festooned with wreathes and other seasonal decorations such as birdhouses and cinnamon brooms. Except, naturally, the house in front of Walter.

Cato’s neighbors must really be chapped, Walter thought as he compared the peeling, sickly green coat of paint on the house in front of him to the sunflower gold on his right and the Caribbean blue on his left.

Walter rapped on the door and waited.

He rapped again.

“Hold your pants on! I’m coming!” a gravelly female voice yelled.

When the door opened, Walter’s intuition kicked in. Say what you will about kids with street smarts, but sometimes it comes in handy.

“I’m looking for Cato Grubbs,” he said with confidence.

“That bum!” the woman squinted at him, her beady eyes practically disappearing into a rather large face framed by long straight hair that was blacker than black. “He doesn’t live here anymore. You’re not related to him, are you?”