by Judy Blume
I jumped up from the table and ran over to Uncle Feather’s cage. Sheila was right. Uncle Feather was definitely not present.
I looked back at Fudge, who kept counting his Cheerios. “Eighty-four, eighty-five . . .”
“Where’s Uncle Feather?” I asked him.
“Someplace nice,” he said. “Eighty-six . . .”
“What does that mean?” I said.
“I’m trying to count!”
“I’m waiting for an answer,” I told him. So was everyone else.
Finally Fudge looked up from his Cheerios.
“He was bored. He wanted to come out of his cage.”
“You let him out of his cage?” I couldn’t believe this.
“Just for a little while.” He started counting again. “Fifty-two, fifty-three . . .”
“Go get him!” I said.
“First I’ll have my cereal.”
“Oh no you won’t,” I told him. “First you’ll get your bird.”
“Grandma . . .” Fudge said in his best little-boy voice.
But Grandma didn’t fall for it. “Go and get your bird, Fudge. Your cereal will wait.”
Buzzy Senior and Grandma exchanged a long look as Fudge ran out of the room and headed up the stairs on the Tubmans’ side of the house. Then they laughed. But I didn’t see anything funny. I sat down and buttered a piece of toast.
In a couple of minutes Fudge was back. “He’s not there.”
“Not where?” I asked.
“Not where I left him.”
“Where did you leave him?”
“I can’t tell . . . but he’s not there anymore. And the window’s open.”
I looked over at Sheila.
“Well, how was I supposed to know his bird wasn’t in its cage?” she said.
“You opened the windows everywhere?” I asked.
“Well, yes . . . because of the smell.”
I shoved my chair back from the table.
“Let’s not panic,” Sheila said, sounding exactly like her father. “Let’s think this through in a logical way.”
“I’ve thought it through,” I told her. I grabbed my rain jacket from the hook near the front door. “Come on,” I called to Fudge.
“Search and Rescue,” Buzzy Senior said. “That’s the spirit.” He raised his coffee cup to toast us.
I helped Fudge into his new yellow slicker. It’s so long it hangs down to the ground, making him look like a little old man with no feet. I stuck the matching hat on his head.
“Be careful boys,” Grandma called. “It’s very foggy out there.”
“Wait!” Sheila said. “I’ll get dressed and come with you.”
“Forget it,” I told her.
“You’re making a big mistake,” she said. “Because I’m the one who noticed the empty cage.”
“Yeah . . . and you’re the one who opened all the windows!” I pushed Fudge out the door and let it slam behind me.
Outside the fog was so thick you couldn’t even see the cars parked in our driveway. It was like standing inside a big white cloud.
“Where do birds go when it’s foggy?” Fudge asked.
“If they’re smart they stay home!”
* * *
We walked along a path through the woods, calling to Uncle Feather. “Where are you, stupid?” We used all his favorite expressions but he didn’t answer. There was no sound except for the foghorn in the distance.
“Uncle Feather’s just playing a game . . . right?” Fudge asked.
“Let’s hope.”
The path led us down to the water. There were a couple of houses overlooking the harbor. But it was too foggy to see any of the boats.
“We’ll start here,” I told Fudge, stopping in front of an old white house with black shutters. We climbed the steps to the front porch.
“I’ll talk,” Fudge said. “He’s my bird.”
“Okay . . . but don’t waste a lot of time.” I rang the bell.
A woman about Grandma’s age came to the door. “Have you seen Uncle Feather?” Fudge asked, getting right to the point.
“Uncle who?” she said.
“Uncle Feather,” Fudge repeated.
“Why, no . . . at least I don’t think so . . . but come in out of that fog and tell me all about him.” We followed her to the kitchen. “You can call me Mrs. A,” she told us. “My husband and I live here all year round. Where are you boys staying?”
“Through the woods,” Fudge said. “We have a swing.”
“Oh, yes . . . I’ve noticed a whole gang at that house.”
“There’s Mommy and Daddy and Tootsie and Grandma,” Fudge said, ticking off names on his fingers. “And Buzzy Senior, Sheila, Libby, Mr. and Mrs. Tubman . . . and Turtle, Jake, Uncle Feather . . . and me and my brother, Pete. This is Pete,” he said, pointing at me. “He’s not supposed to talk.”
Mrs. A looked at me. “That sore throat is going around,” she said. “I had it myself last week. What you need is some hot tea with lemon and honey.”
Before I had the chance to explain that my throat wasn’t sore, Fudge made himself comfortable at the kitchen table. “Something smells good,” he said.
Mrs. A set out a plate of cinnamon buns. “Fresh from the oven,” she told him. “And I’ll bet you could use a nice hot cup of cocoa, too.”
“I could,” Fudge said. “I didn’t have any breakfast.”
“Why, that’s terrible,” Mrs. A said. “On a morning like this you need a big, hot breakfast.”
I tugged at the sleeve of Fudge’s slicker, reminding him that we didn’t have time to waste if we were going to find Uncle Feather. But he ignored me.
Mrs. A poured Fudge a cup of cocoa. Then she poured me a cup of tea. She stirred in a spoon of honey and squeezed the juice from a lemon wedge. “That should fix your sore throat,” she said. I didn’t tell her that when I’m sick I like Mo’s Herb Tea. Or that Fudge’s cocoa smelled so good I could feel my mouth watering. There are times when it’s better not to say anything.
Mrs. A joined us at the table. She helped herself to a cinnamon bun. “I can’t resist them,” she explained with a guilty look on her face.
“This is good cocoa,” Fudge said, slurping it with a spoon.
“Thank you,” Mrs. A said. “Mitzi says my cocoa’s the best.”
“Who’s Mitzi?” Fudge asked.
“My granddaughter. She’s five.”
“I’m five, too,” Fudge said.
“Well, you’ll have to come by and meet her. She’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Fudge said. “I’m getting married soon but I can still have friends . . . right?”
“That’s right,” Mrs. A said. “Everybody needs friends.” She didn’t ask Fudge about getting married. Instead she watched, fascinated, as he unwound his cinnamon bun and picked out all the raisins. He piled them up in the corner of his plate.
Finally Mrs. A said, “I certainly hope your uncle’s not out sailing in this weather.”
“I hope not, too,” Fudge said. “Because he doesn’t know how to sail.”
“Oh dear.”
“He’s not even supposed to go outside.”
“This sounds serious,” she said. “Have you called the police?”
“Not yet,” Fudge said. “We called the Search and Rescue team.”
“Are they coming soon?” she asked him.
“They’re already here,” he told her.
“That’s a relief,” she said. “What does your uncle look like . . . in case I see someone who fits his description?”
“He’s mostly black with yellow feet and a yellow nose,” Fudge said, stuffing the last of the cinnamon bun into his mouth.
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Mrs. A seemed surprised by Fudge’s description. I could tell she was thinking hard. Then her face lit up and she waved her hands around. “Oh . . . I get it. Your uncle’s a scuba diver.”
“Does Uncle Feather know how to dive?” Fudge asked me.
“I’m not sure,” I said, getting up from the table, “but we’ve really got to go if we’re going to find him.”
When we got to the front door, Mrs. A took me aside and whispered, “Is your uncle all right . . . upstairs?” She tapped the side of her head in case I didn’t get her point.
“Hard to say,” I whispered back. Then I shoved Fudge out the front door. “Thanks for the snack.”
“Come back tomorrow,” Mrs. A called.
“Okay,” Fudge said.
As soon as we were away from the house, I grabbed Fudge by the arm. “Why didn’t you tell her Uncle Feather’s a bird?”
“She knows that!” Fudge said.
“How does she know?”
“Everybody knows Uncle Feather’s a bird.”
“No . . . she thinks he’s your uncle.”
“My uncle,” Fudge said, laughing. “That’s really stupid!”
“Right. That’s why you should have told her. She thinks there’s this guy running around in a black wet suit with yellow flippers and a yellow face mask . . . this guy who’s a little weird upstairs . . .” I tapped the side of my head the way Mrs. A had. “And that he’s your uncle.”
“Come on, Pete!”
“That’s what she thinks. She doesn’t know Uncle Feather’s a myna bird because you didn’t tell her. You have to give the facts. You have to say, My myna bird is missing. He’s mostly black with yellow feet and a yellow bill. Not nose,” I told him. “People have noses. Birds have bills. Get it?”
“She made good cocoa.”
“If you stop for cocoa at every house we’re never going to find him.”
“Never?”
”Never!”
Fudge started crying.
“That’s not going to help.” I dragged him along the rocky beach, hoping we’d hear Uncle Feather calling to us. But there was no sound except the waves breaking against the rocks.
We went to three more houses along the water and Fudge made it clear that his myna bird was missing. But no one had seen Uncle Feather, although they all promised to keep a lookout for him. So we trudged back to our house.
Sheila was watching for us at the living room window. She opened the door. “Did you find him?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
Fudge sniffled. Then he covered his face with his hands and lay down on the floor, still wearing his yellow slicker and rain hat.
We were quiet for a while. I guess all three of us were thinking about Uncle Feather—alone, lost and frightened.
Suddenly, we heard a piercing scream. Fudge jumped up and grabbed Sheila. I dashed to the hall closet, looking for something to use as a weapon, just in case. But before I could even grab an umbrella we heard another scream. This time Sheila and Fudge crawled under the table. Then Libby tore through the house, yelling, “Heeelp . . . there’s a bat after me!” She raced around the living room.
There was more noise and confusion as Libby bumped into furniture and knocked over a lamp. Not that she stopped for a minute! She kept screeching and running in circles. I heard the sound of flapping wings. When I looked up I saw something black flying after Libby. That’s when I realized Libby wasn’t the only one screeching. “Stop!” I shouted. But Libby didn’t listen. “That’s no bat,” I yelled as I started running after her. “That’s Uncle Feather!”
“My bird?” Fudge called, from under the table.
“Yes, Turkey Brain . . . your bird!”
Fudge and Sheila came out of hiding and joined the chase.
It didn’t take long before everyone else in the house came to see what was happening.
Tootsie, who’s a good screecher herself, joined right in. “Eeee . . . eeeee . . . eeeeeee!” She screeched as loud as she could, which got Uncle Feather going again.
“You four are going to have to play more quietly,” Mrs. Tubman said.
“We’re not playing!” Libby screamed.
“Eeee . . . eeeee . . . eeeeeee . . .” Tootsie kept it up.
“Everybody freeze!” Dad shouted. “Just freeze right where you are.”
Libby froze. I crashed into her, Fudge crashed into me, Sheila crashed into Fudge.
Uncle Feather flew across the room. He perched on top of his cage and looked over at us. “Stupid . . . stupid . . . stupid . . .” he called. Then he hopped into his cage and Buzzy Senior closed the door.
We untangled ourselves. Sheila looked at me. “All’s well that ends well . . . right, Peter?”
“Yeah, Pete . . .” Fudge said. “All’s well that ends well.” Then he turned two somersaults and landed in my lap.
The Perfect Baby-Sitter
The next morning, Sheila cornered my mother on the porch. She had the brilliant idea that she should baby-sit Fudge and that Mom should pay her.
“Look at it this way, Mrs. Hatcher,” Sheila said, making her case. “You’re always worrying about him, right? You never know what he might do. And this is supposed to be your vacation. Wouldn’t it be nice if you could relax?”
“Remember the last time Sheila baby-sat Fudge?” I told Mom. “Remember how he lost his two front teeth trying to fly off the monkey bars?”
“That was years ago, Mrs. Hatcher,” Sheila said. “Fudge wasn’t even three. And I took a baby-sitting course this year. I guarantee satisfaction.”
“No baby-sitting course could prepare you for Fudge!” I argued.
But Mom wasn’t listening to me. She said, “I think you have a good point, Sheila. I would be more relaxed with someone looking after Fudge.”
“Who ever heard of a wife baby-sitting her husband?” I asked.
“Everyone knows this marriage thing is a joke,” Sheila said. “Everyone except you, Peter!”
“Yeah . . . what about the groom? He thinks it’s for real.”
“Seven dollars a day,” Mom said to Sheila. “Two hours in the morning and four in the afternoon. If we need you after supper, we’ll pay extra.”
“It’s a deal,” Sheila said, shaking Mom’s hand. Then she skipped off singing, “Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to work we go . . .”
“What about me?” I asked Mom. “What am I supposed to do while she’s baby-sitting Fudge?”
“Why, Peter . . .” Mom said. “I thought you’d welcome the chance to have some time to yourself.”
“Yeah . . . once Jimmy Fargo gets here.”
“Well . . . maybe you and Sheila can watch Fudge together until Jimmy comes.”
“Together?”
“Yes, together.”
“And you’ll pay me, too?”
“I’m paying seven dollars a day,” Mom said. “I don’t care how you split it.”
* * *
But Sheila wasn’t interested in sharing her salary with me. “It was my idea,” she said. “Why should I give up half my money?”
“Because he’s too much for one person to handle.”
“I can handle anything, Peter. I’m a very responsible person.” She turned away from me and called, “Fudgie . . .where are you?”
“Up here, honey . . .” Fudge called back, in his best husband voice. He was sitting on a branch in the swing tree.
“What are you doing up there?” Sheila asked, standing under him.
“Resting,” Fudge said. “A bird always rests after breakfast.”
“I’ve got news for you,” I told him. “You’re not a bird.”
“I’m practicing for when I grow up,” he said.
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sp; “You’re not going to be a bird when you grow up,” I reminded him.
“I know I’m not going to be a bird,” he said, swinging his feet. “I’m going to be a bird breather.”
“What’s a bird breather?” Sheila asked.
“Somebody who breathes for birds.”
“I never heard of that,” Sheila said. “People don’t breathe for birds.”
“That’s how much you know!”
Sheila looked at me.
“He means a bird breeder,” I said. Without me around she’ll never understand him.
“Oh . . . a bird breeder,” Sheila said. “That makes more sense.”
“What makes more sense?” Fudge asked.
“Being a bird breeder,” Sheila said.
“What’s a breeder?” Fudge asked.
“Someone who breeds birds and animals,” Sheila said.
“What’s breeds?”
Sheila looked at me again.
“You wanted to be in charge,” I said. “You answer his questions.”
“It’s someone who raises animals,” Sheila explained. “Like a dog breeder raises dogs and a cat breeder raises cats and a bird breeder raises birds.”
“And a baby breeder raises babies?” Fudge asked.
“Not exactly,” Sheila told him. “Parents raise babies.”
“How come baby breeders don’t raise babies?”
“I don’t know!” Sheila said. “It just doesn’t work that way.”
I started to laugh. Just wait till she finds out how many questions he asks a day!
“Now come down from that tree!” Sheila told Fudge.
“No!”
“Very well,” she said, sounding exactly like our fifth-grade teacher. She marched off toward the garage and came back with a ten-foot ladder. Just as she got it to the tree, Fudge scrambled down, fast as a squirrel. “Ha ha . . .” he sang. “Fooled you, didn’t I?”
Sheila put her hands on his shoulders and her face right up close to his. “Now listen to me, Fudge Hatcher . . . I made a deal with your mother. I’m going to be your baby-sitter and you’re . . .”
He didn’t wait for her to finish. “I thought you’re going to be my wife.”
“First I’m going to be your baby-sitter,” she said. “And if that works out we’ll talk about the wedding!”
