100 Days and 99 Nights

by Alan Madison

  Napoleon’s happy howls from the living room announced Grandpa’s arrival. I tucked Tililah back into my bedzoo between Sylvester my squirrel and Tina my tiger, jumped off the bed, and raced out of my room, almost knocking Ike down the stairs.

  When Grandpa saw us he gave us a big double hug. His eyes were not quite as bright sky blue, his hair more grayed than light brown, his face more gentle, but Grandpa McCarther looked a lot like Daddy, which, when you think about it, is really no great surprise. Crossing the crumbly skin on his arm were the rusty remains of his robin redbreast tattoo, now a faded red-and-black blur.

  I looked down at my slender splinter of an arm and knew for certain that that picture could never fit. When I looked back up, Grandpa was smiling at me in that way grandparents do when they know exactly what you were just thinking. He winked at me to signal that we had just shared the same thought.

  “Did you bring me a present, Grandpa?” Ike asked rudely. Grandpa always did bring us something, but it was best left as a surprise and not something expected.

  “Isaac!” warned Mom.

  “I most certainly did.”

  He reached behind the couch and slid a wrapped box to Ike, who ripped it open to reveal a hulking yellow dump truck.

  “Wow! Thanks, Grandpa.”

  Ike sped to the basement to test it out with the rest of his collection.

  “Esme, I think I have solved quite a prickly problem you have been having.” An oddly shaped, awkwardly wrapped package appeared in front of me. Grandpa McCarther was a great solver of prickly problems.

  I carefully picked at the taped paper corners and slid the contents out, revealing a big-beaked stuffed bird.

  “Esme, dear, finally this is it. This is the X for your bedzoo.”

  I still had no X. Everyone knows there are very few words that start with that terribly troublesome letter, and absolutely no animals.

  “It is a bird, Grandpa, and bird starts with a B, like bandicoot or beetle.”

  “It is not just any bird, Esme . . . it is a dodo bird.”

  I was silent while my brain raced through the alphabet once, then twice. Both times dodo started with D. But Grandpa was very smart and he would never mistake the D in dodo for the ever-troublesome X, so I checked a third time, because as Dad always said, “three strikes and you are out.”

  “D — dodo definitely begins with D, not X,” I gently reminded him, and then thought, Grandpa, yer out!

  “Ahhh.”

  That big open-mouth sound meant Grandpa McCarther had somehow tricked me.

  “Dodos are X-tinct, and X-tinct begins with X!”

  I threw my arms around his neck to show him how much I loved the gift, then ran upstairs to my bedzoo to name my X-tinct Dodo.

  “Hurry back,” Grandpa called. Then ordering and asking at the same time, he added, “What say we give you two tykes a little break from your mom and take a park adventure?”

  I didn’t need a break from Mom, but maybe she needed a break from us.

  Unicorn

  Unicorns are not real live animals. This has been told to me many times. They are made up, like mermaids, dragons, and werewolves. But if, with a wave of a magic wand, there was one animal I could make real, it would be my unicorn, Ulrich. I can close my eyes and imagine his shiny white coat, long twisty horn straight to the sky, silver hooves kicking up dirt, and me on his back riding through the forest.

  It was a great day with Grandpa. We rode the carousel six times straight — a McCarther family record. I went on the camel, donkey, giraffe, dragon, skipped the elephant because its seat was broken, and finished with two straight rides on the sea horse. We drank dark soda, ate big salt pretzels, three candy bars, a lolly, and a soft vanilla-chocolate-swirled ice-cream cone — having all in the same afternoon was another McCarther family first.

  As I held Grandpa’s right hand and Ike his left, we walked through the park answering his questions about how school was and what our favorite subjects were.

  “Math. Math is my favorite. I like the way everything comes out exactly right in the end.”

  “That was your father’s favorite. . . .”

  “Lunch!” spit Ike, blowing rainbow sprinkles off his ice cream. “I like the way everything is always eaten in the end.”

  “Hmm. Well, if I remember correctly, that was your father’s favorite also.”

  “Grandpa,” I cautioned, “he couldn’t have had two favorites. Which was it? Math or lunch?”

  Ike’s face scrunched, preparing to howl in victory. In his mind there was no possible way he could lose this lopsided competition between math and lunch. Tired from watching us on the carousel, Grandpa eased us down onto a wooden slatted bench that overlooked the carved green-and-brown baseball fields where boys and girls batted and caught.

  “Why couldn’t he? I have two favorites,” he glanced at each of us.

  Partially satisfied with a tie, Ike relaxed his jaw and attacked his now-soupy ice cream. I smiled at Grandpa’s skill at escaping this trap. The smack of a bat hitting a ball and calls of “Out!” and “Safe!” made us look out onto the ball field.

  “Grandpa, do all Dads come back from war?”

  “No, Ike, they don’t.”

  It was late afternoon and the sun was sinking fast, giving long shadows to the arguing players. Looking over the darkening tree branches, I could just about see the distant tip of the Washington Monument poking at the clouds. I had many questions. I knew Ike, and that one answer always led to one more question, so I decided to stay silent and let him do all the hard work.

  “You came back.”

  “I was plumb lucky.”

  Now Grandpa was squinting far into the distance at the barely visible point of the monument too. His answers were so quiet and short, he seemed to have lost all his skill in solving prickly problems. I began to worry. I wanted to tell Grandpa that this was another Ike trap that he had to escape, but my throat began to close up. Now I didn’t want Ike to ask any more questions, none, zero, zip . . . and then I wanted him to ask one more.

  “Is Daddy lucky?”

  Grandpa’s arms spread and lifted. His exaggerated shadow on the walkway made him look like a huge eagle about to fly away. But instead of leaving us, his arms flapped down onto our shoulders and pulled us in tight to his sides.

  Say “yes,” Grandpa. Say “absolutely one hundred percent lucky.”

  “Certainly he is, he has you two great kids.”

  His body felt warm and reassuring, but his arm on my shoulder didn’t feel like a wing anymore. Instead, it felt like a weight. His coat had hitched up his wrist, exposing the faded smear of red-and-black ink under his skin. I looked up to him in hopes of a smile, a wink, and a squeeze of encouragement, but his jaw was set and his eyes narrowed as if he was getting ready for a fight.

  “Come.”

  The deep creases in his forehead smoothed and his face slight-softened. His knees cracked as he straightened his legs to stand.

  “It’s getting dark. We better get going before your mom starts to worry.”

  He eased us off the bench and turned us onto the right path toward home.

  Vulture

  It’s hard to decide which bird is uglier, Vera my vulture or my newest but X-tinct stuffed dodo, which I decided to name X-it because there are no names I can think of that start with X. X-it is a word that I think sort of sounds like a first name anyway.

  It was late when Grandpa bumped up our driveway. Ike and I slumped in the backseat, exhausted from our adventurous day. Slowly, we got out of the car. Mom was thrilled to hear about our new carousel record. She awarded hugs and kisses, and called, “Wash up and get into your pj’s,” as we slouched into the house.

  “We had extra-large sodas . . .”

  “. . . and big salt pretzels,” I added, trying to signal Ike to end the list of food right there by having my voice go up on the “zels” in “pretzels,” but Ike Sense prevailed.

  “And then three candy bars . .
.”

  “Ike . . .” I tried to stop him as Mom’s smile slow-vanished with each of Ike’s boasts.

  Hearing the day’s completely sugarcoated menu, Mom shot us a Swishback frown that made me want to dry up like a fallen leaf.

  “Well, Grandpa said it was okay,” shouted Ike, and stormed off to avoid her glare.

  This was the first example of excellent Ike Sense I had ever witnessed, since I was now alone to hear and bear, “Esmerelda, you should know better.”

  That night, because of all the day’s excitement, I couldn’t get comfortable in my bed. I plumped and pushed my pillow until it was bruised black-and-blue.

  And that night, because of all the day’s sugar, I couldn’t fall asleep.

  I tossed and turned, tight-twisting the sheets.

  That night, because of a bad dream, I couldn’t stay asleep.

  I opened my eyes and sat up like a wound-up, popped out jack-in-the-box.

  I couldn’t really say exactly which it was that awoke me: the day’s excitement, the candy’s sugar, or the night’s bad dream. It was probably an awful mixing of all three.

  Half awake, I reached for my blankie and got a handful of rough washcloth instead.

  Just then, a long-fingered black hand scratched at my window. Now, wide-woken by this scary sound, I caught my breath. It was only a branch that tap-tapped at the pane. I squeezed Vera hard.

  Footsteps? My head swiveled to the door. Silence. There are no such things as ghosts. I know that. Ike probably couldn’t sleep either. In four seconds I would hear the rush of his pee shooting into the toilet bowl. Please, Ike, lift up the seat, I thought.

  I stared at the knuckle-sized night-light plugged in next to my dollhouse at the base of the wall. It made the miniature doll kitchen glow a warm fuzzy orange as if the sun were setting outside its window. Inside, all my dolls were fast asleep. One — two — three — four. Nothing. Total night quiet. It must be Ike. Maybe he was sick. Better check. I side-slid from under my covers. I heard the muffled sound of some of the animals in my bedzoo tumbling to the floor. It must be Ike. My bare feet shuffled across bristled rug. It must be Ike. I opened wide the door. Darkness, nothing more, no Ike, no Mom, no . . . maybe Dad came home early! The thought tingled down from the tip of my head to numb my toes. What day was it . . . ? What night . . . ? I glanced over my shoulder at my moon-streaked calendar. No. There were too many empty days left to circle. It couldn’t be Dad.

  I padded past the family photos that hung on the wall: me cuddled in a carriage in Korea, Ike swaddled in a bright-colored blanket in Kenya, Ike and me enjoying Germany, uniformed Dad hugging bundled Mom in Alaska. . . . Tick-tock, tick-tock, could that cuckoo clock be any louder? I froze. Grandpa McCarther and my newly uniformed dad shaking hands. Big smiles. Mom and Dad dressed to marry. Bigger kisses. Grandma Swishback and me with the big pink-and-blue-striped blanket. I wished I had it now. I unfroze and quick-turned into my parents’ room. Deep into dark I stared. Maybe he came home early? Maybe the war was over? Maybe the war wasn’t over and they sent him home early because he was . . . hurt? Soldiers get hurt. A million maybes. The rustling of the purple curtains broke my fearful silence.

  “Dad,” I hardly whispered. No reply.

  I noisily moved to the bedside. When I was little, I would crawl between the two long sleeping mounds. When I was sick or scared of thunder they would let me sleep in that warm green-blanketed valley between them.

  In the dim light I struggled to see. Needlepoint pillows propped against the headboard, cool sheets flat — no mounds of snoring grown-ups rising off the bed. No valley. I was alone in my parents’ room.

  And then I was really scared.

  As I ran out and down the hall, a scream leaked down the back of my throat. Just before it spurted out, the fluttering lamp glow at the bottom of the stairs plugged it. I was safe. The kitchen light was on. Gripping the smooth banister with both hands, I single-stepped down. A still shadow stretched long across the floor.

  Asleep, hair pulled in a long pony just like mine, head slumped over table, cradled on crossed slender arms just like mine, surrounded by crumpled wads and piled paper, was my mom. Napoleon raised his floppy head from the floor and stared back at me as if awaiting an order. I didn’t know whether she would want me to wake her or not. I hate that feeling when you’re not sure what a parent would want you to do. What was the right thing? Should I wake her so she could go to her bed or let her sleep because she was so tired? Sometimes you can seesaw back and forth on a problem like this until your head, heart, and stomach start to hurt.

  “Mom,” I breathed. I didn’t mean to, it just skated out.

  She looked so alone. So tired. I started to inch back to my room. Her eyes slow-lifted.

  “Hey, pumpkin . . . you okay?”

  “I couldn’t fall asleep. I had a bad dream.”

  She cat-stretched, stood, put her arm around my shoulder, and gently turned me around.

  “Come on, baby, I’ll tuck you in.”

  Walrus

  Whenever my dad comes into my room to kiss me goodnight and I happen to be holding Wallace my walrus, he sings, “I am the walrus, coo-coo-ka-choo.” He is not a walrus. I don’t know why he sings this. He says it is a line from a famous song. I think that it must be a very funny song because walruses can’t really sing and because of the “coo-coo-ka-choo” part.

  The sheets had gotten cold without me and I shivered a little as Mom pushed the edges tight under, then returned the fallen members of my bedzoo — Mandrake, Tililah, Reginald, and Gabriella — at my feet.

  “Esme? You okay?”

  As I nodded, my chin pushed the blanket down, and the back of my head dug deeper into the feathery pillow.

  “You okay?” I parroted, squeezing my vulture.

  She nodded.

  “Why were you sleeping in the kitchen?”

  “Just too tired.”

  She smiled but not a happy type, ran her hand down her ponied hair, and then sat on the side of my bed. Unlike Dad, she barely pressed down into the mattress. The just-replaced animals at the foot of my bed didn’t move — not even a shudder or shake. They just stared.

  “More importantly, missy, why weren’t you sleeping?”

  “Not too tired.”

  “It’s hard sometimes, hmm. You know, you have done quite a bit for our country. You realize what that makes you, don’t you?”

  I didn’t.

  “A hero.”

  “No. Daddy is a . . .”

  “Esme, you are my hero. You have been so brave and sacrificed so much during these last few months.”

  I felt tears creeping from the tops of my cheeks.

  “Sometimes moms are sooo busy that they don’t have time to tell you that they have noticed, but I have. I have. When Daddy comes back we’ll have a grand ceremony and give you a medal.”

  “I don’t want a medal. I just want . . .” And I stopped, barely letting “want” dribble out. I figured that saying what I wanted wasn’t necessary and wouldn’t be at all brave.

  “Before you know it he’ll be the one tucking you in.”

  She smoothed the covers where she had just sat, as if not to leave a trace, and planted a good-night forehead kiss.

  “How do you know for sure?” I soft-asked.

  She tapped her forefinger forcefully against the side of her head as she drifted toward the door and replied, “Kidneys, my girl, kidneys.”

  I wasn’t so sure what she meant by it, because that is where we keep our brains, not our kidneys. She smiled to let me in on the joke. I smiled to tell her I thought it was funny. So we both were smiling.

  As my mother, Penelope Lulu Swishback McCarther, backed away into the black darkness of my room and I faded down into the grays of sleep, I realized that my dad, August Aloysius McCarther the Third, was only the second strongest, bravest person alive.

  X-tinct bird, Dodo

  X-tinct, x-it, x-actly! Ms. Pitcher taught us that all these X words in
real life are spelled E-x, not just the letter X. She used the word extra as an exciting example. I still call my Dodo X-it. Sometimes I can be awful stubborn.

  A rocket ship countdown can be really exciting: 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 — BLAST OFF!!! The engines burp fire and launch the astronauts into the blue sky, heading to the moon. My countdown isn’t as exciting. 1 week, 7 days, 168 hours, a mess of minutes, lots and lots of seconds (more “than you can shake a stick at”) — DAD’S HOME!!!

  It’s less like my head going into the clouds and more like having the ocean in my stomach. Some days the waves are so rough it makes me seasick. I feel like running into my bathroom, lying over the toilet, and throwing up. But I can’t. I hate that feeling when you want to puke but you can’t. Ugh.

  Martina’s mom was stuck in Mobile tending her sick grandmother for the weekend. This was bad for her mom and even worse for her grandma but great for Martina and me since she got to sleep over.

  Mom was making pasta for dinner and we were super hungry. Standing on chairs staring down at the pot of water on the stove, Martina and I watched, waiting for it to boil so we could drop in our handfuls of spaghetti.

  “A watched pot never boils,” Mom warned, then wandered away.

  “You think it knows we are watching?” asked Martina.

  “How could water know if it is being watched? That’s silly.”

  We peered in for a second more, then at the same time both of us inched backward on our chairs and ducked down below the pot’s edge, out of sight of the water.

  “Whatcha doing?” asked Ike when he entered.

  “Shhhhh,” we showered down on him. His ears turned Ike-red and he moved double time to find Mom. After a few moments we inched up, and sure enough, big bubbles were shooting off the bottom.