Raising Rufus (11 page)

Though neither of them dared to bring up the subject, Martin knew that they wouldn't be able to keep their secret forever. But for now Lady Luck stayed on their side, because nobody else ever ventured near that barn. Well, except once.

Martin had convinced his dad that he was old enough to mow the lawn and do odd yard work for extra cash (more Fido-Nummy!). But on one especially nice afternoon in August, Martin's mom decided she wanted to prune the rosebushes herself—and some of those bushes were right alongside the barn.

When Martin arrived home from the Trout Palace, he stepped into the yard and spotted her working her way along the wall, snipping and snapping. He froze in horror as she stooped down right in front of one of those cellar windows. Somehow she didn't notice when a large, scaly face appeared on the other side of the glass, eyeballing her with intense curiosity, his moist breath making silvery puffs on the pane.

Discovering muscles in his legs he never knew he possessed, Martin shot across the yard and inserted himself between his mom and the cellar window.

“Mom! Hi.”

“What's up, doodlebug?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“I mean,
you're…shouldn't
you be at work?”

“Not on Sunday. Beautiful day to be out, huh?”

“I can do this. Why don't you go in and relax?”

“I am relaxed. Don't you love this fresh air?”

“But the sun is so hot, and you know how easily you burn. And the
bugs.
Wow. You
really
hate bugs.”

His mom gave him a squinty look, then stood up and plunked the pruning shears into his hand. “All right, Martin. If you're so keen on it, be my guest.”

He threw her a phony smile as she turned and headed for the house, not noticing that a toothy reptile was bobbing his head back and forth in the window behind Martin. Rufus also started making chirping noises, which stopped her in her tracks.

“What?” she said, turning back.

Martin launched into a fit of fake coughing, neatly drowning out Rufus's muffled squeals.

“Are you okay?”

“I swallowed a gnat or something. See what I mean? Bugs.”

With a few more coughs to cap off the performance, he turned around and went to work on a rosebush, hoping she would take it as a cue to go inside, which, luckily, she did.

That was the closest either one of his parents came to discovering Rufus the whole summer. As for his dad, well, he was hardly ever home; and when he did make an appearance, he was usually crashed out in his reclining chair, watching a Brewers game or a
CSI: Miami
rerun, exhausted from a long day of repairing a lot of rickety old equipment that Ben Fairfield refused to replace. Every now and then Martin and Audrey spotted him watching them through a window, or sometimes he would just give them a vaguely disapproving glance before walking by. Audrey figured he didn't like her very much, but Martin explained that it was nothing personal, just the thing about her being a girl and all.

That wasn't their biggest concern, though; there was this other, growing problem to be thinking about.

It got harder and harder for Martin and Audrey to measure Rufus's height, because they couldn't reach the measuring stick from his head to the wall. So Martin got on a chair and measured seven feet three inches from the floor to a ceiling beam; by late August, he could see that Rufus was just a few inches below the beam when he stood up straight. As for the weight, that got to be pure guesswork; getting his big friend on the scale became flat-out impossible.

And then there were those growing teeth. An inch and a half, two inches, two and a half inches and counting…and sharp as ice picks. Where would it end?

Any way you looked at it, there was just no stopping this guy from getting confoundingly, exhaustingly, bewilderingly
BIGGER
.

In what seemed like a flash, summer started winding down, and Labor Day was just around the corner. Soon school would be starting up again, the leaves would start falling, and the Trout Palace would close down until the spring. Somehow Martin and Audrey had made it through the summer without Rufus being discovered
or—worse—escaping
from the barn. All in all, things had gone pretty well. Maybe a bit
too
well.

On a warm, windless, late summer night, Martin tossed around in his bed. The window was open, and now, mixed in with the usual cricket sounds, some strange noises were wafting up from the far end of the yard.

Rufus had gotten in the habit of pacing around the barn cellar at night, making strange bleating noises along with an occasional screechy howl.

Eeh eeh eeh eeh! Howooooo…

Before, the barn walls had done a pretty good job of holding the sounds in. But Rufus's noises got louder as he grew, and now the racket was starting to travel all the way up to the house.

Martin was trying hard not to let it bother him—but the harder he tried, the more bothered he got. Deciding a short hike to the bathroom might help calm his nerves, he sprang out of bed and headed into the hall.

Unfortunately, the trip didn't relieve anything other than his bladder.

On his way back, he stopped at his parents' bedroom door and peeked through the keyhole. Their window was open too, and that same haunting noise kept drifting up from below.

Eeh eeh eeh eeh! Howooooooo…Eeh eeh eeh eeh eeh!

Dad seemed to be sleeping through it, but Mom was restless like Martin—the sandman had obviously abandoned her, too.

She reached over and gave Mr. Tinker a vigorous shake. “Gord.”

“Mmnh.”

“You awake?”

“No.”

“Do you hear that?”

“What.”

“Sounds like a wolf.”

With a hollow groan, Mr. Tinker rolled over to take a listen.

“Just a bird. Go back to sleep,” he mumbled, and rolled back into his snoozing posture.

Mrs. Tinker listened for a while longer, then rolled the other way and pulled the pillow tightly over her head.

Martin let out a long breath, then tiptoed back to his room and slipped into bed. He lay there stiffly, staring up at the ceiling, eyes wide open, palms sweating, stomach churning. Much as he hated thinking about it, he knew that before long the best summer of his life would be a distant memory. Something was going to happen soon, and it was not going to be good.

That's generally the way it goes if you're keeping a pet dinosaur, and the darned thing just keeps on getting maddeningly, thrillingly, scarily,
nerve-rackingly,
uncontrollably
,
mind-bogglingly
—

Well, you know.

O
ver the course of the summer, Martin had been spending more and more time at the Trout Palace, working three or even four hours in the mornings and early afternoons, doing those odd jobs for a handful of dollars a day. He didn't particularly enjoy it, but—well, he
needed
those dollars. He had growing
obligations.

Since Martin wasn't an “official” employee, Mr. Fairfield kept giving Mr. Tinker a bit of extra cash each week to pass on to Martin. The arrangement was basically a favor that Mr. Fairfield was doing for Mr. Tinker, his most valued employee.

But business was not very good at the Trout Palace that summer, so Ben Fairfield's moods had gotten more and more sour as time went on. It made Martin especially nervous when Mr. Fairfield would watch him as he worked, a stony expression on his face.

One late August day, as Martin was running an electric weed trimmer around the edges of the Walleye Theater, he spotted Mr. Fairfield talking sternly to his dad. He pretended not to notice, but suspected the worst when their talk ended and his dad immediately strode up behind him.

“Martin…Marty!”

He let out a whistle, and Martin shut off the trimmer.

“What time did you come in today?”

“About nine, I guess.”

“You been working this whole time?”

Sensing where this was going, Martin gave a half nod.

His dad adopted a tone kind of like one of those old-time TV dads, understanding yet firm. “Look, son. I'm glad you've got this work ethic and all. But here's the deal: you're costing us too much money, okay? Plus, Ben is afraid somebody's gonna call the labor board on him. He wanted to cut you loose altogether, but I talked him into keeping you on till we close, end of next month. From now on, though, you can only do an hour a day, tops. Got it?”

Martin fidgeted, looked around, and tried to think of a good comeback. But, as usual at times like this, his brain froze.

“You won't have the time for it once school starts, anyway.”

Martin glanced around nervously, as though looking for something to reassure him.

His expression softening, Mr. Tinker reached into his wallet and pulled out a few bills.

“Here y'go. I'll, um…I'll bring you an ice cream or something later, okay?”

Martin nodded vaguely and reached for the greenbacks, but his dad pulled them back.

“What've you been doing with all this money, anyway?”

“Oh…um. Saving it.”

“For what?”

“Stuff
like…y'know…the
future.”

Before his dad could wrap his brain around that one, Martin snatched the bills and, with a half-mumbled “Thanks,” headed on his way.

“Martin, we have to talk about this
now,
” Audrey said as they pulled a bag of Fido-Nummy from the shelf at the Food Bear, letting it fall noisily into their cart. “If we don't do something soon, things are going to turn very bad.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know.”

“We don't have to be in any big rush.”

“He keeps needing more and more, and we can't afford it. And now that you're laid off—”

“I am not laid off. It's an hours cutback.”

“He's getting too big! And you know how he hates being stuck in that barn.”

Martin groaned under his breath. It was the best he could do, because he didn't have a good answer for her.

“And school starts up next week. What are we supposed to do then?”

“So what are you saying? You think we should just
let him go
?”

“No, dummy. I'm just saying we have to, you know…
tell
somebody.”

“Like who?”

“Like who? Well…okay. I think if we tell…um…your parents—”

“Noooo, no, no, no…”

“Why not?”

“They'll just send him away, and he'll end up in a cage somewhere. And I'll probably get grounded for life.”

“Don't you think they'll find out sooner or later anyway?”

“I'm not telling my parents!”

“Shhhhh!”

The conversation had gotten kind of loud, and people were throwing glances their way.

Audrey took a deep breath and let it out in a long
whooooph.
“Okay then…we could start with Jade. I know I can trust her—”

“Ohhhhh…”

“Then we could all go to
my
dad—”

“No, that's no good.”

“Martin, we have to tell somebody! The longer we put it off, the worse it's gonna be when they find out.”

“I'm not against telling, it just…has to be the right person.”

“Okay, so who?”

“Somebody who can make sure he gets treated well. Somebody we can trust to not just sell him or something.”

“Do you know anybody like that?”

Martin had actually thought about that question quite a bit. And the answer he kept coming up with, sad to say, was no.

Seventh grade, to no one's surprise, turned out to be a lot like sixth, except now it was Mrs. Sanders instead of Ms. Olerud, and room 13B instead of room 11A. And it was the same bunch of kids, which most of them were happy about, but not Martin. All he had to look forward to was another long year of being ignored, then picked on, then ignored again, then picked on again. Maybe, he hoped, eighth grade would be better. But probably not.

One good thing, though, was that Mr. Eckhart was the science teacher again. Martin had always hoped that somehow he might turn out like Mr. Eckhart when he grew up—really smart about science, but at the same time kind of a cool guy. Mr. Eckhart was living proof that it was actually possible to be both.

On the second day of school, everybody was assigned to present something interesting about science in front of the class. Donald Grimes, thinking himself an expert on a lot of things, led off by banging two plastic toy dinosaurs against each other, making all kinds of gruesome sound effects as though it were a dramatic fight to the death.

A lot of the kids laughed, which only encouraged Donald to ham it up even more. After a good half minute or so of his goofy melodrama, he held up one of the dino toys.

“Brontosaurus,”
he stated with authority. “Also known as…” His face went blank. “Something with an
A
…”

“Anybody know?” said Mr. Eckhart.

“Apatosaurus,” Martin said without hesitating.

Donald threw him a chilly glance.
“Aptapottosaurus,”
he said. “This was one big mother dino. I mean
big.
Got its food by stomping on other dinosaurs.”

“It did not,” Martin interjected. “It was a plant eater.”

“Do you mind, Tinker? This is
my
report.”

“You're telling it wrong.”

Normally Martin wouldn't challenge Donald like that, but…well, he was getting it all messed up. Somebody had to say something.

“It's all right, Martin,” Mr. Eckhart said. “Let him do it.”

Donald put down the apatosaurus and picked up one of his other props. “This one is called tri…tri…” He glanced at Mr. Eckhart for a hint, but all he got was a nod of encouragement. “Tricycle tops?”

“Triceratops,” Mr. Eckhart corrected him.

“Triceratops,” Donald said, as though he had known it all along. “Why is it called by this name? We can only guess. The point is, this baby was
mean.
How do we know? Well,
geez.
Look at the horns on that sucker. Arr, arrr,
arrr!
”

He jabbed the little dino in the air a few times like a knife, and the class couldn't help but giggle. Martin and Audrey just exchanged dismissive smirks.

Donald put down the triceratops and picked up one more toy, ready for his big finish.

“Tyrannosaurus rex,” he said dramatically. “Most vicious, nasty, rotten monster that ever lived. You get near one of these babies…you're lunch meat.” He jammed the little dino's teeth into his neck and staggered around, emitting unearthly yowls of pain. The class broke out in a loud chorus of laughter.

It was more than Martin could take. “That's stupid!” he shouted, even louder than the laughers. Suddenly, everybody went quiet and looked at him.

“They weren't mean,” he stated with authority. “They were loyal and friendly. You just had to know how to treat them.”

“Shut your yap, Tinker!” Donald snapped. “How would you know?”

“All right, all right,” Mr. Eckhart interjected. “Truth is, we're not sure what they were really like. Is the show over, Donald?”

Still scowling, Donald gathered up his props. On the way back to his seat, he shot Martin a withering look.

Martin knew there would be a price to pay later, but for now he just tried to ignore Donald's frosty glare. Then he noticed something out of the corner of his eye and looked over to see Audrey excitedly waving her hands at him and mouthing something he couldn't make out.

“Hey, Marty,” said Nate Stoller, “your wife is calling you.” The class cracked up, and Audrey shrank back into her seat.

Mr. Eckhart cleared his throat loudly, quieting everybody down.

“Okay! Who's next?”

The school day was over an hour later; kids crowded into the halls, as usual, and Martin made his customary trudge toward his locker. But he didn't get very far before Audrey came running up behind him. “Martin, wait up!”

“Hi.”

“Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”

“No. What?”

She leaned in and whispered intently. “Mr. Eckhart!”

“What about him?”

“He's the one we can tell, dodo!”

“What? No.”

“Why not? He's the perfect one. If anybody would make sure Rufus got treated well, it's him. He would help us, and we wouldn't get in trouble.”

“How do you know?”

She gave an impatient grunt. “I
know,
okay? Martin, you know I'm right. We
have
to do it!”

“Okay, okay,” Martin said tautly, trying to quiet her down. “Maybe on…Thursday, we can—”

“No! Today! Now!”

“Really?”

“I've got the pictures in my locker. Come on.”

Suddenly, a familiar gravelly voice thundered from down the hall. “Hey! Tinkywinks!” Donald Grimes fired up his feet and charged toward them. He was not smiling.

“Meet me at his office,” Martin said hurriedly to Audrey as he took off down the hall ahead of his fast-approaching tormentor.

“Try and make me look bad, you little phlegm-wad,” Donald growled as he chugged after him. But the chase didn't last long; as Donald sped past Audrey, she casually stuck out her foot, catching him just above the left ankle and sending him sprawling onto the freshly waxed floor. Martin peeked back around the corner to see Donald skidding like a penguin on an ice floe, headfirst, sliding a good ten feet. He would have gone even farther if his forehead hadn't made a direct hit on the shin of the school principal, Mr. Clayborne.

Mr. Clayborne was
not
somebody you wanted to mess with. He was well known for running a tight ship, and horseplay in the halls was one of his very top pet peeves.

Donald looked up at the scowling face six feet above him, and all he could manage was a pained, innocent grin.

Audrey, meanwhile, slipped away and headed straight for her locker.

When Audrey and Martin arrived at Mr. Eckhart's tiny, cluttered office, he was busy packing his briefcase. He was obviously in a hurry, and barely glanced at them as they timidly stepped through the door.

“Hi, guys,” he mumbled.

He didn't stop what he was doing, and Martin, thinking it must be a bad time, couldn't get the words flowing. Audrey gave him a firm elbow nudge, and that did the trick.

“Mr. Eckhart…can we talk to you for a minute?”