Fudge-a-Mania

  “Put your head down,” he said. “That’s what Mom always tells me when I’m dizzy.”

  “I’m not that kind of dizzy,” I said.

  “Oh.”

  “It’s more like I’m floating.” I started to sing, “Who can explain it, who can tell you why?”

  * * *

  That night when I got into bed, I stared into my Kreskin’s Crystal and repeated Isobel’s name over and over. I didn’t care that her friends called her Izzy. To me she’d always be Isobel. A beautiful name. A name that really fits her. If I were the Amazing Kreskin I’d be able to plan all my dreams. I’d probably be able to transfer thoughts from my head into Isobel’s and make her dream about me. I closed my eyes and concentrated. Isobel . . . Isobel . . .

  But then Fudge came racing into the room. He took a flying leap and landed on my bed. I hid my Kreskin’s Crystal under my pillow where he couldn’t get his hands on it.

  “I’m ready to start my book,” he announced. “I’ll say it and you write it down.”

  “Why don’t you wait until tomorrow? Then your baby-sitter can write it down for you.”

  “I can’t wait, Pete.”

  “Why not?”

  “Who can explain it, who can tell you why?” He laughed as he handed me paper and a pencil.

  There was no way he was going to give up. The sooner I started writing, the sooner I’d be able to get back to Isobel. So I took the pencil and said, “Okay . . . let’s go.”

  “Tell Me a Fudge,” he said, “by Farley Drexel Hatcher. Chapter One—How Turtle Got His Name.”

  He waited while I wrote that down. Then he yawned. “That’s it for tonight, Pete. Tomorrow I’ll write Chapter Two.”

  “I can hardly wait,” I told him.

  He got into his own bed and two seconds later he was out cold.

  I took my Kreskin’s Crystal from under my pillow and held it tightly. Isobel . . . Isobel . . . Tell Me an Isobel . . .

  * * *

  I had a dream that night, but it wasn’t about Isobel. It was about Sheila Tubman! I woke up feeling really disappointed.

  Green Gurgling Gas

  On Wednesday Sheila got a phone call during breakfast. As soon as she hung up she started bawling.

  “What’s wrong, honey?” Fudge asked.

  “My friend Mouse Ellis has chicken pox and can’t come to Maine!”

  Grandma put her arms around Sheila. “You must be terribly disappointed.”

  “I am,” Sheila wailed. “Everything happens to me! Why does it have to be my friend who gets sick? Why couldn’t Jimmy Fargo get chicken pox instead?”

  “Jimmy had chicken pox in second grade,” I said. “Don’t you remember . . . we all had them.”

  That made Sheila cry even harder. “But it’s soooo unfair!”

  “Where is it written that life is fair?” Grandma asked. “It’s all ups and downs, isn’t it, Buzzy?”

  Buzzy Senior nodded. “These things happen,” he told Sheila.

  That’s when I burped. I didn’t mean to. It just came out. Probably I drank my orange juice too fast. But Sheila glared at me. “I heard that, Peter!”

  “Heard what?” I asked.

  “That stupid laugh!” Sheila said.

  “That was no laugh. That was a burp.”

  Sheila turned to Buzzy Senior. “Grandpa . . . make him stop! He’s so mean . . . he’s glad Mouse can’t come to Maine.”

  Before I had the chance to explain, Tootsie flicked a spoonful of oatmeal across the table. It landed on Sheila’s face, halfway between her mouth and her eyes.

  “You see . . .” Sheila cried. “You see how everything happens to me?”

  “It’s just oatmeal,” Grandma said, handing Sheila a piece of paper towel.

  “That’s not the point!” Sheila turned and ran from the room.

  I sure hoped things would improve before tonight, when Jimmy Fargo gets here!

  * * *

  After breakfast, Mom helped get my room ready for Jimmy. She moved Fudge’s things down the hall, into the room Grandma is sharing with Tootsie. She set up a rollaway bed for Fudge right next to Tootsie’s crib. “I hate crowding you in like this,” Mom said to Grandma.

  “I don’t mind,” Grandma said. “Sleeping in the same room as my grandchildren is a privilege. It’s a lot more fun than sleeping in a room by myself.”

  “You should get married, Grandma,” Fudge said. “Then you wouldn’t have to sleep in a room by yourself.” He jumped on the rollaway bed.

  “That bed isn’t designed for jumping,” Mom told him. “It’s going to collapse if you don’t stop.”

  Fudge tumbled off the bed like some Olympic gymnast and landed on his feet. If I tried that I’d probably break a leg. “Do you still snore, Grandma?” he asked.

  “Fudgie!” Mom said. “That’s not a polite question.”

  But Grandma didn’t mind. She said, “I really don’t know, Fudge. You’ll have to tell me.”

  “Snoring keeps the monsters away,” he said.

  “Yes,” Grandma said, “I’m sure it does.”

  “When I get married I won’t have monsters in my room,” Fudge said.

  “Says who?” I asked.

  “You don’t get monsters when you sleep in a bed with somebody else.”

  “That’s why you want to get married?” I said. “So you won’t get monsters in your room?”

  “Why else would I get married?”

  “You should talk to Mitzi,” I told him. “She’s got monster spray.”

  “Monster spray?”

  “Mitzi’s Monster Spray,” I said in a deep voice, trying out my commercial. “Made from a grandmother’s secret formula. Spray twice a day and melt your monsters away!”

  “Really, Peter . . .” Mom said.

  But Fudge liked the idea. He jumped back onto the rollaway bed and bounced up and down singing, “Monster spray melts your monsters away!”

  “Fudgie . . .” Mom warned. But it was too late. Both ends of the rollaway bed sprang up, catching Fudge in the middle.

  I imagined the headline in tonight’s paper:

  FIVE-YEAR-OLD FLATTENED BY

  ROLLAWAY BED

  “Get me out of here!” Fudge yelled.

  “Okay . . . okay . . .” Mom and Grandma held the bed apart and I pulled him out.

  “Stupid . . . stupid . . . bed!” Fudge cried, kicking it. “If you do that to me again I’m going to chop you up in little pieces!”

  “Let’s not blame the bed,” Mom said.

  * * *

  Later, when we were out in the backyard, Fudge told Buzzy Senior what had happened.

  “Those beds can be very tricky,” Buzzy Senior said.

  Fudge nodded. Then, out of nowhere, he said, “Do you snore, Buzzy?”

  “I used to snore,” Buzzy Senior said, as if Fudge’s question were perfectly natural. “But since I sleep alone now I really don’t know.”

  “How come you sleep alone?”

  “Because my wife died.”

  Fudge got this serious look on his face. You could tell he was thinking hard. But after a minute his face lit up and he said, “You should sleep with Grandma!”

  “Fudge!” Mom said.

  “Well, they’re best friends,” Fudge told her. “Like Pete and Jimmy. And Jimmy’s going to sleep in Pete’s room . . . right?”

  Buzzy Senior and Grandma looked at each other and laughed.

  * * *

  That afternoon the sky turned gray and it started to drizzle. The Tubmans decided to drive to Bar Harbor. That’s the town where all the tourists go. It’s got hundreds of little shops selling T-shirts with sayings about Maine, like Cool as a Moose in Bar H
arbor or Maine, Fifty Miles from Nowhere.

  “Count me out,” Libby said. “I’ve got to be at work by three.”

  “Count me out, too,” Sheila said. “The Hatchers depend on me to baby-sit Fudge.”

  But Mom convinced Sheila she deserved an after-noon off. If you ask me everyone was feeling sorry for the Cootie Queen just because Mouse got sick and couldn’t come to Maine. Everyone but me, that is.

  Still, I felt relieved when the Tubmans left. I hope they go out for a pizza and catch a late movie, I thought. I hope they like the action in Bar Harbor so much they decide to stay for a week!

  They still weren’t back when Mr. Fargo called from town, asking Mom for directions to the house. That was a good sign because by then it was after six.

  I waited on the porch. When I saw Mr. Fargo’s truck I ran down to the road. His truck is really old, with rust spots around the fenders. It’s painted the color of bile. Not that I’ve ever seen bile but last year in school we learned about the digestive system and that’s the way I imagine it. A sick greenish-brown color.

  Turtle barked. “It’s Jimmy,” I told him, as I waved Mr. Fargo into our driveway.

  At first, Jimmy couldn’t get out of the truck. The door on his side wouldn’t budge. He kicked it a couple of times, then banged it with his shoulder. Finally it creaked open. By then we were laughing.

  Turtle jumped up and tried to lick Jimmy’s face. “Good boy . . . nice doggie . . .” Jimmy said, patting him.

  “Turtle knows a friend when he sees one,” I said. Jimmy gave me a bear hug and we slapped hands. It was great to see him! But that didn’t stop me from checking over my shoulder. I hoped the Tubmans wouldn’t show up now.

  Jimmy also took a look around. “You were right,” he said. “You can’t even see Sheila’s house from here. I guess it’s through those woods over there.”

  “Well, see . . .” I began.

  But then Mom opened the front door and called to us.

  Inside, Dad had a fire going in the big, stone fireplace. Fudge was stretched out on the floor with his Crayolas, illustrating Chapter One of his book. Tootsie was scooting around on her Toddle-Bike and Grandma was reading. She put down her book to greet Mr. Fargo.

  Jimmy headed straight for Uncle Feather’s cage. “Bonjour, stupid,” he said.

  “Bonjour, stupid!” Uncle Feather answered.

  Jimmy laughed. “Good old Uncle Feather.”

  “Good old Uncle Feather . . .”

  “Please, Jimmy . . .” Mom said. “Don’t encourage him. Once you get him going it’s hard to turn him off.”

  “Turn him off . . . turn him off . . .”

  “You see what I mean?” Mom asked.

  “See what I mean . . . see what I mean?”

  I motioned for Jimmy to sneak away from Uncle Feather’s cage. Jimmy got down on all fours and crawled across the living room, out of Uncle Feather’s sight.

  As he did, Tootsie held her arms out to Mr. Fargo. “Up . . .” she said. “Up!”

  Mr. Fargo lifted her high above his head and shook her. Tootsie loved it. She has this thing for bearded men. She’ll raise her arms and say Up to any guy with a beard. Mom says it’s because Dad used to have one. But I’m not so sure. We’re going to have to teach her to be more careful. I can just see her walking down Broadway in a few years, holding out her arms to every bearded weirdo on the street.

  Mom took Tootsie from Mr. Fargo. “Thanks for driving Jimmy all this way, Frank,” she said. “I know what a long trip it is.”

  “Used to come up here in the old days,” Mr. Fargo said, “with my ex-wife. You remember my ex-wife, don’t you?”

  Uh oh . . . I thought. I hope he’s not going to start in on Mrs. Fargo. Because Jimmy really hates it when he does.

  “How about something to drink, Frank?” Dad asked. I was glad he changed the subject.

  “Some fizzy water, if you have it,” Mr. Fargo said.

  “Coming right up.”

  Mom smiled, but I could tell she was tense. A lot of people get tense around Mr. Fargo. I think it’s because he never smiles—even when he’s trying to be friendly. “How about this Maine weather?” Mom asked.

  “You have to have weather, whether or not!” Mr. Fargo said.

  Jimmy groaned. “That’s so bad, Dad!”

  I heard a car pull into the driveway. Oh no, I thought. Not now! The car doors slammed and a minute later the Tubmans came bounding up the porch steps and into the house. Sheila headed straight for the fire. “It’s sooo cold and damp . . .” she began. She stopped when she saw Jimmy. “Oh . . . it’s you!”

  “What’s she doing here?” Jimmy asked.

  “I’ll explain later,” I whispered.

  But Sheila explained for me. “I happen to live here! This happens to be my house!”

  “I thought this was your house,” Jimmy said to me.

  “Well . . . uh . . . see . . .” I began.

  “We share the living room and the kitchen,” Sheila said. “We eat breakfast and dinner together every day.”

  Jimmy looked at me. “I don’t get it.”

  “It’s like two houses in one,” I told him. “It’s like . . . they’re connected.”

  “Connected?” Jimmy said.

  “Yeah . . . joined together?” I said. I looked over at Sheila. She was enjoying this.

  “Joined together?” Jimmy said.

  Sheila laughed out loud. I glared at her. “See . . . our family lives over there . . .” I explained, pointing to our side of the house. “And her family lives over here . . . and the living room and kitchen are sort of in the middle.”

  Jimmy just stood there with his mouth half open. Sheila picked Jake up and started kissing her. “Isn’t my dog adorable?” she asked Jimmy, between smooches.

  “I thought you’re afraid of dogs,” Jimmy said.

  “She is,” I told him.

  “That’s not true!” Sheila said. “I just don’t like big, smelly dogs.”

  Turtle, who was asleep in the corner, raised his head. Attack! I told him mentally. But he didn’t get my message. He just scratched himself and went back to sleep. Sheila carried Jake over to Jimmy and put her in his arms. “Rub her belly. She loves that.”

  Jimmy held Jake like a baby. “She’s so soft.”

  This was too much! I was glad when Dad called, “Dinner’s almost ready. Pasta with Anne’s special sauce.”

  Mr. Fargo suddenly came to life and said, “Better get our things inside, Jimmy.”

  When Jimmy and his father went out to the car, Mom said, “Did he say our things?”

  “He meant Jimmy’s things,” I told her.

  “I hope so,” Mom said, looking worried.

  But then Jimmy carried one duffel bag into the house and Mr. Fargo carried another. “I don’t have much,” Mr. Fargo said. “Just this and my art supplies.”

  “You’re planning to stay with us?” Mom asked.

  “No point in trying to camp out in this weather,” Mr. Fargo told her.

  From the look on Mom’s face I thought she might faint.

  There was a long, awkward silence. Finally Dad said, “You can have the sofa in here, Frank. It’s the only available space left.”

  “Unless Grandma sleeps with Buzzy Senior,” Fudge said. “Then I can sleep in Grandma’s bed and Mr. Fargo can have the rollaway.”

  Everyone looked at Fudge, including Mr. Fargo. “Don’t go to any trouble,” he said. “This sofa looks mighty good to me.”

  * * *

  Later, when Jimmy and I were in the bathroom getting ready for bed, he said, “I’m really embarrassed about my father. Anybody can see you’ve already got too many people in this house.”

  “It’s no big deal.” I handed
him a clean towel.

  “Yeah, right . . . that’s how come your mother almost fainted.”

  “Only because we’re out of beds,” I said.

  “You think my father cares about beds? He likes to sleep on the floor.”

  “It’s okay. Forget it.”

  Jimmy spit out toothpaste. “You know he’s weird. He doesn’t mean to be . . . but he is.”

  “He’s not that weird.” I flushed the toilet, which reminded me of my poison-gas story. “Look . . .” I said, “I’m embarrassed too. I should have told you about sharing a house with the Tubmans. But I didn’t find out until we got up here and then . . . well . . . I was afraid if I told you, you wouldn’t come.”

  “I probably wouldn’t have,” Jimmy said. “But now that I’m here, it doesn’t seem that bad.”

  I was glad I wouldn’t have to lie to Jimmy after all. And telling him the truth wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. Still, I couldn’t help wondering how he would have reacted to my story.

  I decided to find out. As soon as we were in bed I said, “Did you hear about the poison gas?”

  “What poison gas?”

  “The poison gas in the toilets?”

  “What toilets?”

  “Some guy up here . . . he had poison gas in all his toilets.”

  “What do you mean, poison gas?” Jimmy faced me and propped himself up on his elbow.

  “It was this green, steamy, gurgling stuff that bubbled up every time he flushed.”

  “Green . . . steamy . . . gurgling stuff . . .” Jimmy started to laugh.

  “It’s not funny,” I said. “It’s an environmental disaster!”

  “An environmental disaster?” Jimmy said. “Where’d you read that . . . in the National Enquirer?”

  “You don’t think it’s possible?”

  “Yeah, I think it’s possible . . . if the guy ate something that didn’t agree with him.” Jimmy broke up laughing.

  “Ha ha,” I said, as I reached over and turned out the light.

  “Ha ha . . .” a voice repeated. And it wasn’t Jimmy.

  I jumped out of bed and opened the door. Fudge was sitting on the floor right outside my room. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”