The Five Lives of Our Cat Zook (13 page)

“Talk about what?” I ask when she gets off the phone.

My mother looks at me for a few seconds. She opens her mouth to say something, then changes her mind. The buzzer rings. Gramma Dee. Mom takes a few gulps of mint tea and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Nothing,” she says. “We'll be back in a little while.”

I can't help myself. I stare straight at the Villain with cop eyes, and out of my mouth come a bunch of big caps. “HIS REAL NAME'S MUD!” I yell.

The Villain's own eyes look hurt, not like the eyes of a guilty person ready to confess. Of course, he's probably a trained actor. Singer-guitar players often are.

My mom, though, looks angry again.

“I mean—” I say. “Zook—”

My mother grabs me and pulls me toward her. Even if I tried to say more, it would come out all muffled. “Oh, Oona. Enough,” she says, and then they're out the door.

'm too angry to fall asleep, so I decide to tell Freddy the Splat story. I'm angry at Freddy, too, for spilling the beans about the money. But I don't want to come right out and say that. I don't like being angry with my brother. So I decide to tell him the Splat story, which is perfect for the situation.

I climb up the ladder and shake him gently. “Wake up, Fred. Time for another story. The Splat story. I'm turning on the light so you can see the rebuses.”

Freddy sits up, all googly-eyed, ready to listen. Five-year-olds are either awake or asleep—ever notice? Nothing in the middle.

When my father told me the Splat story for the very first time, I was very little, maybe four or five, like Freddy. His story was about a vain tortoise who couldn't keep a secret. Mine will be about a vain cat who couldn't keep one.

“Once there was a cat named Beau Soleil, who used to be named Jewel,” I begin. I pull on my story ear. Fred leans against me.

“Beau Soleil, or Beau for short, was beautiful, maybe the most beautiful in Eastern Rebusina. He had a big, wide forehead that made him look wise, and eyes like two shiny suns. His coat was a soft gray, like a rain cloud. The diamond on the pendant around his neck looked even shinier against his fur. His legs were skinny, but long and muscular.

“Beau knew how handsome he was. As he traveled across Eastern Rebusina on his long, strong legs, birds twittered, and bees buzzed. Cows mooed, and donkeys lifted up their heads to bray. Like this: ‘HOO-HAH!'”

Freddy giggles. “Did Beau have twenty-six toes, too?” he asks.

“Of course,” I say.

“‘Who is that handsome cat?' the creatures all said.

“‘It's me, Beau. Why, thank you!' Beau would purr
modestly, as if being beautiful were a big surprise to him. He didn't want them to think he was conceited.

“Beau liked to look deep into his own yellow eyes whenever he stopped for a drink at a pond.

“‘Ahhh,' he said. ‘Who is that handsome cat?' Then Beau would yowl, because he wasn't surprised at all, ‘It's me! It's me! It's me! EE-OW! EE-OWEY!'

“One day, while admiring himself in a pond, Beau met one big goose and one medium-size one, shading themselves in a pickapoo grove at the pond's edge.

“‘Hello,' said the bigger of the geese. ‘How handsome you are!'

“‘Why, thank you!' purred Beau, pretending to be surprised.

“‘And you look very wise, too,' said the other goose. ‘Wise enough to keep a secret.'

“‘Secrets are fun to share,' said the bigger goose. ‘As long as they are kept.'

“‘Oh, I love secrets!' said Beau.

“‘But can you keep one?' asked the medium-size goose.

“‘Of course I can keep a secret!' yowled Beau, although he wasn't really sure.

“
‘Shh!'
honked the bigger goose. ‘Secrets travel quickly through the pickapoo vines! OK, here is the secret: We are about to go to Western Rebusina!'

“‘What's so wonderful about Western Rebusina?' asked Beau.

“
‘Shh!'
honked the medium-size goose. She looked around to see if any others were listening. ‘Western Rebusina is bigger and better than Eastern Rebusina. There are huge lakes rather than little ponds. There's lots of rain, the grass is always green, and yellow yarrow and strawberries cover the fields. Purple catmint flowers, too!'

“‘Yum,' purred Beau, who had a wonderful appetite.

“‘Best of all,' said the bigger goose, ‘Western Rebusina is practically empty! All that good stuff, just for us. And it will stay that way, as long as you don't blab away our secret.'

“‘I've already told you, I can keep a secret!' said Beau. ‘Where is this wonderful place?'

“‘We have a map from a red-billed yaba-blabba bird, who shared the secret with us. But really, this is as far as it goes. We can't have anyone else finding out about it.'

“The geese showed Beau the map. It was written in code.”

I write down the directions for Freddy.

“
Wings
,” says Freddy. “Then the letter
W
.”

“Come on, what do wings help you do?”

“Fly!”

“And
W
means
west
.”

“
Fly west six hundred.
Six hundred
M
. What's that?”

“Piles. Six hundred, and now think of something that starts with
M
and rhymes with ‘piles.'”

“Oh. Miles.
Fly west six hundred miles. Then N, north, nine hundred miles!
”

“‘Six hundred and then nine hundred!' yowled Beau. ‘It will take me forever to get there!'

“‘Not if you fly!' said the medium-size goose.

“‘But I can't fly,' said Beau.

“The geese looked astonished. ‘You can't fly? Why not?'

“‘I guess because I don't have any feathers,' said Beau.

“‘Oh, that's easily fixed,' said the bigger goose. ‘I have lots of extras.'

“‘Me, too!' said the medium-size goose. ‘We'll just stick them on you with pond mud and pickapoo sap. And we'll stick the map of Western Rebusina onto your belly in case we get lost.'

“So that's what they did, and Beau ran around and around the pond, taking lots of flying leaps into the air. But he still couldn't get off the ground, even with those goose feathers sticking out all over him.

“‘Oh, woe, we've got a big problem,' said the bigger goose. ‘We can't just leave you here now that you know the secret! No offense, but we sort of don't trust you to keep it.'”

I pause and look down at Freddy to see if that means anything to him personally. It doesn't seem to.

“‘Here's what we'll do,' continued the medium-size goose. ‘We geese will hold the ends of this pickapoo branch in our bills, and you will bite the middle. We will flap our feathers. You will flap your four strong, muscular legs. Together, we will fly!'

“‘Good idea. But remember,' said the bigger goose. ‘Don't tell anyone where we are going!'

“‘I've told you before, and I'll tell you again,' said Beau. ‘I can keep a secret! Especially if you are asking me over and over and over not to share it! Let's leave right away!'

“So the geese bit the ends of the pickapoo branch and Beau bit the middle. He bit it so hard, his teeth were shaky and black for the rest of his future lives. And away they went, up, up, into the sky. Everyone flapped, and that's the way they flew.

“Way down below in the Eastern Rebusinian pastures, the cows mooed, ‘Hey, you up there! Where are you going?'

“But Beau and the geese just kept on flapping and didn't say a word.

“By and by, they were flying higher than the pickapoo groves where the birds made their nests.

“‘Where are you going?' chirped the birds.

“But Beau and the geese kept on flapping and didn't tell their secret.

“‘Where are you going?' brayed a family of donkeys, trudging along a dusty road.

“Beau and the geese kept on flapping and didn't answer. Beau was so proud of himself!
Now the geese know how well I can keep a secret!
he thought.

“Suddenly, the smallest donkey brayed, ‘HOO-HAH! HOO's that funny-looking goose in the middle, the one with the feathers sticking out all over?'

“Beau, who as you know was very vain, opened his mouth
to say, ‘I am not a funny-looking goose! It's me, me, ME, Beau! The handsomest cat in Eastern Rebusina! And Western Rebusina, too, once we get there!'

“He opened his mouth to say all that, and, of course, let go of the pickapoo branch. The only thing he did get to say was ‘EE-OW! EE-OWEY! I'M FALLING!' as he fell down, down, down to the ground.”

I pause again, dramatically.

“Then, SPLAT!

“And that was the end of Beau, as we know him.”

I know it's a gruesome ending, but Splat's the only ending there could be. My father told me that about stories: If the ending fits, then keep it.

Still, I am worried about how Fred will take it.

But Fred takes it very well.

“EE-OW! EE-OWEY! I'm falling!” he says, hanging over the edge of the bed.

“The story didn't scare you?” I ask.

“No. Because it's to be continued, right?” he asks.

“Oh, right,” I say. “And the story continues in Oakland, because the map of Western Rebusina looked like northern California and the geese were all mixed up.”

“Cool,” says Freddy, still upside down.

“And the moral of the story is … ?”

“What's a moral?” asks Fred.

“Something you learn from hearing a story.”

“Oh, OK. Never try to fly unless you were born with feathers,” says Fred.

I laugh. “Go back to bed,” I say.

Actually, I'm not sure what the moral of the story is. I'm not even sure it's about secrets. Maybe it's “Don't be too vain.” But I wish Zook were still vain, bathing himself all over with his tongue, the way he used to.

I remember asking my father, “Is that a true story?” I'd never heard of pickapoo groves and yaba-blabba birds, so I was a bit suspicious.

My father said, “Well, I'm not sure it really happened. But let's call it truly a story.”

Truly a funny story. I feel a lot better, now that I've told it. And I'm not angry at Freddy anymore. Actually, I'm thinking he didn't really spill the beans about the money in my underwear drawer, because he probably thought Mom knew all about it already. Five-year-olds think moms can read minds—ever notice?