The Wikkeling (9 page)

“Have you ever seen tools?” Al asked.

“In safety videos,” said Henrietta. “They're dangerous. We don't have any.”

“Everything just snaps together nowadays, but there was a time when people had to build from scratch. I keep these back here thinking they'll eventually come in handy.”

“You're nostalgic,” said Henrietta. She'd seen a movie in class where a father kept some tools out of nostalgia, but then his son died when a hammer fell on him.

“Guilty as charged!” said Al, laughing. He closed up the tool room, and they returned to the card table and plastic chairs by the staircase. Henrietta's mind was carefully circling everything she and Al had talked about. Her eyes played over the covers of the two bestiaries on the table: one ancient and slim, the other old and thick. If people were books, she thought, she'd added a few chapters to herself in the last twelve hours. Finally, she spoke. “I have a secret to tell you, Al,” she said.

Al looked at her seriously, and took a seat at the table. “I'm honored to hear it, Henrietta,” he said.

Henrietta reached out to the older of the two books, and opened the cover a crack. “I found an attic above my room,” she said. “It's full of stuff. And . . . a cat. It was bleeding, and I tried to help it.”

Al leaned toward her as Henrietta lowered the cover of the book.

“What did it look like?” he asked.

“Actually, it's not really like a cat,” said Henrietta.

“Did it have long legs?” said Al. He held out his hands to indicate roughly how long he meant. “Big green eyes?”

Henrietta was so surprised that it took her a moment to stammer, “Yes!”

“Henrietta,” Al said, leaning forward even more, “you've made an
amazing
discovery. The cat in your attic is a wild housecat!”

Al's excitement was catching. Henrietta felt her heart beat faster. “I don't know what that is,” she said, leaning forward a little bit herself. She and Al looked like a pair of conspirators.

“You've heard of domestic housecats,” said Al. “They're just like domestic horses, or domestic dogs—they've lived with people so long, they've become used to us. But all of those domestic animals have wild ancestors—wild horses and wild dogs. The same is true of housecats. There are domestic housecats and wild housecats. Now, wild animals are very strange creatures. They don't have anything to do with people. Have you ever seen a wild horse, or a wild dog? Maybe on TV?”

“On history shows,” said Henrietta.

“They're all extinct now,” said Al. “People made so many buildings and roads that those animals had nowhere left to live. They died out.”

“But where do wild housecats live?” said Henrietta.

“In houses,” said Al, “that's why they're called housecats. Normally they lived in basements or attics, but the old homes they needed have all been torn down now, except a few. The new plastic houses, like this one, are no good—the cats can't get into them. Also, people misunderstood them, and thought they were dangerous.”

“I've heard cats are dangerous.”

“Everything is dangerous,” said Al, “but not everything is
particularly
dangerous.” He paused. “Henrietta, I'm proud of you. What you did was very brave.
And you were smart to keep it a secret. If your parents knew, they'd probably have the cat exterminated.”

“Some secrets
are
worth keeping,” said Henrietta.

Al smiled. “Now, as for the rest of what's in that attic—”

Before he could finish, the basement door opened, and Henrietta's mother stuck her head in at the top of the stairwell. “Henrietta,” she said, her scowling face hovering over the white ruffles of her blouse. “We're leaving. Now. Your father is in the car.”

“All right,” said Henrietta. Her mother removed herself and shut the door. Henrietta turned to Al. “The attic,” she said.

“Those things belonged to Henrie,” said Al, standing. “I wonder if Henrie even remembers it's all up there—inventory from her old store.” As Al fell silent, he picked up the older of the two bestiaries from the tabletop. “Henrietta, let me quickly show you this a little more.” He opened it. “See how the edges of the pages are dusted in gold? And how the paper is sewn into the binding, and the hand-colored inside cover? Now, if your parents ask, you can tell them what we talked about.” He winked at her. “It's a funny coincidence that I pulled these down, actually. When you learn the word
bestiary
, you'll understand why I decided to give you this.” He held out the older of the two editions. “I hope it provides you with good information.”

Henrietta didn't know what to say. She carefully took the book in her hands. It was heavy and smelled of old paper, leather, and Al's cologne. The binding was rough and dry.

She looked at her own textbook, which sat on the table between the two of
them. “Would you like to trade?” she asked.

“I can't take your schoolbook, Henrietta,” said Al.

“It isn't my schoolbook anymore. Starting tomorrow we aren't going to use it. Everything will be on computer.”

Al took the plastic book in his hands and looked it over. “All right,” he said. “I'll consider it a donation. Thank you, Henrietta.”

They ascended the carpeted stairs together. When they reached the top, Henrietta pushed on the door, but it didn't give.

“My mom locked us in!” she said, surprised.

Al laughed, and opened his phone. “I guess we should call for help. Unfortunately, cell phones don't work very well down here. I've been meaning to talk to your father about it.” He dialed and handed his phone to Henrietta, who put it to her ear. The line was full of static, but soon her grandmother answered: “Al, are you stuck down there again?”

“Hi, Grandma,” said Henrietta. “My mom trapped us by accident.”

Henrie laughed. “I'll rescue you,” she said.

Henrietta and Al listened through the door to the muted din of the party, Henrietta holding her new book in her arms, until the latch clicked and the door opened to reveal Henrie's amused face. She gazed down at Henrietta searchingly, and again Henrietta noticed the similarities between her and her mother.

“She knows,” said Al.

“What does she know?” said Henrie.

“I love you, Grandma,” said Henrietta. She held out her arms and hugged her grandmother, and Al joined them.

H
enrietta had always disliked her house, with its stubby single level and embarrassing peaked roof. The newer houses that surrounded it, two or three levels with nice flat roofs, seemed obviously superior. But now the peaked roof of Henrietta's house was something special—a habitat for a wild housecat, and she was excited to get back to it.

The ride home was quiet. Henrietta's parents both seemed angry, which struck her as odd. Why would finding out that her grandmother had cancer make them mad? They fumed in silence and said nothing to Henrietta by way of explanation.

When the ride finally ended, Henrietta could scarcely contain her desire to get back into the attic. She rushed to the front door of the house and waited impatiently as her father unlocked it. Once inside, she headed immediately in the direction of her room, but her mother stopped her.

“What do you have there?” she asked, pointing at the
Bestiary
that Henrietta held in one hand.

“Al gave it to me,” said Henrietta, hoping her mother wouldn't be too interested.

“It's . . . old?” said her mother, holding out one hand. Henrietta reluctantly
gave her the book. Her father looked revolted. Her parents both peered at it, trying to untangle the mess of flourishes that composed the title. “What sort of book is it?”

“I don't know yet,” said Henrietta.

“Is it age-appropriate?”

“School-district-approved content?”

“Did you just
wink
at me, young lady?” said her mother.

“No!” said Henrietta.
Had
she winked? If so, she was glad she'd finally figured it out.

“I'm worried it will give you a headache,” said her father.

“I hadn't thought about that,” said her mother, turning the book suspiciously over in her hands.

“It won't,” said Henrietta. “I didn't get one when Al showed it to me, and we looked at it for a long time.”

Henrietta's mother frowned, but finally returned the book to her. “Put it away if you start to feel ill.”

Henrietta moved again toward her room, but again her mother stopped her.

“Before you start your homework, we need to talk about something,” she said awkwardly. She began to pick at the pink nail polish on one of her fingers. “Something that happened at the party today.” She paused lengthily, formulating a few appropriate euphemisms. Henrietta could see that it would take nearly forever for her to broach the topic. And she just couldn't stand to wait anymore.

“I already know grandma's dying,” she said. “Al told me.”

Her mother and father both gasped.

“He
what
?” said her mother.

“He said
what
?” said her father.

“He said I didn't need to be protected from it,” said Henrietta.

Her father pulled out his cell phone. “I'm calling that man right now,” he said.

“You are
grounded
, young lady,” said her mother.

“But what did I—” said Henrietta.

“Just go to your room and think about it!” said her mother, too flustered to substantiate her anger. She quickly peeled all of the nail polish off of one finger and started in on the next.

This was exactly what Henrietta had been hoping to hear, and she left immediately as her father began sputtering a voice message to Al.

Henrietta stopped by the bathroom to grab some sterile gauze before hurrying into her bedroom and closing the door behind. She balanced her chair atop her desk, climbed to the trapdoor, and once again entered the attic, her new book in tow.

The light was much better during the day. The little living room with the couch, coffee table, and wicker chairs looked extremely inviting, and the small table with the dictionary on it reminded Henrietta that she had a word to look up.

Beyond the coffee table and seating, the bookcases towered, covered in an even film of dust. There were several sets, one obscuring the next, largely
blocking her view of the rest of the interior, though she could glimpse bits of things back in the shadows: a desk, a sewing table, boxes, a crate, a chest, a dresser, an umbrella stand. The light coming through the windows illuminated more than the moon had the previous night.

She stopped short.

Windows
? she thought. How odd . . . she'd never noticed them from outside the house before. She shook her head. A mystery to solve later.

The wild house cat had moved away from the trapdoor, and reclined now on the couch. It looked better. It held up its head easily. Its gray-furred ears twitched this way and that, homing in on the small sounds of the attic, and its enormous green eyes with their wide black pupils watched her.

Henrietta placed the
Bestiary
on the coffee table, and approached the cat. It stood warily on its long, thin legs. This was the first time she'd seen it at its full height, and it was considerably taller than an ordinary housecat.

“I want to change your bandages,” said Henrietta, “to prevent infection.”

The cat sat, and Henrietta gently removed the tape and gauze she'd applied the night before. The wound looked bad, but better. It was scabbing and didn't appear swollen or infected. She replaced the bloodied gauze with a fresh square.

“I think it's okay,” she said. She reached out to pet the cat, hoping to comfort it, but the moment she moved her hand toward it, it retreated to the far end of the couch. “I wish you'd let me pet you,” she said. She thought she would never get enough of looking at it. It was the strangest, most wonderful creature she'd ever seen. “I wonder if you're hungry.” Her eyes wandered over to the coffee table, and the
Bestiary
. She studied the baroque lettering on the cover, and then took out her phone to look up the word. But the phone was frozen again, just like the other night. She tapped the screen, and then returned it to her pocket as she remembered the dictionary on the table between the wicker chairs. She brought it to the couch and flipped through the
B
s.