Scream and Scream Again!

  “The squirrels ran Sissy off,” Nathan had said. Sissy was the Bentons’ fat orange tabby cat. “My mom is really mopey.”

  “I don’t think squirrels can run off a cat,” I said.

  “Well, they did.” Nathan looked at me harder to see if I could handle another piece of information. “You know what else?”

  “What?”

  “My dad told the critter catcher he could just drown the squirrels.”

  I felt a little sick at the thought. Those squirrels were just trying to get by. “What did the critter catcher say?”

  “He said they were more human about it.”

  “Humane,” I corrected.

  “Whatever. Anyway, the critter catcher says the gray squirrels are invaders, so they’ve got to go.”

  “I wonder why they’re invading.”

  Nathan shrugged. “The critter guy says he’s been doing a lot of work in our neighborhood. They must be nesting here or something.”

  “Maybe,” I said doubtfully. I had never seen a baby squirrel. They must stay hidden until they’re full-grown.

  “I bet they ate Sissy,” said Nathan, a little too eagerly for my taste.

  I shook my head. “Squirrels don’t eat cats.”

  “How do you know?” he’d shot back.

  Nathan and I are friends, but I don’t think we’re ever going to be best friends.

  After I nearly stepped on the squished squirrel in the crosswalk, I decided that I had to do something. The little guys were dying—and making trouble, even though they didn’t mean to. But what could I do? I couldn’t go into the squirrel-catching-and-relocating business. But I did know how to use the phone.

  “I’d like to speak to a wildlife control officer,” I said when a woman answered my call to the county animal control department.

  “I might be able to help you,” the woman said in a casual, friendly tone, not at all like what I’d expected from a government official. “What’s the trouble?”

  “Squirrels,” I said firmly. “Lots of them.”

  “Don’t I know it,” said the woman. “They’re like mosquitoes this year.” She laughed with a snort.

  “Exactly,” I said.

  “Well, what’s the trouble, then?” said the woman, now sounding more official. “They in your attic or crawl space? You seen any acting strangely or any that looked sick? How old are you, anyway?”

  I ignored that last question. “I haven’t seen any sick ones, but a pair did get into my friend’s attic.”

  “Yeah?” She didn’t sound impressed.

  “Well, they’re everywhere over here in the Holly Oaks neighborhood. They’re cute, but they’re getting hit by cars. I hate to see them dead and rotting and getting eaten by the crows.” I caught my breath, then added, “We’re feeling pretty overrun.”

  “You are, huh?”

  “I thought you could do a big roundup and move them back across the river and into Forest Park.”

  The woman was silent for a moment, then said in her most annoying adult voice, “Honey, unfortunately, at this point, overrun isn’t good enough. I need a sick squirrel, an aggressive squirrel, or a freshly dead squirrel before I can send someone out.”

  “They were carrying peanuts,” I said desperately.

  “Well, I can tell you for certain that peanuts do not grow in this climate. Walnuts and hazelnuts, yes, but not peanuts. Cutting off the source of those peanuts might help.”

  “So you can’t do anything?”

  The woman sighed. “They’ll thin out soon enough.”

  So much for help. I said good-bye and hung up.

  The squirrels, of course, didn’t thin out. They multiplied. They were still in the trees and on the roofs, and running to and fro in the streets. They darted slyly around, bright-eyed but mangy, playful yet also a little menacing.

  A week later Nathan Benton’s dad picked me up in his big black Cadillac. Mrs. Benton was traveling for work, so Mr. Benton was taking Nathan and me out for an early dinner. He’d gotten chummy with me since my dad moved out, which sounds nice, but I was still suspicious.

  “Boys,” he said after I got into the back seat, “I’m taking you for a big, juicy steak.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Can I get french fries, too?” Nathan asked.

  His dad craned his neck and eyed us in the rearview mirror. “You can get baked, mashed, or”—he paused for emphasis—“steak fries.”

  “Okay,” Nathan said obediently.

  At the steak restaurant—called, no kidding, Sir Loin’s—I looked the menu over for a vegetarian option. The pickings were thin.

  Nathan ordered a London broil, and Mr. Benton ordered a T-bone.

  The waiter turned to me, and I said, “I’d just like an order of mac and cheese. And could you hold the bacon bits? I’d also like a side of spinach.”

  I looked at Mr. Benton out of the corner of my eye. I wasn’t sure if he was mad or not. His face sure looked strange.

  “Don’t you want a steak?” he asked. “You should have a steak.”

  I shook my head. “No thank you. I’m not hungry for a big steak.”

  “You could get a smaller one. The eight-ounce filet.”

  I shook my head.

  Throughout the meal Mr. Benton kept glancing at me like I was an exotic—and maybe dangerous—animal. After this, I thought he wasn’t going to try to be my buddy anymore. Just as well.

  The car was silent as we drove back to our neighborhood. It was nearly dusk, and the falling sun made the sky a blurry mix of orange and black. A block from my house, a squirrel darted out into the road, and Mr. Benton slowed down. The creature stopped midstride and reversed course, and then Mr. Benton hit the gas and turned the wheel. I felt a very soft thump and heard a sickening pop. I turned and looked out the rear window. The dead animal was still twitching a bit, stuck to the road. The blood in my body ran a horrified lap.

  “Score,” muttered Mr. Benton, looking back through his rearview mirror.

  “Did you mean to hit him?” I blurted out.

  “Why not?” said Mr. Benton, shrugging. “Those little jerks cost me more than two thousand bucks. I’m running them down whenever I get a chance.”

  I was nearly shaking when I got out of the car. I wondered now if Mr. Benton had hit the squirrel that I’d nearly stepped on. Running down squirrels had to be a crime. It also left behind a mess.

  The next morning I called the county animal control department again. The same woman answered, “Animal control.”

  “I have a dead squirrel to report,” I announced. “Hit in the road, a block from my house.”

  “Yep. We’re getting a lot of that this time of year.” She sounded bored. “What’s your address?”

  I gave it to her.

  “We’ll have it picked up within seventy-two hours,” explained the woman.

  “Seventy-two hours?!” That seemed like a long time.

  “Within seventy-two hours,” the woman repeated. “We’ve only got so many hands, and a lot of dead little bodies.”

  “I guess,” I said, thinking out loud, “I guess I could pick it up myself and bury it.”

  “That’s up to you. I recommend you use gloves and then seal the body in a plastic bag. It can just go in your trash. You bury it, some other animal will dig it up.”

  I had hardly been able to look at the dead squirrel I’d nearly stepped on. I realized I would never be able to scrape up a squirrel and bag it. “Okay, but if I don’t get to it, you’ll still pick it up?”

  “We’ll be there,” promised the woman.

  I thanked her and hung up.

  I wondered if Mr. Benton was actually chasing squirrels around in his car. I had seen a lot of dead squirrels in the road, but then, there were still a lot of squirrels running around. They must’ve bred, well, like rabbits, and thrived on a good supply of food. Or at least a lot of peanuts.

  I went back outside, down my driveway, and up the block toward Mr. Bent
on’s latest kill. Flies were circling the squashed squirrel. I looked farther up the street. It seemed like the squirrels were always coming from that direction. I saw one across the street now, loping through a flower bed.

  I looked both ways and crossed. The squirrel saw me coming and skittered under a fence. The street was perfectly quiet, and I looked in all four directions since I was standing at an intersection. A movement caught my eye, half a block up. A squirrel was crossing.

  As I walked up the sidewalk, I saw another squirrel with a mangy gray coat, and still another, more brown, across the street. I kept my eye, though, on the one that had crossed up ahead. It seemed to be moving with real purpose.

  The squirrel scampered north and then beelined across the next street. I picked up my pace and turned the corner. I stopped abruptly, staring in astonishment. Several squirrels scurried in the street on this block. And in the yards and along the fences and on the telephone wires, I saw even more. I walked down the block, parting small gatherings of squirrels here and there. The animals paid little attention to me, other than to clear out of my way.

  They were thickest in the middle of the block, on the north side of the street. I crossed and walked cautiously down the sidewalk. The squirrels were scampering happily—and in great numbers—beside a property that held a washed-out yellow house. I had never paid this house much attention because it squatted for the most part behind a row of large, bushy rhododendrons. They weren’t flowering now, and their leaves and branches formed a hedge in front of a concrete path that presumably led to the front door. The squirrels ran up and along a fence that concealed the backyard.

  And now I saw exactly what I was looking for—even though I hadn’t known it.

  Two cabin-shaped feeders—sort of like bird feeders—were nailed to a gnarled walnut tree on the other side of the fence. The squirrels came and went, up and down the tree. They swarmed around the feeders, standing on small platforms and coming away with peanuts in the shell. At the foot of the fence, empty peanut shells covered the ground.

  I took a long slow breath. Who put out squirrel feeders? I had never heard of such a thing. I wondered what Mr. Benton would do. He did have a gun case with a shotgun in his den. The residents of this house were probably serious environmentalists. That was okay by me, except now we had too many squirrels in the area. It might even be against the law to feed wild animals—even though squirrels weren’t that wild. Maybe these people didn’t realize all the trouble they were causing.

  I ducked behind the wall of rhododendrons and walked up the concrete path to the front door. There was no doorbell, so I opened the screen door and knocked three hard whacks with my fist. I stepped back and let the screen door snap back into place.

  The windows to my left were dirty with dust and abandoned spiderwebs in the upper corners. Heavy vinyl blinds covered the windows.

  I stepped forward to knock again when I heard the deadbolt snick open. The door opened about a foot, revealing the face of a small old man, whose eyes were big and round behind thick glasses. Behind him stood a woman of about the same height, who must’ve been the old man’s wife. She clutched her hands against her chest, but her eyes were eager and curious.

  “Yes?” said the old man. I thought maybe he had a faint accent. He peered past me, apparently to see if anyone else was on the walkway. “What can I do for you, young man?”

  I realized I hadn’t exactly prepared anything to say. I wasn’t expecting to find a frail old couple.

  “I’m here,” I began, “from the neighborhood. I live just a few blocks away.” I flipped a hand over my shoulder, back toward my home. “It’s about—” I hesitated, then said, “It’s about the squirrels. All the squirrels you’re feeding.”

  The woman’s eyes brightened spontaneously. “Aren’t they wonderful?” she blurted out.

  The old man shot her a look, and her enthusiasm dulled a bit. “You say you’re from the neighborhood?” said the old man, smiling. “You mean you’re here as a representative?”

  I hadn’t expected a cross-examination. “Well, not exactly. I live in the neighborhood. I’m just here on my own.” I caught my breath, then added hastily, “But my friend Nathan Benton, his family’s had a lot of trouble with squirrels too.”

  “Well, why didn’t they come too?” asked the old man. He glanced over my shoulder again, as if Nathan and Mr. Benton might be hanging back.

  “I don’t think they know you’re feeding squirrels. In fact, I know they don’t, or they would’ve said something. You would’ve heard from Mr. Benton already. He’s very angry about all the squirrels.”

  The woman leaned forward and whispered in the old man’s ear. “Of course, of course,” he muttered to her. He turned his attention back to me. “I’m sorry, Hortense is right.” He stepped back and held his hand out, palm up, and waved me toward him. “Why don’t you come in?”

  I hesitated a moment. I know I’m not supposed to go into strangers’ homes, but this old couple seemed harmless—except for all the trouble they were causing with the squirrels. “Okay. I promise not to take up much of your time.” I planned to tell them what the county animal control woman said: no more peanuts for the squirrels.

  As I stepped inside, the old man said, “Oh, we have time to spare. We have very few visitors, and Hortense and I know each other so well that we hardly need to speak a word to one another.”

  The entryway turned to the left and opened into a low-ceilinged living room with old-fashioned furniture. The woman—Hortense was a weird name—pointed to a fancy armchair with a carved wood frame. I sat down in it.

  “Tea?” she asked.

  “Oh, no thank you,” I said, though I was pleased they were treating me like an adult. “You don’t have to bother.”

  “No bother,” said the old man, sitting on the sofa. He nodded, and Hortense disappeared toward the rear of the house. “Now what brings you here, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Duncan Ringbone,” I said.

  The old man smiled and held out his hand. “Rudolph Severin.”

  We shook, and he sat on a big red sofa across from me. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in the neighborhood,” I said.

  “No, I expect not,” said Mr. Severin, shaking his head and smiling, without offering further explanation. “But I saw you once, out the window,” he went on. “Walking with a girl younger than yourself.”

  “That was probably my sister, Katie. She’s seven.”

  “You should’ve brought her, too,” said Mr. Severin. “Hortense loves little girls.”

  The old man fell silent now, waiting, it seemed, for the matter at hand. I wondered where to begin. It suddenly seemed awkward to complain to this nice elderly couple about feeding the squirrels. Maybe where they came from, people fed squirrels all the time.

  “You wanted to talk about our squirrels,” Mr. Severin prompted before I could begin.

  I looked past him to see if the old woman was coming back from the kitchen yet. She wasn’t. I leaned forward and said in a calm, polite voice, “I think you’re attracting too many squirrels to the neighborhood. They’re everywhere, and they’re getting in people’s houses, and they’re getting hit by cars.”

  “Oh yes,” Mr. Severin said, ignoring nearly everything I had said. “We like to be on friendly terms with them.”

  I hesitated. How could I explain that he wasn’t really helping the squirrels at all? He was turning people like Mr. Benton into squirrel-killing psychos. “They are cute and lively . . . ,” I began.

  “And delicious,” added Mr. Severin, smiling.

  I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly. Delicious?

  “I hope that Lapsang souchong tea is agreeable to you,” said the old woman, carrying a tray into the room. “It’s also known as Russian Caravan tea.” She set a glossy wooden tray on the coffee table and poured steaming tea into china cups. She handed me a cup on a saucer. It had a strong, smoky aroma.

  “Thank you,” I said. I blew on the surface a
nd took a sip. It had a powerful wood-and-smoke flavor, a little strange.

  “Have a cookie, too.” She pointed to a plate that held a handful of cream-colored cookies with peanuts on them.

  The old woman sat on the couch as well and sipped from her own steaming cup. “This is our favorite tea. It goes well with every meal, especially game.”

  “My sister is a three-star chef with squirrel,” said Mr. Severin.

  That caught me by surprise, and before I could stop myself, I said, “Your sister?”

  The old man smiled broadly. “Surely we look too much alike to be nothing but brother and sister?”

  I looked more closely from one face to the next. If you looked beyond the wrinkles, the differences in hairstyle, and the old man’s thick glasses, and just observed the inner parts of their faces—narrow-set dark eyes, wide mouths with small teeth, and pixie-like button noses—the two actually did look a lot alike.

  “I guess that’s true,” I finally said. “I hadn’t noticed at first.”

  Ms. Severin—I guess that was her proper name—reached for a cookie, so I followed her example. They had a rich, nutty flavor. “Delicious,” I said between bites.

  “It’s the rendered squirrel fat,” said Ms. Severin. “It adds extra flavor, better than lard or butter.”

  I slowed my chewing, but now I had mashed-up squirrel cookie in my mouth. I managed to swallow, but set the rest of the cookie on the saucer beside my cup of tea. “So you’re really—” I began. I stopped and looked more closely at them to see if they might be joking. “You’re really eating squirrels?”

  “Well, of course,” said Ms. Severin. “And why not? God brings them right to our doorstep.”

  “With a little help from the feeders,” added Mr. Severin.

  I must’ve looked disbelieving because Mr. Severin asked, “Would you like to see the operation?”

  It all seemed a little shocking—no, really shocking—but maybe it was a gag. I simply nodded. Mr. Severin stood and said, “This way.”

  I followed him to the back of the house, with Ms. Severin on my heels. A narrow hallway led to a corner with two closed doors at the bend. Mr. Severin turned a deadbolt and opened the door in front of him, which led down two steps to the enclosed backyard. We stepped onto a cement patio that bordered a small square of grass.