The Cricket in Times Square (2 page)

When Mario had cleaned off the cricket as much as he could, he hunted around the floor of the station for a matchbox. In a minute he'd found one and knocked out one end. Then he folded a sheet of Kleenex, tucked it in the box, and put the cricket in. It made a perfect bed. The cricket seemed to like his new home. He moved around a few times and settled himself comfortably.

Mario sat for a time, just looking. He was so happy and excited that when anyone walked through the station, he forgot to shout “Newspapers!” and “Magazines!”

Then a thought occurred to him: perhaps the cricket was hungry. He rummaged through his jacket pocket and found a piece of a chocolate bar that had been left over from supper. Mario broke off one corner and held it out to the cricket on the end of his finger. Cautiously the insect lifted his head to the chocolate. He seemed to smell it a moment, then took a bit. A shiver of pleasure went over Mario as the cricket ate from his hand.

*   *   *

Mama and Papa Bellini came up the stairs from the lower level of the station. Mama was a short woman—a little stouter than she liked to admit—who wheezed and got a red face when she had to climb steps. Papa was tall and somewhat bent over, but he had a kindness that shone about him. There seemed always to be something smiling inside Papa. Mario was so busy feeding his cricket that he didn't see them when they came up to the newsstand.

“So?” said Mama, craning over the counter. “What now?”

“I found a cricket!” Mario exclaimed. He picked the insect up very gently between his thumb and forefinger and held him out for his parents to see.

Mama studied the little black creature carefully. “It's a bug,” she pronounced finally. “Throw it away.”

Mario's happiness fell in ruins. “No, Mama,” he said anxiously. “It's a special kind of bug. Crickets are good luck.”

“Good luck, eh?” Mama's voice had a way of sounding very dry when she didn't believe something. “Cricketers are good luck—so I suppose ants are better luck. And cockroaches are the best luck of all. Throw it away.”

“Please, Mama, I want to keep him for a pet.”

“No bugs are coming to my house,” said Mama. “We've got enough already with the screens full of holes. He'll whistle to his friends—they'll come from all over—we'll have a houseful of cricketers.”

“No we won't,” said Mario in a low voice. “I'll fix the screens.” But he knew it was no use arguing with Mama. When she had made up her mind, you might as well try to reason with the Eighth Avenue subway.

“How was selling tonight?” asked Papa. He was a peaceful man and always tried to head off arguments. Changing the subject was something he did very well.

“Fifteen papers and four magazines,” said Mario. “And Paul just bought a Sunday
Times.
”

“No one took a
Musical America,
or anything else nice?” Papa was very proud that his newsstand carried all of what he called the “quality magazines.”

“No,” answered Mario.

“So you spend less time playing with cricketers, you'll sell more papers,” said Mama.

“Oh now now,” Papa soothed her. “Mario can't help it if nobody buys.”

“You can tell the temperature with crickets too,” said Mario. “You count the number of chirps in a minute, divide by four, and add forty. They're very intelligent.”

“Who needs a cricketer-thermometer?” said Mama. “It's coming on summer, it's New York—it's hot. And how do you know so much about cricketers? Are you one?”

“Jimmy Lebovski told me last summer,” said Mario.

“Then give it to the expert Jimmy Lebovski,” said Mama. “Bugs carry germs. He doesn't come in the house.”

Mario looked down at his new friend in the palm of his hand. Just for once he had been really happy. The cricket seemed to know that something was wrong. He jumped onto the shelf and crept into the matchbox.

“He could keep it here in the newsstand,” suggested Papa.

Mario jumped at that idea. “Yes, and then he wouldn't have to come home. I could feed him here, and leave him here, and you'd never have to see him,” he said to Mama. “And when you took the stand, I'd bring him with me.”

Mama paused. “Cricketer,” she said scornfully. “What do we want with a cricketer?”

“What do we want with a newsstand?” said Papa. “We got it—let's keep it.” There was something resigned, but nice, about Papa.

“You said I could have a dog,” said Mario, “but I never got him. And I never got a cat, or a bird, or anything. I wanted this cricket for my pet.”

“He's yours, then,” said Papa. And when Papa spoke in a certain quiet tone—that was all there was to it. Even Mama didn't dare disagree.

She took a deep breath. “Oh well—” she sighed. And Mario knew it would be all right. Mama's saying “oh well” was her way of giving in. “But only on trial he stays. At the first sign of the cricketer friends, or if we come down with peculiar diseases—out he goes!”

“Yes, Mama, anything you say,” said Mario.

“Come on, Mario,” Papa said. “Help me close up.”

Mario held the matchbox up to his eye. He was sure the cricket looked much happier, now that he could stay. “Good night,” he said. “I'll be back in the morning.”

“Talking to it yet!” said Mama. “I've got a cricketer for a son.”

Papa took one side of the cover to the newsstand, Mario the other, and together they fitted it on. Papa locked it. As they were going downstairs to the trains, Mario looked back over his shoulder. He could almost feel the cricket, snugged away in his matchbox bed, in the darkness.

THREE

Chester

Tucker Mouse had been watching the Bellinis and listening to what they said. Next to scrounging, eavesdropping on human beings was what he enjoyed most. That was one of the reasons he lived in the Times Square subway station. As soon as the family disappeared, he darted out across the floor and scooted up to the newsstand. At one side the boards had separated and there was a wide space he could jump through. He'd been in a few times before—just exploring. For a moment he stood under the three-legged stool, letting his eyes get used to the darkness. Then he jumped up on it.

“Psst!” he whispered. “Hey, you up there—are you awake?”

There was no answer.

“Psst! Psst! Hey!” Tucker whispered again, louder this time.

From the shelf above came a scuffling, like little feet feeling their way to the edge. “Who is that going ‘psst'?” said a voice.

“It's me,” said Tucker. “Down here on the stool.”

A black head, with two shiny black eyes, peered down at him. “Who are you?”

“A mouse,” said Tucker. “Who are
you?
”

“I'm Chester Cricket,” said the cricket. He had a high, musical voice. Everything he said seemed to be spoken to an unheard melody.

“My name's Tucker,” said Tucker Mouse. “Can I come up?”

“I guess so,” said Chester Cricket. “This isn't my house anyway.”

Tucker jumped up beside the cricket and looked him all over. “A cricket,” he said admiringly. “So you're a cricket. I never saw one before.”

“I've seen mice before,” the cricket said. “I knew quite a few back in Connecticut.”

“Is that where you're from?” asked Tucker.

“Yes,” said Chester. “I guess I'll never see it again,” he added wistfully.

“How did you get to New York?” asked Tucker Mouse.

“It's a long story,” sighed the cricket.

“Tell me,” said Tucker, settling back on his haunches. He loved to hear stories. It was almost as much fun as eavesdropping—if the story was true.

“Well, it must have been two—no, three days ago,” Chester Cricket began. “I was sitting on top of my stump, just enjoying the weather and thinking how nice it was that summer had started. I live inside an old tree stump, next to a willow tree, and I often go up to the roof to look around. And I'd been practicing jumping that day too. On the other side of the stump from the willow tree there's a brook that runs past, and I'd been jumping back and forth across it to get my legs in condition for the summer. I do a lot of jumping, you know.”

“Me too,” said Tucker Mouse. “Especially around the rush hour.”

“And I had just finished jumping when I smelled something,” Chester went on, “liverwurst, which I love.”

“You like liverwurst?” Tucker broke in. “Wait! Wait! Just wait!”

In one leap, he sprang down all the way from the shelf to the floor and dashed over to his drain pipe. Chester shook his head as he watched him go. He thought Tucker was a very excitable person—even for a mouse.

Inside the drain pipe, Tucker's nest was a jumble of papers, scraps of cloth, buttons, lost jewelry, small change, and everything else that can be picked up in a subway station. Tucker tossed things left and right in a wild search. Neatness was not one of the things he aimed at in life. At last he discovered what he was looking for: a big piece of liverwurst he had found earlier that evening. It was meant to be for breakfast tomorrow, but he decided that meeting his first cricket was a special occasion. Holding the liverwurst between his teeth, he whisked back to the newsstand.

“Look!” he said proudly, dropping the meat in front of Chester Cricket. “Liverwurst! You continue the story—we'll enjoy a snack too.”

“That's very nice of you,” said Chester. He was touched that a mouse he had known only a few minutes would share his food with him. “I had a little chocolate before, but besides that, nothing for three days.”

“Eat! Eat!” said Tucker. He bit the liverwurst into two pieces and gave Chester the bigger one. “So you smelled the liverwurst—then what happened?”

“I hopped down from the stump and went off toward the smell,” said Chester.

“Very logical,” said Tucker Mouse, munching with his cheeks full. “Exactly what I would have done.”

“It was coming from a picnic basket,” said Chester. “A couple of tuffets away from my stump the meadow begins, and there was a whole bunch of people having a picnic. They had hard-boiled eggs, and cold roast chicken, and roast beef, and a whole lot of other things besides the liverwurst sandwiches which I smelled.”

Tucker Mouse moaned with pleasure at the thought of all that food.

“They were having such a good time laughing and singing songs that they didn't notice me when I jumped into the picnic basket,” continued Chester. “I was sure they wouldn't mind if I had just a taste.”

“Naturally not,” said Tucker Mouse sympathetically. “Why mind? Plenty for all. Who could blame you?”

“Now, I have to admit,” Chester went on, “I had more than a taste. As a matter of fact, I ate so much that I couldn't keep my eyes open—what with being tired from the jumping and everything. And I fell asleep right there in the picnic basket. The first thing I knew, somebody had put a bag on top of me that had the last of the roast beef sandwiches in it. I couldn't move!”