“To be honest, not that many people believe in me,” Kranstenenif said. “I mean, I am a mad scientist.”
“This is rash,” Winterbottom said, summoning a strength he had never before possessed. “The rashest of all rash things that have ever been done, and it is up to me to stop you! Do you know that when Nikolas Boddenveld ate that tulip bulb, there was a Winderboddem saying, I don’t think that’s an onion, sir! And when Pieter Boddenveld tried to buy Canada for a dollar fifty’s worth of trinkets, his Winderboddem told him, I don’t think these Indians will fall for it, sir! Alexander, you are the last of the Baddenfields, and it is up to you to carry on the family traditions, but please end this one tradition of not listening to a Winterbottom when he is about to save your life! For this quack will surely take it.” Winterbottom turned to Kranstenenif. “No offense.”
It was a rousing speech. Even Kranstenenif, who well should have been offended by it, was not. He was very nearly moved.
And Alexander? Neither very, nor nearly, nor moved at all.
“Oh, save all that historical hooey for someone who cares, Winterbottom,” the boy said. “What is the absolute worst thing that could happen if this operation doesn’t work?”
“You will die.”
“Exactly,” Alexander said. “Which we all know is going to happen anyway—at a young age, in some weird and crazy way. The Baddenfield way. If the operation fails, I’ll just be following in the footsteps of my ancestors. If it succeeds, you should be the happiest person alive, because I’ll have nine times as many lives to end.”
Winterbottom, still so taken with his own words, couldn’t find the ones with which to respond to Alexander’s.
“Here,” Kranstenenif said, wheeling a tray of surgical implements over to Winterbottom.
“What are you giving me these for?” Winterbottom said.
“You’re going to be my assistant.”
“Oh, no,” Winterbottom said. “I may not be able to make Alexander’s decisions for him, but I can make them for myself, and I absolutely refuse to be a party to this.”
“Well, it’ll be a lot more risky if I have to do this alone,” Kranstenenif said, scratching his head. “But okay.”
The scientist began shaving Shaddenfrood’s belly where he would have to make the first incision.
“And you, Alexander,” Winterbottom said. “Are you okay with it being risky?”
“Absolutely,” the boy said.
Say what you will about Alexander Baddenfield: He was rude, he was mean, he was a brat. But the boy was fearless. Winterbottom wasn’t sure why his ancestors had so loyally served the Baddenfields down through the generations, but he knew why he himself did.
Defeated, dejected, Winterbottom turned to the mad scientist and said, “Tell me what to do.”
Even Alexander Baddenfield, for all his bravado, had a moment of doubt looking into the flaring green eyes of Dr. Kranstenenif as the scientist reached down to administer the anesthetic. The boy could feel his hot, stinking breath, and see the sesame seeds in his beard. Alexander felt the slightest twinge of nerves, but it was too late. The anesthetic took effect, and Alexander no longer cared, not about a single thing in the world. He saw the operation unfold over him in slow motion, saw Dr. Kranstenenif’s face tie up in knots of concentration while he worked, saw Winterbottom look sicker and sicker with worry. Alexander loved making Winterbottom worry. It was funny. If only he could laugh.
Then, something not so funny happened. Alexander felt a coldness inside of his chest, as if long chilly fingers were taking hold of his heart. As unpleasant as that feeling was, Alexander missed it when it was replaced by a sort of bloated numbness that spread out across his entire body. And then, Alexander felt nothing at all.
At 2:54 p.m. on Thursday, the 17th of August, Alexander Baddenfield, the last of the Baddenfields, expired at the age of twelve.
The operation was a complete success.
Warning
to
ALL READERS
You are about to embark on a tale that recounts the sometimes gruesome deaths of a young boy, and his not always pleasant rebirths. If you are squeamish, sentimental, or faint of heart, I suggest that you turn back now. You have hopefully enjoyed the story so far. Why not quit while you are ahead?
If you are made of sterner stuff, however, and decide to continue, I present to you . . .
The Second Life
of
ALEXANDER BADDENFIELD
Tick, tick, tick went his father’s old pocket watch, or at least Winterbottom imagined that’s what he heard as the seconds and minutes passed after Alexander’s death. Winterbottom’s palms dripped with nervous sweat, and he had to keep wiping off the surgical instruments before he handed them to the doctor. Tick, tick, tick, and still the line on the heart monitor stayed flat. How long could this go on before it was too late to bring Alexander back?
“How long is too long, Doctor?”
“Well, this is weird,” Kranstenenif said, ruffling his brow as he peered into Alexander’s open chest. “I didn’t expect to see that!”
“What is it?” Winterbottom asked, and felt pain in his own chest. “Didn’t expect to see what?”
He begged the scientist for more information, but Kranstenenif just said, “Nothing, nothing,” and kept glancing over at an anatomy book he had left propped open for reference.
Alexander laughed at Winterbottom. Well, he couldn’t really laugh, just like he couldn’t exactly feel anything, or hear. Yet he did somehow understand what Winterbottom and the doc were saying—what they were thinking, even. Being dead is cool! Alexander thought. He just kind of floated above the room, watching everything, himself included. It was funny; he didn’t quite look like he thought he did. There was a big difference between seeing yourself in a mirror or a photo and actually seeing yourself. He could even see his insides, guts and all. Once Dr. Kranstenenif began to sew him up, Alexander was extra glad to be dead—that needle looked like it hurt.
Yes, being dead was cool, but then something not cool happened.
Alexander suddenly felt wretched, like he needed to vomit. The main difference, of course, was that he was back to feeling anything at all. And he was no longer floating above the room—everything had gone to black. Flashes of light came to Alexander, as his consciousness turned over like an ignition: spark, spark, spark, FIRE. With that, his nervous system switched on like a hydrant turned to full blast, but with no one to hold the hose. All the pain hit him at once—every cut, every stitch. His heart took its first big pound painfully against his rib cage, and Alexander gasped in his first new breath of air—HUHNGH!—which hit the walls of his dormant lungs like lemon juice on chapped lips.
Next thing he knew, he was getting up from the operating table, his mouth open in the middle of an uncontrollable, face-splitting yawn. He opened his eyes. The pain—where had it gone?
“How do you feel?” Winterbottom asked nervously.
“I feel like . . . I feel . . . ” Alexander said. “I don’t know the word for how I feel.” He looked down at his chest, which had looked like Frankenstein’s neck a minute ago but was now as smooth as it was the day he was born. “Where’s the scar?”
“No scar,” Dr. Kranstenenif said. “You are on your second life now. You’re good as new.”
“Good as new?” Winterbottom said.
“That’s the word,” Alexander said. “New. That’s how I feel—new!”
“So the operation actually worked?” Winterbottom said.
“It worked,” the doctor said with a grin.
“It worked!” Alexander said, jumping off the table.
“It worked, it worked, it worked!” the three of them chanted, hugging each other. After one too many hugs for his liking, Alexander left Winterbottom and Kranstenenif to do the embracing and started putting on his clothes.
“
Okay, guys,” he said when he was done. “I’m outta here.”
“But I need to hold you for observation!” Kranstenenif said. “I need to run tests!”
“That sounds boring,” Alexander said. “I hate tests. That’s why I quit school. Besides, I’ve never felt better in my whole life.” Alexander grabbed Shaddenfrood off the operating table and put him into the carrier. The cat woke up, saw the bald patch on his tummy, gave it a few licks, and went back to sleep.
“What I need to do is go try on my new lives for size,” Alexander said, pressing the button of the exit door, which opened whoosh. “I won’t feel comfortable until I’ve used up at least two or three of them.”
That last comment erased all the relief and joy from Winterbottom’s heart. “Please, Alexander,” he said, following him out of the lab. “Listen to what the doctor is saying!”
“Alexander! You must understand, you are not invincible!” Kranstenenif called after him through the thick jungle of the greenhouse. “There are rules to this! There are still ways you can die for good! Even a vampire dies if you put a stake through his heart!”
“Wait,” Alexander said, stopping before he opened the door to the arctic deep-freeze. “Are you saying I’m a vampire?”
“Well, no,” Kranstenenif said, disappointing Alexander. “But if someone drove a stake through your heart, and you couldn’t get it out, you would keep dying, coming back to life, and dying again, until all your lives were used up.”
“Okay, got it,” Alexander said, and walked away into the snow back toward the plane.
“Wait, there’s more!” Kranstenenif said, but Alexander was too far away.
“You’d better tell me instead, Doctor,” Winterbottom said. “It’s not like Alexander will listen anyway.”
Kranstenenif went through how broken bones, cracked ribs, concussions, and the like wouldn’t heal any differently from before, not unless Alexander died and came back to life. Even more important, a lost arm or leg would never grow back. “And if the kid loses his head,” Kranstenenif said, “it’s Humpty Dumpty time.”
“Meaning?”
“He can never be put back together again.”
Winterbottom hurried away from the mad scientist’s lair and quickly spotted Alexander stopping not too far ahead. He was taking his clothes off.
“Alexander! What on earth are you doing?”
“Going for a swim!” Alexander said, standing on the patch of grass Jurgenson had pointed out earlier. A pool of melted ice had indeed formed around it. “That real estate guy said this would kill a person real quick! Hypodermics!”
“Hypothermia, Alexander.”
“Whatever,” he said. “Now take out your pocket watch and time how quick I die!”
“I will not!” Winterbottom said, crossing his arms. “Alexander Baddenfield, put your clothes back on this instant. I demand it!”
Not listening, the boy dipped in a toe, and quickly yanked it back out. The water was more than cold—it burned. The tip of Alexander’s big toe turned purple, and a breeze blew a dusting of snow onto his naked back.
“I think I want to find a warmer way to die first,” Alexander said, and started putting his clothes back on.
Down below, the clouds looked like a soft, feathery mattress. Soft, but solid. Could it really be true that a person would fall right through them? It didn’t seem like it. It seemed like you could lie down on top of them and go to sleep.
“Winterbottom,” Alexander said, shaking him. “Have them open the door of the plane. I’m gonna jump!”
“Really, Alexander, can’t you at least wait until we get home to die again?” Winterbottom said, not bothering to lift the eye mask covering half of his face. “Besides, I don’t share your death wish, nor, I’m sure, do the pilot or flight attendant, who would also be sucked out if we opened the door midflight.” He then warned Alexander again about Humpty Dumpty time. “From this high up you’d crack into a thousand pieces and be dead for good.”
Back in New York, Alexander’s driver, Sam, picked them up at the airport. Sam was shaped like an old cigar butt, the same height as Alexander but four times as thick. As always, he opened the back door for Alexander, so he could get into his booster seat.
“Oh no,” the boy said, shaking his head. “From now on, Alexander Baddenfield rides in the front seat.”
Winterbottom took a deep breath, while Sam just shrugged and did what he was told.
“So this is what the car looks like from up here,” Alexander said, climbing in. “Cool.” He ran a hand along the dashboard and messed with the radio.
“Now if you’ll just put on your seat belt, boss kid, I’ll take you home,” Sam said, clicking his own into place.
“Seat belt?” Alexander said. “I ain’t wearin’ no seat belt.”
Winterbottom gasped. “No seat belt!”
“Why should I wear a seat belt? I’m not in the same boat as you two suckers,” Alexander said, and put his feet out the window. “I’ve got lives to spare. One life! Hah! Good luck with that!”
“Whatever you say, boss kid,” Sam said, and put the car into drive.
“You really should buckle your seat belt, sir,” Winterbottom said.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi.
“You really should buckle your seat belt, sir.”
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi.
“You really should buckle your seat belt, sir.”
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi.
“You really should buckle your seat belt, sir.”
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi.
“You really should—”
“Shut up, Winterbottom.”
Winterbottom bit his lip.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi, five Mississippi, SIX Mississippi, SEVEN—
“You really should buckle your seat belt, sir.”
Turning off Canal Street at the corner of Bouwerie Lane, Sam parked in a spot opposite Baddenfield Castle. Alexander hopped out of the car and, without looking, walked right across the middle of the street.
“Alexander!” Winterbottom yelled. “Watch where you are going!”
And he really should have.
Jean-Luc-Pierre Toussaint, a taxi cab driver from Haiti—or more lately, Queens—had just dropped off his final fare of the evening. As he pulled away from the curb he glanced down to flick the switch for his OFF DUTY light. Looking back up he saw—A BOY!
Swerving, he narrowly missed the child—WHAT WAS HE DOING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET!—and nearly hit a Prius in the right lane. Swerving back the other way, he ran his cab up onto the sidewalk and almost hit a fire hydrant.
“YOU CRAZY CHILD!” Jean-Luc-Pierre shook his fist out the window at the boy. “LEARN HOW TO CROSS THE STREET! AND YOU,” he said to the young man, grabbing him, “TAKE BETTER CONTROL OF YOUR LITTLE BROTHER!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” the older one yelled back.
These people! Jean-Luc-Pierre thought to himself. Typical New Yorkers . . .
Winterbottom watched the cabdriver screech away still shaking a fist and honking. He turned to Alexander. “What were you thinking? How many times have we gone over this? Look left, look right, look left again, then cross.”
“Like I told you,” Alexander said, “I don’t have to worry about this stuff anymore. At least not until I’m down to three lives or so.” Alexander pressed the code on the buzzer, and with clanks and a steady hum the drawbridge lowered. At the base of it, a rat missing half its tail jumped down into the moat and swam away.
“Alexander, the world cannot function if one person is so utterly reckless,” Winterbottom said. “It would be chaos!”
Before the drawbridge even touched the sidewalk, A
lexander hopped onto it and ran into Baddenfield Castle. With a sigh, Winterbottom trudged across the planks. Then he thought, Maybe I should be running too.
Up in the kitchen, he found Alexander on a stepladder rifling through Winterbottom’s personal cabinet of food. “Alexander—what are you doing? That’s my food! How did you find the key?”
“Top of the cabinet,” Alexander said. “Real tricky, Winterbottom.”
“What are you looking for in there?” he said nervously, trying to peer over Alexander’s shoulder.
“The most forbidden fruit of all,” the boy said, and found what he was looking for. “Peanut butter!”
“But Alexander, you don’t want to eat that. Allergies are so—”
“And white bread . . .” Alexander said, pulling a bag from the shelf. “And bananas!” He hopped down, got out the silverware, and began making a sandwich.
“Put . . . the knife . . . down . . .” Winterbottom said. “Please.”
“Don’t be so worried all the time,” Alexander said, taking a bite. “I mean, what are the chances I’m allergic to this stuff? One in a million?”
But as he chewed, the boy’s smile turned flat. His brows knotted, and he grabbed his throat. “Hnnh!”
“What is it?” Winterbottom said, alarmed.
“Hnnh!” the boy went again, heaving.
“Are you all right? Alexander! Can you breathe?”
“Hnnh!”
“Oh no. Oh no!”
“Hnnh!” Alexander’s face turned purple and his eyes bulged.
“Must call Dr. Sorrow . . .” Winterbottom said, fumbling for his phone.
“Ah-ha-ha!” Alexander cackled. “Gotcha!” In three more bites he finished downing one half of the sandwich and smacked his lips. “Now where do you keep the milk?”
For the first three days of his second life, Alexander did all the things that he had been told never to do but couldn’t see a good reason for not doing. Winterbottom kept all such activities on itemized lists, which made the task easy.
The Nine Lives of Alexander Baddenfield Page 4
