Double Fudge (9 page)

"I think that makes you a lot older than me."

"Good thinking," Mrs. Osterman told Fudge.

"I'm a very good thinker," Fudge said.

"And sometimes I am, too," she said, snapping her fingers. "Because I just got an idea about your bird's problem. Maybe he's lost his hearing, like me."

"But you can still talk," Fudge said.

"Yes, but I wear hearing aids. If your bird can't hear what you're saying, he might not talk back to YOU."

I said, "That's the first real idea anybody's had about why Uncle Feather's stopped talking."

That night, after Tootsie went to sleep, we gathered in Fudge's room to find out if Mrs. Osterman was right. While the rest of us sat on the bed, Dad tiptoed across the room and slammed Fudge's door.

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Uncle Feather heard it all right. He jumped off his perch, flapped his wings, and jerked his head from side to side. You could tell he was really upset.

So much for Mrs. Osterman's idea.

The next day I went on-line and found a website called mynabird.com. I sent a message asking if anyone knew why a myna bird would stop talking. I got five messages back, but nobody could give me a definite answer.

Henry Bevelheimer came up to have a look. He watched Uncle Feather for half an hour. "Uh-huh ..." he said. "Just what I thought. Your bird's on strike, Fudge."

"On strike?" Fudge asked.

"Yes," Henry answered. "He's holding out for something. Now, all we have to do is figure out what."

"More pears?" Fudge asked.

Mom said, "More pears means more poop."

"Uh-oh ..." Fudge said. "We don't want more poop."

"What else could it be?" Henry asked. "What else is really important to him?"

"Free time?" Fudge guessed. "He likes free time a lot."

"Don't we all," Henry said.

"He already gets two free times a week," I told Henry.

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"Maybe he wants more," Henry suggested.

"I don't think we can handle more than two free periods a week," Mom said. "Not with what we have to go through every time he's out of his cage."

What Mom meant is, mynas are known as frequent poopers, especially after they eat. So, when Uncle Feather's out of his cage, all the furniture has to be covered. We put old newspapers on the floor. Then we pull down the window shades and drape the mirrors because birds are attracted to light.

"But, Mom ..." Fudge said. "Maybe that's it."

"Maybe it's not," she said, thanking Henry for his time and showing him to the door.

"Sorry about that, Mrs. H," Henry said as he was leaving.

"It's all right, Henry," Mom said. "It's just that Fudge wants his bird to talk so badly he's willing to believe anything."

"It must be tough on the little guy."

"Yes," Mom said. "I think it is."

Mom called the avian vet, someone who only treats birds. That night after dinner, Mom and Dad sat Fudge down in the living room. Mom said, "Fudge, this is what we're going to do. We're going to be kind and gentle to Uncle Feather. Friendly, but not pushy."

Dad said, "We're going to move his cage to a new spot

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for a while to see if that makes a difference."

"Not out of my room," Fudge cried. "I can't sleep without Uncle Feather."

"We'll move him to another part of your room," Dad said. "Maybe closer to the window, so he has a better view."

"And then we're going to wait," Mom said.

"For how long?" Fudge asked.

"As long as it takes," Mom answered. "That's the avian vet's advice."

"And then he'll talk again?" Fudge asked.

"We hope so, but there are no guarantees," Mom told him.

"If we had a million trillion bucks we could find a vet who would know how to fix him."

"This has nothing to do with money," Dad said. "Money can't fix everything."

"How do you know? You don't have a million trillion bucks."

"That's true," Mom said, "we don't. But no amount of money will make Uncle Feather talk again. We just have to be patient and hope for the best."

"Poor Uncle Feather," Fudge said and tears rolled down his cheeks. "It's so sad. Isn't it sad, Pete?"

"He doesn't seem sad," I said, trying to sound upbeat.

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"That's right," Dad said. "He's as playful as ever." Fudge shook his head. "He just doesn't want us to know, so he's pretending."

"What a thoughtful bird," Mom said. Fudge nodded. "He takes after me."

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"I like shows," Fudge said, as we were getting ready to go downtown.

"I know," Dad said, zipping Fudge's jacket.

"Will they have singing or puppets?"

"No," Dad said. "Just paintings."

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"A show with just paintings?" Fudge was surprised. "Did you hear that, Pete? A show with just paintings!"

"Yeah, I heard."

Mom came into the living room then, carrying Tootsie, who was dressed in some black velvet outfit that made her look like a baby movie star.

"Where's the baby-sitter?" Fudge asked.

"We don't need a baby-sitter tonight," Mom told him, setting Tootsie down on the sofa.

"You're leaving Tootsie home by herself?" Fudge was even more surprised.

Mom laughed. "No, we're taking Tootsie to the show." She was trying to get fancy shoes on Tootsie's feet but Tootsie squirmed and kicked, making it impossible. Mom finally gave up and stuffed the shoes into the diaper bag.

"You're taking Tootsie?" Fudge couldn't believe it.

"Of course we're taking Tootsie," Dad said. "And just look at our girl. She's mighty pretty tonight, isn't she?"

"She's too young for a show," Fudge argued. "She won't understand it."

"Without Tootsie there wouldn't be a show," Dad reminded him.

Tootsie held her arms out to me. "Uppy, Pee ..." She waited for me to pick her up. When I did, she pulled my hair.

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"Hey ..." I said, which only made her laugh and pull harder.

Fudge hung on to me, tugging at my jacket. "I don't want Tootsie to come with us. I want it to be just you and me, Pete."

"I know how you feel," I told Fudge, remembering all those times I didn't want
him
to come along. "But you'll get over it."

A banner announcing Frank Fargo's show hung outside the art gallery in SoHo. It said BABY FEET in big, bold letters, and under that, FRANK FARGO. Inside, huge colorful paintings hung on the walls. When the canvases were spread out on the ground last summer, I didn't realize how big they would look hanging on a wall. You had to study them carefully to see the background of baby feet, but they were there, in every painting. The paintings had names like
Baby Feet Blueberry
and
Baby Feet Strawberry.
There was one called
Baby Feet Storm
and another called
Baby Feet Earth.

Fudge looked around. "Where's the stage?" he asked. "Where're the seats?"

Dad explained. "It's not that kind of show. It's more like going to an art museum for a special event."

"Where's the event?" Fudge asked.

"This
is
the event," Dad told him.

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"No fair!" Fudge cried.

"Uh... Dad," I said, hoping to escape before things took a turn for the worse, "I'm going to find Jimmy Fargo."

"Take me," Fudge cried. "Please, Pete. Take me with you!"

I hesitated for a second, then gave in and grabbed Fudge by the hand. But it was crowded in the gallery and I didn't see Jimmy anywhere.

"I could walk across paintings, too," Fudge told me. "I could do it better than Tootsie. Tootsie doesn't go to school. She's not even toilet trained."

"But she can make animal sounds," I said, trying to keep it light.

"Who cares about her dumb
quack quacks...
and her stupid
meows?"

People began to form a circle around Mr. Fargo, who'd put Tootsie on his shoulders. "Here she is," Mr. Fargo announced. "The star of my show. The one, the only... Tootsie Pie!"

Tootsie laughed and grabbed hold of Mr. Fargo's hair. She's probably his biggest fan. And I'm not talking about his paintings. What does Tootsie know about art? For some reason none of us understand, Tootsie likes Mr. Fargo. And Tootsie's the only person I know who can get Mr. Fargo to smile. Which he did now, as flashbulbs went off. "She's my inspiration!"

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Mr. Fargo told the crowd. The crowd applauded. "Is Tootsie famous?" Fudge asked. "Yeah, just for tonight," I answered. "And she probably won't even remember."

"I was famous once... right, Pete?" "Yeah, you were famous for about a week when you rode the Toddle Bike for Dad's TV commercial."

"I remember." He looked up at me. "How about you, Pete? Were you ever famous?"

"Not yet."

"Don't feel bad. You're famous to me." He gave me a big smile and squeezed my hand.

"Thanks, Fudge."

When Dad caught up with us, I said, "It would be cool to have a painting by Frank Fargo, especially one with Tootsie's footprints."

Fudge broke away from us and reached out to touch
Baby Feet Strawberry.
"How about this one?"

Dad grabbed him from behind and pulled him back. "No touching," he said.

"Why not?" Fudge asked.

"Because your hands might not be clean."

"They're clean. Look ..." he said, holding them up for Dad to see.

"Even so," Dad said, "you aren't allowed to touch paintings on display."

"Why not?" Fudge asked.

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"That's the rule," Dad said.

"It's a stupid rule," Fudge said.

"We don't say the
stupid
word," Dad reminded him.

"Yes, we do," Fudge said. "We just don't say it about people. If we want to say it about people, we say
Turkey
Brain. Ask Pete. He knows." Now Fudge pointed to
Baby Feet Storm.
"How about this one? This one would look good in my room."

"We can't afford these paintings," Dad said. "Look at the prices." He pointed to the numbers on the title cards.

"Those are prices?" I asked. There weren't any dollar signs. Just a number, followed by three zeros, making every painting six or seven or eight thousand dollars.

"More zeros means more money, right, Pete?"

"I'll say!"

"So that's good, right?"

"Depends on if you're the seller or the buyer," I told him.

"Which are we?"

"Neither," Dad said. "We're friends."

"No zeros for friends," Fudge sang.

Dad asked me to keep an eye on Fudge while he went to greet someone he knew.

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