“Yeah.” He lowered his umbrella, sheltering them beneath its rosy glow. “A big orange cat. Hench called me a thief and took the apple. But when he tried to eat it, the apple turned black.”
“Really?”
“Back in line, everyone!” Mr. Supreme called.
Darn it. Isabelle had so many questions. “We’ll talk at lunch,” she told Leonard.
“Okay,” he said. He raised the umbrella and Isabelle scurried to her place.
Mr. Supreme climbed the stairs to the security guard’s balcony and looked down upon the glowing faces of his workers. “Black umbrellas are no longer in fashion,” he declared. “Black umbrellas are outdated. No one wants a black umbrella anymore.”
Every worker in Runny Cove would have loved to own a black umbrella.
“My clients, people of the highest caliber and breeding who live far, far from this revolting place, want umbrellas to match their shoes and umbrellas to match their traveling cases. Umbrellas to match their frocks and umbrellas to match their dog’s frocks. Some want a different color umbrella for each day of the week.”
Isabelle furrowed her brow. Why would a person need so many umbrellas? What did it matter what an umbrella looked like, as long as it kept the rain off?
“Of course,” Mr. Supreme said, “this will mean extra work for everyone.” A low groan rolled across the room as workers reacted to his announcement. Mr. Supreme pulled a wipe from his canister and dabbed his forehead. “Extra work to begin immediately.”
This was terrible news. Impossible news. How could she work extra hours when she was already working extra hours? She couldn’t. She’d have to tell him. What choice did she have? “Excuse me, sir,” Isabelle said, timidly raising her hand.
“What’s that?” Mr. Supreme asked, adjusting his hard hat.
“It appears to be a little girl, sir,” replied an assistant.
“A little girl?” He leaned over the balcony. “What do you want, little girl?”
Isabelle had never spoken directly to Mr. Supreme. But no one else could excuse her from extra, extra hours. Though she shook like a windowpane in a windstorm, Isabelle stepped forward. “I’m already working extra hours to pay my rent because my Grandma Maxine is sick. And I have to do dish duty at Gertrude’s house for the next month because she thinks I burnt her apple. If I work even more hours then I’ll get home too late to feed my grandmother. I don’t think…” She paused. What she was about to say had never been said. “I don’t think…”
“What don’t you think?”
The seed’s vibrations increased, matching her own trembling. “I don’t think I can work more hours.”
The workers let the umbrellas fall to their sides. Isabelle’s heart thumped wildly in her chest as Mr. Supreme eyed her in the same way that a crow might eye a wiggling worm. He tapped his boot irritably. “I will overlook your insolence, little girl, because you are too young to understand the significance of the Magnificently Supreme Umbrella Factory. But the older workers understand.” A few workers nodded. “They remember that after all the fish had died and all the ships had rotted from disuse, they were starving and near death. But my grandfather, Mr. Supreme Senior, built this factory and gave them jobs despite their feeble constitutions and below-average intellects.” The sleeves of his coat crunched as he folded his arms. “So, little girl, when I tell you that you must work extra hours, I expect gratitude. Of course, you are always free to look elsewhere for work. Perhaps everyone would like to look elsewhere for work?” He shared a chuckle with his assistants, because, after all, there was no place else to work in Runny Cove.
“We will work,” the workers called out.
Tears floated at the edges of Isabelle’s eyes. “Thank you, sir. Thank you for the extra hours.” She stepped back into line. Gwen reached out and squeezed her hand.
“Now that that bit of unpleasantry has passed, I’m pleased to announce that the new colorful dyes have already arrived,” Mr. Supreme said. “I’m going to make a fortune on these new umbrellas, so get to work, everyone.”
The assistants collected the colorful umbrellas as the workers shuffled off to their stations. Isabelle waved a sad good-bye to Leonard and Gwen and headed to the labeling room on the main floor. Her tears soon cleared but the seed continued to drive her mad. As soon as she got to her station, she reached into her sock and pulled it out. It bounced inside her cupped hand like a sand flea. Where could she put it?
The conveyor belt clunked and began its slow roll. A box appeared, winding toward Isabelle’s station. She needed both hands to stick the labels. Each label read: MAGNIFICENTLY SUPREME UMBRELLAS—SUPREME RAIN COVERS FOR THOSE WITH SUPREME TASTE.
The box rolled closer. Isabelle didn’t want to lose the strange seed. It seemed as if her sock would be the safest place. She’d simply have to endure the tickling. She was about to tuck it in when she noticed a little white root sticking out one end. It had sprouted. But that was not all.
It was humming happily between her warm palms.
Once again, an eerie sensation tickled Isabelle’s neck. She knew, even before she turned to make certain, that the hooded stranger was peering at her through the factory window.
The factory horn blew at four hours past the usual quitting time. The extra work had cut into the lunch break so there had been no opportunity for Isabelle to talk to her friends. But while the day had moved as slowly as an overfed slug, Isabelle’s thoughts had bounced along with the seed’s rhythm.
Do not forget that Isabelle’s head was already full of unanswered questions like Where did I come from? and Why am I different? Now a mess of new questions shoved their way in, screaming, Answer me! Answer me! Questions like, Why did the stranger disappear again? Why was he staring at me? Why did that sea monster have such an odd nose? Was Grandma Maxine really feeling better? Why would a bird drop an apple onto someone’s head? Do most apple seeds jump and hum? Just to mention a few.
It was getting crowded in Isabelle’s head.
Workers zipped up their slickers, tied their hoods, and headed into the gloomy night. Flickering village lights guided them home. “Hey, Isabelle,” Leonard called out, waving. But his parents grabbed his arms.
“Stay away from her,” his dad said. “She almost got everyone fired.” They pulled him into the crowd.
Gwen took Isabelle’s hand. “Don’t worry. They won’t be mad at you tomorrow. Remember the shipping incident. They forgave you after a few days.”
The “shipping incident” had taken place the prior year, long before Grandma Maxine had become ill. The friends had argued over who should go but in the end Leonard was chosen because he was shorter than Gwen and Isabelle, and thus, could better fit into a box. After shutting and taping the box, Isabelle had written TO NOWHERE on the shipping label. Once he had arrived, Leonard was supposed to take a good look around and then ship himself back.
But the box never made it past Mr. Supreme’s assistants on account of the air holes and Leonard’s snickering.
The girls started down the muddy road. Isabelle’s feet ached worse than ever. “We’ve got to hurry,” she said to Gwen. “My grandma needs her dinner.”
“I still can’t believe you actually talked to Mr. Supreme.”
“I had to. Please, can’t you walk faster?” Isabelle asked.
Gwen stopped. “I’m too tired. My legs are killing me. You go on.” She gave Isabelle a weak hug. “See ya in the morning.”
“See ya.”
Isabelle took off at a full run. She was the first of Mama Lu’s tenants to arrive home. She didn’t have to slam her body against the stubborn front door because it stood wide open—which was highly unusual. Rain fell into the entryway. The kitchen sat quiet. No cabbage soup bubbled. No one hollered, “Did ya check fer slugs?”
Something is wrong.
A series of thumps and bumps sounded above.
Isabelle took the stairs, racing up one flight, then the next. She didn’t even slow down for the super ste
ep third flight. Her bedroom door also stood wide open. Shredded clumps of moss lay in the hallway. Something flew out of the bedroom and landed with a splat against the wall.
“SLUUUUUG!”
Isabelle plugged her ears as the screech repeated.
“SLUUUUUG!”
Mama Lu stomped out of the room on the fourth floor and stood, blocking the entry. Her fuzzy bathrobe hung open; her striped long johns clung to ripples of cheese-fed fat. Her face was all scrunched up like a wadded towel. In one hand she held the slug garden, in the other her canister of salt. “SLUUUUUG!” she wailed as she poured salt over the garden. The poor creatures had no chance of escape.
“No!” Isabelle cried.
“YOU!” Mama Lu tossed the garden aside, then stomped back into the bedroom. Isabelle knelt beside the cracker box, hoping to find survivors, but Mama Lu reappeared in the doorway with the potato bug palace.
“Please don’t hurt them,” Isabelle begged.
Mama Lu scrunched her face even tighter. It turned bright red. “Ya did this. Ya brought these vermin into my house. Who do ya think ya are? This is my home.” She overturned the milk carton. The bugs fell onto the floor and immediately curled into balls. Mama Lu raised her slipper.
“Oh no. Please, no.”
Mama Lu stomped them flat. “Vermin. Nasty vermin.”
Isabelle trembled from head to foot. She wanted to fling herself at Mama Lu. She wanted to push the horrid woman down the stairs. But she and her grandmother had nowhere else to go.
“Ya want these bugs to crawl into my ear while I sleep? Ya want me to slip on slug slime?”
YES! Isabelle wanted to scream. She grabbed a twig, onto which a few bugs clung. “Please stop. I’ll put them back outside. Just stop hurting them.”
“And what about them plants? What do ya think likes to live on plants? Slugs and bugs, that’s what. If God had intended plants to be inside, He wouldn’t have put them outside. Yer in big trouble.” She grabbed the twig and stomped it flat.
Poor little bugs.
Grandma Maxine would be worried, what with all the hollering and stomping. Isabelle tried to squeeze past her evil landlady but Mama Lu grabbed her by the hood. “I said, yer in big trouble.”
“Let me go.” Isabelle squirmed but the landlady’s grip held fast.
Boris and Bert appeared at the top of the stairs, with the Wormbottoms and Limewigs right behind. “Is something wrong?” Boris asked timidly.
“She’s what’s wrong,” Mama Lu said. “Always has been something wrong with this girl.”
“Let me go,” Isabelle cried, flailing and swinging her arms. “I want to see my grandma.”
“Ain’t no use seeing her.” Mama Lu let go of the hood. “ ’Cause she’s dead. Ya hear me? Dead.”
Every once in a while time decides to stand still. And that is what it did as Isabelle took in those dreadful words. Her heart stopped mid-beat; her breath froze. Only the moment existed—the moment between the old life that she had known and the new life that she didn’t want to know. If only she could stay in that moment forever and never face the truth… but the gasps of the other tenants pulled her into reality. Unbearable reality.
Isabelle rushed into the bedroom. Grandma Maxine’s bed lay empty; her tattered quilt had fallen to the floor. The bed sheet still held the outline of her grandmother’s body. “Where is she?” Isabelle cried.
Mama Lu followed her into the bedroom, as did the tenants. “I told ya, she’s dead.” Her tone held no sympathy, as if Grandma Maxine were as insignificant as a dead bug. “And it was about time she died, doing no work, getting her meals served to her. This ain’t no hospital. She was a deadbeat, that’s what she was.”
The room tilted. Isabelle felt woozy. Bert rushed forward and took her arm. “Poor little Isabelle,” he cooed.
Boris took the other arm. “We’re so sorry, Isabelle.”
“Whatcha sorry fer?” Mama Lu bellowed.
Isabelle couldn’t pull her gaze from the sheet. “But… where is she?”
“Undertaker took her.” Mama Lu tore a vine from the wall, exposing a cracked wallboard. A cold breeze immediately seeped through. “It’s gonna cost a lot of money to fix this room.” She pointed a finger in Isabelle’s face. “And yer paying every cent. Ya hear me?” Mama Lu cared more about a room than about the fact that one of her tenants had just died!
Isabelle threw herself across her grandmother’s bed, trying to hide her tears.
“We’ll help her pay,” Boris said.
“Us too,” said the Wormbottoms.
“No one pays but her,” Mama Lu snarled. “She’s the one who done this. Bringing slugs and plants into my house ’cause she thinks she’s so special. Well, I got news fer ya. Ya ain’t special. Ya was thrown away, just like garbage.” With a loud grunt, she tore another vine. “She and her granny was always my worst tenants. Always late on their rent. Always eating more food than they needed. But me, being kind-hearted, allowed them to stay.”
Lies, lies, LIES!
Isabelle pushed herself off the bed. “Get out!” she cried. Uncontrollable rage pounded in her head. “This is my room. Get out of here. Leave me alone!”
“How dare ya yell at me.”
“She’s dead and you don’t even care.” Isabelle balled up her fists, ready to wallop Mama Lu if she kept saying mean things. “She’s dead and you don’t…” Isabelle hesitated.
At that moment, her mind cleared and she realized that, like so many recent events, this one didn’t make sense. Something wasn’t right. She pointed a finger in Mama Lu’s face. “How did you know she was dead?” she asked. “You never come up to the fourth floor and we were at the factory. How did you know?”
Mama Lu tied her bathrobe around her enormous middle. “The undertaker told me, dimwit. He knocked on the door and told me.”
“But how did the undertaker know? Who would have called him?”
“How am I supposed to know that?” Mama Lu kicked at a clump of moss. “And why would I care? He said she was dead and he took her away. Now don’t try to change the subject. Yer not getting any meals until this entire room is scrubbed clean.”
“But how… ?”
“Shut yer trap. She’s dead, ya hear? And I’ve come to collect her belongings.”
So there it was, the only reason why Mama Lu would heave herself up three flights of stairs—greed, pure and simple. The landlady yanked open Grandma Maxine’s bedside drawer, which held bits and pieces of her life—a pair of knitting needles, some buttons, a chipped teacup, a pair of socks, to name just a few.
“Those belong to me,” Isabelle said as Mama Lu stuffed the bits and pieces into her bathrobe pockets.
“This stuff is mine ’cause it’s in my house. It don’t belong to you ’cause she weren’t yer real, blood-born granny. But don’t think fer a minute that this will pay off yer debt. You’ll be workin’ fer months to pay fer all the damage done to this room.”
Tears welled in Isabelle’s eyes. How could she work more?
Boris stepped forward. “I got an extra dollar.”
“I got an extra dollar, too,” said Mr. Limewig.
“Shut yer traps, all of ya. This ain’t none of yer business. Go on, get out of here.” She shoved the tenants into the hallway and down the stairs. Then she returned for Isabelle. “I’ve been far too nice to ya, lettin’ ya sleep in this luxurious room. Ya’ll sleep on the porch from now on.”
Isabelle turned away. She was not going to let the landlady see her tears. I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye. Now I’m an orphan, like Gwen.
The seed, which had been quietly resting inside Isabelle’s sock, chose that moment to start humming like a trapped housefly.
“Is ya singing again?” Mama Lu asked. She stared at Isabelle’s rubber boot. “What ya got in there?”
“Nothing.” Isabelle wiped her eyes.
“That ain’t nothing. Whatever it is, give it over.”
“No.” Isabelle’s k
nees started to tremble.
“Give it, I say. It’s my house. Them’s my rules.”
Isabelle felt so scared she thought she might fall over. “No. You can’t have it.”
“Ya little brat!” Mama Lu tried to grab a clump of Isabelle’s hair but she wasn’t quick enough. “Ya’ll do what I say or ya won’t be living here no more.”
“I don’t want to live here anymore,” Isabelle cried, backing toward the door. “I’ll go live with Gwen.”
“No ya won’t. Gertrude won’t take ya ’cause I won’t let her. Ya owe me too much money.”
“Then I’ll live somewhere else. I’ll go to another town, far, far away.” Nothing was keeping her in Runny Cove. She couldn’t work enough hours to satisfy Mr. Supreme, Gertrude, and Mama Lu. And without her grandmother, no one needed her.
Mama Lu reached into the bedside drawer again and found some buttons. “There’s nothing out there fer ya. Yer just a stupid factory worker.”
The seed hummed louder. Isabelle tried to look brave. She held up her chin. “I’m going to find out where I came from.”
“Where ya came from?” Mama Lu snorted. She pulled the drawer free and shook it over the bed. She had taken everything. “Ya came from noplace. Now, give me whatever’s in yer boot.”
All that had been beautiful about the room on the fourth floor was gone—the happy stories of Sunny Cove, the peaceful little creatures, the warm mossy carpet and the glistening vines. But one little thing remained—one creature that had eluded Mama Lu’s stomping foot.
“Give me yer boot!” Mama Lu lunged at Isabelle. At that moment, Isabelle felt a bolt of courage. She ducked beneath Mama Lu’s swinging arm and grabbed the pickle jar aquarium.
“I hate you,” she cried. “You’re mean and you smell like stinky cheese. And I hate this place. I came from Nowhere and I’m going to find it.” She rushed into the hallway.
“Stop her!” Mama Lu screamed. “Thief! That’s my pickle jar.”
“It’s mine. You threw it away.” The aquarium water sloshed as Isabelle stumbled down the stairs. The tenants huddled on the third-floor landing, their gloomy faces gloomier than ever.
Fortune's Magic Farm Page 5
