Mrs. Pudding gasped. Mr. Pudding looked down the table and scowled. “Homer? You told the entire class that you saw a cloud with eyeballs? What’s the matter with you?”
What’s the matter with you? Homer had been asked that question many times in his life, but he’d never come up with an answer. What’s the matter with you? is easy to answer if your nose is bleeding or your foot has suddenly fallen off. “There’s nothing the matter with me,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin Gwendolyn’s presentation.”
“Of course there’s nothing the matter with you,” Mrs. Pudding said.
“I want to see a cloud with eyeballs,” Squeak said, tucking his napkin into his shirt.
“Well you can’t because there’s no such thing,” Mr. Pudding said. “Cloud with eyeballs.” He poured himself a glass of goat milk. “I don’t know where I went wrong.”
FRRRRT!
Mr. Pudding nearly tipped over the milk pitcher. “What in the name of goat cheese was that?” He lifted the edge of the tablecloth and glared at the source of the sound.
Dog, who lay at Homer’s feet, was having a terrible time with his digestive system. The whitewash had begun to work its way through his intestines, along with all the other things he had eaten that day, which included a slug, half of Squeak’s grilled cheese sandwich, and some goat poop.
“Put that dog outside,” Mr. Pudding grumbled.
“We can’t put him outside, dear.” Mrs. Pudding walked around the table, ladling chicken and dumplings into everyone’s bowl. “If we put him outside he might eat something he’s not supposed to eat.”
“He might die,” Squeak said.
Mr. Pudding took a bite of supper.
FRRRRT!
“How’s a man supposed to enjoy his meal with a dog like that under the table?”
“Dear, you’re spraying bits of carrot all over your son.”
Mr. Pudding stabbed a dumpling. “Dr. Huckle charged me thirty dollars just to tell me that the dog can’t smell.” He shook his head. “I don’t think keeping that dog is a good idea. How’s it gonna fit in around here?”
Homer reached down and patted Dog’s head. “But I’ll watch him, I promise.”
Squeak slid under the table. “Don’t make him go away,” he cried.
Mrs. Pudding looked long and hard at her husband. No words were necessary with a look like that. Mr. and Mrs. Pudding might not have thought that Homer was up to the task of watching the new dog, but as long as Squeak put up a fuss, then the dog would stay.
Mr. Pudding sighed, ate the dumpling, then shuffled through the day’s mail. “What have we here?” He held up a silver envelope.
Gwendolyn dropped her spoon and squealed. “That’s from the Museum of Natural History!” She threw herself across the table and yanked the envelope from her father’s hand. Homer grabbed Squeak’s milk glass to keep it from falling over as the table lurched. Squeak climbed back onto the bench.
“Look, look. They finally wrote back.” Gwendolyn bounced on her chair. “I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it.” She stuck her butter knife under the envelope’s flap and ripped it open.
“Just a minute,” Mrs. Pudding said, leaning over Gwendolyn’s shoulder. “That envelope isn’t addressed to you.”
“Of course it is,” Gwendolyn said. “I’ve written eighty letters to the museum’s director. Of course it’s addressed to me.”
“No, it’s not. It’s addressed to Homer.”
“To me?” Homer swallowed a soft lump of potato. Except for his subscription to the Map of the Month Club and the letters from his uncle, he never got anything in the mail.
Gwendolyn stared at the silver envelope, her lips slowly forming the words, “Mr. Homer W. Pudding.” Color drained from her face. She didn’t move, didn’t take a breath. She looked as if someone had stuffed her.
“Sweetie?” Mrs. Pudding whispered.
Gwendolyn’s fingers turned white as she clutched the envelope. Then she opened her mouth so wide that everyone at the table could see the little wobbly thing in the back of her throat. She screamed so loud that, out in the yard, the farm dogs began to howl. From beneath the table, Dog howled, too.
“Howooo!”
“What’s this nonsense?” Mr. Pudding said. “Mind your temper, young lady.”
Gwendolyn’s mouth snapped shut. “Homer W. Pudding?” she read again. “HOMER W. PUDDING?”
Mrs. Pudding pulled the letter from Gwendolyn’s sweaty grip. “Calm down, Gwendolyn.”
But Gwendolyn didn’t calm down. “WHY IS THAT LETTER FOR HOMER?” She pounded her fist on the table. The dumpling bowls rattled. “WHY? WHY? WHY?”
Homer had no idea why the letter would be for him. He’d never written to the Museum of Natural History. He’d never even visited the place.
“This is so unfair. Homer ruined my presentation and you aren’t even punishing him, and now he gets a letter from the Museum of Natural History.” Tears of frustration filled Gwendolyn’s eyes.
“I’m sorry, Gwendolyn,” Homer said.
“Now Gwendolyn, let’s see what the letter says before you work yourself into a huff.” Mrs. Pudding handed the letter to Homer. “Honestly, I don’t know why there always has to be so much commotion around here. I’m sure most families don’t act like this at the supper table. Go on, Homer. Read it. Out loud, please.”
This was the second letter Homer had received in as many days and it wasn’t even his birthday. He pulled out a silver card, cleared his throat, then read the fancy engraved lettering.
Dear Mr. Homer W. Pudding,
You are cordially invited to attend a VIP gala event tomorrow night at the Museum of Natural History. Please arrive promptly at ten o’clock in the evening. You will find the VIP entrance on the south side of the building.
Yours truly,
Madame la Directeur
P.S. Do not bring your parents.
“What nonsense is that?” Mr. Pudding asked. “Do they really think we’re the kind of parents who’d send our son to a party all by himself?”
“What’s a VIP?” Homer asked.
“It means, ‘very important person,’ ” Mrs. Pudding explained.
Color returned to Gwendolyn’s face like a volcanic eruption. “Homer’s not important.”
“Everyone’s important,” Mrs. Pudding said, kissing Homer’s cheek. Then she took her place at the table.
Homer would never, in a million years, consider himself important. Important people did important things, and all Homer did was read maps and books about treasure hunting. He slipped his bare feet under Dog’s warm belly. “It must be a mistake,” he said. It had to be a mistake. Gwendolyn’s dream was to work at the Museum of Natural History as a Royal Taxidermist. The invitation should have gone to her. “You can go instead,” he told her, holding out the card. Gwendolyn’s eyes widened.
“No one’s going,” Mr. Pudding said. “That museum’s in The City and no member of the Pudding family is going to step foot in The City. Not after what happened to my brother.”
“But, Dad…” Gwendolyn gripped the edge of the table.
“I don’t want to hear another word about it. And that’s final.” Mr. Pudding wiped the back of his neck with his handkerchief. “Now all I want is some peace and quiet so I can eat my supper.”
FRRRRT!
“Oh, for the love of…”
“Homer,” Mrs. Pudding said. “Why don’t you take your dog outside so he can do his business before bedtime. And close up the barn while you’re at it.”
“Okay. Come on, Dog.” Homer was glad to get away from Gwendolyn’s angry glare and his father’s ornery mood. And further discussions about clouds with eyeballs. As he walked to the door, Dog followed, leaving a trail of noxious fumes.
Outside, Homer stepped into his boots. Max, Gus, and Lulu greeted him, their tails wagging. They sniffed Dog, then spread out across the yard, their noses on the alert for predators. The full spring moon floated above a ho
rizon of rolling hills. While Dog piddled, Homer put Max, Gus, and Lulu into the barn. Then he reached into his jean pocket and pulled out the gold coin. The last time he’d seen his uncle was over two months ago when he’d come to the farm for a visit. He’d brought a tube of pink lip gloss for Gwendolyn, some fancy perfume for Mrs. Pudding, a pigskin football for Squeak, a bottle of imported brandy for Mr. Pudding, and a pocket telescope for Homer. “Very soon I’ll be setting out to search for Rumpold Smeller’s treasure,” he’d told Homer as they’d sat in Homer’s room. Homer remembered the excitement dancing in his uncle’s brown eyes.
“Rumpold Smeller’s treasure?” Homer had barely been able to believe it. “Did you find the map?”
“I can’t discuss the map’s whereabouts. Not yet. But I can tell you that I found something else. Something amazing.” A boyish grin had spread beneath Uncle Drake’s scruffy mustache. “Something that will definitely help me find the treasure.”
“Something amazing? And it’s not the map?”
“Even more amazing.”
“What is it?”
“I’ll tell you soon. When the time is right. You see…” He had paused, then he’d gripped Homer’s shoulder. “Even the most noble treasure hunter can go bad. The lure of limitless wealth can eat at the soul the way cancer eats at the body. You must be very careful about trusting others in this business. Always remember that.”
Homer had nodded. He’d read enough treasure-hunting biographies to know that trusted friends had turned on one another on many occasions. “Can I come with you?” he’d asked.
“When you’re older. Right now it’s too dangerous for a young’un. There are forces that will stop at nothing to get Rumpold Smeller’s treasure. Besides, I’ve still got to get funding for the expedition.” He’d run his hand over his square jaw, his voice turning serious. “Listen to me, Homer. I know you’re not happy here in Milkydale. Your ma says you’ve been having a hard time with the kids at school. But don’t let their teasing turn you away from what you love. It doesn’t matter what other people think. Treasure hunting’s in your blood as much as it’s in mine.” He’d put an arm around Homer’s shoulder. “I want you to promise that if anything should happen to me, you won’t give up your dreams. Because if I don’t find Rumpold Smeller’s treasure, then I want you to be the one to find it. Promise?”
“I won’t give up my dreams,” Homer had vowed. “I promise.”
That last visit seemed so far away. It had ended with a promise, one that Homer was determined to keep. He held up the gold coin. Could the coin be the something amazing that his uncle had spoken of? Could it be the answer to finding Rumpold Smeller’s treasure? What did those letters stand for? Land of Strange Things? Land of Secret Things? Land of Secret Treasures? Oh, that sounded good.
“Pssst.”
“Huh?” Homer’s heart skipped a beat. He looked up.
A small puffy cloud hovered above one of the gnarled cherry trees. But instead of eyeballs peering out, a man hung upside down from the bottom of the cloud like a trapeze artist.
10
Ajitabh the Cloud Man
If ever you think you might be seeing something strange, like a man hanging upside down from the bottom of a cloud, you should probably give your eyes a good rub. It could be a piece of dust or a stray eyelash that’s causing the disturbance. This is often the reason why people think they see UFOs. A fruit fly stuck on the cornea looks exactly like a flying saucer.
But even though Homer rubbed and rubbed, the man just kept hanging there.
“Hello?” the man called, waving his arms. “I say, can you hear me?”
Dog whimpered and hid behind Homer’s legs. Homer’s heart banged against his chest as if it were trying to get out. He rubbed his eyes again. It took a few moments for his vision to clear and when it did, the man had moved closer.
“Are you Drake’s nephew?” The man’s shiny black hair swung in the air. The hem of his white shirt began to inch down his torso, toward his armpits. He reached up and tucked it into his pants, which disappeared into the cloud.
“Uh-huh,” Homer said, frozen in place. Dog squeezed his head between Homer’s shins, a quiet growl rising in his throat as he looked at the upside-down stranger.
The man stroked his pencil-thin mustache, which curved around his mouth until it met up with a pointy black beard. “You don’t look one flamin’ bit like Drake.”
The shock wore off as Homer realized that these were the eyeballs he’d seen earlier. It hadn’t been a mirage. He tilted his head, trying to get a better view of the cloud’s belly. “How do you do that?” he asked. “Clouds are just water vapors.”
“Actually, a cloud is a collection of tiny water droplets or ice crystals that are so light they can float in air.” The man spoke with an odd accent. The cloud whirred, then lowered a few feet. The man held out a hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Ajitabh. I was born in New Delhi but schooled in Britain. I have heard a great deal about you, Homer.”
Homer reached up and shook Ajitabh’s hand. “How do you know who I am?”
“Your uncle Drake was my dearest chum. Terrible way to go. How in the blazes did he let himself get eaten by a tortoise, that’s what I’d like to know?” He paused, a sad look spreading across his face. At least Homer thought it was a sad look—it’s difficult to tell on an upside-down face. “My deepest sympathies to your family and all that.”
“You knew my uncle?”
“We used to hunt for treasure together.”
“You did?” For a brief moment, Homer felt giddy. What luck to meet a friend of his uncle’s just when he was trying to solve a mystery that his uncle had left him. “What kind of treasure? Where did you go? What did you find?”
A whirring sounded again and the cloud lowered until Ajitabh and Homer were face to upside-down face. “This is not a social visit, I’m sorry to say. I must know if your uncle left you anything—anything at all after his death. You must tell me.” A reddish tinge had spread across his cheeks and neck.
Homer wanted to trust this supposed friend of his uncle’s. Ajitabh might know what L.O.S.T. stood for. He might know if Uncle Drake had found Rumpold Smeller’s map. But something didn’t feel right. Maybe it was the serious tone of the man’s voice, or the way the moonlight created sinister shadows on his face. Homer’s gut told him not to say anything about the coin. “Sometimes gut instinct is the only thing a treasure hunter can rely upon,” Uncle Drake had often said.
Homer stuck his hand in his pocket and gripped the coin protectively. “He didn’t leave me anything.”
The man raised his eyebrows. “I say, have you something in your pocket?”
“No.” Homer took a step away, nearly tripping on Dog who was still wedged between his shins.
“Why the devil are you backing away?”
“No reason,” Homer said, his suspicion growing.
The cloud floated closer. “I know Drake left you that hound.” Ajitabh pointed at Dog. “But you must tell me if he left you anything else. He would want you to tell me. Your life could be in danger.”
A tingling sensation crept up Homer’s spine as he remembered his uncle’s words. “Even the most noble treasure hunter can go bad.”
“Homer!” Mr. Pudding called from the kitchen door.
Homer turned toward the farmhouse but the cherry trees blocked his view.
“Homer, don’t go.” Ajitabh reached out and grabbed Homer by the front of his shirt. Homer squirmed. “You must tell me. What did Drake leave you?” The cloud whirred and Homer rose into the air, his boots dangling a couple of feet off the ground. “Tell me.”
“Let go,” Homer said, kicking his legs. He tried to loosen Ajitabh’s grip.
“Grrrrr.” Dog clamped his teeth around the heel of Homer’s boot and pulled.
“Tell me,” Ajitabh demanded, tightening his grip so that the seams under Homer’s armpits began to rip. “Don’t be a bloomin’ fool. You can trust me.” He grimac
ed, straining to hold Homer’s weight. His face turned purple.
“He gave me the dog. Nothing else,” Homer said. “Let me go.” He kicked with all his might. Two buttons popped off his shirt. The seams ripped further. Dog pulled the boot loose, then clamped his teeth around the other boot.
“Homer!” Mr. Pudding called again. “Where are you?”
“Dad!” Homer cried.
Ajitabh glanced over at the farmhouse, then looked Homer right in the eyes. “I’ll come back for you,” he whispered. “Until then, be careful. Remember, your life could be in danger.” He let go of Homer’s shirt.
“Ouch,” Homer said as he tumbled onto the grass. Dog stuck his nose into Homer’s scared face. Expecting Ajitabh to grab him again, Homer scrambled to his feet and ran. “Dad!”
“Homer?” Mrs. Pudding stepped onto the porch and held out her arms as Homer barreled into them. “Whatever’s the matter? What happened to your shirt? Where is your other boot?”
“There’s… there’s… there’s…”
“Is it a coyote?” Mr. Pudding started down the stairs.
“No.” Homer pointed frantically toward the cherry trees. “A man. A man in a cloud.”
“What?” Mr. Pudding stopped in his tracks. He and Mrs. Pudding looked toward the trees. But there was no cloud. And no man. Only a dog chewing on a boot.
“Homer,” Mrs. Pudding scolded. “You’re supposed to make sure your dog doesn’t eat anything bad. Go get that boot away from him.”
“But Mom, there was a man hanging from a cloud. He grabbed me.” Homer raised his arms to reveal the ripped shirt seams.
Mr. and Mrs. Pudding shared a worried look. Then Mrs. Pudding sat on the porch swing and pulled Homer next to her. Squeak peeked outside but she waved him back into the house. “Your teacher just telephoned,” she told Homer as she tucked one of his curls behind his ear. “You didn’t do your subtraction problems today and you didn’t turn in your Milkydale history essay last week or your solar system diorama. Mrs. Peepgrass said that even though we’ve talked about this over and over, you still spend most of your time daydreaming. And today you made up a story about a cloud just to get attention.”
Smells Like Dog Page 5
