"I know it would," Sam whispered.
He waved good-bye to Mrs. Sheehan as she headed off toward the grocery store. Then he trudged back to his own yard, thinking of the kitten. He would name it Sleepyhead, he decided.
If it belonged to him.
7
When Sam set out across his yard on Thursday morning, he realized that he was going to do a very naughty thing. But it was his mother's fault, he explained to himself.
I shouldn't be doing this, he thought as he passed his sandbox and his tricycle. His walking slowed a little.
But just last night at dinner, Mom—
Sam remembered what his mom had said at dinner, and he continued on through the yard.
Here is what his mom had said: "Sometimes, if you're feeling depressed, you have to do something really crazy to cheer yourself up."
***
Mrs. Krupnik had been explaining at dinner why she had gone to the beauty parlor that afternoon and gotten her hair cut very, very short.
Sam liked his mom's new haircut.
But Anastasia, when she came home from school, had shrieked, "MOM! What have you done to yourself? You look like Arnold Schwarzenegger!"
Sam didn't know what she meant. "Who's Arnold Schwarze -" But he couldn't pronounce it.
"You know, Sam," Anastasia said. "The guy who was the Terminator."
Sam didn't know. But he liked the sound of that guy. And he liked his mom's haircut.
Sam's dad, when he came home from work, had dropped his briefcase on the kitchen floor in surprise. "Katherine!" he had said in a very shocked voice. "Where's your hair?"
"Mom turned into Arnold Terminegger," Sam had explained. "I mean Schwarzinator."
Mr. Krupnik wasn't listening to Sam. He was simply staring at Katherine Krupnik's head.
That's why Mrs. Krupnik had explained and explained, all through dinner. "I'm about to be thirty-eight years old," she said, "and that's depressing, because it seems ancient to me."
"It isn't ancient," everyone reassured her, but you could tell that she didn't believe them.
"And the publisher called and said that they want those snail drawings completely redone," Mrs. Krupnik said with a sigh, "because the author decided to change the main character to a slug, which is not at all the same as a snail—"
"Slugs are gross," Anastasia commented. "They're slimy and repulsive."
"I know that," her mother said. "That's why I was depressed. I'm getting old, to start with, and on top of that, for the next two weeks I have to replace all those cute little snails with fat, glistening, repulsive slugs. I sat there this morning trying to draw slugs, feeling sorry for myself, and finally I decided I needed to do something completely crazy just to cheer myself up. So I called Verna at the beauty parlor, and she had a little time available after lunch, and—"
"And you had yourself turned into the Terminator," Anastasia said in an amazed voice.
Mrs. Krupnik ran her hand over her cropped head and grinned. "Right," she said. "And it did cheer me up. Don't worry, guys, you'll get used to it. And it'll grow back in no time.
"I thought about having it all shaved off," she added cheerfully.
Sam gulped. He wondered what it would feel like to have a bald mom. He already had a bald dad.
Now, the following morning, Sam remembered what his mom had said: that sometimes you need to do something crazy if you're feeling depressed. That sounded completely true to Sam.
And Sam was certainly a little depressed. The smell in his room was stronger than any smell that he had ever experienced. And the noise from his Lab was louder; it bubbled and spurted constantly. Once, visiting the Museum of Science with his family, Sam had seen a movie about volcanoes that had scared him so much that he had slept in his parents' bedroom that night. His mom and dad had assured him that there were no volcanoes in Massachusetts.
But now he had created something that sounded like a volcano, at least, even if it wasn't one. And not only was it in Massachusetts—it was right in his own town, in his own room, in his own toybox. And no one knew about it but Sam.
He didn't know what to do, so he had done nothing. He simply hoped that it was all a normal part of perfume-making, and that by Friday evening, in time for his mom's birthday party, the noise would have subsided, the smell would have changed, and the perfume would be ready.
But in the meantime he thought about his mom's advice for people who were feeling depressed.
Do something a little crazy, she had said.
So Sam continued walking across the yard.
"Good morning, Mrs. Sheehan. I came for the little gray kitten, and don't forget you said I could have cat food, too," Sam said loudly and very rapidly when Mrs. Sheehan answered his knock on her kitchen door.
"Hi, Kelly," he added, when he noticed the baby clinging to Mrs. Sheehan's leg. Kelly grinned and drooled.
Mrs. Sheehan smiled at Sam. "Well, I'm just delighted that you and your family decided on that, Sam," she told him. "I know that little gray one will be a wonderful pet for you. Are you sure you don't want his brother, too?"
Sam shook his head. "No," he whispered. "I can only have one."
"Well, I'll get him for you. They're in the dining room. I brought their box in for the night, and I haven't put them out yet this morning. I hope I haven't missed any customers!" Mrs. Sheehan, with Kelly toddling behind her, disappeared into the dining room while Sam waited in the doorway. She was back in a moment with the gray kitten; she placed it carefully in Sam's arms.
Sam looked down happily. It was the first time he'd actually held the kitten. But it was just the way he thought it would be: soft and warm and sleepy. The kitten wiggled a little in his arms, rearranging itself, and began to purr.
"Do you think you can carry the food, too, Sam? Or should I come with you and deliver the food to your mother? I could leave Kelly in the playpen for a couple of minutes."
"I can carry it," Sam said hastily. Mrs. Sheehan tucked the bag of cat food under his left arm and watched while Sam, holding the kitten and the food carefully, made his way back down the steps.
Very quietly he walked back across his own yard and up his own porch steps. Very quietly he crept into the hall and sneaked up the back stairs. Very quietly he opened the door to his room.
"Sam? Are you in your room?" his mother's voice called.
"Yes," he called back. "But don't come in!"
"I won't. I promised you I wouldn't. Bring your dirty clothes down to the kitchen when you can, though!"
'Okay," Sam agreed. He laid the kitten gently on his unmade bed. Still half asleep, it wriggled until it found a comfortable spot against his pillow.
Sam sat on the edge of the bed and watched his new pet sleep. Its tiny whiskers moved faintly as it breathed.
His mom was right. It did cheer you up to do something crazy, Sam decided.
Very quietly he gathered up his discarded pajamas and yesterday's underwear from where they lay in a wrinkled heap on the floor.
Then he headed downstairs to help his mom do the laundry. Now and then, secretly, to himself, Sam smiled.
From time to time during the day, Sam crept into his room to check on things. The kitten seemed happy. It didn't seem to mind the smell in the room.
He made a bed for the kitten in a corner of the room, on a soft pink towel that he borrowed from the linen closet. He poured some cat food into a small bowl and some water into another. The kitten had nibbled a bit and lapped a bit and slept a bit.
He gave the kitten some toys: a tennis ball borrowed from his father's gym bag and a small ball of blue yarn borrowed from his mother's knitting.
He filled the empty shoebox from Anastasia's closet with sand from his sandbox and set it on the floor. To his surprise, the kitten seemed to know exactly what it was for.
Sam thought it was quite interesting that the kitten was exactly the same age as the baby, Alexander, but it seemed a whole lot smarter.
He checked on the perfume, too.
But nothing seemed to have changed. Apprehensively, Sam picked up the bottle and held it toward the window so that light shone through. He could see all sorts of things floating in the murky purple liquid: Kleenex shreds, tobacco flecks, seaweed, strands of hair, noodles, and the outline of his father's pipe at the bottom.
The bottle felt warm, which surprised him.
And it continued to fizz and bubble.
That evening after supper, Sam helped his sister bake a birthday cake for their mother. Anastasia measured the ingredients into the large mixing bowl, and Sam stirred carefully. Now and then he licked a little from the spoon.
"Cooking's neat," Anastasia commented. "It's almost like magic."
"What do you mean?" Sam asked. He watched some melted chocolate blend into the yellow mixture of flour, sugar, and eggs as his spoon went around and around in the bowl.
"Well," his sister explained, "each of those things by itself is nothing. Flour, for instance: boring. Sugar: boring. Butter—"
"Boring," Sam said.
"Right. And eggs, and baking powder. All of them boring. But then you put them together—and presto!"
Sam giggled. "You get cake!"
"Well, of course you have to bake it," Anastasia said. "I shouldn't have left that part out. But the point is: if you know the right stuff to put together, you can make something wonderful out of a whole lot of nothing stuff!"
"Just like perfume," Sam said.
"Here, let me stir for a minute. It really needs to be beaten pretty hard." Anastasia took the bowl and spoon from Sam and began to beat the cake batter. "What do you mean, like perfume?"
Sam bit his lip. He sort of wanted to tell his sister about what he was doing up in his room, and about the strange smell and the noise from the container. But he wasn't certain that he should.
"Well, I mean that you take a whole lot of nothing stuff, like Kleenex and noodles and tobacco, and if you put it together just right, you can get wonderful perfume!" Sam reached over and smeared his finger in a puddle of thick batter that had dropped on the table. He licked his finger.
Anastasia set the bowl down and tapped the spoon handle on its rim, to drop the batter from the spoon into the bowl. "I can't remember if I added the vanilla," she said, frowning.
Sam shrugged. He couldn't remember, either.
Anastasia uncapped the little brown bottle. "Well," she said, "I'll add some. If I already put it in, then the cake will have a little extra vanilla. It won't matter. Vanilla's one of the best flavors in the whole world. Here: smell." She held the tiny bottle under Sam's nose. He sniffed and grinned. His sister was right. That was just about the best smell ever.
Anastasia tilted the bowl and began to pour the batter into the cake pans that she had greased and floured. "What were you saying about noodles and tobacco?" she asked.
Sam watched her as she used a rubber spatula to scrape the last of the batter from the bowl into the baking pans. When he was certain that she wasn't paying any attention to him, he put the little bottle of vanilla into his pocket.
"Nothing," he said. Suddenly Sam was feeling better about his perfume. It needed vanilla, he decided. Once he got the vanilla into it, it would be okay.
"Open the oven door for me." Anastasia picked up the two pans filled with batter and waited while Sam, wearing a potholder mitten, pulled the oven door open.
"There," Anastasia said as she set the oven timer. "You just wait, Sam. In about half an hour this kitchen is going to smell fabulous!"
"You just wait, kitten," Sam said later. Holding his breath so that he wouldn't have to inhale the hideous smell, he opened his perfume bottle and poured in all the remaining vanilla. "In about half an hour this room is going to smell fabulous!"
The kitten, who had no name yet, wiped its face with one paw, tilted its head, and watched. Its small pink nose twitched.
8
Early in the morning, Sam crept out of his bedroom in his pajamas and closed the door quietly behind him. It was barely light. No one else was awake yet. The kitten was sound asleep on its towel bed in the corner of Sam's room.
But Sam had had a bad night. He had had bad dreams. Usually, if he had a bad dream, he could call out, even in the middle of the night, and his mom or dad would come. If his dream was about monsters, they would turn on the lights and show Sam that there was nothing scary in the closet or under the bed. Sometimes they would sing a funny song with him, about monsters, and then he could go back to sleep.
But last night Sam had had bad dreams, and he couldn't call for anybody because he didn't want anybody to come to his room when it was so full of secrets.
So he woke in the night and lay there in the dark, smelling the hideous smell and listening to the horrible bubbling, popping noise from his toybox.
Sam felt very, very sorry for himself. He had done something crazy, and it hadn't helped, not really.
Finally, when it was beginning to be light, he tiptoed down the hall in his bare feet. He went into his parents' bedroom and stood there silently by their bed, watching them sleep.
His dad slept on his back with his mouth open and snored a little. His dad was bald on top, but he had shaggy, curly hair around the back and sides of his head which turned into a beard in front. Sam reached up and stroked his dad's soft, shaggy hair gently. But his dad didn't wake up.
Sam crept around to the other side of the big bed, where his mom slept on her side with her mouth closed in a little smile. She snored just a teeny bit, too. Sam reached up and stroked his mom's new Terminegger haircut; it felt like touching a hairbrush. Katherine Krupnik didn't wake up.
Finally Sam went to the foot of the bed and climbed up over the patchwork quilt that was folded there. He burrowed up the middle of the bed, between the mounds of his parents' bodies, until he found a snuggly spot, just big enough, there in the middle. He curled up into a ball.
"Hi, Sam," said his dad's sleepy voice. "Don't freeze. Get under the covers."
So Sam climbed in under the covers to exactly the place he wanted to be. He curled up into a ball again.
"Attaboy, Sam," said his mom's groggy voice.
This room smelled wonderful. It smelled of Mom and Dad, and clean sheets and old quilt, and sneakers on the floor and briefcase on the chair; it smelled of clock-radio and books and lamp and curtains, and of a painting of trees that hung on the wall between the windows.
Now Sam was able to sleep without dreams.
When the alarm buzzed, all three of them woke up and yawned. One giant yawn from Myron Krupnik, one medium-size yawn from Katherine Krupnik, and one small yawn from Sam Krupnik.
"Just like the Three Bears, right, Sam?" his dad asked as he stretched.
Sam giggled. He liked the idea of being Baby Bear.
"What day is today?" asked Sam's mom sleepily. She sat up.
"Friday," Sam's dad said. "I have to teach a Shakespeare class at ten o'clock." He sat up, too, and yawned again.
Sam, still lying in the center of the bed, raised one arm high and moved it rapidly in the air. He made a rattling noise with his mouth. His parents both stared at him.
"I'm Shakespeare," he explained. "I'm shaking a spear. An imaginary one."
"Oh," said his mom.
"Oh," said his dad.
They could hear Anastasia coming down the stairs from her third-floor bedroom. In a moment she appeared in the doorway, still wearing the giant T-shirt that she wore to bed instead of a nightgown. Anastasia had many different T-shirts with things written on them; some of them were ordinary things, like RED SOX. But this one was not ordinary, and it was one of Sam's favorites, because all the words were easy ones, and Sam could read it by himself. This T-shirt said: ARE WE HAVING FUN YET?
Sam always answered that question when he saw that T-shirt.
"Yes," Sam said in a loud voice and kicked off the covers, "we are having fun!"
"What are you doing in here?" Anastasia asked. She squinted at him. She hadn't put her glasses on yet.
"H
e's just visiting," Mrs. Krupnik explained. "I guess he got lonely in the night."
Anastasia yawned. "Well," she said, "happy birthday, Mom."
Sam, who had forgotten the importance of the day, repeated, "Happy birthday, Mom!"
Myron Krupnik, who had also forgotten, said, "Happy birthday, Katherine!"
And Katherine Krupnik, who had forgotten as well, flung herself back on the bed with a stricken look. "Thirty-eight," she moaned. "Pull down the shades so that no one will see my aged face and body. Call the drugstore, Myron, and see if they can supply a walker. Or a cane, at least.
"Throw away those sneakers on the floor over there," she added. "The ones I wore yesterday? And have the shoestore send over a pair of lace-up old-lady shoes with arch supports!
"And what else?" she went on in a mournful voice. "A dress. Yes. I need a flowered silk dress. I can never wear my jeans again, now that I'm old. Get me a crocheted shawl, too."
Sam laughed, even though he didn't have the slightest idea what arch supports were. He could picture the lace-up shoes and the flowered dress and shawl and cane.
"Mom," he reminded her in a loud voice, "you can't be old, because you got a Terminegger haircut!"
Katherine Krupnik reached up and felt her head. She brightened. Finally she smiled and sat up again. "You're right, Sam," she said. "Thank you for reminding me."
Anastasia padded off to the bathroom to brush her teeth. Sam's dad went into the other bathroom and Sam could hear the shower start.
"Better start dressing, Sam," his mom told him. "It's a school day."
Sam sighed.
"Need some help?" she asked. "I'd be happy to go to your room with you and help you find your clean clothes."
Sam sat there on his parents' bed, his legs dangling off the edge. He thought about how nice it would be if his mom could come to his room. His room would be neat and clean; it would smell good, and his toybox would have nothing in it but toys. She would help him find some nice, clean, sweet-smelling socks, and maybe she would play trucks with him for a few minutes. They would crawl around the floor side by side, pushing their vehicles, and saying "Rrrrr" the way they did when they played trucks together. The only sound in Sam's room would be the "Rrrrr" of their two voices, and there would be no horrible, scary, bubbling sound, and—