The Wolf and Me: The Seven Sequels

by Richard Scrimger

  I am sick of carrying this crappy gym bag. One of the handles has broken and it is dangling from my hand. The wolf said to take care of the bag but hes not around. Hes probly not even real. Now that Ive escaped from Skrillex and Brady and Alex and Vi and Lubor and America—now that I am almost home—I figure I must of been dreaming when I talked to the wolf and thot he was Grampa. Dreaming or what do you call it—seeing things. So I dont need to do what he said.

  Theres something heavy in the bag—like a stone or something. I feel it moving as the bag swings. A thot comes out of no place.

  What if its money?

  Now I go back to thinking that wolf Grampa is real. Maybe he led me to the gym bag so Id find money inside. I found a back pack full of money last summer. Thats 1 of the reasons I am in Creekside now—the money. Also the dead body. Dont ask—its a long story.

  How much do you trust Grampa? Spencer wasnt talking about Grampa the wolf but its still a good question.

  Anyway I dont throw away the gym bag. I keep skating and when I come to the next street lite I stop and open it. I am all ready thinking of what to do with the money. Spencer can have something for his camera and Benj at Creekside can have a poster of the Maple Leafs. He is a big fan. Id like to help Bet but I cant think how. And you cant help every body. Sorry Steve you cant. I shuld give some of the money to my cousins. Or maybe we shuld just split it since were all grandsons. Thinking of Grampa I want to find out if there is a wolf shelter or wolf fund or something. I bet there is. Some of the money shuld go there to say thank you.

  By now I am almost sure about whats in the bag—the only question is how much. A hundred dollars? A thousand? A billion? All rite not a billion but it culd still be a lot. So I am pretty disappointed when I push aside the towelly things and a small clear plastic bag of cereal and find the sleeping baby.

  Really? Yeah. Small and rinkly and curled up with a thum in its mouth. The gym bag is a baby bag. The towel things are some kind of diaper.

  I look around half expecting to see Grampa so I can ask him what I am supposed to do now. Cause I have no idea. Im a kid—15 last birthday and not very smart. What do I know about babys? Nothing. I mean I know where they come from but thats all.

  Who wants a baby? I would rather have money.

  I can see the little sholders moving when the baby shivers. It turns its head and yawns and then goes back to sleep. It has a hat on and mitts and a scarf and bootys and all but its cold. Well of course it is. The bag was on the ice. The babys been outside a long time. An hour? 2 hours? A long time.

  So the first thing I have to do is get the baby warm. I zip up the bag and hold it to me. I dont want the other handle to break now. I look around for head lites.

  Nothing coming. Drat.

  I skate care fully and think about ways to warm up the baby. There are no cars and no houses. Can I start a fire? No. What can I do? The warmest place I can reach rite now is—well—me. I cant give the baby my coat but I can put it inside my coat. I stop again. How to do this? My brain is working as fast as it can. The best way seems to be for me to wear the gym bag like a front pack with the handles around my sholders and the bag on my chest and my coat over everything. So I try that. Now my body heat will warm up the bag and the baby. The broken handle means the bag hangs off to my left. So what. I zip my coat back sup and go.

  Where is every body?

  I skate care fully. Push left. Glide a bit. Push rite. Glide a bit more.

  The road ends at a cross roads. Left wuld take me back to the river so I go rite for a change. Still no houses or farms. Canada is a big empty country. You forget that when you are driving around. Try skating and you will see it is full of no people. You will see how far it is between places.

  The baby is awake. I can feel it move around and hear it breathing. And there is a car coming! Its behind me. A car with a reason to be out late at nite. Some body to save me and the baby. I turn and jump and wave both arms. Stop! I shout.

  The car is not slowing down.

  Please stop!

  The car zooms past. Tail lights glow red for a minit and then disappear.

  The baby starts crying.

  ITS COMING FROM UNDER MY COAT.

  The gym bag bumps against my hart. I feel the baby going uhh when it breaths in and then mew mew and then uhh again. The crying is not loud but I cant miss it. Its coming from inside me. Its like I am crying.

  There there I say.

  The baby does not stop. Uhh. Mew. Uhh. Mew mew. Great. This is great. I am having a wonderful time.

  Push. Glide. Think. What could be rong with the baby? It is not as cold any more so its probly hungry. When I wake up from a nap Im hungry. Come to think of it I am hungry rite now. I think about foods I like. A grill cheese sandwich. Cereal. I remember the oat meal cookys at Steves house and I feel a bit like crying myself. Theres a small blu sine at the side of the road. 3731279. Whatever that means. Snow and trees and dark all around.

  There are cheerios in the gym bag. The baby can eat those but not yet. It is 2 cold to eat in the middle of the road. Tuff luck baby. Keep crying. I will stop the next car that comes by if I have to stand in the middle of the road to do it.

  Push and glide.

  I have not herd any crying in a while. Is the baby back to sleep? Maybe. I am not tired any more. I am hungry and worryed.

  Another blu sine. 3771592.

  Still nothing from the baby. Not even breathing in—I can not feel or hear the uhhh. I stop at the next street lite and open my coat and unzip the gym bag a bit more. The baby looks up at me and opens its mouth but no noise comes out. Is it 2 weak to cry? Wow. This is not good. I can hear Grampas voice telling me to look after what is in the bag. But how? Nobody is around. There is only me and the street lites and miles and miles of empty road. And trees and snow. I do not know where the hi way is or the next town or the hospital or anything. I am lost. I am letting the baby down. And Grampa.

  I need an idea. Smart people get them all the time. Spencer does I know. Come on brain—dont fail me now.

  3779912.

  What are these sines about? They dont show turnoffs—theres no where to go. Snow and forest is all I can see. I whack at the sine with my mitt fist. Im upset and angry. The feeling sits inside me like that big bite of peanut butter you cant get down. Its nothing to do with Grampa or rite and rong. Its not about Vi this time. Im angry because the baby is weak. Im angry I cant make it better. Im angry at me I gess. Hitting the sine is my kind of idea—stupid. Xept that when I nock over the sine it hits the pole behind it and I see something.

  Not nock—knock. Its another of Mr Wings tricky spelling words for me. Know knock knee write wrong. After Christmas he wants me to learn about commas and stuff. I told him you dont need commas for anything and he says yes you do. He is wrong.

  The pole behind the sine has a box on it. I didnt see it befor. And when I step forward and wipe the snow off the box I see a name.

  GOYETTE.

  Its a male box. Witch means theres a house back there in the snowy forest. I decide to find it. Is that an idea? Not really. But its what Im going to do. I hopwalk off the road and up thru the snow bank. The trees are mostly ever green. I start moving left and rite as I go forward. I dont know where the house is and I dont want to walk past it.

  I am thinking that those blu numbers must all be house numbers. There are a few houses along this road. If I was smarter I culd of figured this out and Id be inside all ready. But theres no point in thinking about that. I am here now.

  The ground feels different under my skates. Little stones. A lot of them. A drive way. I follow it up hill and around a bend and there is the house—dark against the star brite sky.

  Hang in there baby I say out loud.

  The drive way loops up to the door. No lites any where and no foot prints in the snow xept mine. I hop-walk to the door and pound on it but I dont wait long because this is an emergency and there are no rules in emergency. Beside the door is a small window. I smash
it with a kick from my skate and reach in and around to open the door from the inside.

  HELLO! I SHOUT.

  No anser. I turn on some lites and look around for the thing where you set how hot you want the place to be. Its in the living room. I smile at the whoosh sound from the furnace when I turn up the heat. Its great to be inside and walking around in socks and to feel warm air on me. I stuff a kitchen towel in the broken window. In a few minits it is warm enuff to take off my coat. I put the gym bag down on a chair. The baby inside stares up at me with eyes like black beads.

  Hi there I say as I lift it out.

  Not that I like the baby. I dont. But I dont want it to die on me. So I act frendly and tickle it in the tummy like people do. The baby does not want to sit up so I put it on my lap facing out and use my arm as a seat belt to hold it safe. It is bigger than a loaf of bread but not much. A big loaf of bread. I find the cheerios and offer them. The baby looks away. And then it looks at me. I can read its mind. I know what it is feeling. I am feeling it 2.

  Thirsty.

  I take the baby with me to the kitchen sink and run some water. The baby perks up. But now we run into trouble. There are no bottles or baby cups. All this water and no way to get it to the baby. The next 5 minits are almost funny they are so awful. I can not get the water into the baby. I can get close—I can get a glass rite up to the babys mouth—but close is not good enuff. I can not get the baby to drink. It trys to drink from the glass. Gosh it trys. But it cant. It moves its mouth and gasps and chokes and spills and almost dies. Its not fair. I want the baby to drink and it wants to drink. We are both on the same side and we are losing.

  The baby is so thirsty and mad it cries. I know how it feels. I feel like crying myself.

  I get an idea. I put the baby on the floor on its back and neel over it and pour water into its mouth like you pour into a glass. This is a bad idea. Lots of spilling and coffing head turning and arm waving. Everything gets wet. I wipe up and sit the baby on my lap and try again.

  Arrrg. Nope.

  I drink myself to show the baby how you do it. I only mean to take a sip but the waters so good I cant help drinking the hole glass. I lean over the sink and pour another glass with 1 hand. I hold the baby with the other. I hear loud sucking noises. Hah! The towel I used to wipe up the water is on my sholder and the baby has the end in its mouth. It is drinking. I pull out the towel and wet it again. The baby goes back to drinking.

  Hah! Hah! We have a system.

  My relief is like dropping a heavy suit case.

  The house phone doesnt work. I tryed it first thing. The Goyettes must be away for a while and turned off there phone. Thats why there are no cars or lites and the drive way is snowed over. The Goyettes are in Florida or Cuba getting sun tans.

  In a few minits the place really starts to heat up. The baby is still drinking. I take off some of its close. It has a lot of black hair. A lot. When I pull off the hat it is like opening a joke can with snakes in it. Boom! Hair. I have to laff.

  I wonder what her name is? Or his. It looks like a girl with all that hair but I dont know for sure. And I dont wanna find out. For me it is an it.

  It stops drinking long enuff to eat the hole bag of cheerios and it is still hungry when they are gone. It looks at the empty bag. I know that look. I look at my empty plate that way sometimes. I wet the towel for the 300th time and the baby goes back to drinking.

  Theres no cereal in the kitchen but I hunt around the shelves and find a can of pasta with a pop top. Woo hoo! Good stuff—tomato sauce and cheese. I can eat it cold and so can the baby. We share. The baby eats from my spoon. When I spill it licks my finger. We finish pretty quick and the baby falls asleep in my lap befor I even know. I put it on the couch and cover it up and think—what the hell?

  I havent had time yet. But now that we are warm and safe and fed and the baby is sleeping I can wonder—what the hell is going on?

  There are 2 parts to my what the hell. The first part has to do with the baby. How did it end up on the ice? Who leaves a baby on the ice? Not mom and dad—at least not this babys mom and dad. They care about it or they wuldnt of packed diapers and cheerios. So who? A bad guy trying to kill the baby? That doesnt sound rite. Who hates a baby that much?

  I dont know the anser. So much for that part of my what the hell.

  The second part has to do with me. Maybe I got kid napped so some place could get back the anthem that Grampa stole. But what about Grampa the wolf steering me across the ice to the gym bag and telling me to take care of what was in it? How much do I beleeve? What the hell is going on with me? I dont know the anser to this ether. But there is the baby making a little snuffy noise in its sleep. I cant deny that. Its totally real. So the rest is something I just have to take on faith for now. Chance. Grampa. Whatever.

  Now the baby makes a noise. I know the noise and so do you. Yah that noise. It is a funny noise when you make it with your lips or under your arm pit—but the baby is not making the noise under its arm pit.

  Oh.

  The baby frowns and grunts and turns over in its sleep. Theres the noise again. The baby has had a lot to drink and eat and it is ready to—it is starting to—to—oh no.

  Oh no no!

  The noise goes on and on and on. And on.

  And still there is more noise and more—more. Its epic. My jaw drops open and stays there. I dont know wether to scream or laff or start clapping. I am impressed. The baby sounds like it is digging to China or firing a rocket at the moon—and it sleeps thru the hole thing.

  I dont want to talk about the next ten minits. The smell. The noise. The filth. The amazing amazing filth. Maybe not as bad as being kid napped and locked up in a cold basement but no fun. Trust me.

  About half way thru the front door opens.

  SUSAN DEAR—ARE YOU THERE?

  The voice is old sounding. A woman is in the hall. I dont anser because I am not Susan and because I am on the kitchen floor on my nees finishing up with the baby—who is a girl by the way. I can not tell you how yucky it all is. Its like the baby exploded. The only clean part of her is her hair. Everything else is going to have to go in the wash or the garbage. I reach into the gym bag for diaper number 4.

  Susan is Susan Goyette I gess—this is her house.

  Knees not nees.

  The lady in the hall says ahem. Shes polite.

  I saw the lites on and the broken window and I wondered she says a bit louder.

  I wonder what the babys name is? Her hair is soft. Her skin is warmer than it was.

  Is everything all rite? asks the lady. Answer me. And what on earth is that smell?

  She shows up in the kitchen doorway. I am not surprised by her parka or boots or white hair or rinkles. Im surprised by the rifle tho. She points it at me pretty steddy. A tuff lady.

  What are you doing? She starts to say and then stops when she sees the baby and the mess. Its easy to see what I am doing. There are little close and diapers all over the floor.

  I say hi and tell her my name and that I am sorry for breaking in. It was an emergency I say—the baby needed help.

  So you are not a robber.

  Well I did take a can of pasta I say. She smiles and lowers the gun and tells me her name is Katy. With a Y she says witch she doesnt have to because how else am I going to spell it?

  Hi Katy I say.

  All this time the baby is sleeping and stinking and I am fumbling with diapers and wipes and close. Katy asks do I want any help and I say yes so fast she hasnt finished asking me yet. Yes yes please I say. In about 5 minits she has the baby clean and in a blanket and the dirty close in a washing machine in the basement. She is like a hurricane of busy.

  I go to the bathroom and clean up.

  What is her name? Katy asks me while the close are washing. We are sitting in the living room.

  Who? I ask.

  The baby—the little girl with the hair. What is her name?

  I dont know I say.

  Who is she? />
  I dont know.

  Katy frowns and puffs on her cigaret. She smokes all the time. When she finishes 1 she lites an other 1.

  Whats going on Bunny? she asks.

  She is smart and tuff and old and full of energy. Can I trust her? Can she help me?

  I find myself telling her my story. Not Grampa the wolf but most of the other stuff. The baby close go in the dryer and Im still talking. Katy has her head tilted so the smoke doesnt go into her eyes. When I am done she nods a bit and says good.

  Good? I say. Whats good?

  You are she says. You are doing the rite thing.

  Even tho I dont know whats going on?

  Knowing whats going on is over rated she says. You know whats important.

  She pats my arm. For all that she is old and smoking like a bonfire she reminds me of Nancy in grade 3. I feel better because of her. The bell dings and the dryer is done.

  KATY GOES OUT TO HER TRUCK

  while I dress the baby in her snow suit and hat. Blah blah blah she says and grabs my nose. I give her another drink from the wet towel and then it is time to go.

  Dont point that at me says Katy.

  Sorry.

  She takes the rifle from me and throws it in the backseat of the truck. I sit in the front with the baby in my lap. She looks around and grabs everything she can. Mostly me.

  Katy drives off slowly.

  Were you really going to shoot me? I ask. If I was a robber.

  I told Susan Id watch her place while she was away.

  And you do what you say youll do.

  Well sure she says.

  Its late and the road is empty and wild looking. Pine trees make it look even wilder. There is no town—only more sines with numbers. The truck smells of smoke. The cigaret buts in the ash tray look like an under sea animal—a coral or sponge with white things sticking up.