Jack on the Tracks (15 page)

Just then I heard Pete start down the hall. He liked to get up after me so I could make him toast with butter and jam. I thought, Should I tell him about Miss Kitty III?
No,
I decided. There was only one way to catch the culprit. I had to surprise him. I stood to the side of the refrigerator where I could get a good look at Pete’s face to see if it showed signs of guilt.

“Good morning,” he said sleepily.

“Top o’ the day to you,” I replied, just as he opened the door. In about two seconds he started to let out a horror movie scream but I leapt forward and covered his mouth.

“Settle down,” I said, and removed my hand. “It’s too late to do anything about it now.” Then I heard Betsy come down the hall. “Hush,” I whispered to Pete. “This’ll be good.”

When she came around the corner Pete and I were standing next to the refrigerator looking totally innocent.

Betsy smirked at us. “What are you two morons up to this morning?” she asked.

‘Just being morons,” I replied as she opened the refrigerator door.

“Oh my God!” she shouted and slammed it. She glared at me. “Is this your sick idea of a joke?” she snapped.

“Relax,” I said. “We don’t know how it happened. Now stand over here with us,” I said. “Mom’s coming.”

When Mom turned the corner she was yawning and rubbing her eyes. “How come the three of you are so quiet and not fighting yet this morning?” she asked.

“We called a truce,” I replied. “You know, like in the old wars when both sides would call a cease-fire so they could remove the dead bodies from the battlefield.”

“Charming,” Mom muttered, then asked, “Have you seen Miss Kitty III?”

“Nope,” I replied.

“Not yet,” Betsy said.

Pete twisted his head, no.

Then Mom opened the refrigerator door. She reached in for the coffee cream and didn’t seem to notice anything weird. She’s not wearing her glasses, I thought. But then she stooped down to reach for the cream cheese and pretty much shook Miss Kitty Ill’s hand. Her mouth opened but no sound came out. I leapt forward and grabbed her before she let loose a bloodcurdling scream.

“It’s okay,” I said to her. “Well, maybe not okay, but there is nothing we can do about it.”

“How did it happen?” she asked.

“I’m trying to figure that out,” I said.

I could hear Dad coming down the hall and by the time he turned the corner we were standing in a huddle next to the refrigerator.

“What are you all up to this morning?” he asked.

‘Just having a loving family moment,” Mom replied, and gave him a crooked smile.

He opened the door, paused, then slowly turned and looked at us. “Good Lord,” he said. “Who killed this one?”

“Not me,” said Pete.

“Certainly wasn’t me,” Betsy said emphatically.

“Innocent,” Mom said.

Then everyone looked at me. “I didn’t have anything to do with it!” I cried out.

“But who else could it be?” said Betsy, bearing down and poking me in the chest with her finger. “You are the only cat serial killer in this house. Now confess!”

“Yes!” everyone said at once. “Confess!”

Without a doubt in their minds they had me pegged as the killer of Miss Kitty III. But it wasn’t me this time. They were just judging me by my reputation.

“I can prove I’m innocent,” I shouted, and thumped myself on the chest with my fist.

“Then prove it,” Betsy said arrogantly. “Go right ahead. We are all waiting to hear your explanation.”

I knew what I had to do. I ran up the hall and into Pete’s room. There was no water glass next to his bed. I ran into Mom and Dad’s room. No water glass. I checked the bathroom. No glass. Then I ran into Betsy’s room. The water glass was right on her bedside table next to her allergy medicine. I smiled a very big smile to myself as I held the glass behind my back and marched into the kitchen.

I looked Betsy directly in the eye. “How come you aren’t sneezing this morning?” I asked, sounding as genuinely concerned about her health as possible.

She looked at me suspiciously.

“Answer him,” Dad ordered. He had taken over as judge on the case.

“Because I took my medicine last night,” she replied.
“Before
I went to the Guggies.” She took the glass from my hand and sniffed it. “Iced coffee,” she said. “Two days old.”

“I don’t believe you,” I said.

‘Just hold your horses, Sherlock,” she replied. “We all ate at the Guggies and when we came home we went to bed. There was only one person at home with the cat last night. You! And it’s my guess that you were eating like a pig in front of the refrigerator again and the cat got inside. Then the car pulled up in the driveway, you panicked because you were supposed to be in bed, so you slammed the door and Miss Kitty was still inside.”

“Impossible,” I said. “I was in bed the whole time. I didn’t do it. It couldn’t have been me.” Yet, as I defended myself, a cold feeling went up my spine. As cold as Miss Kitty III. It had to be me. And I knew Betsy was right. I just didn’t have the inner strength to confess. I couldn’t say, Yes, it was my fault, like an adult would.

“Well,
whoever
is responsible for this,” Dad said, “knows it in their heart. And I for one, sure wouldn’t want to live with myself.”

Again, I wanted to blurt out, It was me! But I didn’t have the guts to say so. Instead, I looked Betsy in the eye and asked, “Where is your evidence?”

“Well,” she replied, “it just so happens that while you were collecting dirty glasses I did a bit of snooping on my own.” She held out the jar of Cheez Whiz with the gummy worm still in it. In her other hand she had the chicken bones. “Signs that Jack has been here,” she said. “Plus look at the food fingerprints all over the refrigerator door.”

“That could be anyone,” I said desperately.

“But I have more evidence,” she said coldly, staring directly into my eyes.

Suddenly it struck me. Where was the magazine? Mom would kill me if she knew I broke a promise.

“An adult would own up to their actions,” Betsy said, giving me another chance to do the adult thing.

I was mute. I didn’t know what would be worse. Owning up to killing Miss Kitty, or having Betsy show Mom the magazine.

“A responsible, secure person would admit their mistake and learn from it,” Betsy said, applying pressure.

I couldn’t take it anymore. “It was me,” I said meekly, with my head bowed. “It was an accident.”

Mom just stared at me with tears in her eyes, and shook her head. “Poor Miss Kitty,” she cried.

“I’m telling Tack,” Pete hollered.

“I don’t know what has gotten into you,” Dad said.

“I’m just trying to be an adult,” I explained.

“Well, I have news for you,” he replied. “Whatever you’re doing, it’s not working.”

No one had anything more to say to me. “I’ll take care of Miss Kitty III from here,” I said. “I’ve had some experience with this sort of thing.”

As soon as everyone left I put a plastic bag over Miss Kitty III and took her out the back door. I walked down to the shed and got the shovel. And then I did what I had already done two times before. Only this time I wished I could crawl into the hole with Miss Kitty III and shovel the dirt back up over myself. As I dug I looked at my cat. “When you have no self-control,” I said to her, and myself, “there is no such thing as
no harm done.”

When I returned to my room Betsy was waiting for me.

“You left this in the kitchen,” she said, and handed me the magazine.

“Well, I won’t be needing that anymore,” I said. “I plan to remain a kid for as long as I can.”

“You don’t have a choice,” Betsy said.

She was right. I was a kid and there was no reason to fight it. “So, why’d you let me off the hook?” I asked.

“Because the only way to become an adult is for
you
to make the right choices,” she said. “And confessing was a good start.”

“One more thing,” I said. “What do you do when you’re home alone?”

“Believe it or not!” she snapped. “Sometimes I’m just thinking about how to help you grow up and keep you from becoming a pathetic-boy display in the Ripley’s Odditorium!” Then she turned, walked down to the kitchen, and made herself a cup of coffee.

S
ummer was almost here. It was already hot in the early morning and I was sitting out back staring beyond our yard toward the dandelions and train tracks. All day, every day, the long freight trains rumbled back and forth. They brought in lumber, cement, steel beams, roof tiles, nails, tools, bulldozers, earthmovers, fishing boats, cars, and people. South Florida was being built up with things made in places that had already been built up. We wanted what they had, and they wanted what we had. On the return trip the trains carried huge royal palm trees, pallets of coral block and limestone cut right from the earth, and crates of oranges, limes, and grapefruit. It was as if all of South Florida was being replaced. The trees, swamps, alligators, flamingos, Seminole Indians, and fish were being taken away. Before long we’d be filled up with pieces of Ohio, New Jersey, Indiana, and Michigan. Soon, those states would look like ours. But I wondered if such enormous changes really would work. I didn’t think you could just mix everything up. Some things would change for the worse if moved. When icebergs broke away from the Arctic, I reminded myself, they melted down to nothing on their way south.

Just as Florida was building on the outside, I was building on the inside, where no one could see the changes taking place. Even I couldn’t see them. Still, I knew trainloads of ideas made up in my brain and feelings leaping out of my heart were shifting around within me. It was confusing to try and figure out what was going on. Sometimes it felt as if my brain was growing faster than my skull and my head would explode. All I knew was that I woke with some pressure building up inside me where I didn’t yet have the words to express it. Whatever change was going to take place was still a mystery to me. Caterpillars must have felt the same way before they dozed off to burst awake later as butterflies.

The thought of all this oncoming change made me nervous, so I rolled my sleeve up and checked on my hookworm. Now, that was something I could see. I didn’t know how I got it. Three days before, it just appeared. The first day the worm had made a little mark, the size of a comma, on my forearm. Once I knew he was busy I kept monitoring his progress. He was a hardworking worm. He never slept. Even in the middle of the night he was still at it.

At the end of the second day the spiral had circled around twice and he was picking up speed. By the third day I looked as if I had pressed my forearm down over an electric-stove burner. But I still wasn’t ready to get rid of him. He was a secret pet and, unlike me, he would never change. On and on forever, like every other hookworm on the planet, he would spiral around. He didn’t make straight lines or zigzags or figure eights. Only spirals. I wished my life was as simple as his. But I knew better. Life had more in store for me than just going in circles.

My only fear was that he’d finish his job on my arm when I wasn’t watching and move to a fresh place like the inside of my eye, where he’d spiral around and around, and drill it through before moving on to do the same with my brain. Sooner or later I’d have to get some medicine, but not yet. I rolled my sleeve back down and went inside.

“Is my ride here yet?” I asked Mom. We were almost finished with the school year. Mrs. Pierre was sick of us and we were sick of her. It was only a matter of moments before the entire class went insane and everyone was at each other’s throats. All year long there wasn’t money for anything special, then suddenly we were taken on a field trip almost every week. We had been to the Planetarium, the Seaquarium, the Parrot Jungle, and the Monkey Jungle. Now we were going to Vizcaya, a huge old mansion filled with French art and furniture. It was now a museum.

“No,” Mom said. She was gluing on a new set of red fingernails and waiting for her ride to work. The glue smelled like burning plastic and made the inside of my nose sting.

Suddenly there was a knock on the door. We both stood up and stepped forward. I turned the doorknob because Mom’s nails weren’t dry yet.

It was Tack, and he was holding up a fluffy white cat. It looked as if it had been groomed for a cat show, with its fur combed and puffed out like cotton candy around a tiny pink face. “I told my grandmother what happened,” he said. “She was very sorry and wants you to have this special cat.”

“I’m sorry too,” I whispered, and lowered my chin. I was still upset about Miss Kitty III.

“She said the refrigerator disaster had happened to her before,” he said. “She wanted me to make sure and tell you that.”

“Thanks,” I replied.

“It’s just like the cat on the car engine, or on the tracks,” he said. “It happens to other people too.”

“I’m sure it does,” I said, “but it doesn’t make it any better. I’m the kiss of death for these cats.” I reached out and took it from his arms.

“Well, don’t kiss them anymore,” he said, then laughed through his nose with such force a long strand of thick yellow snot unrolled from his nostril like a party whistle, then snapped back.