Henry & Eva and the Famous People Ghosts

by Andrea Portes

  Binky.

  16

  BINKY TWIRLS THE tire iron like a baton.

  “You didn’t think I had it in me, did you?”

  Despite the hair filled with brambles, dirt on her face, and wedding dress in tatters, she actually looks kind of adorable. And dangerous. But like, in a girl-power way.

  “Wooooow. Binky.” Zeb lights up. “Nice job!”

  Indeed, it is a nice job. Binky stands there, contemplating the fallen tweedle-guard at our feet.

  “Wait. Okay, so you just . . . bonked that guy on the head?” I ask.

  “It appears so,” Henry responds.

  “Was he starting to say something about helping?” I ask.

  “Helping my foot. That man had me hostage! He would have done the same to you!” Binky looks down at him. “Is he dead?”

  Now, we all look down at him.

  “Hmm.” Henry bends down, investigating. “His chest is moving. So, he is breathing. That’s the good news. The bad news is he could wake up at any second.”

  “Yeah, we should probably bail,” Zeb suggests.

  Binky takes the lead.

  “Kids, I have a plan.”

  Binky has . . . a plan!

  You know, I may be guilty of pegging her as a “damsel in distress” type. As it turns out, she’s quite capable. Perhaps even formidable.

  “Binky. Thank you for saving our hides. We definitely owe you one,” I tell her.

  “Aw, you kids. You think I’m going to cool my heels while this big oaf lays his big oaf hands on you? No way. No, sir.” She winks, a twinkle in her eye.

  “C’mon. I think we can make it down to the chapel if we hurry,” Zeb urges.

  “Oh, no. I have a better plan,” Binky pipes up.

  “What do you have in mind?” Henry asks.

  Binky hefts the tire iron over her shoulder. “Follow me.”

  As we approach the line of trucks, it’s obvious a kind of “second path” has been created by some of the minions, who have placed a series of wooden pallets over the ditch and through the mud. Very inventive. Some of the trucks have actually been able to make their way through the mud and out into whatever underground art-thievery scene they had programmed into their GPS.

  The Mastermind stands there, observing each truck go out into the misty night, peeking in the back, cataloguing, paying the drivers, giving a final nod. Taking in the whole scene, it is clear this is really a solo operation. He’s the brains. They’re the muscle. This explains why the pay is so horrible. This is a winner-take-all situation.

  It’s baffling how people can be so greedy. I mean, here is this guy, only able to do this on the backs of this tweedle-army, and yet they are making peanuts compared to him. It’s not as if they won’t go to jail if they are caught. Or perhaps even turn on him, if the police start sniffing around them at some point. See. It’s just bad management. Where’s the positive mental attitude, the loyalty, the motivation?

  But maybe this is his Achilles’ heel?

  This uber-greed?

  Gosh there are so many trucks. So many . . .

  The synapses in my head begin to fire, but just as they are about to form an actual thought, the process is interrupted.

  “So, what’s the plan, Binks?” Zeb asks.

  Binky looks up. “Excuse me?”

  “What’s the plan? You know, to take the serpent’s head or whatever?” Zeb asks, a bit winded by our hike down the mountain.

  “Don’t worry. I have it all figured out. You’re going to love it.” Binky elbows him, chiding.

  Zeb smiles, but Henry is not convinced.

  “I don’t mean to sound rude, but wouldn’t it be better if we all knew the plan? So we could aid in its enactment?” Henry asks.

  “You’re right. I see what you mean.” Binky pauses. “Okay, wait. Here. See these rocks? You kids stay here and I’ll give you the signal.”

  “The signal for what?” Zeb yells, but Binky’s already jogged ahead.

  Then I have a thought again, or the beginnings of a thought. The thought stretches its many arms and fingers around my brain and is just about to wriggle itself into position.

  The thought is: Yes, there’s going to be a twenty-course meal . . . because this wedding is so elaborate. I mean, just remember those gazillions of trucks parking before the wedding . . . you know, those trucks you noticed right before the ceremony?

  And then the thought veered like this:

  Wait a minute. Who called those trucks in the first place? Well, obviously, it was the Midwestern Mastermind because this is all his diabolical plan. Except did he just cancel all of Binky’s wedding plans and call his own people? How would he even do that? I mean, did he sit there and research all of Binky’s wedding arrangements? Was he the wedding planner? Um, no. Definitely not. I specifically remember Zeb saying the wedding planner was a guy named Fabio who wore an ascot.

  Then the thought veered this way:

  Someone had to tell the Midwestern Mastermind all the details of this wedding. But who would have known them all . . . ?

  I gasp.

  Binky.

  I turn to Zeb and Henry. “Guys, this is an inside job! We have to get out of here!”

  “You kids aren’t going anywhere.” And in that moment, we are surrounded. By Binky, who is slapping the heavy tire iron in a slow rhythm into her palm, and a circle of beefy tweedle-guards.

  Ladies and gentleman of the jury, let it be known here and from this point onward:

  Binky is in cahoots with the Midwestern Mastermind!

  “Binky?” Zeb says it, his body a deflated balloon. “This was . . . you?”

  “How could you?” Henry is more affronted than anything. “I took your side!”

  Binky looks at me, as if it’s my turn.

  “Binky,” I say. “Is that even your real name?”

  “Of course not,” she scoffs.

  “Well, what is it?”

  “None of your beeswax.”

  “I know what it is,” Zeb looks up, a moment of truth.

  She finally looks back at him. “What?”

  He does the L sign on his forehead. “LOSE-ER.”

  She tilts her head. “Very amusing.”

  “Your name is LOSER!”

  “Yeah. yeah. Say it all you want, kid. Because in the next few minutes this LOSER”—she puts the L on her own forehead now—“is about to win.”

  17

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE this whole thing with my dad was a cover for a heist!” Zeb grumbles. “That’s just cold. Only an unfeeling monster could manipulate someone like—”

  “I’m right here,” Binky responds, finishing up the ties around his back.

  Yep, you heard me. Zeb is now completely tied up to a chair. As is Henry. As am I. It’s a chair-tie party.

  Zeb goes on. “It’s as if somewhere in her past she just lost that piece of her, the piece that knows how to love and care, the piece that gives us all our humanity . . . the piece called a . . . heart.”

  “Um, like I said. Right here,” Binky replies.

  “‘For what doth it profit a man, if he gain the whole world, and suffer the loss of his own soul?’ Matthew 16:26,” Henry intones.

  “Tell her, Henry! BAM! That’s some biblical stuff. In your face, Binkster!” Zeb celebrates.

  “All right, that’s it.” Binky slaps a piece of tape over his mouth.

  I could easily help him continue his quote except I, too, have a mouth full of tape.

  Side note: Tape is not a good taste. It’s somewhere between wallpaper and glue. With hints of rubbing alcohol. Long on the tongue.

  “Now you snooty brats stay where you are! Because Mitch and I—”

  “Who’s Mitch?” Henry asks.

  “Why, the man helping me execute this brilliant plan of mine,” Binky answers.

  So. The truth is revealed. The Midwestern Mastermind isn’t actually the mastermind behind this heist at all. The whole time, the actual mastermind has been t
he bride herself.

  She hovers over Henry’s mouth with a final mouth-size piece of tape. “But, wait!” he shouts. “Eva said she saw you crying!”

  “Oh, I have wept today, tiny nerd boy. I have cried tears of sheer joy over how well my diabolical plan has proceeded! It really is a thing of beauty. You must admit it. What bride purposely sabotages her own wedding?”

  Henry is about to respond, but Binky presses the tape over his lips, finishing off with a pat pat pat. “Now I won’t have to worry about a single one of you . . . ever again!” Her shoulders begin to shake. She gulps in a breath. Sob. Salty streaks flow from the corners of her eyes. “I am just . . . so . . . good at this!” She walks toward the door. “Tah!” she calls over her shoulder before sealing the door shut.

  I finally have a chance to look around. It appears that we are in a combination basement/cave. A basecave. Some of the walls are stone. And some are rock. Bedrock, I’m assuming. Okay, we must be under the castle somewhere. The door is a wood door, with black metal fixtures, wrought iron. It looks like it was probably constructed in the twenties. Sturdy. They don’t make them like that anymore.

  As the door rattles to a close, the three of us find ourselves looking at one another with tape covering our mouths, eyes wide.

  Henry is scrunching his mouth and his jaw this way and that to get the tape to somehow come off.

  I wonder how long they plan on keeping us in here. Is this just until after the heist? But then, how will anyone even know we’re here? I start looking around the basecave. Is there even any ventilation in here? I mean, I don’t see any vents.

  That’s not good.

  Henry keeps wriggling his mouth. Now Zeb and I are trying it, too. Wriggle wriggle wriggle. Wriggle wriggle wriggle.

  I manage to wriggle half the tape off my mouth. Thank God!

  I tell myself to definitely not think about the possibility of a finite amount of oxygen down here. Nope, not thinking about that. Definitely not.

  Zeb’s tape is falling off now, too. Somehow Henry’s seems to be stuck tighter. Maybe it was the extra pats at the end.

  I figure prayer isn’t a bad idea at a time such as this, so I formulate one. It goes, “Please, great creator above, Vishnu, Krishna, Yahweh, or whatever great creator spirit you actually are . . . please help us!”

  Nothing happens.

  Zeb looks at me. “I don’t think it works that way. Here, let’s meditate. It will slow our heart rates and help promote clarity of thought.”

  Henry looks at Zeb.

  Zeb begins. “Fabulae non morietur potest somnus solum legendas.”

  It’s the incantation from the chamber below the chapel. Guess it was the first thing Zeb could think of.

  Henry looks at me and shrugs. I decide to chime in.

  “Fabulae non morietur potest somnus solum legendas.” Even though I am still chanting, I peek an eye out to Henry.

  Then we both try not to laugh. We try to be serious.

  Then it seems like the vibration coming out of our lungs, our bodies, our chant, turns inside out and starts actually vibrating the floor. Then harder. Then harder. Then the walls. Then the ceiling!

  Shake. Shake shake.

  Shake shake shake. Henry and I look at each other, terrified. Is that an earthquake? I can’t think of a worse place to be in an earthquake.

  Shake. Shake.

  Shaaaaake.

  Henry and I panic. Zeb keeps chanting. Dust is flying off the ceiling now, hitting him on the head. Nope. Keeps chanting. Laser focus.

  And then we see it.

  “Well, kids! You tried! Sometimes that’s all a lad can do! Or a lassie!” Henry and I jump in our seats. Zeb keeps chanting. I don’t even think he felt the earthquake.

  There, in the corner of the basecave, stands Beaumont, corncob pipe in hand.

  “Darn tootin’.” He nods. “Fancy chant. What are you, a bunch of witches? Wizards? Warlocks?! How’d you like that earthquake? That was my idea. I always did like a good shaker! Gits the blood pumping!”

  “Yes, yes. Here, here.” August and Sturdy agree with him, tipping their respective hats.

  Plum leans in, kind. “Now, children, please forgive Beaumont and his rather tiresome antics—”

  “Tiresome! Why, dear wife of mine, I been dead over a hundred years and I still ain’t tired!” Beaumont exclaims.

  “Aren’t we all tired? Tired of this endless circus of banality. This indifferent march? This petty game of material stakes, all of which will someday, inevitably, be rendered meaningless . . . each of us a grain of sand on an endless sea, a raindrop in a lightning storm, a snowflake in a blinding blizzard—”

  “A chicken with a gizzard!”

  “What?”

  “I can make up poems, too!” Beaumont goes on, slapping his knee. “A chicken with a gizzard! A wart on a lizard!”

  “I was in the middle of—”

  “Saying something depressing! Yeah, we git it! The world is terrible and we should all just throw ourselves off the nearest bridge. But don’t listen to that hogwash, young’uns! This world is a blinding beauty; we live on a beautiful blue marble in the sky, revolving around a star. Ain’t that just bonkers?!”

  Henry continues trying to squiggle his mouth out from the tape.

  Plum chimes in. “Children, what Beaumont here is trying to tell you is—”

  “Live it up a little! Dagnabbit! This world is for the livers! And not the chicken livers like my two boys here!” Beaumont gestures to August and Sturdy.

  “Oh, I do love a good foie gras,” August reminisces.

  “Exquisite, exquisite. With a bit of port,” Sturdy agrees.

  “Jeez-em-peets! You’re hopeless!” Beaumont shakes his head.

  Now Maxine floats above us. We look up, except Zeb who continues, now deep in trance. “Fabulae non morietur potest somnus solum legendas.”

  “Children, your freeeeedom hinges on your intellect . . .” And as Maxine says it, she simply flies up, fading into the dusty ceiling.

  “Don’t forget it, kids!” Now Beaumont starts singing to himself. “A chicken with a gizzard. A duck on a lizard. A frog in a blizzard.”

  Now the silly song fades and all the ghosts follow Maxine up, fading into whatever is up there, which I realize might involve a lot of spiders.

  Don’t think about the spiders. Don’t think about the spiders.

  Henry finally manages to wriggle his tape off the side of his mouth.

  “Well. That was unneccesarily complicated,” he comments.

  “Henry, we have to get out of here! No vents. Aka, no oxygen.” I nod toward the walls.

  “It appears you are correct, dear sister,” Henry agrees.

  “We should all just hop our chairs over and gnaw the ropes with our teeth like rats,” Zeb offers.

  Henry and I contemplate this.

  “Um, really?” I ask.

  “Do you have a better idea?” Zeb asks.

  “Actually,” Henry chimes in, “if we can rub our ropes together the friction should wear them away. We just need to get closer to one another.”

  “Sounds better than a mouthful of rope,” Zeb concedes.

  “Okay,” I agree.

  The three of us begin hopping madly toward one another, our chairs jolting up and down like Mexican jumping beans. Hop. Scratch. Hop. Scratch. Hop.

  Zeb’s chair begins to tip over. I watch as, in a kind of slow motion, it teeters over and then:

  THUMP.

  “Ouch. Ouchity ouch ouch ouch. Okay, I’m okay,” Zeb assures us.

  But now Henry’s chair crashes down beside him.

  SLAM.

  “Okay, that’s gotta hurt,” Zeb comments.

  “Indeed,” Henry agrees. But their chairs have come down precisely where they need to. Henry’s and Zeb’s wrists are right next to each other. Henry starts rubbing his wrist against Zeb’s. “It would appear they’ve used garden-variety clothesline here. A lucky break. A heavier rope might take forever t
o—”

  One layer of rope falls away from Zeb’s wrists. “I seriously want to be you when I grow up, man,” Zeb swoons. Only this time I’m not so grumbly about it.

  “Our freedom hinges on our intellect,” Henry says, pondering the advice from our ancestor ghosts. “I mean, quite frankly, that seems obvious.”

  “I know,” I agree. “Kind of like ‘the early bird gets the worm’ or ‘two wrongs don’t make a right’ or—”

  “Never trust a man with a peg leg,” Zeb adds.

  “Okay, that is not an expression,” I reply.

  “It absolutely is,” Zeb argues.

  “In what world is that an expression?” I ask.

  “I dunno. Mine, I guess?”

  “I mean, like, did you grow up on a pirate ship on the open seas?” I kid.

  “Yeah, and that was the expression. ‘Never trust a man with a peg leg.’ I can’t believe you’ve never heard that.”

  “Yes, it’s like that famous old expression, ‘don’t blow your nose too close to a chicken,’” I offer. “Or ‘jump on a log, eat a hog.’”

  “Everyone says that,” Henry jokes. The last rope falls away “There. Got it!”

  Henry’s arms spring free and, in a flurry, he unties Zeb’s wrists.

  Now the two of them untie my wrists and we begin untying our ankles.

  “Okay, how are we getting out of here? Any ideas? Anyone? Anyone? Anyone?” Zeb asks.

  “There doesn’t appear to be any ventilation.” I look around. “Not one slat.”

  “That door looks pretty sturdy.” Zeb nods toward the dark wood door with wrought-ron stylings.

  “Wait a minute.” I look at the door, formulating a thought.

  Henry looks at me.

  We say it simultaneously.

  “Our freedom hinges on our intellect!!”

  Zeb just looks at us.

  “The hinges!” I explain. “The hinges of the door! I mean, yes it has that scary wrought-iron lock but I bet if we—”

  By the time I am through with my sentence, Henry is already at the hinges, investigating.

  “Oh, I see. That makes sense.” He peers into the inner workings of the hinges. “If we just loosen this part, we can take this pin out of here and . . .”

  There is the smashing of one of the chairs and the fashioning of a makeshift tool. Blah blah, yadda yadda, Henry fumbles with the top hinge, taking out the wrought-iron pin with a flourish.