The Boy Detective Fails (16 page)

oh, Penny Maple

PennyPennyPennyPennyPennyPennyPennyPenny Maple

Penny Maple

yes, Penny Maple

you are Penny Maple

your name is Penny Maple

PennyPennyPennyPennyPennyPennyPennyPenny Maple

Penny Maple

yes, yes, yes, Penny Maple

Penny Maple?

oh, yes, Penny Maple

PennyPennyPennyPennyPennyPennyPennyPenny Maple

Penny Maple

oh, no, Penny Maple

Penny Maple (Maple, Maple)

oh, Penny Maple, yes, yes, yes

PennyPennyPennyPennyPennyPennyPennyPenny Maple

Penny Maple

oh, go now, Penny Maple

Penny Maple

you are the only Penny Maple

PennyPennyPennyPennyPennyPennyPennyPenny Maple

Penny Maple

oh, look out, Penny Maple

Penny Maple

PennyPennyPennyPennyPennyPennyPennyPenny Maple

You scared me, too.

THIRTEEN

At school, Gus Mumford has written a note for the strange bald boy sitting before him. While Miss Gale posts enormous mathematical enumerations on the blackboard, Gus Mumford gathers his courage, folds the small scrap of paper into itself again and again and again, then—as gently as he knows how—flings the note against the back of the child’s strangely pink neck.
Oh no
—he has projected it much too hard. The paper ricochets off the soft bald head and falls there, between his feet. The boy blinks, turning around in his seat, his nearly nonexistent blond eyebrows lowering into a frown, his mouth a stab of red sadness. Gus Mumford is unsure how to proceed and simply lowers his head to his desk, pretending he is now mysteriously dead—perhaps it is scurvy or impetigo or the black death.

The boy reaches down and grasps the paper lightly with his small pink fingers. Slowly in his lap, he unfolds the note and begins reading. The note is simple, only four words: I LIKE YOUR EYELASHES.

The bald child turns around in his seat once more and smiles, blinking at Gus Munford sitting behind him. But Gus Mumford, notorious bully of the third grade, is too afraid to lift his head to see. The bald boy turns back around, tears a corner from his notepad, and begins composing a reply. Within a few moments, he has finished; he folds the note up into a perfect white triangle, waits for Miss Gale to continue with more of her useless enumerations, and turns quick, with finesse, simply placing the note on the very edge of Gus Mumford’s desk. Gus, peeking from between his fingers, grabs the note dizzily and begins reading it, hidden between the open pages of his mathematical primer. The note is equal in its simplicity, but the handwriting is soft and looping and pretty: I LIKE YOUR EYE-LASHES AS WELL.

We are amazed at how a few short words have such a profound effect on our friend, Gus Mumford. His face goes red and warm and he hides the note in his pants pocket, afraid that the contents of his secret correspondence might somehow be revealed. What to do now, though? A reply to his reply? Is this how it is done? How are friends made? He does not know. He has never passed a note across class to someone before. He has held their faces against dead birds, wire fences, the hardwood floor of the gym, but never has he been so intimate with a child his own age as this moment here. Before he can consider a proper course of action, the bald child turns again, in a whirl, and deposits a second note on the corner of his desk. Gus Mumford is more than a little surprised. Perhaps the other boy has made a mistake. Perhaps he has changed his mind and realized he did not care for Gus’s eyelashes at all. With less enthusiasm, Gus Mumford slowly opens the note in his lap.

It says: I KNOW YOU ARE SMART.

What occurs now is certain dread: It is Gus Mumford’s most hidden shame, most hidden secret, and here this small creature—this stranger—has so easily discerned it within a matter of a few short days, the admission bright red on Gus Mumford’s face. Yes, yes, he is smart—smarter than the smartest child in class by books and books and years and years—but to consider the thought, to accurately grasp the notion while watching Gus Mumford force-feed a smaller boy the end of a length of worm, it seems near to impossible.

Gus Mumford stares down at the small, daintily written words and sighs, knowing any friendship with this child has now been lost, any hope of camaraderie has been dispelled with the apparent knowledge of his most vicious secret, and so he resumes his position, resting his face in his folded arms. Miss Gale ruminates on the potency of addition and subtraction, the sounds hanging in the air like a wordless dirge. If Gus Mumford was capable, surely he would cry, but as a bully he has not the capacity for it, and instead sniffles his nose, unsatisfied with the incompleteness of this, his most sad facial expression. It is then that, as a complete surprise, the bald boy turns around once again in a flash, and when Gus Mumford peers from above his hands, he sees a third and final note sitting there. Quickly, without regard for Miss Gale’s prying eyes, Gus opens the note and stares at the small curves of the words, his face still flush, his nose still twitching.

It says: YOU ARE NOT A VERY BELIEVABLE BULLY.

FOURTEEN

At Shady Glens, the boy detective leaves his room during Bingo Hour—an hour when he usually tries to avoid entering the hallway—because he has heard that the lovely Nurse Eloise has baked a gigantic buttercream cake, which is one of Billy’s favorites. It is shaped like an enormous Eiffel Tower. In the white-tiled boredom of the television room, Nurse Eloise welcomes him and carves him a large piece.

“I’ve got some wonderful news, Billy. I’ve gotten back together with my boyfriend and we’re going to Paris next month. His magic show has been booked there for four weeks, so I thought we should all celebrate. I know you like buttercream.”

“It looks lovely.”

“The only rule is that you eat it here with us, Billy,” she says.

Billy turns and watches the other lunatics eating: Mr. Pluto is wolfing the treat down with his enormous fingers, smashing it into the monstrous cavity of his mouth; Professor Von Golum is stabbing another resident in the neck with his fork; Mr. Lunt is sleeping, his bearded face resting atop his slice. Each of them has somehow found a new way to be very, very disgusting. Billy smiles and decides he is not too hungry.

He hurries back down the hall and returns to his room.

In a moment, there is a knock at the door. He opens it and finds his slice of cake with a napkin and a glass of milk sitting there.

It is so beautiful he almost cries. He decides Nurse Eloise is the nicest person of all time. The boy detective drinks the milk and gently wraps the cake up in the napkin, deciding he will keep it for work tomorrow, when he knows he will be feeling bad, indubitably.

* * *

As the boy detective is lying in bed, he turns the light switch on and soon it begins snowing. The tiny flakes glitter down all around and disappear as they touch the tile floor:

Following the snow as it drifts down with his eyes, Billy notices his arch-foe, Professor Von Golum, curled beneath the bed frame. Though the old man is asleep, there is a length of shiny wire twisted in his hands, the murder weapon held close, at the ready.

“Professor, may I ask what you are doing down there?”

“I was planning on strangling you as soon as you went to sleep.”

“I see.”

“Perhaps it was poor planning, but I could not stay awake. It is very comfortable under here.”

“Would you like some help out from underneath?”

“No. No, I’m all right. I’ll just stay here, if you don’t mind.”

Billy sighs, turning on his side.

“Professor?”

“Yes?”

“May I ask you a question, sir?”

“Yes, but know it may be the last question you ever ask.”

“Have you ever been in love, sir?”

“Oh, my poor, poor childish detective. Surely you must know by now. Love is the invention of man. It does not exist. It is a fairy tale designed to keep order. Imagine how we as humans would behave if we freed ourselves from the idiocy of that one particular idea: what a wonderful world; what a world of absolute possibility.”

“I think I may be in love, sir.”

“May I ask how you know? How can you
prove
it? You are a detective, no? Where is the evidence? What clues are you basing this foolish assumption on?”

“I don’t know, really. It just occurs as a feeling in my hands and behind my knees.”

“But can it be placed in a bell jar? Can it be seen under a microscope? How can something as invisible—as insubstantial—as love ever hope to last?”

“I cannot stop thinking about kissing her.”

“That is chemistry—or biology—it has nothing to do with hearts and flowers and the like. Do not be confused by what the natural world knows: We are all, in our own way, completely and totally alone. If love is real, it is a complete and total failing of the intellect. It is utter self-destruction. It is pandemonium.”

“Yes, thank you, sir.”

“It is my pleasure, Billy.”

In the near dark, the boy detective finds his bottle of pills and quickly swallows one Ativan, holding his breath until he is sure the villain has crept out. He looks up in wonder as the soft haze of snow drifts down.

FIFTEEN

It is past midnight and the boy detective is watching the Mumford children again. The houses on the small street are quiet and still, their lights having been turned off for the evening. But there is Effie Mumford, in her purple and white jacket, kneeling beside another amateur rocket, this one very slim and golden, her brother Gus looking quite sleepy in pajamas, sitting on the porch. Billy notes in his notepad:

—
12:10am: Subject, Effie Mumford, prepares for second rocket test. Subject and her brother, Gus Mumford, both wearing pajamas.

—
12:11am: Subject ignites rocket.

—
12:12am: Rocket does not lift off ground: the fuse seems not to be working.

—
12:13am: Subject, Effie Mumford, stands the rocket, inspecting the firing mechanism.

—
12:14am: Subject kicks the rocket, knocking off the nose-cone: the rocket sparks and explodes, knocking the subject off her feet.

—
12:15am: Rocket shoots directly up into the sky, leaving a long, silver trail of sparks: Subject, Effie Mumford, and Gus Mumford clap wildly.

—
12:16am: In the dark sky, the rocket explodes. In a flash of blue and white sparks, a message is spelled out which, noted here, reads, “ANYONE OUT THERE.”

—
12:17am: Very quickly, lights in neighboring houses switch on. Mrs. Mumford opens the front door and begins shouting. The Mumford children are hurried inside.

SIXTEEN

In the dark, the boy detective lies in bed, staring at Caroline’s diary.

i may have made a terrible mistake:

forgetting that i was not a true detective

forgetting i was not my brother, Billy

failing to remember how i was no genius

or failing to remember how i was not so very smart

or so very

useful on my own

i have stumbled upon something i do not grasp;

nothing makes sense without him

and worse, it seems all my

days go by without an end to this mystery

there is no hope of reprieve

do i dare tread into the dark again on my own?

do i dare walk unescorted once more into evil

all i hear are the whispers of my doom

at night, as i lay in bed

in quiet voices, i am often reminded of

the silent immovability of the dead, while the

stiff hands of those ghosts, murky, floating underwater, reach out to me

you will never know the terror of doubt, Billy

you will never know the terror of being without you

Billy gets up, goes over to the dresser, opens the bottom drawer, lifts out the detective kit, then sits on the bed, peering at the aged box. He cannot get himself to open it, not even when there may be a mystery somewhere in this very world—at this very moment—afoot. Like that, with his sister’s diary in his hand, he begrudgingly falls asleep.

Billy, in a dream, descends slowly into a dark and mossy cavern, past the signs that mark it. Holding a flashlight, he climbs further and further, listening to someone crying. At the bottom of the cave, through the dark, Billy can see his sister Caroline, still a young girl. In a white and yellow dress, she cries, “Help me, Billy.”

Billy approaches in a hurry, and suddenly a horrible ram-horned, claw-fingered demon leaps out from the darkness, howling.

The boy detective wakes up to Mr. Lunt’s screaming. Billy sits up, covered in sweat, still holding the diary, which he stares at, confused, as he sets it beside him on the nightstand. He turns and hears Nurse Eloise in her squeaky white nurse shoes march down the hall.

“It’s only a dream, Mr. Lunt, dear, it’s only a dream.”

“Phantoms! Phantoms! I seen them! They’re coming! They’re coming for
me
!”

Billy lies back down, pulling the pillow over his head. He considers the bottles of pills beside his bed. It is only a moment later when the owl alarm clock begins ringing.

SEVENTEEN

The boy detective, at work, flips through the Mammoth Life-Like catalog and notices the model for the Metropolitan Debutante looks very much like the lady he has seen on the bus, the lady in pink. With his pen, he draws a small scarf over her head and then a small set of eyeglasses over the woman’s face.