Double Fudge

  The vet laughed and said, “Bonjour to you, too!”

  Dog Feet

  Uncle Feather has a broken wing. He’ll be in a splint for six weeks. If he’d crashed into the window headfirst, he might be dead now. Instead, he crashed sideways. The vet says he’s a lucky bird. He should make a full recovery. In the meantime he’s yakking away, making up for the weeks he didn’t talk at all. Maybe flying into the window gave him something to talk about. Who knows what goes on in Uncle Feather’s head.

  I reached Dad on his cell phone and he met us at the animal hospital. When he got there, Howie said, “Well, Tubby . . . your boys handled this very well. Peter showed he can think fast in an emergency situation, and Fudge was calm and helpful.”

  Dad hugged Fudge and me. “I’m very proud of my boys, Howie.”

  “You must be doing something right,” Howie said. “Although I can’t imagine what it is.”

  When we got back home, the apartment was neat and clean, not a sign of bird poop anywhere. Eudora was dressed and making sandwiches for lunch, Tootsie was napping, and Mini was parked in front of the tube. “And I don’t want to hear one word about it, Howie!” Eudora said. “He’s watching the Discovery Channel.”

  “Discovery Channel?” Howie said. “Well, at least that sounds educational.”

  “Yes, it is,” Eudora said. “I’m sure our little Farley will learn a lot. And in case you were wondering, I’ve given Flora and Fauna permission to spend another night at the Tubmans’.”

  “Well,” Cousin Howie said. “I can see you’re feeling perky today.”

  “Yes, I am,” Eudora said. “Very perky!”

  * * *

  We put Uncle Feather back in his cage and gave him some pear. He seemed confused at first, but not too confused to eat. “You’re a lucky bird,” Howie told him.

  “Lucky, lucky . . .” Uncle Feather said.

  Mini laughed. “Bird talks.”

  Cousin Howie held Mini in his arms so he could see inside the cage. “You understand, don’t you, that you can’t let the bird out again?”

  Mini didn’t say anything.

  “If you don’t understand,” Howie said, “you can’t come into Fudge’s room to watch his bird.”

  Mini still didn’t say anything, but he licked the side of Cousin Howie’s face.

  “Good,” Howie said. “I’m glad you understand.”

  That’s it? I thought. He thinks he can trust Mini just because Mini licked his face?

  Fudge said, “One time in Maine I let Uncle Feather out of his cage when it wasn’t free time . . .”

  “Then you understand the temptation, don’t you, Fudge?” Cousin Howie said. “And you don’t blame our little Farley for what happened.”

  “He shouldn’t have done it,” Fudge said.

  “You’re right,” Cousin Howie said. “Farley shouldn’t have done it. But he’s learned his lesson and he’s never going to do it again. Isn’t that right, Farley?”

  “Lucky bird,” Mini said.

  “Lucky bird . . . lucky lucky . . .”

  “Uh . . . Cousin Howie,” I said, “maybe we should have a rule that Mini can only watch Uncle Feather when someone’s watching him.”

  “Ordinarily I’d say that makes sense,” Cousin Howie said. “But in this case it’s not necessary.”

  “Mini’s not even four years old,” I said, in case Cousin Howie needed reminding.

  “No matter,” Cousin Howie said. “He understands.”

  I could see there was no point in arguing with Cousin Howie.

  * * *

  After lunch Fudge pulled me aside and said, “Let’s play a game, Pete. How about Spit?”

  “No, thanks.” It was a mistake for Sheila to teach him to play that card game. He thinks, instead of calling out the word spit, when he’s out of cards, he’s actually supposed to do it. He taught Richie Potter to play and they wound up having a spitting contest. It was disgusting.

  “Okay,” Fudge said, “then how about Mono-Poly?”

  “It’s not Mono-Poly,” I told him. “It’s Monopoly. And you need more than two players to have a good game. Besides, you steal from the bank.”

  “Come on, Pete . . . I won’t steal.” He gave me his best-little-boy-in-the-world look.

  “You promise?” I asked.

  “I promise.”

  I gave in, figuring if ever he deserved a reward for good behavior this was it. Besides, I knew the game would be over in less than an hour. Playing Monopoly with Fudge is like playing basketball with your dog. He really doesn’t get it. His only interest is in owning Boardwalk and Park Place.

  “I’ll buy that,” he said when he landed on Park Place today. He already owned Boardwalk but it was mortgaged. “Plus, I’ll buy two hotels.”

  “You can’t build houses or hotels until you pay off the mortgage,” I told him. “Anyway, you don’t have enough money to buy anything.”

  “Oh yes I do.” He pulled a wad of Fudge Bucks from his pocket.

  “We only use Monopoly money when we’re playing Monopoly.”

  “Okay . . . then I’ll just make a quick stop at the ATM.”

  “There is no ATM in Monopoly.”

  “Well, there should be!” he argued.

  “But there isn’t,” I told him.

  “Fine. I’ll use my credit card.”

  “What credit card?”

  “The one Grandma gave me.”

  “Grandma gave you a credit card?”

  He pulled it out of his other pocket and waved it around. “Too bad she didn’t give one to you, Pete.”

  “Let me see that.” I grabbed it out of his hand. “This card is ten years out of date,” I said. “Grandma should have thrown it away a long time ago.”

  “I don’t care!” Fudge said.

  “Well, I do. And even if it was still good you couldn’t use it for Monopoly. This is a game, not real life.” I took my turn and landed on Pennsylvania Railroad. I already owned it.

  Then it was Fudge’s turn. As he shook the dice, he started to sing. “Oh . . . money, money, money, I love money, money, money . . .” He threw the dice. Double fours. He moved eight spaces and landed on Community Chest. He picked up a card. “Second prize in a beauty contest, Pete.” He held out his hand. “Ten bucks, please.” Then he threw the dice again.

  * * *

  When Mom got home from work, Eudora had a big pot of chili simmering on the stove and the table in the alcove set for dinner. Mom looked surprised and pleased. Eudora said, “It’s the least we could do. You’ve been so generous to us. And with the accident and all . . .”

  “Accident?” Mom asked, and the expression on her face changed. “What accident?”

  “Oh, Anne,” Eudora said, “I’m so sorry. I thought you knew . . .”

  “Knew what?” Mom said, growing more worried. “Is everyone all right?”

  Fudge tore across the room and jumped into Mom’s arms. “It’s Uncle Feather, Mom! He broke his wing. He has to wear a splint for six weeks. I helped Pete and Cousin Howie take him to the animal hospital. Did you know there’s no ambulance for birds?”

  “Wing?” Mom said. “But how . . .”

  Dad came into the room and put his arm around Mom. “Uncle Feather’s going to be all right,” he told her.

  “But . . .”

  “It’s a long story, honey,” Fudge said, doing a perfect imitation of Dad.

  Before Dad had the chance to fill her in on what happened, the doorbell rang. “I wonder who that could be?” Mom asked.

  She always says that instead of just opening the door and finding out for herself. While she was wondering, I went to the door, looked through the peephole, and caught a glimpse of Jimmy and his father. “Hey,” I s
aid, opening the door. “This is a surprise.”

  “It’s supposed to be,” Jimmy said. Then he helped Frank Fargo carry in a huge, flat package wrapped in brown paper.

  “For you,” Mr. Fargo said, presenting it to Mom.

  “For me?” Mom asked.

  “Well, actually, for the whole family,” Mr. Fargo said.

  “What could it be?” Mom asked.

  “See for yourself,” Mr. Fargo told her.

  “Come on, Mom,” I said, helping her tear off the brown wrapping paper.

  “Oh, Frank . . .” Mom got all choked up when she saw what was inside. It was one of the paintings from his show—Baby Feet Blueberry—the original painting Tootsie walked across. “We can’t accept such a . . .”

  Mr. Fargo didn’t wait for her to finish. “Think of it this way, Anne,” he said. “Without Tootsie, there wouldn’t have been any show.”

  “That’s just what Dad says!” Fudge told Mr. Fargo.

  Dad turned red and laughed. “It’s fabulous, Frank . . . and more than generous.”

  “It would look perfect over our living-room sofa,” Mom said. “We’ve been saving for a piece of art, but with money being so tight these days . . .”

  “What’s tight money?” Fudge asked.

  “Never mind,” Mom said.

  “Come on, Mom. If it’s about money I have to know.”

  “Tight means there’s not a lot to spend,” Mom explained, softly.

  “Or it could mean somebody’s really cheap,” I told him. “Like a tightwad.”

  “Thank you, Peter,” Mom said and from her tone I knew I should stay out of this. “But we’re talking about a money situation here, not how a person feels about spending it.”

  “I love it when we talk about money,” Fudge said. “What’s a wad?”

  “This is hopeless,” Mom said.

  “I can see that,” Mr. Fargo answered. “So let’s skip the chitchat and hang the painting.”

  Dad helped Mr. Fargo center Baby Feet Blueberry over the sofa while Mom eyed it. “A little higher . . . no, that’s too high . . . about an inch lower . . . yes, that’s it!”

  Then we all stood back to admire the painting. Eudora said, “Why, it looks as if it was meant to hang in that very spot.”

  Cousin Howie said, “Is it my eyes or are those swirls of color moving?”

  “They’re supposed to look as if they’re moving,” Mr. Fargo said.

  “Well, I’ll be . . .” Howie said.

  Then Fudge told Jimmy about Uncle Feather’s accident, and the three of us went to Fudge’s room to check him out. Mini was standing on the step stool, watching over him. “Nice bird,” Mini said. “Lucky bird.”

  “Nice bird . . .” Uncle Feather repeated. “Lucky . . . lucky . . .”

  “He’s talking again?” Jimmy asked.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Just like that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How come?”

  “Nobody knows.”

  “Nobody knows . . . nobody knows . . .”

  “I know,” Mini said.

  I looked at him. “You know what?”

  “Why the bird can talk.”

  “Who told you?” I asked.

  “The bird,” Mini said.

  “The bird told you why he was talking again?” I said.

  Mini nodded.

  “What’d he say?” I asked.

  “Can’t tell,” Mini said.

  “Why not?”

  “Promised.”

  “Promised who?”

  “The bird!” Mini said. Then he laughed like crazy, sounding exactly the way Fudge did when he was that age. He was even starting to look like Fudge. How come I never noticed that before?

  Fudge collected a stack of paintings from one of his shelves. He carried them into the living room and presented them to Mr. Fargo. “Dog Feet Red, Dog Feet Blue, Dog Feet Green, and Dog Feet Purple.”

  Mr. Fargo paid careful attention to each of Fudge’s paintings. “These are very good,” he said. “They show a lot of promise.”

  I moved closer to check them out and what did I see? Paw prints. Every single painting was covered with paw prints! “Wait a minute,” I said to Fudge. “How did you get . . .”

  Fudge laughed. “It was so easy, Pete. Turtle liked walking across my paintings.”

  “You used my dog for your paintings?”

  “You want to buy one, Pete? They’re for sale. Three zeros for each one.”

  “You know how much three zeros adds up to?”

  “Yeah, Pete,” Fudge said. “More than two zeros!”

  * * *

  Jimmy invited me to go to supper and a movie with him and his father. I jumped at the chance to get out of the apartment. “Maybe you can spend the night, too?” Jimmy asked.

  “Yes!” I told him, before I even checked with Mom and Dad. I knew they’d let me go. I knew they’d think by then I deserved a break.

  * * *

  The next morning, Giraffe Neck was at the Fargos’ loft with Vinny. She made us French toast for breakfast. “Wait ’til you taste it,” Jimmy said. “It’s the world’s best. Right, Vinny?”

  Vinny barked but this time he didn’t retreat. He even let me pet him.

  Sunday night, on the way home, Jimmy told me his dad and Giraffe Neck are getting married on Valentine’s Day. “And you have to be there,” he said, “because I’m best man and I don’t know anything about being best man.”

  “You think I do?”

  “Just promise you’ll come.”

  “Okay . . . I promise.”

  “Thanks.”

  I was hoping that when I got home the Howies would be gone. And if not gone, then packing. Instead, the Natural Beauties had returned and all five of the Honolulu Hatchers were lined up in their sleeping bags, out cold.

  * * *

  Two nights turned into four, four nights into seven. It was the longest week of my life, except for the time Fudge swallowed Dribble, my pet turtle. Finally, Dad said, “Well, Howie . . . it’s been wonderful getting to know your family but now . . .”

  “I know, Tubby . . . and we feel as bad about leaving as you do. I know you wish we could stay longer . . .”

  “But you’re traveling around the country, and you still have a lot to see,” I said, hoping I was right.

  “That was the plan,” Cousin Howie said. “But plans sometimes change. And thanks to Henry Bevelheimer . . .”

  Thanks to Henry Bevelheimer what?

  “We’re going to sublet the Chens’ apartment while they’re traveling in China. Which means we’ll be your neighbors until the first of December.”

  “But but but . . .” I began.

  “Peter, my boy . . .” Cousin Howie said, “no one understands better than me how hard it would have been to say good-bye. So even though we’ll be separated by ten floors, we’ll still be together for another six weeks.”

  “Six weeks!” Fudge said. “That’s how long Uncle Feather’s going to wear his splint.”

  Six weeks! I thought. No . . . no . . . And I fell to the floor.

  Fudge laughed. “When Pete gets good news he always pretends to faint!”

  Yelraf Rose

  It was so great to have the apartment back to ourselves. It felt huge. It felt peaceful. Whoever thought life with my family could ever feel peaceful? No more wait to use the bathroom. No more hot dogs in rolls lined up on the living-room floor. With the Howies staying in the Chens’ apartment, I’d hardly ever have to see them. Not only that, but the Natural Beauties aren’t going to my school. They’re taking dance classes and voice classes and drama classes all day, every day. Yes! I thought. I have my life back.
r />   Dad proposed we celebrate our own small family by having dinner at Isola, our favorite neighborhood restaurant. As soon as we walked in, I noticed Courtney, this girl from my humanities class. She was with her family. “Hi, Peter,” she said.

  “Oh . . . uh . . . hi, Courtney.”

  “Where are the Heavenlys?” she asked. “I hope they’re coming back to school soon. They are soooo cool.”

  “They’re not coming back to school.”

  “That is soooo disappointing.”

  I shrugged.

  “Tell them Courtney from humanities said Hi.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  As I walked away I heard Courtney telling her parents, “That’s Peter Hatcher. He’s related to the Heavenly Hatchers. He is soooo lucky.”

  As soon as I sat down at our table, Fudge asked, “Is that your girlfriend, Pete?”

  “No, that’s not my girlfriend,” I told him. “I don’t have a girlfriend, and even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you about her.”

  “Don’t worry, Pete. Someday you’ll find one.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “Because you’re not that ugly.”

  “Would somebody turn him off,” I said to my parents.

  “That’s enough, Fudge,” Mom said.

  Tootsie banged on the table with a spoon. “Eeee-nuf, Foo!” Then she threw the spoon. It just missed the waiter who was bringing us a basket of bread. Fudge helped himself to a piece, pushed out the middle, and stuffed it into his mouth. Mom handed his crust to Tootsie.

  “Guess who came to mixed group today?” Fudge asked, his mouth so full he could hardly talk.

  “Rumpelstiltskin?” I said.

  Fudge laughed.

  “Don’t laugh with food in your mouth,” I told him.

  “Why not?”

  Mom and I answered at the same time. I said, “Because it’s disgusting.” Mom said, “Because you could choke.”

  “It was the Stranger Danger policeman,” Fudge said, after he’d chewed and swallowed. “He showed us a video, then we all got secret code names. Only our family can know our secret code name. Want to hear mine?” He motioned for us to come close. “I have to whisper so no one else can hear.” We leaned in. “It’s Egduf Muriel,” Fudge told us. “Isn’t that a good code name?”