by M. E. Kerr
Under The Toaster was also supposed to be the lookout for the water bugs, the black jumping spider, and the ones in webs, the Persian cat from the third floor who often got loose, and any other enemies. Still, it was Drainboard who excelled at sensing danger. It was her voice most often calling out, “Get your cerci moving! Trouble is coming!”
As much as Shoebag honored Under The Toaster, he was his father, after all, he sometimes felt his mother was taken advantage of. Under The Toaster took the warmest sleeping place for himself. And he was always criticizing Drainboard for things like not warning him the dishwasher had not completed its cycle, so it would start up again, just as Under The Toaster had crawled behind it. Or he would shout at Drainboard that she should have told him there was a roast in the oven, and not let him find it out for himself as he hopped down to the hot burner.
So Shoebag was filled with concern for Drainboard, which was why he had sneaked down to the first floor, past his bedtime.
He could hear the television weatherman from inside Mrs. Biddle’s studio, forecasting snow.
Mrs. Biddle had left the little light on over the stove, and Shoebag climbed up on the kitchen stool and snapped it off.
“Mama?” he whispered. “Mama, it’s me, your little boy, are you there?”
“Don’t say that, honey, please,” he heard her voice from somewhere. “It is bad enough what has happened to you, but call yourself my little son, not my little boy. Little boys kill roaches.”
“I promised I wouldn’t, Mama, and I won’t. Are you all right?”
“I am, but your poor father is feeling badly. Look around and see if there’s a choice morsel for him.”
“There’s salami grease on the knife, Mama, but I was hoping you’d have it.”
“Would you put the knife up on the spice shelf for a moment? Your father is sleeping behind the cloves.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Shoebag asked as he snapped on the stove light, got the knife from the counter, and opened the cupboard.
“He caught his left antenna in the oven door yesterday,” said Drainboard. “It hurts him badly. He can’t forage for food, or be the lookout, or any of that.”
“Are you sure he isn’t faking? He’s done that before so that you end up doing all the work.”
“SHUT THAT DOOR UNTIL YOU TURN OFF THE LIGHT!”
Shoebag turned off the light and stood in the dark on the stool. He was still very much afraid of his father’s bad temper. Shoebag had not changed that much.
“There’s salami grease on that knife, dear,” said Drainboard to Under The Toaster.
“Don’t you think I can see that? Do you think I’m blind?”
“Mama?” Shoebag said. “There are rye bread crumbs out here. Your favorite kind. Come out and get them.”
“Thank heavens for Mrs. Biddle’s gigantic appetite!” said Drainboard.
“Rye bread crumbs go with salami,” said Under The Toaster. “Get me those rye bread crumbs!”
“They’re for Mama,” Shoebag said.
“Let Daddy have them,” said Drainboard. “I’ll come out later and look around for something.”
“You could share them, there’s plenty,” said Shoebag.
“I need them all,” said Under The Toaster. “I have an injured antenna, and I need to build up my strength.”
“Get them for Daddy, dear. Make sure his door is shut, turn on the light, gather them up, turn the light off, open the door, and put them beside the knife.”
Shoebag did all that, saying, “What about you, Mama?”
“Don’t be such a mama’s roach,” snapped Under The Toaster. “I thought you were a person now.”
“She’s still my mother!” Shoebag said.
“And I’m still your father!” said Under The Toaster. “Show some respect. I eat first and best. I deserve special attention, too, now that I have injured my antenna…. Get this knife away, or someone will come along and suspect I’m behind the cloves!”
“Yes, sir!” said Shoebag, and he did as he was told.
“Don’t worry about me, Shoebag,” said his mother. “I’m not hungry now. I’ll eat later.”
That was what she always said.
“These rye bread crumbs are too fresh,” said Under The Toaster. “I like them a little crustier.”
“Then let Mama have them.”
“I just ate the last one,” said Under The Toaster with his mouth full. “Now see if you can find me something sweet for dessert.”
“Is everything all right, my son?” Drainboard asked.
“Find me some cake,” said Under The Toaster. “I feel like cake.”
“Are you happy, Son?” said Drainboard.
“Let him find me some cake before you start all that questioning,” Under The Toaster said.
“Don’t you care how our little son is doing?” she asked him.
“I did, when he looked like me … but now …”
“Now what?” Shoebag asked him.
“Now get me some cake!” said Under The Toaster, and that was the point when Mrs. Biddle called out, “Who’s in the kitchen? Rodney, is that you?”
Shoebag would have run back upstairs fast, except for what he saw crawling across the kitchen counter.
It was the seven-legged, black jumping spider.
Six
“SO IT’S YOU, STU!” said Mrs. Biddle. “You should be asleep by now.”
“I know it,” Shoebag told her, “but I’ve been chasing a spider that I wish someone would kill.”
Shoebag was still not sure he was enough of a person yet to kill the spider, and he did not have shoes on, either, to step on it.
Mrs. Biddle carried her plate to the kitchen counter. There were crusts of rye bread left on it, which Shoebag hoped she would forget to put into the garbage pail. It was not impossible for his family to get into the pail, but it was hard work, and Drainboard would be the one who would have to squeeze under the lid.
“Is it that spider over there?” Mrs. Biddle asked Shoebag as the jumping spider disappeared down the side of the stove.
“That’s the one!” said Shoebag. “Get him while he’s still around!”
“Darling, I never kill spiders. They’re sweet little things, that one with the leg missing, in particular…. I feel sorry for him. I’d like to draw him someday.”
“Then you’re not afraid of spiders?”
Mrs. Biddle laughed. “Of course not! He’s harmless.”
“Do you kill other things?” Shoebag asked her.
“I don’t like killing anything,” said Mrs. Biddle. “I believe you live and let live.”
“Do you kill cockroaches?”
Mrs. Biddle made a face. “Ugh! Yes! I kill them, because they are vermin. They are different.”
“Why are they so different?”
“The way they look, for one thing. They are disgusting! And they are filthy, too!”
“But what about live and let live?”
“That’s just an expression,” said Mrs. Biddle. She reached for Shoebag’s hand. “We don’t care about cockroaches, honey, and you shouldn’t be thinking about them late at night, or they’ll get into your dreams. I’ll walk you to the stairs. I still have work to do in my studio.”
Then she called up the staircase, “Rodney? Tuck Stu in, darling! He’s on his way up.”
Mr. Biddle was sitting at his desk, in the little alcove around the corner from the living room.
“I thought you were asleep,” he said.
Shoebag held out the hope that Mr. Biddle might feel differently about spiders, so he told him that he was chasing one, which was still downstairs in the kitchen.
“The Zap man will be here tomorrow,” Mr. Biddle said, “so don’t worry.” Mr. Biddle had his little comb out and was running it through his mustache. In front of him on his desk was a pen and what looked like a notebook.
“Are you sending your customers bills?” Shoebag asked.
“I’m finishing doi
ng that. Now I’m about to write in my journal. You know, Son, it would be good for you to keep a journal. If you’d kept a journal before you lost your memory, all you would have to do is find it, and you would learn all about yourself and your other life.”
“Does Pretty Soft keep a journal?”
“She keeps a diary she writes in, yes. I gave her one for Christmas.”
“What does she write about?”
“Oh, we never read other people’s journals or diaries, Son. They’re private. You write down your most secret thoughts, and things that happened to you that are important. Tonight I’m going to write about you, and how you came into our life.”
“I don’t have a journal, though,” said Shoebag,
“You can use an empty notebook I have here in my drawer,” Mr. Biddle said. “And I’ll get you a Flair pen to write with.”
Mr. Biddle pulled open his desk drawer and got out the notebook and pen. Then he pushed back his chair. “I’ll tuck you in now, and you can leave the light over the couch on for five minutes while you make your first entry in your new journal. How does that sound?”
“Good!” said Shoebag. “Are you sure no one will read it?”
“I promise you,” Mr. Biddle said as they walked into the living room and over to the couch, which was made up like a bed.
When Shoebag was under the covers, Mr. Biddle leaned down and gave him a kiss on the forehead. His mustache tickled, but Shoebag liked it because it was his very first kiss from another person.
“Lights out in five minutes,” said Mr. Biddle.
“Do I have to go to school tomorrow?” Shoebag asked him.
“You’re not worried about that, are you? A big boy like you?”
“No,” Shoebag lied, because he supposed big boys didn’t worry about such things, and he did not want to give himself away.
“Good night,” Mr. Biddle said. “Sleep tight, and don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
“Bedbugs?” Shoebag said. “Are there bedbugs in this couch?”
“That’s just an expression, Son,” said Mr. Biddle. “My heavens, where could you have come from that you’ve never heard that expression?”
Shoebag said, “Would you kill a bedbug if there was one in this couch?”
“You bet I would! But stop worrying about spiders and bugs and all those crawling critters…. Maybe in your other life you lived in some old, infested tenement, but now you’re in a nice, clean, new home.”
Shoebag was staring at the cotton socks he’d just removed and left on the floor. The bottoms were filthy from walking around on the Biddles’ floors.
One thing that I have learned about people, Shoebag wrote in his first journal entry, is that they don’t think their own dirt is dirty…. They do not always mean the things they say, either, like live and let live … like good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite…. Those are just expressions…. I miss my home sweet home!
Now that I am a person, I do not always mean the things I say, either. I AM afraid to go to school tomorrow!
Shoebag was too worried to sleep, of course. It was twenty minutes to eleven when he put out the living room light, almost time for the late night picnic.
There was a moon shining into the living room, and Shoebag could see very well.
He waited for Mr. and Mrs. Biddle to go into their bedroom, waited until he could no longer see the crack of light under their door.
Then he sneaked back down the stairs and went into the kitchen.
There were no windows shining moonlight in there, so he had to feel his way around.
“Mama?” he called out. “It’s me again!”
“I see you,” she answered.
“Where are you?”
“Over here on the bread crusts…. Son, you have got to leave us alone. You’re interfering with the late night picnic! Your aunts and uncles will be afraid to scavenge.”
“But earlier I saw the black jumping spider in here!”
“He’s next door visiting his fat, hairy brown brother ,now, Shoebag. Your father is watching for him. After your father ate, he felt much better.”
“And tomorrow is the day the Zap man comes!”
“We know that. We plan to evacuate, as usual.”
“Mama, I’m afraid to go to school.”
“Don’t shout, Son. Since you have become a little person, you are very noisy.”
“I didn’t think I was shouting,” Shoebag whispered. “Did you hear what I said about school? I have to go to school tomorrow and I’m very afraid.”
“Do you want me to go with you? Would that help?”
“Oh, Mama, yes! I will carry you with me in my pocket!”
“But just this once, honey. Mama can’t always be going places with you. Your father needs me, remember.”
“I’ll pick you up at seven twenty-five,” Shoebag said. “Where will you be?”
“I’ll sleep in the lily plant on the hall table,” she said. “I’ll be right there, waiting for you.”
Shoebag took the stairs by twos, grinning happily as he jumped into his warm couch bed.
He went to sleep with dirty feet and a smile.
Seven
IT HAD SNOWED IN the night, so Mr. Biddle loaned Shoebag a pair of Pretty Soft’s boots. They were made of white rubber, with white fur around the tops, lined with pink flannel stamped with pictures of little snowwomen.
Shoebag carried his shoes in a paper grocery bag with his lunch, his new pencil box, and lined writing pad.
Inside the pencil box was Drainboard, who’d told him she was very exhausted. She had had no sleep because the Persian cat from the third floor had gotten loose and sat staring at the lily plant in the downstairs hall for six hours.
“You know how smart cats are,” Drainboard had told Shoebag. “And they are relentless, as well. That cat knew I was under one of the leaves, and she was ready to wait me out forever…. I hope I can stay awake, Son.”
“It’s all right if you nap,” said Shoebag. “Just as long as I know you’re with me, that’s what counts.”
As they trudged through the snow, down Beacon Hill, Mr. Biddle gave Shoebag twenty-five cents to purchase milk for lunch. He told Shoebag he was going to buy him boots, and a little briefcase, earmuffs, gloves, and a warm wool scarf.
“Nothing but the best for you, Son!” he said jovially. “By this time tomorrow you’ll have everything a young man needs.”
“Thank you, Mr. Biddle.”
“Call me Dad, okay? You are my new son.”
“Okay, Dad.”
Shoebag kept one hand in the pocket of his new red wool jacket. He had the hood pulled over his head.
“See that park over there?” said Mr. Biddle. “That’s where Pretty Soft will go today with Madam Grande de la Grande, when the Zap man comes. It is the only time she leaves the house, except when she goes to the television studio to make a new commercial.”
“She only leaves the house once a month?”
“Yes, so you must remember everything that happens today at school, and tell her all about it. I know nothing bad will happen, so I do not have to remind you of the rule.”
“Oh, I know the rule,” said Shoebag. “Never discuss bad things.”
“Never!” Mr. Biddle agreed, and his mustache wiggled as he smiled down at Shoebag.
The principal of The Beacon Hill Elementary School was a small, round, fat fellow with a face the color of a tomato, and no hair on his head.
“I am pleased to meet you, Stuart Bagg,” he said. “My name is Mr. Doormatee. Always remember that the word principal ends in p a l, and that’s what I am, too, your pal.”
Then, as Mr. Biddle left to go to the department store he managed, Shoebag was told to go into the cloakroom and take off his boots and his coat.
On his way there, Shoebag got the pencil box out of the paper bag. “Okay, Mama?”
“Shoebag, if your father ever hears that you are calling a person “Dad,” it will be the end of
his patience with you.”
“What am I to do?” Shoebag asked. “He is buying me boots, a little briefcase, earmuffs, gloves, and a warm wool scarf.”
“He is trying to buy a son,” said Drainboard. “You cannot buy a son … and don’t you ever call that lady with the gigantic appetite, who paints the sea, mother.”
“What shall I give them as a reason I cannot call them those names?” Shoebag asked his mother.
“Say you have a family, that’s all,” she said, and then she fell asleep between a red and a yellow pencil, for she was still exhausted.
Shoebag sat down in a little chair and started taking off his boots.
“Tee hee!” a boy’s voice said. “Look what the new kid is wearing! Girl’s boots!”
“Only until tomorrow,” said Shoebag. “Tomorrow I will have my own boots.”
“Tomorrow is not today, though,” the boy said. “What is your name, little girl?”
“I am a little boy and my name is Stuart Bagg.”
“Stuart is not a proper name for a little girl,” said the boy. “We’ll call you Stuella.”
Then the boy called out to the others, “Come and meet the new little girl, Stuella Bagg. Isn’t she pretty? She has white fur boots with little snowwomen inside!”
“You are a mean little boy,” said Shoebag.
“I am a mean big boy,” the boy replied, and he was right, for when he got up from the little chair he was not only tall, but also husky. He had long hair as black as midnight, and large white teeth. Very dark brown eyes squeezed together like slits, and he had a squashed-in nose from fighting.
“My name is Tuffy Buck,” he said, “and I am boss of this cloakroom! I am also boss of the recess yard, and boss of all the slides and swings in the recess yard! I am boss of all the blocks that surround this school, and boss of the cafeteria!”
Shoebag did not know what to say to that, so he said nothing.
“Say hello to Stuella Bagg!” Tuffy Buck shouted, and one by one, boys and girls began calling out, “Hello, Stuella … Hello, Stuella … Hello, Stuella.”
