by Tim Greaton
Bret any further into danger.
Friends protect friends.
After coming to the conclusion that Bret could no longer be exposed to the items in his father’s box, he allowed his eyes to close and his mind to drift off to sleep. He tossed and turned all night with visions of robotic parents who shared their home but not their time or their love.
The next morning, Zachary woke to the wailing sound of a siren not far from his bedroom window. Feeling certain that Gerald had fallen off the roof for real this time, he jumped out of bed and ducked his head outside. He was instantly relieved to see Gerald standing on the newly built catwalk on his roof, but he was watching something across the street. Zachary’s eyes slid sideways and his breath caught. There was an ambulance parked in front of Bret’s house. Not waiting to pull on a shirt or shoes, Zachary rushed out through the apartment and raced down the back stairs. Ignoring the pain of sharp rocks along the edge of Madame Kloochie’s driveway, he bolted across the street and only stopped at the bottom of the stairs because two emergency medics were rolling a stretcher out of Bret’s house. He recognized his friend’s shiny dress shoes sticking out from under the sheet that covered everything but his feet and his face.
Terrified, Zachary asked, “Is he going to be okay?”
By that time, Bret’s parents had followed the stretcher outside and down the stairs. Zachary had only seen them from a distance once or twice, but up close they were stunning, both dressed in immaculate dark clothes, a suit and tie for his father, dress slacks and a jacket for his mother. But what struck Zachary most was how tall and graceful they were, absolute pictures of health. So why, then, did they have such a sickly child?
Bret turned his head toward Zachary. He was trying to say something but the oxygen mask over his face muffled the words.
“I can’t hear you.”
Bret shook frantically from side to side, apparently strapped to the stretcher.
“You must be Zachary,” someone said, suddenly blocking the view of his struggling friend. A full foot taller than Zachary, Bret’s father reached out a strong hand, which Zachary shook.
“Bret has really livened up since you moved in.”
“What happened? Is he alright?”
Bret’s father frowned.
“He might be…if you leave him alone!”
Zachary felt as though someone had just kicked him in the stomach. He couldn’t find the words to respond.
“I’m sure you’re a nice enough boy, Zachary. But my son, our son—” Bret’s mother was suddenly standing beside her husband with a similar stern expression. “—can’t be involved in any kind of excitement.”
I’m so sorry, Bret!
“He can’t be running and playing like other kids,” Bret’s mother said. “He’s not strong enough for that.”
“We didn’t run at all,” Zachary said, but he knew he’d exposed Bret to something worse, much worse.
“My son is on his way to the hospital,” Bret’s mother said, “so I think you’ve done enough.”
Zachary wanted to defend himself, to say he would never do anything to hurt Bret. But, at the same time, guilt forced him to recognize she might be right. The experience with Medusa the night before had obviously shaken Bret to the core.
“This ends now,” Bret’s father said calmly. He reached out and clutched Zachary’s arm in a vice-like grip that caused Zachary to wince. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Zachary bit on his lower lip and nodded.
You’re saying I have to abandon my friend.
“When my son gets home, he’ll be grounded. There won’t be any more jaunts across the street. Nor will there be visitors to our side of the street.”
“Can I at least call him?”
“No, I don’t think that would be wise,” Bret’s father said. Then he turned and walked toward his white Volvo, one of two identical cars in their driveway. The siren wailed as the ambulance pulled a U-turn in the middle of Station End and drove up the hill and away from the dead end street. The two white Volvos followed, leaving Zachary standing alone on the sidewalk.
As he headed back across the street, Zachary’s feelings of guilt quickly morphed into anger, not just at himself but at Bret’s parents. Yes, it was true the sight of Medusa had been too much for his friend, but what had made his constitution so weak? If he hadn’t lived such a sterile, unhappy life, maybe he wouldn’t have been so frail. If he had parents who actually loved him, maybe he would have been stronger.
Stop it!
No matter how terrible they had been as parents, Zachary knew they were right. He, alone, was responsible for whatever had happened to Bret. If he hadn’t exposed his friend to magic, Bret wouldn’t have gotten scared or sick.
“Those two won’t be happy until they kill that boy,” Gerald said
Zachary stopped in Madame Kloochie’s driveway and looked up.
“It was my fault.”
“Pshaw! You’re the best thing that’s happened to that boy since he discovered shoe polish.”
Zachary might have smiled if he hadn’t remembered Bret’s shoes sticking out from under the stretcher sheet. One thing was for certain: Bret was on his way to the hospital and Zachary was the reason why. No, he couldn’t think of a thing to smile about.
It had been two days since Bret had been hustled away in an ambulance, and for Zachary they had been two of the most difficult days of his life. He had already been worried about his father and his uncle, and now he also feared that his friend might die. And what turned his stomach most was that all three people had him to blame: if he hadn’t gotten into that stupid fight with Billy, his father wouldn’t have taken him to Doctor Gefarg’s clinic, Krage wouldn’t have found them, and his father and uncle wouldn’t have run off to Pandemone. Then, apparently not satisfied to have put two people in danger, Zachary had exposed Bret to Medusa and the zombie hands.
Maybe I should just contact Krage and end all this!
With an attitude as dark as the U-Ghoul furniture, Zachary took a cold shower in hopes of shocking himself into a better mood. It, of course, didn’t work. Knowing that Madame Kloochie would have a conniption fit if he didn’t open the store on time, he grabbed the tiny U-Ghoul casket out of the closet and hurried to the front door. Hurrying made no difference, though, because two gooey donuts still came straight for his head. Ducking both, he realized that sometimes Madame Kloochie threw just them because she felt like it. He almost wished the second one had hit him when it instead slammed into the TV and dripped jelly down onto the knobs. He had learned from experience that those knobs were a pain to clean. Madame Kloochie already had a third rocket cocked and ready to fly, but Zachary slipped into the hallway and down the stairs before she could let it loose. He was thankful not to hear a thump against the wall. One less donut he’d have to clean later.
Zachary went through the side door and made his way to the front of the junk furniture store that he had come to view as a prison with dirty windows rather than bars. Why Madame Kloochie bothered, he didn’t know. To his knowledge there hadn’t been a single sale since he had arrived. Why she couldn’t see that no one wanted to buy dusty, broken junk, he didn’t know. Suddenly, Zachary wondered how Madame Kloochie managed to pay her bills and keep Stanley delivering endless amounts of donuts, milk, and cleaning supplies. He was beginning to suspect she was rich, or at least well off.
As he unlocked the four locks on the front door, he realized that other than the U-Ghoul unit he had forgotten to bring any of his father’s items to study. Though he hadn’t made much progress—if you could call stretching the magic wand out like a walking stick and causing a miniature whirlwind with a spray bottle labeled “Googin’s Mind” progress—he knew it was important to keep trying.
Since returning upstairs was not an option, Zachary decided to clean the store as best he could. Though Bret might never be able to visit again, it would at least keep his mind off from the fear and worry that seemed to follow him around like a ba
d habit. He started with an old broom and cleared the cobwebs from the ceiling and corners of the walls. Next, he found a torn tablecloth and ripped it into pieces that could be used for dusting. He then wiped dirt and dust from everything he could reach for over an hour, but depressing thoughts continued to swirl through his head. Though he knew it was pointless, he couldn’t help blaming himself for Bret’s condition.
What if he dies!
Just then, Zachary heard a car coming down the street. He dropped his cloth on the broken bookshelf he’d been dusting and rushed to the front of the store where he could look out the grimy windows. He was ecstatic to see one of the white Volvos pulling into Bret’s driveway. Soon, three people were walking up the stairs to Bret’s house.
Bret was one of them!
He seemed to be fine and was well ahead of both his parents. Zachary hoped he’d turn and wave, but all three went straight into the house and closed the front door. Feeling more enthusiasm than he had since the morning of the ambulance, Zachary hurriedly finished dusting the shelf then went to the front desk and retrieved his father’s U-Ghoul unit. After carrying it to the back of the store, he opened the casket lid. It only took a few seconds for the smoke fashioned desk set and Medusa to appear. He slipped into the seat.
“Good morning, Zachary Roger Pill,” Medusa said. “You have eight thousand, three hundred, and twenty-two messages from His
