Double Fudge (8 page)

"I did. Jane said I was a very good listener. And guess what else? We got to feed carrots to the pandas. Everyone but Mini. He ate the carrot himself."

99

Cousin Howie offered to drive us to the train station in his van. On the way we passed the White House. If Dad or Mom were president, I thought, this is where we'd live. I'd ask Jimmy to come down to hang out. We'd bowl and swim and have sock slides down the longest hallways. Then we'd see movies in the screening room and the family chef would make us popcorn. I'd give just one interview a week, maybe two, on MTV or Nickelodeon. I'd have an opinion on everything, especially books, video games, music, the Internet, and movies.
When Peter Hatcher speaks, young
America listens! That's what they'd say about me.

I was enjoying my fantasy until Fudge leaned close and whispered, "I wonder what the President said?"

"About what?"

"About the banana on that lady's suit."

"Probably he didn't even notice. And if he did, he'd be too polite to mention it."

"You know what, Pete?" Fudge said, looking out the window of the van. "Someday this will all be mine."

"What will all be yours?"

"This place," he said, as we passed the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument. "It'll be called Fudgington then."

"Don't hold your breath," I told him.

"I never hold my breath, Pete. Unless I'm under water."

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When we got to the train station Dad asked Cousin Howie where they were heading next.

"New England, Tub," Cousin Howie said, pulling into a passenger drop-off area.

I noticed Dad had stopped trying to get them to use his real name.

"And a few weeks from now," Cousin Howie continued, as we got our stuff out of the van, "we'll be showing our little tribe the sights and sounds of your city."

I dropped my suitcase.
Our city?

"Only problem," Howie said, "is that we haven't been able to find a place to stay."

"Maybe I can help," Dad said.

"Why thanks, Tubby. We'd love to spend a few days in New York with you and your family."

"What I meant," Dad said quickly, "is that maybe I can help you find a hotel."

"A hotel?" Howie asked. "Now why would we prefer a hotel to staying with you?"

"Our apartment is small," Mom said. "The boys share a divided room and Tootsie's crib is in a remodeled closet."

"Not a problem for us," Cousin Howie said. "We have our camping gear right here, in the van.

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Never travel without it. The Honolulu Hatchers are ready for whatever comes their way."

"Yes, but you see ..." Mom began.

Eudora covered Mom's hand with her own. "We're family, Anne. Wait 'til you see how little space we take up. We're used to making ourselves practically invisible, aren't we?"

Mini-Farley growled.

Eudora said, "He's showing you how well he fits into the forest."

West Sixty-eighth Street
isn't exactly the forest, I thought.

"Up with the sun," Cousin Howie said, "and asleep with the moon. You'll hardly know we're there."

Mom had this weak smile on her face as she looked at Dad.

Just say no!
I begged, inside my head.

"Well, Howie ..." Dad said, "you'd be more than welcome at our place. Just let us know when."

"And give us some warning," I said. So
I can arrange to stay at Jimmy's,
I was thinking.

"What Peter means," Dad said, "is give us some warning so he can clean up his room. Isn't that right, Peter?" Dad looked at me and I got the message.

"Yeah," I said. "Sure. That's exactly what I mean."

102

"Uncle Feather's fine," Fudge told her. "He'll talk tonight."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"I know my bird, Pete." Fudge pulled a chair over to the kitchen counter, stood on it, climbed up, opened the cupboard, and pulled out a package of rice cakes.

"Don't spoil your appetite," Grandma said. "I've made you a nice supper."

"Couscous and Moroccan chicken?" Not that I had to ask.

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Just catching whiffs from the oven was enough to make my mouth water.

Grandma nodded. "And Buzzy's coming up to join us."

"Great," I said. Grandma and Buzzy Senior met over the summer, in Maine. And as Mom likes to say,
One thing led to another.
They were married at the end of August. I really like Buzzy Senior. The only problem--and it's a big one--is he's Sheila Tubman's grandfather. The idea that I could be Sheila Tubman's step-something is revolting.

"Sheila's coming, too." Grandma said.

I groaned.

"Now, Peter ..." Grandma began.

I didn't wait for her to finish. "Come on, Grandma... you knew about Sheila and me before you married Buzzy."

"That doesn't mean you two can't be civil to one another."

"What's
civil?"
Fudge asked, climbing onto Grandma's lap with his rice cake.

Grandma stroked his hair. "It means not being rude," she told him, looking right at me.

"Fine," I said. "I'll be
civil."

"It could even mean being pleasant and respectful," Grandma added.

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"I'm pleasant and respectful," Fudge said, munching away. "Right?"

"Oh yeah," I told him. "You're the most pleasant and respectful person ever."

He laughed and when he did, half of the chewed up rice cake inside his mouth wound up on the floor. Turtle lapped it up like it was the world's best treat.

Grandma suggested Fudge try to keep his food in his mouth but Fudge told her, "Turtle loves chewed-up food. Look ..." And he let another mouthful go.

"That's enough, Fudge," Grandma said. "Finish your rice cake, then tell me all about Washington."

"You mean
Fudgington?"
he asked. That's when I took off for my room. Turtle padded down the hall after me. I stopped to have a look at Uncle Feather.

"How's it going?" I asked, standing right in front of his cage. He looked at me but he didn't say anything. So I said,
"Bonjour, stupid."
That's one of his favorite expressions. Once you get him started on that one, forget it. You can't turn him off. But this time, instead of repeating it over and over, he scratched his head with his foot.

"What's your problem?" I asked. "Did you miss us? Is that it? Were you lonely?"

He picked up a rattle with his foot and shook it. He loves Tootsie's baby toys. But he still didn't say anything. So I tried some of his favorite words, the

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really bad ones, the ones Mom calls
thoroughly inappropriate.
Turtle sat up, waiting. But Uncle Feather just yawned, like he was bored or tired. Either way, he had nothing to say.

Half an hour later, when Sheila came in with Buzzy Senior, she said, "Did Muriel tell you about your bird, Fudge?"

"What about my bird?"

"He hasn't said a word since you left. I was up here yesterday and again this morning and he wouldn't speak at all."

"He'll talk tonight," Fudge said.

"I'd like to know how you can be so sure of that," I said.

"I know my bird, Pete!" he said for the second time.

"I hope you're right," Sheila said. Then she asked, "So how was Washington?"

"You mean
Fudgington?"
Fudge said.

Sheila shook her head in disgust. "Muriel ..." she said, "you
have
to do something about your youngest grandson. He thinks the world revolves around him."

"The world revolves around the sun," Fudge said. "I learned that at the planetarium."

She just shook her head again.

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That night, while I was on my bed, reading, I heard Fudge talking to Uncle Feather. "Good night... sleep tight... don't let the monsters bite."

And Uncle Feather answering.
"Good night, sleep tight... bite... bite... bite
..."

I went into Fudge's room to see Uncle Feather for myself but Fudge had already covered his cage. "Shush, Pete..." Fudge said. "He's sleeping now." Fudge was snuggled up with his bag of shredded money.

The next day it was the same thing. Uncle Feather wouldn't talk to any of us. But Fudge said, "Don't worry. He'll talk tonight."

Just as Fudge promised, that night I heard him talking to his bird. "Everybody's worried about you, Uncle Feather. But you're fine, aren't you? You're a fine birdy."

"Fine birdy... just fine... birdy birdy."

Fudge laughed.

The next day when Uncle Feather
still
wouldn't talk to me or Mom or Dad, I asked Fudge, "How come he only talks to you?"

"Because I'm his favorite."

"Okay, let's say that's true. That still doesn't explain why he'll only talk at night."

"Who can explain it, who can tell you why?"

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Fudge sang. That's a line from a song Buzzy sings to Grandma.

"Try," I told him.

"Try what, Pete?"

"Try and explain why Uncle Feather only talks at night."

"I can't, Pete."

"How long has it been since he's only talked at night?"

"Since... since ..."

I could tell he was stalling. "I'm listening," I told him.

"I know you are, Pete!"

"Well...?"

"He only talks at night since Richie Potter was here for a play date."

"What's Richie Potter got to do with it?"

Fudge shrugged.

"That's a pretty weird story, Fudge."

"Weird stories happen, Pete."

I shook my head. I didn't believe him for a minute. Not one minute. I knew him too well. He was hiding something. So that night I waited outside his bedroom door. Since he's afraid of monsters he never closes it all the way. He's got night-lights plugged into every outlet in his room. And before he gets into bed he sprays the whole place with monster spray--which is

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nothing but scented water in a bottle with a fancy label. But he believes in it, so I've promised Mom and Dad I'll never tell.

This time, when Fudge sang, "Good night... sleep tight," I crept into his room. I could see him on his bed, thumbing through one of his catalogs. "Good night... sleep tight," he sang again. "Don't let the monsters bite."

"Good night... sleep tight
..." came the reply. Only it wasn't coming from Uncle Feather. It was coming from my brother!

"Aha!" I called, jumping onto his bed. "Gotcha!"

Fudge screamed. I guess I really scared him. Then he started bawling.

Dad came running into Fudge's room, followed by Mom. She picked Fudge up. He clung to her. "What's wrong, Fudgie... tell Mommy... where does it hurt?"

"You want to know what's wrong?" I said. "I'll tell you."

"No, Pete!" Fudge screamed through his tears. "No!"

Mom and Dad looked puzzled. "What's all this about?" Dad asked.

"I'll tell you what it's about," I said, whipping the cover off Uncle Feather's cage. "Uncle Feather's lost his voice

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and Fudge has been talking for him. I caught him in the act."

"What?" Mom said.

"Your younger son is a good mimic," I said. "He almost got away with it."

"How long has this been going on?" Dad asked. I half-expected Uncle Feather to answer,
It's been going on for weeks now. "It's about time you noticed.
"

"Peter ..." Dad began.

"Don't ask me," I said. "Ask bird-boy."

"Fudge ..." Dad said.

Fudge buried his face in Mom's neck, slobbering all over her.

"How long has it been since Uncle Feather talked?" Dad asked.

"Since... since... since ..." Fudge sobbed. "Since Richie Potter's first play date." His face was a mess of snot and saliva.

"But that was weeks ago," Mom said.

"I ... I ... I ... gave him my best marble... the green one and ..."

"You gave Richie Potter your best marble?" Mom said. "That was very generous of you."

"No!" Fudge cried. "I gave it to Uncle Feather. I put it in his cage and he swallowed it and now he can't talk." That unleashed another round of sobbing.

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"You fed Uncle Feather a marble?" I asked.

"I didn't feed him, Pete! I gave it to him to play with. I didn't know he was going to swallow it and stop talking."

"Wait a minute ..." I said. "How could Uncle Feather swallow a marble? I mean, look at the size of him."

We all looked over at Uncle Feather, who stared back at us.

"I gave it to him before I went to school and when Richie Potter came over the marble was gone and Uncle Feather wouldn't talk."

"Was that the day Richie Potter wanted broccoli for a snack?" Mom asked.

"Does broccoli have something to do with Fudge's marble?" Dad said.

"I don't think so," Mom said. "Does it, Fudge?"

"No!" Fudge started crying again.

All this time Uncle Feather watched from his cage. If you ask me, he was enjoying the attention.

The next day Mom called the vet while Fudge danced around her. "Don't forget to tell her about my marble," he kept reminding Mom.

Finally, Mom said, "My son wants to know if our bird could have swallowed his marble by accident."

The vet must have said
No
because Mom shook her

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head and said, "That's what we thought." Then the vet must have asked Mom questions, because Mom said, "His appetite is fine and he's drinking the same amount of water as usual." After that it was, "He loves his bath." Then, "Oh yes... he's his usual active self. He's just not talking. He won't say a word." Then there were a couple of
uh-huhs
and three or four I
sees from Mom. She reached for a notepad and wrote something down. "Yes... well... thank you so much."
Then she hung up the phone.

Before Mom had the chance to tell us anything, Fudge said, "How does the vet know Uncle Feather didn't swallow my marble? Because if he didn't swallow it, where is it?"

"Probably with your missing shoe," I told him.

"My shoe is on the subway, Pete!"

As if I didn't know.

Everybody had an idea. Sheila stood in front of Uncle Feather's cage and said, "You need a bird therapist. Maybe something happened to him. Some kind of trauma. I read a book about a girl who stopped talking because something terrible happened to her."

"Like what?" I said.

"I can't discuss it in mixed company," Sheila said.

"Is that like mixed group?" Fudge asked.

"No," Sheila told him.

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"Anyway, nothing terrible happened to him," I said.

"How can you be so sure, Peter?" Sheila asked.

"Because I live here, remember?"

"Maybe it happened while you weren't home," Sheila said. "You have to think like a detective."

"Trust me, Sheila ... I know what I'm talking about."

"A truly trustworthy person never has to say trust me!" Sheila said. "Isn't that right, Uncle Feather?"

Uncle Feather sneezed.

Richie Potter came over for a play date and offered Uncle Feather money to talk. "Five dollars if you say my name." He held up the five-dollar bill for Uncle Feather to see.

"You're bribing Fudge's bird?" I asked. "What do you think Uncle Feather would do with five dollars?"

"I don't know," Richie said.

"Well, think about it."

"I guess he doesn't get to go shopping." Richie folded the bill until it was so small it practically disappeared. Then he stuck it back in his pocket.

"If you want to bribe him, try his favorite fruit," I said. "He loves pears." Richie and Fudge dashed off to the kitchen.

Melissa said, "My mom says her acupuncturist can fix anything."

"Her what?" Fudge asked.

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"Acupuncturist," Melissa said. "It's some kind of doctor. He sticks needles in you and you get better."

"Nobody's sticking needles in Uncle Feather!" Fudge said.

Buzzy said, "Tough love. That's the answer. Don't let him push you around, Fudge. Let him know who's boss."

Grandma laughed and said, "Really, Buzzy. Uncle Feather's not a teenager. He's a bird."

Jimmy said, "My parents got divorced because my father never talked to my mother."

That's the first detail Jimmy's dropped about his parents' divorce.

"Uncle Feather's not married," I reminded him.

"Maybe that's his problem," Jimmy said. "Maybe he wants a mate."

I looked at Jimmy, waiting for more. But he just shrugged and said, "It's a possibility."

That night I studied
The Myna Bird Handbook.
I found out that if you have two mynas they don't relate to their humans in the same way. They relate to each other instead. So forget about another bird.

Fudge told everyone who would listen about Uncle Feather. In the elevator he told Mrs. Chen, who's visiting her family from China. She speaks only three words in
English-Okay
and
No problem.
But she listened to Fudge as if she understood exactly what he was saying.

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Then she nodded and said, "No problem."

In the lobby he told Olivia Osterman. "I once had a myna bird," she said. "My bird could say,
I love you, Livie. I love you soooo much!"

"Where's your bird now?" Fudge asked, speaking up, so Mrs. Osterman could hear him.

"Oh... he's been dead for years," Mrs. Osterman said. "Birds don't live as long as people. And most people don't live as long as me. I'm going to celebrate my ninetieth birthday soon. What do you think of that?"