Being the Adventures of a Knowledgeable Stingray, a Toughy Little Buffalo, and Someone Called Plastic (4 page)

Quietly, Lumphy tips over one of the green rubber boots sitting near the foot of the bed. Then he lies down (very cleverly) right in front of the boot, as if he’d been
shoved down in there and only spilled out when the boot tipped over.

When the Girl stops crying and looks around for a tissue, she sees Lumphy lying there. She picks him up and kisses him all over his peanut-buttery face, squeezing him until he thinks his buffalo teeth might fall out. “Lumphy!” she cries. “You were in my boot!” She pets his head. “How did you get in my boot, you sweetie sweetie?”

For a moment, life is wonderful. Lumphy is happy.

Then the Girl smells him.

“You stink like peanut butter,” she says. “And you’re greasy. But don’t worry, Lumphy. I know just what to do about
that.
”

… …

The basement is dark, except for a single dim lightbulb shining in the ceiling. There are cardboard boxes piled up high, and a tremendous amount of dust, just like StingRay said there would be. Lumphy can’t see any ghosts or rats
or axe murderers, but he is sure they are there, hiding in the corners, ready to pop out and scare a buffalo at any moment.

The Little Girl left him sitting in a laundry hamper. She’s gone to ask for help with the soap. Next to the hamper, the Washing Machine looms, towering in all its metal whiteness and terrifying bigness. Lumphy shuts his eyes and tries not to ponder it.

But he ponders it anyway.

He could scramble out of the hamper, he thinks, and hide himself in a corner.

But no, there might be a ghost there.

And the Little Girl would miss him.

He could try to climb the stairs, but he is not sure he can make it. And even if he got to the top, the Girl would just find him on the floor and wash him anyway.

“I am a greasy buffalo,” he says to himself, because it
sounds tough. But he doesn’t feel much better, and shuts his eyes to block out the sight of the big Machine.

“Quiet, are you?” says a friendly voice. “Shoot. I was hoping for some company.”

Lumphy opens one eye. “Who’s talking?”

“Me, Frank,” says the voice. “Who else would it be?”

“Frank?”

“The washer,” says the Washing Machine.

Lumphy opens his other eye. The Machine isn’t moving, but it is certainly making conversation. “I didn’t expect you to talk,” says Lumphy in a small voice.

“No one ever does. It’s a lonely life,” says Frank. “Just me and a dryer that never has anything interesting to say.”

“Hmmmp,” rumbles the Dryer, a large brown contraption sitting next to Frank.

“Well, you don’t, do you?” says Frank testily.

“Ummmph,” says the Dryer.

“This is how it is, all day,” complains Frank. “She’s never any fun. What’s that on you—applesauce?”

“Peanut butter.”

“Don’t worry, I can fix you right up. Peanut butter is no problem. Done it tons of times before.”

“It’s very greasy.”

“I’m an excellent washing machine. Top of my game, not that anyone really notices.”

“TukTuk never told me about you,” says Lumphy, standing up on his hind legs to peep over the edge of the laundry basket at Frank.

“What is TukTuk?”

“A towel. A yellow one, with frayed edges.”

“I think I’ve seen her around.”

“Ummmrgh,” complains the Dryer.

“Exactly,” says Frank. “Those towels are stuck-up. None of them ever says a word to either one of us. It’s like they think they’re so popular.”

“Do you talk to
them
?” asks Lumphy.

“Oh, they’re busy amongst themselves,” says Frank. “I can’t get a word in edgewise, not that they’d pay me any mind.”

“TukTuk is beautiful,” says Lumphy, who is very loyal.

“Pretty is as pretty does, that’s what I say.”

“Maybe she doesn’t know you talk?”

Frank had never thought of that.

“If you don’t talk to her, I bet she doesn’t know,” says Lumphy, feeling helpful.

… …

The Little Girl’s father puts Lumphy into Frank’s washtub, adds a sprinkling of powdered soap, and presses a button. Warm water pours in. The tub is rumbling.

“Frank!” yells Lumphy, anxious to be heard above the din. “I don’t feel good. Will you stop, please?”

“Can’t stop,” says Frank importantly. “It’s a cycle.”

“I feel sick!”

“What a cycle means,” explains Frank, “is that I have to see it through to the end.” “How long does it last?”

“Twenty-two minutes. Agitation, rinse, second rinse, and spin. You have nineteen minutes left.”

“It’s uncomfortable,” moans Lumphy, as the water sloshes him back and forth.

“Think of it like a dance,” says Frank. “Then maybe you won’t feel sick.”

“But there’s no music.” So Frank begins to sing:

Lumphy likes the idea of a buffalo shuffle. He does feel queasy during the agitation, but Frank keeps singing as Lumphy sloshes around, and by the first rinse cycle—when the clean, cool water pours in to wash the soap and peanut butter away—the buffalo is starting to enjoy himself. “Dance, dance, prance, prance!” he sings along with Frank, waggling his tail and clapping his front paws together.

By the second rinse he is kicking up his back legs and yelling “tough-y little buffle-y” as loud as he can yell. And when the spin cycle arrives, he forgets completely that spinning makes his stomach feel funny. “Wheeeee!” cries Lumphy. “Look at meeeeee!”

Then the wash is over. The Girl’s father pulls him out to go hang on a clothesline in the open air.

“Goodbye, Frank!” Lumphy calls as the basement door shuts. “You have a wonderful singing voice.”

“Thank you!” calls Frank. “It’s nice to have someone appreciate it.”

“Urrgmh,” says the Dryer.

… …

Lumphy goes on another picnic the next weekend. Same pond, same sandwiches. It doesn’t look like rain, though, so his chances of going home in the picnic basket are slim.

When the Little Girl and her father are feeding the ducks, and Lumphy knows they aren’t looking, he (very cleverly) unscrews the lid of the jam jar and dips his nose and forefeet into the apricot goo.

“I am a sticky buffalo,” he says to himself. “And when I get home, I am going to visit Frank.”

Sitting there in the sunshine on the picnic blanket, he begins to sing:

CHAPTER FOUR
The Possible Shark

P
lastic is going to the beach. The Little Girl told her specially this morning, and she is excited—though not sure what to expect.

“Stingrays know all about the beach. Would you like me to tell you?” asks StingRay. She and Plastic are playing checkers.

Plastic says Yes.

“The main thing is bigness. The ocean goes on and on forever.”

“Is there clover?” asks the one-eared sheep, who is watching the game with Lumphy.

“No clover,” says StingRay, moving red.

“Grass?”

“No. It’s the ocean.”

“Oh, well.” Sheep goes back to watching.

“Is it bigger than the pond?” asks Plastic, moving black across the board.

“A zillion times bigger,” answers StingRay.

“I can’t wait!” cries Plastic, and hums a happy hum. “Beach beach beach!”

For a second, StingRay is quiet. She is wondering why she isn’t going to the beach with Plastic. Or even
instead
of Plastic—who after all has only lived with the Little Girl since last September. “You won’t like it,” StingRay
says, finally, hopping red over one of Plastic’s black checkers.

“Yes I will. Beach!” yells Plastic. “No you won’t,” StingRay repeats. “The water goes down further than anybody can see. It’s dangerous, if you’re not a fish.”

“I’m a great floater.” Plastic pushes her black checker to the back of the board. “King me!”

“It doesn’t matter,” says StingRay. “The beach is only safe for stingrays,

“There are dangers in the bigness that only fish like me know about,” she continues.

“What about the Little Girl?” Lumphy has stopped concentrating on the game.

“She’ll be okay. She’s a good swimmer,” answers StingRay. “She’s been to school.”

“Beach beach beach!” yells Plastic. “King me!”

“If you’re not going to listen, Plastic,” says StingRay, “I don’t know why you bothered asking. And,” she adds, moving away from the checkerboard, “I don’t feel like playing anymore.”

“I’m
listening,” says Lumphy. “What did you do when you went to the beach and met the garbage-eating shark?”

“Ummm,” says StingRay, looking carefully at a fancy blue pillow that has captured her attention.

“Huh?”

“Hrrmplle mmmunuh nnn.” StingRay nibbles on a bit of pillow fringe.

“Hey, did you
really
see a shark?” asks Plastic, accusingly.

“Well …,” mutters StingRay, inspecting the opposite corner of the pillow with great interest. “I just know about them, okay?”

“Did you even really
go
to the beach?” Plastic bounces up and down.

StingRay crawls under the pillow so her friends can’t see her face. “Well, not in person.”

“Beach beach beach!” yells Plastic again, rolling around in circles. “Does anyone want to finish the checker game? I have a king!”

“Shut up, Plastic!” says StingRay loudly. “I hope you go to the beach and never come back.”

… …

A few minutes later, the Little Girl packs Plastic in a tote bag along with a cotton blanket, sun protection, and some sand toys. Off they go for the day, happy as can be.

Back in the bedroom, StingRay has crawled under the blue pillow and won’t come out. “Why didn’t the Little
Girl take
me
to the beach?” she moans. “I’m the one who sleeps on the high bed. I’m the one who’s a fish.”

“People like bounce at the beach,” comforts Lumphy, sitting near the pillow. “Plastic is bouncier than you are.”

“Bouncers and floaters,” adds the one-eared sheep, nibbling the pillow fringe.

“What?” asks StingRay.

“Floaters. Toy boats, bath toys. Bath toys go to the beach all the time.”

“Do you think the Girl likes floaters better than sinkers?” wonders StingRay.

“I’m just saying, she takes them to the beach.”

“I’m a sinker,” says Lumphy. “What about you, Sheep?”

“A sinker for sure,” says the sheep. “All this wool, weighs me down.”

“I’m a floater,” says StingRay in a loud voice.

“Are you?” asks Lumphy. “Wow.”

“I can float as well as Plastic, any day.”

… …

StingRay spends the next hour thinking very hard. Truth is, she has never floated in her life. She has never even gotten wet.

But the Little Girl likes floaters. And a fish is a fish, and a fish should swim.
What if the Little Girl sees Plastic floating and loves her better than me?
she wonders.
What if she loves her better,

It is a terrible bunch of thoughts.

When no one is looking, StingRay sneaks down the hall to the bathroom.

TukTuk is there, hanging on a rod.

“Hello,” says StingRay as if nothing is out of the
ordinary. “Don’t let me bother you. I’m just going to do my regular floating that I do.”

“Your tag says ‘dry clean only,’ ” remarks TukTuk.

“So?” says StingRay. She puts the plug in the bathtub, turns on the water, and gets in.

“So that means don’t take a bath.”

“I’m a fish,” says StingRay. “I can float.” She sits in the tub, feeling the wetness seep into her plush belly and flippers.