Stay Out of the Basement

  “Let go!” Casey cried, finally finding his voice.

  And then suddenly Margaret was standing beside him. He hadn’t heard her come down the stairs. He hadn’t seen her enter the room.

  “Casey!” she cried. “What’s —”

  Her mouth dropped open and her eyes grew wide.

  “It — won’t let go!” he told her.

  “No!” she screamed. And grabbed one of the tendrils with both hands. And tugged with all her strength.

  The tendril resisted for only a moment, then went slack.

  Casey uttered a joyful cry and spun away from the remaining tendril. Margaret dropped the tendril and grabbed Casey’s hand and began running toward the stairs. “Oh!”

  They both stopped short at the bottom of the stairway.

  Standing at the top was their father, glaring down at them, his hands balled into tight fists at his sides, his face rigid with anger.

  7

  “Dad — the plants!” Margaret cried.

  He stared down at them, his eyes cold and angry, unblinking. He was silent.

  “One grabbed Casey!” Margaret told him.

  “I just went down to get my shirt,” Casey said, his voice trembling.

  They stared up at him expectantly, waiting for him to move, to unball his fists, to relax his hard expression, to speak. But he glared down at them for the longest time.

  Finally, he said, “You’re okay?”

  “Yeah,” they said in unison, both of them nodding.

  Margaret realized she was still holding Casey’s hand. She let go of it and reached for the banister.

  “I’m very disappointed in you both,” Dr. Brewer said in a low, flat voice, cool but not angry.

  “Sorry,” Margaret said. “We knew we shouldn’t —”

  “We didn’t touch anything. Really!” Casey exclaimed.

  “Very disappointed,” their father repeated.

  “Sorry, Dad.”

  Dr. Brewer motioned for them to come upstairs, then he stepped into the hallway.

  “I thought he was going to yell at us,” Casey whispered to Margaret as he followed her up the steps.

  “That’s not Dad’s style,” Margaret whispered back.

  “He sure yelled at us the last time we started into the basement,” Casey replied.

  They followed their father into the kitchen. He motioned for them to sit down at the white Formica table, then dropped into a chair across from them.

  His eyes went from one to the other, as if studying them, as if seeing them for the first time. His expression was totally flat, almost robotlike, revealing no emotion at all.

  “Dad, what’s with those plants?” Casey asked.

  “What do you mean?” Dr. Brewer asked.

  “They’re — so weird,” Casey said.

  “I’ll explain them to you someday,” Dr. Brewer said flatly, still staring at the two of them.

  “It looks very interesting,” Margaret said, struggling to say the right thing.

  Was their dad trying to make them feel uncomfortable? she wondered. If so, he was doing a good job of it.

  This wasn’t like him. Not at all. He was always a very direct person, Margaret thought. If he was angry, he said he was angry. If he was upset, he’d tell them he was upset.

  So why was he acting so strange, so silent, so … cold?

  “I asked you not to go in the basement,” he said quietly, crossing his legs and leaning back so that the kitchen chair tilted back. “I thought I made it clear.”

  Margaret and Casey glanced at each other. Finally, Margaret said, “We won’t do it again.”

  “But can’t you take us down there and tell us what you’re doing?” Casey asked. He still hadn’t put the T-shirt on. He was holding it in a ball between his hands on the kitchen table.

  “Yeah. We’d really like to understand it,” Margaret added enthusiastically.

  “Someday,” their father said. He returned the chair to all four legs and then stood up. “We’ll do it soon, okay?” He raised his arms above his head and stretched. “I’ve got to get back to work.” He disappeared into the front hallway.

  Casey raised his eyes to Margaret and shrugged. Their father reappeared, carrying the lab coat he had tossed over the front banister.

  “Mom took off okay?” Margaret asked.

  He nodded. “I guess.” He pulled on the lab coat over his head.

  “I hope Aunt Eleanor is okay,” Margaret said.

  Dr. Brewer’s reply was muffled as he adjusted the lab coat and straightened the collar. “Later,” he said. He disappeared into the hallway. They heard him shut the basement door behind him.

  “I guess he’s not going to ground us or anything for going down there,” Margaret said, leaning against the table and resting her chin in her hands.

  “I guess,” Casey said. “He sure is acting … weird.”

  “Maybe he’s upset because Mom is gone,” Margaret said. She sat up and gave Casey a push. “Come on. Get up. I’ve got work to do.”

  “I can’t believe that plant grabbed me,” Casey said thoughtfully, not budging.

  “You don’t have to push,” Casey griped, but he climbed to his feet and stepped out of Margaret’s way. “I’m going to have bad dreams tonight,” he said glumly.

  “Just don’t think about the basement,” Margaret advised. That’s really lame advice, she told herself. But what else could she say?

  She went up to her room, thinking about how she missed her mother already. Then the scene in the basement with Casey trying to pull himself free of the enormous, twining plant tendrils played once again through her mind.

  With a shudder, she grabbed her textbook and threw herself onto her stomach on the bed, prepared to read.

  But the words on the page blurred as the moaning, breathing plants kept creeping back into her thoughts.

  At least we’re not being punished for going down there, she thought.

  At least Dad didn’t yell and frighten us this time.

  And at least Dad has promised to take us downstairs with him soon and explain to us what he’s working on down there.

  That thought made Margaret feel a lot better.

  She felt better until the next morning, when she awoke early and went downstairs to make some breakfast. To her surprise, her father was already at work, the basement door was shut tight, and a lock had been installed on the door.

  The next Saturday afternoon, Margaret was up in her room, lying on top of the bed, talking to her mom on the phone. “I’m really sorry about Aunt Eleanor,” she said, twisting the white phone cord around her wrist.

  “The surgery didn’t go as well as expected,” her mother said, sounding very tired. “The doctors say she may have to have more surgery. But they have to build up her strength first.”

  “I guess this means you won’t be coming home real soon,” Margaret said sadly.

  Mrs. Brewer laughed. “Don’t tell me you actually miss me!”

  “Well … yes,” Margaret admitted. She raised her eyes to the bedroom window. Two sparrows had landed outside on the window ledge and were chattering excitedly, distracting Margaret, making it hard to hear her mother over the crackling line from Tucson.

  “How’s your father doing?” Mrs. Brewer asked. “I spoke to him last night, but he only grunted.”

  “He doesn’t even grunt to us!” Margaret complained. She held her hand over her ear to drown out the chattering birds. “He hardly says a word.”

  “He’s working really hard,” Mrs. Brewer replied. In the background, Margaret could hear some kind of loudspeaker announcement. Her mother was calling from a pay phone at the hospital.

  “He never comes out of the basement,” Margaret complained, a little more bitterly than she had intended.

  “Your father’s experiments are very important to him,” her mother said.

  “More important than we are?” Margaret cried. She hated the whiny tone in her voice. She wished she hadn’t started co
mplaining about her dad over the phone. Her mother had enough to worry about at the hospital. Margaret knew she shouldn’t make her feel even worse.

  “Your dad has a lot to prove,” Mrs. Brewer said. “To himself, and to others. I think he’s working so hard because he wants to prove to Mr. Martinez and the others at the university that they were wrong to fire him. He wants to show them that they made a big mistake.”

  “But we used to see him more before he was home all the time!” Margaret complained.

  She could hear her mother sigh impatiently. “Margaret, I’m trying to explain to you. You’re old enough to understand.”

  “I’m sorry,” Margaret said quickly. She decided to change the subject. “He’s wearing a baseball cap all of a sudden.”

  “Who? Casey?”

  “No, Mom,” Margaret replied. “Dad. He’s wearing a Dodgers cap. He never takes it off.”

  “Really?” Mrs. Brewer sounded very surprised.

  Margaret laughed. “We told him he looks really dorky in it, but he refuses to take it off.”

  Mrs. Brewer laughed, too. “Uh-oh. I’m being called,” she said. “Got to run. Take care, dear. I’ll try to call back later.”

  A click, and she was gone.

  Margaret stared up at the ceiling, watching shadows from trees in the front yard move back and forth. The sparrows had flown away, leaving silence behind.

  Poor Mom, Margaret thought.

  She’s so worried about her sister, and I had to go and complain about Dad.

  Why did I do that?

  She sat up, listening to the silence. Casey was over at a friend’s. Her dad was no doubt working in the basement, the door carefully locked behind him.

  Maybe I’ll give Diane a call, Margaret thought. She reached for the phone, then realized she was hungry. Lunch first, she decided. Then Diane.

  She brushed her dark hair quickly, shaking her head at the mirror over her dressing table, then hurried downstairs.

  To her surprise, her dad was in the kitchen. He was huddled over the sink, his back to her.

  She started to call out to him but stopped. What was he doing?

  Curious, she pressed against the wall, gazing at him through the doorway to the kitchen.

  Dr. Brewer appeared to be eating something. With one hand, he was holding a bag on the counter beside the sink. As Margaret watched in surprise, he dipped his hand into the bag, pulled out a big handful of something, and shoved it into his mouth.

  Margaret watched him chew hungrily, noisily, then pull out another handful from the bag and eat it greedily.

  What on earth is he eating? she wondered. He never eats with Casey and me. He always says he isn’t hungry. But he sure is hungry now! He acts as if he’s starving!

  She watched from the doorway as Dr. Brewer continued to grab handful after handful from the bag, gulping down his solitary meal. After a while, he crinkled up the bag and tossed it into the trash can under the sink. Then he wiped his hands off on the sides of his white lab coat.

  Margaret quickly backed away from the door, tiptoed through the hall, and ducked into the living room. She held her breath as her father came into the hall, clearing his throat loudly.

  The basement door closed behind him. She heard him carefully lock it.

  When she was sure that he had gone downstairs, Margaret walked eagerly into the kitchen.

  She had to know what her father had been eating so greedily, so hungrily.

  She pulled open the sink cabinet, reached into the trash, and pulled out the crinkled-up bag.

  Then she gasped aloud as her eyes ran over the label.

  Her father, she saw, had been devouring plant food.

  8

  Margaret swallowed hard. Her mouth felt dry as cotton. She suddenly realized she was squeezing the side of the counter so tightly her hand ached.

  Forcing herself to loosen her grip, she stared down at the half-empty plant food bag, which she had dropped onto the floor.

  She felt sick. She couldn’t get the disgusting picture out of her mind. How could her dad eat mud?

  He didn’t just eat it, she realized. He shoveled it into his mouth and gulped it down.

  As if he liked it.

  As if he needed it.

  Eating the plant food had to be part of his experiments, Margaret told herself. But what kind of experiments? What was he trying to prove with those strange plants he was growing?

  The stuff inside the bag smelled sour, like fertilizer. Margaret took a deep breath and held it.

  She suddenly felt sick to her stomach. Staring at the bag, she couldn’t help but imagine what the disgusting muck inside must taste like. Ohh.

  She nearly gagged.

  How could her own father shove this horrid stuff into his mouth?

  Still holding her breath, she grabbed the nearly empty bag, wadded it up, and tossed it back into the trash. She started to turn away from the counter when a hand grabbed her shoulder.

  Margaret uttered a silent cry and spun around. “Casey!”

  “I’m home,” he said, grinning at her. “What’s for lunch?”

  Later, after making him a peanut butter sandwich, she told Casey what she had seen.

  Casey laughed.

  “It isn’t funny,” she said crossly. “Our own dad was eating dirt.”

  Casey laughed again. For some reason, it struck him as funny.

  Margaret punched him hard on the shoulder, so hard that he dropped his sandwich. “Sorry,” she said quickly, “but I don’t see what you’re laughing at. It’s sick! There’s something wrong with Dad. Something really wrong.”

  “Maybe he just had a craving for plant food,” Casey cracked, still not taking her seriously. “You know. Like you get a craving for those honey-roasted peanuts.”

  “That’s different,” Margaret snapped. “Eating dirt is disgusting. Why won’t you admit it?”

  But before Casey could reply, Margaret continued, letting all of her unhappiness out at once. “Don’t you see? Dad has changed. A lot. Even since Mom has been gone. He spends even more time in the basement —”

  “That’s because Mom isn’t around,” Casey interrupted.

  “And he’s so quiet all the time and so cold to us,” Margaret continued, ignoring him. “He hardly says a word to us. He used to kid around all the time and ask us about our homework. He never says a human word. He never calls me Princess or Fatso the way he used to. He never —”

  “You hate those names, Fatso,” Casey said, giggling with a mouthful of peanut butter.

  “I know,” Margaret said impatiently. “That’s just an example.”

  “So what are you trying to say?” Casey asked. “That Dad is out of his tree? That he’s gone totally bananas?”

  “I — I don’t know,” Margaret answered in frustration. “Watching him gulp down that disgusting plant food, I — I had this horrible thought that he’s turning into a plant!”

  Casey jumped up, causing his chair to scrape back across the floor. He began staggering around the kitchen, zombielike, his eyes closed, his arms stretched out stiffly in front of him. “I am The Incredible Plant Man!” he declared, trying to make his voice sound bold and deep.

  “Not funny,” Margaret insisted, crossing her arms over her chest, refusing to be amused.

  “Plant Man versus Weed Woman!” Casey declared, staggering toward Margaret.

  “Not funny,” she repeated.

  He bumped into the counter, banging his knee. “Ow!”

  “Serves you right,” Margaret said.

  “Plant Man kills!” he cried, and rushed at her. He ran right into her, using his head as a battering ram against her shoulder.

  “Casey — will you stop it!” she screamed. “Give me a break!”

  “Okay, okay.” He backed off. “If you’ll do me one favor.”

  “What favor?” Margaret asked, rolling her eyes.

  “Make me another sandwich.”

  Monday afternoon after school, Margaret
, Casey, and Diane were tossing a Frisbee back and forth in Diane’s backyard. It was a warm, breezy day, the sky dotted with small, puffy white clouds.

  Diane tossed the disc high. It sailed over Casey’s head into the row of fragrant lemon trees that stretched from behind the clapboard garage. Casey went running after it and tripped over an in-ground sprinkler that poked up just an inch above the lawn.

  Both girls laughed.

  Casey, on the run, flung the Frisbee toward Margaret. She reached for it, but the breeze sent it sailing from her hand.

  “What’s it like to have a mad scientist for a dad?” Diane asked suddenly.

  “What?” Margaret wasn’t sure she’d heard right.

  “Don’t just stand there. Throw it!” Casey urged from beside the garage.

  Margaret tossed the Frisbee high in the air in her brother’s general direction. He liked to run and make diving catches.

  “Just because he’s doing strange experiments doesn’t mean he’s a mad scientist,” Margaret said sharply.

  “Strange is right,” Diane said, her expression turning serious. “I had a nightmare last night about those gross plants in your basement. They were crying and reaching for me.”

  “Sorry,” Margaret said sincerely. “I’ve had nightmares, too.”

  “Look out!” Casey cried. He tossed a low one that Diane caught around her ankles.

  Mad scientist, Margaret thought. Mad scientist. Mad scientist.

  The words kept repeating in her mind.

  Mad scientists were only in the movies — right?

  “My dad was talking about your dad the other night,” Diane said, flipping the disc to Casey.

  “You didn’t tell him about — going down in the basement? Did you?” Margaret asked anxiously.

  “No,” Diane replied, shaking her head.

  “Hey, are these lemons ripe?” Casey asked, pointing at one of the low trees.

  “Why don’t you suck one to find out?” Margaret snapped, annoyed that he kept interrupting.

  “Why don’t you?” he predictably shot back.

  “My dad said that your dad was fired from PolyTech because his experiments got out of control, and he wouldn’t stop them,” Diane confided. She ran along the smooth, closely cropped grass, chasing down the Frisbee.