Matylda, Bright and Tender

by Holly M. McGhee

  “Not your taste?” I said. I had to figure out what she liked, which meant I had to get that cricket back out before I put the next one in. Otherwise, I wouldn’t know who was who. Dad would do it for me in a second, but I wanted to show her that I could take care of her. So I went and got an empty mason jar, pushed the screen back just a little, enough to drop my arm in and trap the cricket. I wasn’t as fast as the cricket, so it took me a while. It seemed like every time I got close, it popped up like we were playing Whac-A-Mole.

  “If you let me catch you,” I said to the cricket, “I’ll let you go free.”

  That worked.

  “I’m new to this,” I told Matylda. “But I want to get to know you and figure out your taste. That’s why I’m doing it.” She watched me. “Now what should I try next?” I asked. “How about blueberry?” She shook her head.

  “I don’t have any citrus, but I’ve got kiwi,” I said. She shook her head no again.

  “Pears?” No. “Apricots?” No.

  “Papaya?” No.

  “Listen,” I said. “He’s gone, and you might not love me, but I’m in charge of feeding you now. I promised him I would. I didn’t catch all those crickets just for fun. I did that for you. There must be something you want.”

  She opened her mouth. . . .

  “What is it?” I asked. She was waiting for something. She kept it open, as wide as I’d ever seen it.

  “What?” She was still waiting. There had to be something I hadn’t tried. . . .

  “Fig?” I said.

  She nodded, three times in a row. “Fig! You want fig, don’t you, girl?”

  Fig! I had to get her fig! The fruit that makes Fig Newtons! “I don’t even have to go to ShopRite for that,” I said. “We have them on the deck.”

  I’d forgotten our figs, and they were ready to pick. I ran downstairs and called to my father. “Dad,” I said, “she wants figs! Matylda wants figs. She nodded three times in a row!”

  He came up. “Her wish is our command,” he said. And together we picked a plump, juicy fig right off our tree. My dad laid it on the counter and we sliced it down the middle, in even rounds. It had a thin skin and was purple-red inside, with a green outline shaped like a heart and full of teeny, tiny, tender seeds.

  Matylda, the warrior with heart, the one people talked about up and down the mountain, the one the mean-spirited future king honored — no wonder the fig was her choice. I set up the trap right away.

  “I hope we catch some,” I said. “I want her to eat and flourish!”

  Those were Guy’s words; he wanted the D3 so she would flourish, so she would grow up and be strong. We’d dust the crickets with it . . . and then that terrible Saturday morning came blazing back, the spokes on fire, hard to breathe, and I . . . I . . . I . . . wasn’t going to let them in.

  Down, spokes! You can’t destroy me. You’re not going to win this time.

  And the spokes went down.

  But Guy’s words stayed with me — eat and flourish. According to the manual, the D3 would ensure these yard-caught crickets were nutritionally sound. I had to get it. It was as simple as science, a supplement to the calcium I kept in her tank — wait, not tank, I meant vivarium. Had to remember that. So many things to remember to make everything perfect for her. I still had the D3 money — it’d been through the wash a few times, but it was still in one piece.

  I’m going for a walk,” I told my dad.

  “You are? That’s great,” he said. I didn’t mention Total Pets because I wanted to do this myself. I didn’t go along the road that would lead past The Intersection. I took Kermit Road. When I got there, Mike said, “It’s nice to see you. Sussy, right?”

  “Yes,” I said. And I felt like I was doing it right, finally getting the powder that Guy was set on, hoping he knew somehow he could check it off his list. I was checking it off mine.

  I felt like a ten-year-old girl with big red hair and freckles that never went away, just a girl with thin arms in red capris and a white shirt with a sunflower on the front, beige Vans. Mike could help me find what I’d come here for.

  “How’s your gecko?” he said.

  “Kind of hard to tell. She seems to be doing pretty good, but I think she needs D3.”

  “Absolutely,” said Mike. “Best to be safe. It’s right here. Just dust her food with it.” He handed me a small plastic bottle.

  “You feeding her anything else?” he said. “I mean, besides crickets?”

  “Uh, not really,” I said. “Should I?”

  “Variety’s nice,” he said. “You can’t replicate what she’d find in the wild, but there are plenty of worms she might enjoy. Might be good for her.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well,” he said, “for starters, we’ve got superworms. They’re over here by the crickets. They’ll last three months with no refrigeration.” Mike led me to the cricket box. There were stacks and stacks of yogurt-size tubs on top.

  “What makes them super?” I said.

  “Their size.” He picked up a container and took off the lid. Each superworm was at least an inch long and as thick as a pipe cleaner, with little pointy needles on the head and a hard outer shell. “These make a good meal,” Mike said, “and this shipment just came in. See how fast they’re moving?” He stuck his finger in and the superworms wiggled and stretched and flopped.

  “Only one a day,” said Mike. “The shell’s tough to digest.”

  “How would I feed them to her?”

  “With your hand,” said Mike. “That’s simplest. But tweezers are fine, too. Chopsticks even work!”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “They’re so big.”

  “We do have daintier worms,” he said. “Mealworms.”

  He took me to the supply room, which was really just a large closet with a refrigerator inside. You’d never know they kept worms in there. Mike opened the fridge, and there were dozens of tiny plastic containers.

  “Want to see them?” he said. He opened a tub, and these worms were much easier to look at, kind of like inchworms.

  “These go down easy,” Mike said. “Tasty for their size.”

  “That sounds good.”

  “They’ll live for several weeks. Just try to keep them cool.”

  “How many would she eat?”

  “Depends what else she’s getting,” he said. “How big is she now?”

  “Already six inches.”

  “She’s the one with all the dark spots, right? You got her with that nice kid with the glasses?”

  “Yes,” I said. “He asked me to take care of her while he’s away.”

  “I can help,” said Mike. “Let’s see . . . she could grow to eleven inches. Three or four of these a day if she’s not getting anything else. But check out these waxworms.” He pointed to another stack of larger tubs. “They’re the fatties.”

  “Fatties?” I said.

  “Dessert,” he said. “She can’t live on them, but they’re —”

  “Young man,” a customer called to Mike. “I need assistance.” She probably thought me and Mike were just friends talking.

  “I don’t really want a pet,” she called over, ignoring her kids who were rapping on the aquarium she held. “We’re just going to get a few fish.”

  “They always do that,” whispered Mike. “They take a few fish for their kids, and they’re back in a week ’cause the fish died. Nobody takes care of them. You wouldn’t believe how many people want their thirty-seven cents back.”

  “Young —”

  “Good choice,” Mike called over. “I’m just finishing up with this customer.”

  “Back in a few,” he said to me.

  “We have some low-maintenance varieties,” I heard him say . . .

  And that’s how I found myself in front of the mealworms and waxworms, alone, eyeing all the white containers stacked up in the fridge. I was thinking about Matylda, about how clearly she told me that she wanted a fig-flavored feeder. I couldn’t wait
for her to try it. She was beginning to trust me, and I wanted to give her more, more than just D3 sprinkled on her feeders. I wanted to give her all the food she could possibly eat! That’s what Guy would have done. But I didn’t have enough money for the worms.

  Then I heard a voice whispering in my head, saying, Why not take them? It’s easy as pie. Just take the worms.

  I couldn’t just take them.

  And I heard, Sure you can — it’s okay. Show her your love: bring her worms. Guy would want you to. He’d want her to have the worms.

  Maybe I could just take them. Guy would want her to have the variety.

  Yes, the stealing girl said. It’s okay to take the worms. She’ll love you for it.

  “You sure?”

  Yes. Love her with worms, lots and lots of worms. You can take them, you know.

  Then I watched my hand, taking a tub of mealworms, dropping it in my tote. It felt good.

  She’s gonna love the mealies, the stealing girl said. She’s gonna love you!

  Maybe she would!

  Get some waxworms too — she’ll want dessert. She deserves something sweet. She needs a treat! Get her the fatties. It’s okay!

  Then I watched my hand, picking up a tub of waxworms, dropping it in my tote. It felt wonderful. Matylda should have a treat.

  You’re doing it, she said. That’s right. You can love her that way.

  I felt like I could. Matylda would be so happy to have these — she hadn’t gotten anything like this when Guy was here. She’d get fresh, wormy variety in her diet, fresh, wormy variety brought directly to her vivarium by me. I couldn’t wait to see her eat. I couldn’t wait to see her flourish.

  Fresh wormy worms — you’ve got them now, the stealing girl said. That’s how you do it. That’s right. Go back to the crickets. You’re just hanging out.

  I went back out by the crickets.

  Mike was still with the fish lady. Now take a tub of supers, the stealing girl said. She’ll love those, too.

  “Really?” I said. “Not too big?”

  Nothing’s too big, nothing’s too much, she said.

  And I watched my hand, so confident, as it took a tub of supers and dropped them in my bag. All this variety, better than what Matylda could find in the wild! It felt so good.

  That’s how you do it. Mike won’t know. Hang out for a bit — that’s what you do. Look at the crickets. They’re right there, you know.

  I looked at the crickets. It was a feeder factory, hundreds and hundreds of crickets crawling around and over each other in a big black dungeon with a screen on top. They were much smaller than the ones we caught, lighter-colored too. Our crickets were very dark, and these were a dull brown; they’d probably never seen the sun. They weren’t good enough for Matylda.

  Mike came back then and put his hand on top of the dungeon.

  “What do you think?” he said. “Pretty crowded. But it works.”

  My hand was on my tote, and I wasn’t afraid.

  “I’m glad we catch our own,” I said.

  “Well, if you’re ever in need, you know where they are. All set?” he said.

  “Yes, just the D3 today,” I said. “I’m gonna stick with crickets for now.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” he said. “There’s a lot to consider with worms.” I bought the D3 and left, patting my tote, patting Matylda’s worms, feeling good. I had something special for my lizard.

  I wanted to go right upstairs when I walked into the house, but my dad was there.

  “Nice out, isn’t it?” he said. He didn’t notice my tote bag.

  “Yes,” I said. “I got D3 for Matylda!”

  “You went to Total Pets?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, good for you!” he said. He was glowing. “We’ll dust the crickets before she eats them.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “I’m going to show it to her.”

  Before Guy died, my dad was usually at his desk in the basement, writing his books, with an occasional visit upstairs and an occasional game of Monopoly. But now he was there at the door to greet me every time I walked in, even if I just went outside for a minute. If I told him that I wished he would go back to the basement and work on his writing because I just stole three tubs of worms and I had to find a place to hide them, he’d be very worried, and that would be worse than having him standing there whenever I came inside.

  Back in my room, I took the containers out of my bag. “You’ve got choices,” I said to Matylda. “What do you want first?” She came to the glass, and I leaned in. “How hungry are you?” I said. “Hungry enough for a super?” She blinked a few times when I said that, kind of like Morse code, so I opened the container. That was another amazing thing about her — she had movable eyelids — but she had never blinked Morse code to me. She was making my job easier with her willingness to communicate.

  The supers were so big and brown and stripy and crackly, and they moved quickly in the container of bran. But at least they didn’t jump around like the crickets — I could pinch the end of one with my fingers, like Mike said. It flopped like a freshly caught fish, but I held tight, and I pulled back the screen and offered the worm to Matylda. Without hesitating, she came over and grabbed it.

  I felt her teeth on my finger — they were tiny and pointy, and her bite caught me off guard. “OW!” I said, but there wasn’t any blood or anything; it was just the surprise of those little teeth we’d talked about in Mrs. Bueler’s class. They were very real. Matylda watched me, the worm hanging out both sides of her mouth one second and vanishing the next.

  “Does it have flavor?” I asked.

  She shook her head, confirming there was no flavor. It was all about the texture; she probably loved biting into that crackly shell. “It’s the shell, isn’t it?” I said. She nodded. I was glad she was talking back now, too, letting me know about the figs and the super, showing me when she was scared.

  She let her tongue out quickly, twice in a row. Her water dish was full, so I knew she wasn’t thirsty. She was thanking me for the worm — I knew it.

  The stealing girl was right. I felt so good.

  “There’s more where that came from,” I told her. I held up the plastic containers. “These are all yours,” I said. “You shall never be hungry.” I patted the tops.

  I’d keep them in my shoe boxes. It was cooler in my closet. Those boxes were very important to my mother. She loved buying me shoes, and every time she brought a pair home, she stacked the box on my shoe shelf. “Unless you wear them every day,” she said, “leave the shoes in their original boxes. They won’t get dusty, and they’ll retain their original shape.” I always thought it was silly, but now I was grateful to have a place to keep my worms.

  I took my winter boots out and put them in my pajama drawer. It was only July, and I wouldn’t need them for a long time. Then I put the worm containers in the empty box, and I showed it to Matylda. “Your pantry,” I said. “Everything you might possibly want is right here.”

  If a lizard could smile, then Matylda did. Her jaws went horizontal, full of teeth, a jack-o’-lantern grin. I caught myself making a jack-o’-lantern back. “We have a little secret,” I said, laying my hand in the tank. “A pact. Let’s keep these worms between us.” She came over to my hand then, and I held it steady, hoping, hoping, hoping she would climb on.

  And Matylda climbed on, gingerly, tentatively, to see if it would hold, the same way my heels felt for the floor at Guy’s service — touching, touching, making sure it was really there. I held it steady for her, and her skin felt coarse and cool, her funny starfish feet like little clamps on my hand. I watched her, she was unsure but sure, too; she didn’t take a step, but her toes held on. She was staying. I’d stolen the worms for her, and she liked them . . . and then she climbed onto my hand.

  Let’s check the fig trap,” I said to my dad the next morning. We went outside.

  “What do you know?” he said as we got closer. “We have a winner!”

&
nbsp; “Everyone wants to feed the warrior queen,” I said, seeing all the crickets in the bottle, gathered around the fig. I brought it right upstairs and emptied the trap into her tank. She stalked, and she pounced, and she ate and she ate and she ate — Matylda was born to hunt! I knew she couldn’t possibly be masking any signs of illness with that appetite.

  “I think you like the triple f’s,” I said to her. “I think you like the fig-flavored feeders very much.” She nodded, a big one from top to bottom, agreeing.

  “I’m so glad you told me what you wanted,” I said. “Yes, I am, Matylda with a y, Matylda with a y for YES!”

  I went downstairs for my own breakfast, and me and my dad ate together.

  “I know what the y in Matylda’s name stands for,” I said.

  “What?”

  “It stands for yes,” I said. “’Cause she loves figs! I’ve never seen her eat like that.”

  “She’s a picky one,” he said. “But she knows what she likes.”

  As we stood up to clear our plates and my dad headed into the kitchen, I saw an envelope on the floor under the mail slot. Somebody must have dropped it off — there was no stamp — and it had my name on it. It was an invitation to Carter’s birthday party, written in green marker on a piece of lined white paper, folded in quarters.

  I sat down on the entryway rug, my legs under me, the invitation in my hands. Carter was having a zombie-theme party; instead of bringing a gift, you could dress for the occasion. If Guy were here, he’d probably spray his hair with green dye and glue Ping-Pong balls on his glasses.

  He’d had his own birthday party, last fall — his theme was airplanes, and he wore an aviator hat. Each of us got one, too, with sewn-on goggles and a Velcro fastener. Guy turned ten when most of us were still nine, ’cause he had an early birthday. He loved to make paper airplanes, and he had a contest at his party, everybody flying the planes they made off the deck to see whose went farthest.

  When Guy’s plane took off, it went up and up and up and then dived down, curling around, the fanciest flight of them all — but not the farthest. Carter’s plane went farther, even though he used a stapler to make it.