“We don’t need a baby-sitter tonight,” Mom told him, setting Tootsie down on the sofa.
“You’re leaving Tootsie home by herself?” Fudge was even more surprised.
Mom laughed. “No, we’re taking Tootsie to the show.” She was trying to get fancy shoes on Tootsie’s feet but Tootsie squirmed and kicked, making it impossible. Mom finally gave up and stuffed the shoes into the diaper bag.
“You’re taking Tootsie?” Fudge couldn’t believe it.
“Of course we’re taking Tootsie,” Dad said. “And just look at our girl. She’s mighty pretty tonight, isn’t she?”
“She’s too young for a show,” Fudge argued. “She won’t understand it.”
“Without Tootsie there wouldn’t be a show,” Dad reminded him.
Tootsie held her arms out to me. “Uppy, Pee . . .” She waited for me to pick her up. When I did, she pulled my hair.
“Hey . . .” I said, which only made her laugh and pull harder.
Fudge hung on to me, tugging at my jacket. “I don’t want Tootsie to come with us. I want it to be just you and me, Pete.”
“I know how you feel,” I told Fudge, remembering all those times I didn’t want him to come along. “But you’ll get over it.”
* * *
A banner announcing Frank Fargo’s show hung outside the art gallery in SoHo. It said BABY FEET in big, bold letters, and under that, FRANK FARGO. Inside, huge colorful paintings hung on the walls. When the canvases were spread out on the ground last summer, I didn’t realize how big they would look hanging on a wall. You had to study them carefully to see the background of baby feet, but they were there, in every painting. The paintings had names like Baby Feet Blueberry and Baby Feet Strawberry. There was one called Baby Feet Storm and another called Baby Feet Earth.
Fudge looked around. “Where’s the stage?” he asked. “Where’re the seats?”
Dad explained. “It’s not that kind of show. It’s more like going to an art museum for a special event.”
“Where’s the event?” Fudge asked.
“This is the event,” Dad told him.
“No fair!” Fudge cried.
“Uh . . . Dad,” I said, hoping to escape before things took a turn for the worse, “I’m going to find Jimmy Fargo.”
“Take me,” Fudge cried. “Please, Pete. Take me with you!”
I hesitated for a second, then gave in and grabbed Fudge by the hand. But it was crowded in the gallery and I didn’t see Jimmy anywhere.
“I could walk across paintings, too,” Fudge told me. “I could do it better than Tootsie. Tootsie doesn’t go to school. She’s not even toilet trained.”
“But she can make animal sounds,” I said, trying to keep it light.
“Who cares about her dumb quack quacks . . . and her stupid meows?”
People began to form a circle around Mr. Fargo, who’d put Tootsie on his shoulders. “Here she is,” Mr. Fargo announced. “The star of my show. The one, the only . . . Tootsie Pie!”
Tootsie laughed and grabbed hold of Mr. Fargo’s hair. She’s probably his biggest fan. And I’m not talking about his paintings. What does Tootsie know about art? For some reason none of us understand, Tootsie likes Mr. Fargo. And Tootsie’s the only person I know who can get Mr. Fargo to smile. Which he did now, as flashbulbs went off. “She’s my inspiration!” Mr. Fargo told the crowd. The crowd applauded.
“Is Tootsie famous?” Fudge asked.
“Yeah, just for tonight,” I answered. “And she probably won’t even remember.”
“I was famous once . . . right, Pete?”
“Yeah, you were famous for about a week when you rode the Toddle Bike for Dad’s TV commercial.”
“I remember.” He looked up at me. “How about you, Pete? Were you ever famous?”
“Not yet.”
“Don’t feel bad. You’re famous to me.” He gave me a big smile and squeezed my hand.
“Thanks, Fudge.”
When Dad caught up with us, I said, “It would be cool to have a painting by Frank Fargo, especially one with Tootsie’s footprints.”
Fudge broke away from us and reached out to touch Baby Feet Strawberry. “How about this one?”
Dad grabbed him from behind and pulled him back. “No touching,” he said.
“Why not?” Fudge asked.
“Because your hands might not be clean.”
“They’re clean. Look . . .” he said, holding them up for Dad to see.
“Even so,” Dad said, “you aren’t allowed to touch paintings on display.”
“Why not?” Fudge asked.
“That’s the rule,” Dad said.
“It’s a stupid rule,” Fudge said.
“We don’t say the stupid word,” Dad reminded him.
“Yes, we do,” Fudge said. “We just don’t say it about people. If we want to say it about people, we say Turkey Brain. Ask Pete. He knows.” Now Fudge pointed to Baby Feet Storm. “How about this one? This one would look good in my room.”
“We can’t afford these paintings,” Dad said. “Look at the prices.” He pointed to the numbers on the title cards.
“Those are prices?” I asked. There weren’t any dollar signs. Just a number, followed by three zeros, making every painting six or seven or eight thousand dollars.
“More zeros means more money, right, Pete?”
“I’ll say!”
“So that’s good, right?”
“Depends on if you’re the seller or the buyer,” I told him.
“Which are we?”
“Neither,” Dad said. “We’re friends.”
“No zeros for friends,” Fudge sang.
Dad asked me to keep an eye on Fudge while he went to greet someone he knew.
“I can’t believe this,” I said, more to myself than Fudge.
“What can’t you believe, Pete?”
“That somebody’s going to pay seven thousand dollars for this painting.”
“So, Pete . . .” he began, and he got this greedy look in his eyes. I knew what was coming before he even said it. But he said it anyway. “We could get Tootsie to do the same thing at home and then . . .”
I interrupted. “Yeah . . . except nobody would pay us thousands of dollars for a painting.”
“How come?”
“Because we’re not artists like Mr. Fargo.”
“But, Pete, that doesn’t make any sense.”
“What can I say, Fudge? That’s the way it is.”
He swung my arm up and down. “We think the same way, don’t we?”
Before I could answer, before I could say, No . . . we don’t think the same way and we never will . . . someone came up from behind and stuck a finger in my ribs. I spun around.
“Gotcha!” Jimmy laughed.
“Where’ve you been?” I asked. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
“Yeah . . . it’s crowded in here. That’s a good sign. So, what do you think?” He stepped away from the paintings and studied them from a distance. He squinted, then made his fists into binoculars and peered through them. I did the same, and when I did, all those swirling colors looked like they were moving.
“Cool, huh?” Jimmy said.
“Yeah . . . amazing.”
“You’re not thinking you could do the same thing, I hope?”
“No. Why would I be thinking that?”
“I don’t know. You just have that look on your face.”
“What look?”
“Never mind.”
A woman in a black dress and dangling earrings shaped like skyscrapers stuck a red dot on the Baby Feet Storm card. She looked familiar—tall and scrawny with a lot of curly hair and a really long neck.
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“Yes!” Jimmy pulled a victory fist. “There goes another one.”
“Another what?” I said.
“Another painting. When a red dot goes up, it means that painting is sold.”
“Wow!” I said. “Seven thousand dollars. What’s it like to know your dad is rich and famous?”
“Rich?” Fudge said.
Jimmy ignored him and eyed me. “First of all, the gallery gets half of everything. Second of all, since when are you so into money?”
“Me, into money?” I said. “That’s a joke! You want to see someone who’s into money, look at my brother.”
Fudge started singing, “Money, money, money . . . I love money, money, money . . .” Then he skipped away.
A minute later someone tapped me on the shoulder. “Well, well, well . . .” she said. “If it isn’t my old friend, Peter Hatcher.” It was the woman in the skyscraper earrings. She was carrying a shoulder bag with a small dog inside. As soon as I heard her voice I recognized her. It was Giraffe Neck, this woman I knew last year when we lived in Princeton. She owned a gallery there, right near the movie theater. One of Frank Fargo’s paintings hung in the window. It was called Anita’s Anger. One time I went in and told Giraffe Neck I personally knew Frank Fargo. But what was she doing here? And why was she carrying a Yorkie in her bag? I reached out to pet the dog but it barked at me.
“It’s okay, Vinny,” Jimmy said, scratching the dog behind his ears. “Peter’s a friend.”
“You know her dog?” I asked.
“Sure, I know Vinny,” Jimmy said. “He walks backwards even when he’s barking at you.”
“Backwards?”
“He retreats,” Giraffe Neck explained.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Jimmy said. “He retreats.”
“But he loves Jimmy,” Giraffe Neck said, tousling Jimmy’s hair. “Vinny never barks at Jimmy.” Then she was gone, back to doing business.
Jimmy watched her for a minute, then turned back to me. “What?” he said, as if I’d asked a question, which I hadn’t.
“I didn’t say anything,” I told him.
“But you were going to.”
“Well yeah . . . now that you mention it, didn’t you say something about getting a Yorkie?”
Jimmy nodded.
“I thought so.”
A few minutes later I caught a glimpse of Giraffe Neck across the room with Mr. Fargo. It looked like he was nuzzling her neck. Jimmy saw me watching them.
“Am I missing something here,” I began, “or are your father and Giraffe Neck . . .”
“They’re going out,” Jimmy said. “They’re talking about getting married.”
“Married?”
“Could you not say it like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like it’s a disaster or something.”
“I didn’t say it’s a disaster,” I told him. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. I mean, I’m supposed to be your best friend . . . so how come you didn’t say something about your father marrying Giraffe Neck until now?”
“It wasn’t official,” Jimmy said. “And her name’s Beverly. Beverly Muldour. And if you want to know, she’s pretty cool.”
“If you say so.”
“The only bad thing is this means my parents aren’t getting back together.”
“Did you think they would?”
Jimmy didn’t answer.
“Come on, Jimmy . . . your parents can’t stand each other. That’s why they’re divorced.”
“I don’t want to hear that,” Jimmy said. “Especially from you. You just said you’re supposed to be my best friend.”
“Okay, I’m sorry.”
“Just because they’re divorced doesn’t mean I want either one of them to marry someone else.”
“But you said Giraffe Neck’s cool.”
“Yeah, but what does she know about being a parent?”
“Look at it this way,” I said. “Your father doesn’t know much about being a parent either.”
“You can say that again.”
“So how bad could it be? Your father seems happy tonight.”
“That’s tonight.”
“So, maybe he’ll be happier more of the time.”
Jimmy shrugged. “Beverly says she won’t try to be my mother since I already have one. She says we’ll be friends instead. But what does that mean?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you should just wait and see.”
* * *
It was after 9:00 P.M. by the time we got home. Tootsie was asleep in Dad’s arms. Henry met us at the door to our building. “Mrs. H . . .” he said. “You’ve got visitors.”
“Visitors?” Mom asked. “At this hour? Warren, are you expecting anyone?”
Dad said, “I can’t imagine who it could be.”
“I know!” Fudge said. “It’s Grandma and Buzzy.”
“No, it’s not your grandma,” Henry said, handing a note to Mom.
“Then I’ll bet it’s William, my teacher.”
“Why would your teacher come to your house at night?” I asked.
“Because he likes me,” Fudge answered.
“Not everything’s about you,” I told him while Mom opened the note.
She read it aloud. Dear Tubby . . . she began.
Oh no! I thought.
“Oh goody,” Fudge sang. “It’s the Howies!”
“Let Mom finish reading,” I said.
Mom started again.
Dear Tubby and Anne,
We finally made it to the Big City.
We’re in the van, parked right around the corner.
Can’t wait to see you again.
Your loving cousins,
Howie, Eudora, Fauna, Flora and Farley
“Well,” Mom said. “What a surprise.”
Surprise? I thought. That’s one way of putting it.
Dad passed the sleeping Tootsie to Mom. “You take her up and I’ll go see about Cousin Howie.”
“I’ll come, too,” Fudge said.
“It’s way past your bedtime,” Mom told him. “And tomorrow’s a school day.”
“But I’m not tired,” Fudge said. “Look . . . see how wide I can open my eyes?”
“All right, but don’t be long,” Mom said. “What about you, Peter?” she asked, as I followed her to the elevator.
“I’m feeling really tired,” I said. “I think I should go right to bed.”
She tried to feel my forehead but with Tootsie in her arms it wasn’t easy. “You’re not getting sick, are you?”
“Yeah, I am. But not the way you think.”
Camp Howie-Wowie
An hour later the Howies were sound asleep on our living-room floor. “Up with the sun, asleep with the moon!” Cousin Howie had said. “You’ll hardly know we’re here.”
I’ll know, I thought.
And just like that they’d climbed into their sleeping bags and closed their eyes. Cousin Howie snored softly. Lined up next to him were Eudora, then Mini-Farley, followed by the Natural Beauties. They slept flat on their backs, like a row of hot dogs in their rolls. All that was missing was the mustard and the relish.
Turtle didn’t get it. He kept sniffing them. He even tried licking Eudora’s face, since no toes were available. But still, they didn’t wake up. Mom said I had to get Turtle into my room, and fast, but I couldn’t lure him away from the Howies. “Pssst . . .” I whispered, crawling around the living room on all fours, holding out a wedge of cheese. “Come here, boy.” He didn’t even look at me.
Mom motioned for me to come into the kitchen. She was laying out plates, bowls, and silverware. “Would you count out nine juice glasses, Peter?”
r /> “Are we having a midnight supper or what?”
“It’s for tomorrow morning’s breakfast,” Mom said.
I checked the cupboard. “I hate to break it to you, Mom, but we don’t have nine juice glasses. How about four?”
“I’ll ask Dad to pick up some paper cups.”
“Where is Dad, anyway?”
“At the grocery store. We’ve got five extra mouths to feed in the morning.” When the phone rang Mom grabbed it on the first ring. “I’ll take it in the bedroom so I don’t wake our guests.”
The second Mom left the kitchen, Fudge tore out of his room in his pajamas and started jumping over the sleeping Howies, making Turtle bark. Still, they didn’t stir.
“Maybe they’re dead,” Fudge whispered to me.
“They’re not dead.”
“How do you know?”
“Because they’re breathing. Be quiet. You can hear them.”
Fudge listened. Then he said, “It’s better to breathe, right, Pete?”
“Yeah, it’s definitely better to breathe.”
“Remember when I wanted to be a bird breather when I grow up?”
“That was a bird breeder,” I reminded him.
“Oh, right. A bird breeder.” He watched the Howies for a minute, then looked up at me. “This is fun, isn’t it, Pete?”
“No,” I told him. “It’s not fun.”
He followed me into the kitchen. “How come?”
“How come?” I repeated. “I’ll give you five reasons how come.”
“But, Pete . . . Grandma says, The more the merrier.”
“Grandma’s full of sayings. You don’t have to believe all of them.”
“But I do.” He dragged a chair over to the counter, climbed up, opened the snack cupboard, and pulled out a pack of rice cakes. “It’s like a giant sleepover, isn’t it?”
I could think of plenty of words besides sleepover to describe the situation but none that were appropriate to say in front of him.
When Mom came back to the kitchen and found Fudge stuffing his face, she scooped him up and carried him back to his room, where he started singing:
The moon belongs to everyone
The best things in life cost money.