by Zondervan
Walter breathed a sigh of relief. He could fight, but he usually let his mouth do everything it could to prevent it. Another success!
They continued on down the path a ways, and then Quasi asked, “What’s a ‘freak’? What’s a ‘loser’? Although, I think I can figure that one out. But what did I lose? Does he know something I don’t?”
“No, Quasi. He doesn’t know a thing. That lad is a brainless Neanderthal.”
“What’s a ‘Neanderthal’?”
They sat down on a park bench overlooking the river as the rain continued falling in a light mist.
Good, thought Walter, a change of topic. He jumped on it.
eleven
Will the Real Cato Grubbs Please Stand Up?
Aunt Portia had decided to go with a pea green theme for teatime, which brought a grimace to Ophelia’s lips. The theme should have been orange, since Portia generally tripped her culinary way along the light spectrum. But she was preoccupied by the rain falling nonstop for the past six hours. Forty-two hours and counting until they ushered Quasimodo back into the circle and back home to the Cathedral of Notre-Dame.
Ophelia worried about finishing the novel by then. She read quickly, to be sure. Nevertheless, she thought she might give reading at the dinner table a go. Better to be safe than sorry when someone’s life is in your hands. Oh, the pressure!
Uncle Augustus cleared his throat and settled his cutlery in the proper position. “Ophelia, darling. This isn’t a library, you know.”
“But it’s just so good, Uncle Auggie!”
“Be that as it may, dinnertime is a social time, not a necessary evil.”
“Teatime,” corrected Aunt Portia.
Linus, loving food the way he did, had to agree. He nodded once in his uncle’s general direction, and they exchanged that man-to-man expression that Ophelia and Portia despised.
The females shook their heads. Ophelia laid the book aside and began eating her pea soup. Coming up next was pea salad, of course, followed by some kind of pea spread on crackers. Thankfully, no pea-flavored crackers could be found on the shelves of any grocery store.
Aunt Portia had outdone herself.
“It certainly doesn’t look good down by the river,” said Uncle Augustus as he spooned up his soup against the far side of the bowl.
Aunt Portia picked up a cracker and bit off the end of it. “The rain isn’t supposed to let up for days. It’s ten years too soon, you know.”
“Too soon for what?” Linus asked.
“The hundred-year flood. The dam up by Joan Dawson’s farm has needed repairing for years. They were supposed to start working on it in July, when the water gets low,” said Aunt Portia. (Joan, a soybean farmer, was surprisingly well read and came into the bookshop at least once a week.)
“Uh-oh,” said Linus, “you don’t think …”
“Unfortunately, I do. If this rain doesn’t slow down …”
“Let’s just hope and pray the dam holds,” said Uncle Augustus. “We’ve had this much rain before, and it’s always been fine.”
Ever the pessimist (a person who sees situations in their most negative light), Portia narrowed her eyes. “Let’s hope so. And thank you, children, for getting all of that flotsam and jetsam (various bits of junk and useless items) out of the basement. I’ve been meaning to go through it for years.”
“Speaking of junk in the basement,” Ophelia jumped on the topic, “can you tell us more about Cato Grubbs? We found some of his lab equipment down there. Is he dead?”
Portia leaned forward. (She’s always loved a little harmless gossip. Oh the things she’s told me that I’ll never tell you!) “Nobody knows if he died or not, dear. He simply disappeared one day. And when he didn’t come back for six months, his attorney put the house on the market. He said if we took the contents of the house as well, we could have it for a discount.”
“Guess Mr. Grubbs’s possessions didn’t have much value.”
“No. And rightfully so.” Uncle Augustus leaned forward and said in a low voice, “I didn’t get a good feeling around most of it.”
Ophelia would have tapped her temple with her forefinger if she hadn’t cared about giving away the secret of the enchanted circle. “Did all of it go down to the basement then?”
“Oh no,” Portia said. “Most of it went out the door. All except the books, that is. It was just a lot of junk, as far as I was concerned. Burners and jars and cans and the like. I must have just missed one of the boxes of lab equipment. We kept all of the clothes though.”
Linus raised an eyebrow.
“Oh quite right!” Uncle Augustus exclaimed. “Those items formed the beginning of my costume collection.”
“And nobody’s ever heard from him?” Ophelia asked as the rain began tapping against the kitchen windows more insistently.
“Not a soul. He had no relatives to speak of. But there was talk that he’d moved to South America and is now doing science as a sidewalk magic act for tourists — things smoking and exploding and disappearing and such.”
“Sounds terrible,” said Ophelia.
Sounds terrific, thought Linus.
“Did he leave any pictures behind?” Ophelia asked.
“One,” said Uncle Augustus. “I’ll fetch it for you after dinner.”
“Tea,” corrected Aunt Portia.
“Yes, dear sister.”
Cato has to be alive, Ophelia surmised, and he’s using the basement as his storage space.
Quasimodo learned quickly. He took one look at the leftovers from the pea fest and asked for a PB&J sandwich. He ate these sandwiches as though the end of the world drew nigh (near); but considering the instability of the dam upriver, the end of Kingscross sure seemed to be a distinct possibility. At any rate, Quasi knew he was headed back to Paris, a city without a single peanut. He wondered if he could return to that bleak life without going insane.
They all sat around Linus’s room after tea. Walter was there too, and he did nothing but complain about his meal next door: Mystery meat, instant mashed potatoes, and reheated frozen corn that was watery and flaccid (limp), just sitting there in a plastic food storage tub.
Quasimodo felt sorry for Walter and asked if he’d like to have a PB&J, too.
“No thanks, Quasi. You’re a real sport.” He plopped down on Linus’s bed. “Have you all been to the river? It’s rising.”
“So I hear,” Ophelia yawned from her perch on Linus’s beanbag chair and then turned another page in her book.
Try not to be too hard on her. They moved to Kingscross from Arizona, so she couldn’t possibly understand the implications of a flood.
Suddenly, Opehlia sat up straight. “So Quasi, tell me about Esmeralda.”
Quasimodo closed his good eye. “Oh my, Ophelia. She’s pretty, like you. And she dances so beautifully. She gave me water, you know, that day at the stocks —right before I ended up in the enchanted circle.”
“I know all that. That’s what the book says. But I want to know what you like about her — other than the fact that she was nice to you.”
He squinted. It seemed an odd question. A pretty girl helps you out — what more does a person need to know? “I don’t understand.”
“I mean, you really like her, don’t you? You’ve pretty much fallen head over heels for the young lady, right?”
He nodded. “I suppose so, if head over heels means ‘thoroughly.’ “
“And Deacon Frollo has fallen for her too.”
“Yes,” he sighed. “And that complicates matters. Not to mention the fact that he’s a priest. But he did save my life, Ophelia. I can never forget that.”
“So what’s the big deal? She has a kind heart and light feet and a little goat. Cool. But is she smart? Is she steady and brave? Do you think she’d come to love a boy like you? I mean really?”
He didn’t care for the direction of this conversation. “I haven’t really thought about it all that deeply. Of course I don’t think she’ll ever come to love me. I mean
, who would when I look like this?”
“I didn’t mean that, Quasi.” Ophelia so wished he could stay in Real World (as she’d come to think of it) a while longer. She would usher him to a plastic surgeon, have that wart removed, and then see what could be done about his back. A good haircut might work wonders too. “But if you feel that way, why bother to get all dreamy-eyed about her? You’re only asking for trouble down the road.”
“Sometimes it’s good to feel something just for the sake of feeling, Ophelia.” Quasimodo picked up the block of wood he’d been whittling into a little pony with a tiny princess on its back. “Not everything has to have a successful outcome to be considered a worthy pursuit.”
Ouch. Ophelia had failed to credit Quasimodo for having much depth. “Where do you come up with thoughts like that?”
“You’d be surprised how many ideas will come to you when you’re alone and all is silent.”
Linus nodded vigorously. Ophelia and Walter looked at each other, pure wonderment at such a thought stitching their minds together for a few seconds.
Quasimodo continued, “People have always assumed that my outward deformities cut through to the center of my brain. I’m a human being, Ophelia. Just like everybody else. If I desire to experience human emotion in all its fullness—sorrow as well as joy— then isn’t that my choice?”
“It’s true,” said Linus.
Well, that didn’t work out so well, Ophelia thought before returning to the story. She’d been hoping to undermine Quasimodo’s feelings for Esmeralda. It would sure save him a wagonload of trouble later on in the book if what happened now in Real World could change future events in Book World. It might even save his life.
“Besides,” said Quasi, “Deacon Frollo would never allow anything to happen between us even if she did come to care about me … which she won’t.”
“What’s he like?” asked Linus.
“He used to be a bit less … how do I put it? Driven. Now it’s as if a certain madness has come upon him.” Quasi looked over his shoulder. “I shouldn’t speak about him like this.”
“Do you think it’s the alchemy?” Walter asked.
“Maybe,” said Quasi. “He locks himself in his room for days and days. He’s obsessed with his experiments. But I have no place else to go. The Cathedral is the only place for someone like me.”
Ophelia wasn’t so sure about that.
twelve
Funny, I Never Pictured a Mad Scientist Looking Like That
It had to happen sooner or later. Close calls are like that. “Someone’s coming up the steps!” Walter hissed as he shot up from his seat. “Quasi, quick! Sit in the beanbag chair.”
Quasi complied, and the footsteps got louder as Uncle Augustus made his way down the hall. They were a clunk-clunk kind of footstep, not Aunt Portia’s click-click variety. And they were slower too, as if the person were ambling down the boardwalk in Atlantic City, or walking along the shop fronts with his hands in his pockets.
“Hurry!” Walter grabbed a heap of Linus’s dirty clothing that had been tossed in a corner.
“Sorry, Quasi,” whispered Ophelia as the first armful fell in his lap.
“It’s all right,” he whispered back as they piled more clothing on top of him.
This was one time when Linus’s propensity to procrastinate (tendency to put off until another day or time) doing his laundry actually served a good purpose. Normally, I wouldn’t recommend such tactics with one’s personal linens. They sit in the corner and broadcast all sorts of unhealthy microbes, spores, and germs—you can be sure of that. If you should ever fall ill because of it, you have only yourself to blame. You have been forewarned, leaving me forever off the hook (not responsible) for your overall state of health.
As the doorknob turned, Ophelia dove back onto the bed and picked up her book, Linus pretended he was looking through his desk drawer, and Walter dropped to the floor and started doing push-ups.
“Ah, well then!” Uncle Augustus stepped into the room. “Look at you young people! You are industrious and model citizens even on your own time. Very good!”
“Thanks, Uncle Auggie.” Ophelia yawned and stretched. “Oh man. You can really get stiff if you lay in the same position for too long.”
Walter stood to his feet. “That’s right, Ophelia. You should do push-ups with me next time.”
“I agree,” said Linus.
Ophelia flipped the pages of the paperback like a deck of cards as a nervous laugh escaped. “That’s us—ever the responsible ones!”
“I say,” said Walter. “What brings you here to see us, sir?”
Could we be acting any less normal? thought Linus. Thankfully, Uncle Augustus was already preoccupied with his next party. “What do you think about the theme for my next gala: “A Whale of a Tale Water Party.” Guests wear their bathing suits or come dressed as a character from Moby-Dick. I’m unsure about the name, though. And do you think I can borrow enough sprinklers to add some water to the mix?”
“But Uncle Augustus,” Ophelia said, glancing nervously at the pile of dirty clothes. “People can’t sit around in bathing suits eating seafood. I mean, what sane person would want to see such a thing?”
“Well, it isn’t until next month,” Uncle Augustus replied. “But I wanted you to be thinking up some good ideas. Children have such wonderful imaginations. Anyway, here’s the picture of Cato Grubbs that you requested.” He held out a yellowed photo, a formal portrait that looked to have been taken in the 1920s. “Enjoy. If you can.”
Linus took it from him.
Uncle Augustus turned to Walter. “Walter, are you spending the night with us?”
“Oh no, sir. I’ll just stick around for a little while longer. Until all the snacks are gone.”
Uncle Augustus chuckled and left the room, closing the door behind him. Ophelia let out a blustery sigh just as he popped his head back into the room. They all jumped a bit. “Oh, and Linus, I think it’s time for you to do some laundry. Tomorrow. Chop-chop.” He pointed to a pair of leather shoes peeking out from the bottom of the pile. “And return those shoes to the wardrobe room. The party is over, after all.”
Ophelia sighed again after Uncle Auggie had closed the door a second time. “Oh my goodness! That was nerve-racking.”
“Sorry about my feet.” Quasimodo pushed the clothing aside. “I don’t see what the problem is with these clothes. Why do they need to be washed?”
Ophelia held her nose. “Because things smell worse more quickly these days.”
“These aren’t smelly. Or, actually, they’re not very smelly,” he said.
“Okay, Linus, let’s see this Cato Grubbs,” Ophelia said.
Linus turned on the desk lamp and set the picture underneath the beam of light.
Walter whistled. “Certainly not what I expected.”
“Me either,” Ophelia shook her head.
You got that right, Linus thought.
“He looks like a very nice man,” said Quasimodo.
Quasi must not have good eyesight, Linus figured, because the portrait of Cato did not depict a nice man at all.
Now, if you’re picturing the tall, dark-haired villainous sort of … well, villain, with a fiery glint in his eyes and a cruel twist to his mouth, then you’re thinking of someone quite the opposite of Cato Grubbs. Fat, blond, and smooth-skinned, he was dressed in a rather flamboyant (bold and showy) manner. He wore a cravat (silk scarf) tied around his neck, and on his hands were several rings — a pinky ring in particular supported a very large diamond. Linus wondered from which novel Cato had taken it.
Cato didn’t exactly look like the picture of kind respectability either—just a nice, eccentric owner of the laboratory supply shop around the corner. He just didn’t sport the sinister appearance that one might expect. Except for one thing.
“His eyes,” said Ophelia. “I don’t trust them.”
Cold and calculating, thought Linus.
Walter agreed, “Looks like he
’d turn on you for a meat pie.”
Quasi screwed up his face. “I can’t see that at all.”
“Have you ever seen him before?” asked Ophelia.
Quasi scratched his cheek and stared at the photo. “No. I’d remember him if I had.”
I must be reading Cato’s copy of the book, thought Ophelia.
“I don’t like his mouth,” said Walter. “It looks a bit too willing to be nice, if you know what I mean.”
“Disingenuous (false or hypocritical). He’s definitely projecting a certain image.” Ophelia leaned over and took a closer look. “I wonder when this photo was taken?”
Long ago, thought Linus. It made him wonder what Mr. Grubbs looked like today. Was he elderly and decrepit? Or did living in books suspend not only time, but also the aging process? Was staying young the original motivation (reason) for Cato’s experiments? Or did he just stumble upon it by accident one night during a thunderstorm worthy of Dr. Frankenstein?
“We’d better be careful,” Walter said. “If he’s still using the attic, then we’re probably getting in his way.”
Ophelia put down the photo. “You’re right! I hadn’t thought of that. Perhaps he’s just letting this thing with Quasi play out and assumes we’ll be done with the attic after that.”
He sure doesn’t know you then, thought Linus.
“Let’s hope so,” Walter said from his seat on the floor. “Maybe next time you’ll be more careful at 11:11, Ophelia.”
Ophelia cocked an eyebrow. “Really? I have the opportunity to meet book characters in the flesh, and I’m not going to jump on that? I don’t think so, Walter.”
He began doing sit-ups. “Good girl.”
Ophelia smiled.
“Right, then. The street’s deserted,” Walter said. “Let’s go!”
Ophelia settled a thick shawl over Quasimodo’s head and shoulders, and the group rushed across the street to the church. With Ophelia and Walter taking the lead, the two of them leaped over the small pools that had collected in the potholes, Quasimodo sloshed right through them, and Linus easily stepped over them with his long legs.
Walter looked out upon the rainy street and wondered why he had the good fortune to end up in an adventure like this one. He hadn’t wanted to come to America to attend high school, and certainly not spend the entire summer there ahead of time; but it was turning out for the best. Jessica, his mum, always said that life does that—turns out for the best—but he’d failed to believe her before now. When Auntie Max had told Walter about the school in Kingscross and her willingness to pay for him to attend there, Jessica Liddel had jumped at the offer.
