How to Moon a Cat (10 page)

“Monty?” I mumbled sleepily as the van slowed to navigate a sharp turn. Tree trunks bordered both sides of the road, inches from the edge of the asphalt. Every hundred yards or so, a dented mailbox appeared in the greenery. This route was much deeper into the forest than the one I had envisioned from the map.

“Are you sure this is Highway 49?” I asked skeptically.

“We’re taking an alternative route,” he replied confidently. He nodded at the radio. “I’m using Will and Harry’s directions to get to Nevada City. We’re following the first part of tomorrow’s racecourse—in reverse. Just sit back and relax. Embrace the unexpected. Take it all in. Imagine yourself on a bike, feet pumping at the pedals, the wind in your face, competitors at your wheel . . . Isn’t it exhilarating?”

Monty’s life coach mumbo jumbo wasn’t doing anything to temper my concern. I sighed nervously as he leaned forward to steer around another sharp corner.

Twisting in my seat, I turned to check on Isabella. Her sharp eyes, I suspected, had not left the road the entire time I’d been asleep.

“
Errau
,” she opined dubiously.

“Yep,” I agreed as Monty swung the van into another fishhook-shaped curve. “We’re lost.”

Even if I’d had a sense of north or south when I first opened my eyes, I would have quickly lost it. There were no markers upon which to fix a mental compass. The trees were so tall they blocked almost all angles of direct sunlight. A thick carpet of pine needles covered the ground, obliterating any unique features that might have provided a distinctive marking. There was a disorienting sameness to the surroundings.

At least we’d left San Francisco with a full tank of gas, I thought with a sigh.

In search of a distraction from Monty’s sure-to-belengthy detour, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the toy bear.

Bears, I considered as I stared at the figurine, were used symbolically on almost all of California’s state logos. The image of a grizzly bear featured prominently on the state flag, the state seal, and most state-designated historical markers.

The bear references were an homage to the short-lived California Republic, formed in 1846 when a small band of Americans took over the tiny town of Sonoma and declared its independence from Mexico. The rough and rowdy group called themselves “Osos” or “Bear-Flaggers,” after the bear-emblazoned flag they raised in the town square to celebrate their success.

Oscar had laid a trail for something bear or possibly Bear Flag related, I puzzled, sucking in on my lower lip. But what? I stared at the paper flag attached to the toothpick in the toy bear’s paw. Perhaps I’d find the answer in Nevada City—that is, if we ever managed to get there.

I looked out the van’s front windshield as we passed a green-roofed building with several tan trucks parked out front. I couldn’t be certain, but I thought we’d passed this forest service station once before.

“Are you
sure
you know where you’re going?” I asked with increasing anxiety.

Monty waved me off, never once doubting his estimation of our whereabouts.

“Trust me. We’re right on track. Any minute now, we’ll pop out of these woods right into Nevada City.”

Isabella grumbled from the back cargo area.

“Now, if I’ve got this right,” Monty stretched the words out in anticipation, “it should be just around this next bend . . . ”

The trees parted to reveal a green and white metal sign. Twenty feet beyond the sign, the road widened into an interstate on-ramp. The van slowed as we approached the intersection, and Monty cleared his throat.

The sign read: SACRAMENTO 5 MILES.

WHILE MONTY’S WHITE
van sat idling in front of the westbound interstate on-ramp, Harold Wombler’s pickup rumbled past on one of the opposite eastbound lanes.

Another mile up the road, Harold bypassed the prominent signage for the exit north to Nevada City and, instead, turned south onto Highway 49. The pickup set off along a meandering route that tracked across the rural farmland of the lower Sierra hills and valleys. On the bench seat next to Harold, his trio of tiny passengers leaned into the curves, happily watching the rolling green landscape.

After a pleasant hour’s drive, the pickup entered the parking lot for the Calaveras County Fairgrounds. A green and white banner beside the road announced the day’s seminal event—the county’s annual Mark Twain Frog Jumping Competition.

“Here we are, then,” Harold said to his charges as he pulled to a stop in a grassy field, alongside several trucks of similar vintage and condition to his own.

Harold gimped around to the truck’s bed and opened a metal storage locker mounted behind the cab’s exterior. He reached inside and pulled out an ice chest packed with an assortment of leaves and a container of chilled crickets.

Harold then opened the lid to a glass-sided terrarium and splashed in a generous amount of cool water. He selected a couple of leafy fronds from the cooler and scattered them across the bottom of the glass cage, topping them off with a few crickets. As soon as he pushed the terrarium into the truck’s cab, the two frogs hopped eagerly inside.

After helping the mouse climb into the front chest pocket of his overalls, Harold secured the terrarium’s ventilated lid, wrapped his fingers around the handle, and began the long walk up to the fairground entrance. It was a sunny afternoon, and he was breathing heavily by the time he approached the ticket booth.

The booth was located inside a white one-story building whose walls were decorated with the painted pictures of several leaping frogs. A row of California Bear Flags mounted onto the building’s roof flapped in the breeze as Harold set the terrarium on the counter.

The two frogs peered politely through the glass at the ticket agent. Harold lifted the brim of his baseball hat to smooth down his stringy black hair and announced curtly, “We’re here to jump.”

The woman seated inside the booth stared back, a surprised openmouthed expression on her face as she studied the frogs’ tiny orange mustaches. She’d seen a wide range of jumping contestants that day: enormous bullfrogs, long-legged marsh dwellers, and even a few toads. Not one of the other amphibian entrants had sported facial hair.

“That’ll be six dollars,” she said, her voice perplexed as she peered into the terrarium.

A moment later, Harold carried his frogs through the gated entrance and surveyed the scene.

At the front of the fairgrounds, a local singer warbled a lost-love country music song into a microphone. Behind her, children ran through a grassy field waving sticks wrapped with neon-colored cotton candy. Beyond, an asphalt-covered path led up a hill to a clutch of vendor stalls hawking hot dogs, bratwurst, and fresh-squeezed lemonade.

In the valley below the concession stands lay a collection of livestock barns, the largest of which was fronted by a stage and several rows of outdoor stadium seating. Harold followed the asphalt path to the livestock area, pausing every so often to read the Mark Twain quotations printed on the placards that lined the route. At the show barn, he joined a line of children waiting with their frogs for a turn on the jumping stage.

“No serious contenders here that I can see,” Harold whispered hoarsely into the terrarium as the line slowly cleared in front of him.

At long last, Harold stepped to the front of the queue. A man in a broad-brimmed cowboy hat walked up and shook his hand.

“Let’s see what you’ve got here,” the announcer said, curiously studying the frogs and their mustaches. “Two contestants?”

Harold nodded gruffly. “One amateur. One pro.”

“All
right-y
then,” the man said with a raised eyebrow. “Let’s have your, uh, amateur, first.”

The announcer flicked the switch on a wireless microphone as he motioned for Harold to step onto the stage. Frog wranglers holding long poles attached to black nets formed a perimeter around the edge of the area, ready to capture any renegade jumpers contemplating an escape. As the announcer began to speak into the mike, his voice took on a pronounced twang.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got a real treat coming up next. Mister, uh . . . ” He looked questioningly at Harold.

“Wombler,” Harold supplied grumpily.

“Mr. Wombler has a rather
unique
pair of frogs for today’s jumping contest. I don’t reckon we’ve ever seen the likes of his amphibians in these here parts. Lean in close and get a good look, folks. These frogs are wearing little costumes!”

The announcer glanced up from the mustached frogs and whispered to Harold, “Don’t you think that’s a disadvantage? Weighing them down like that?”

Harold shrugged noncommittally. The announcer paused, temporarily flustered, before ushering Harold to a one-foot circle painted on the center of the stage.

“They’ll be stylish if nothing else,” he said cheerfully. “Please, Mister, uh, Wombler. Place your first entrant on the circle here.”

Harold reached inside the terrarium, scooped up the smaller frog, and gently set him on the middle of the stage.

The little frog looked excitedly up at Harold. The red sliver of his tongue zipped out of his mouth and slapped the tip of his nose above his mustache.

“Now, sir, what’s the frog’s name?” the announcer asked, his voice booming through the speakers.

Harold rubbed the stubble on his chin, as if considering.

“Smiley,” Harold replied curtly. “Jim Smiley.”

“Smiley the frog,” the announcer proclaimed as the crowd politely applauded. “I understand this is his first professional jump. Let’s see what he can do.”

The crowd grew quiet as Harold bent over and whispered to the frog. When Harold stepped back from the center, Smiley’s back legs began to twitch. A moment later, he exploded into the air. The crowd erupted into cheers as the tiny frog’s feet landed halfway across the stage. Harold pushed aside the nearest frog wrangler to retrieve Smiley while the announcer measured the distance between the circle and the jump mark.

“Fourteen feet, two inches!” the announcer gushed. “Best jump of the day!”

Harold nodded silently, a pleased smile creasing his wrinkled face. He reached back into the terrarium for the larger frog.

The announcer rushed over with his microphone. “Now, Mr. Wombler, please introduce us to your second entry—the, ah, veteran jumper.”

“Daniel,” Harold supplied bluntly. “This frog’s name is Daniel.”

“Well, Daniel,” the announcer said, bending down toward the circle where the frog waited patiently. “Your little friend has set the mark to beat.”

Daniel wore a serious, pondering expression on his pudgy face as he looked down his nose at the corners of his mustache. The audience edged forward in their seats, watching attentively as Harold nodded a go-ahead sign to the second frog.

Daniel rocked back and forth, concentrating on a spot several feet ahead. After a moment of intense focus, he launched himself into the air. Despite his heavy bulk, Daniel’s jump was far more measured and graceful than the smaller frog’s, his movements reminiscent of a bird taking flight. He stretched out his legs as he soared above the stage, and a slight breeze whiffled through the feathery hair of his mustache. Then, with a thudding
plunk
, he landed on the far edge of the platform, a foot or so farther than the previous jump.

The crowd broke into a raucous applause as Daniel waddled proudly over to Harold, who lowered the terrarium so that he could hop inside. The announcer hurriedly measured the distance to Daniel’s jump mark.

“Sixteen feet, seven inches!” he exclaimed. “That’s a Calaveras County Fair record!”

A COUPLE OF
hours later, the white van finally arrived in Nevada City.

“Here we are!” Monty proclaimed enthusiastically. “Like I said, right around the corner. I knew we’d get here.”

Isabella grumbled a sarcastic congratulations from her carrier.

Rupert still lay on his back in the crate beside her. He yawned sleepily and stretched his front legs up and over his head. He was the only one who had enjoyed the long winding ride through the forest. All the sweeping turns had rocked him like a baby in a cradle. By the time we’d located the far-straighter thoroughfare of Highway 49’s northern route, Rupert had fallen into a deep snoring trance.

The van entered Nevada City’s downtown area and proceeded slowly up Broad Street. The sidewalks were packed with pedestrians, many decked from head to toe in colorful skintight cycling gear. Mobile vendors worked the street corners hawking all manner of race-related clothing and memorabilia. A variety of T-shirts and bumper stickers were on offer, along with a wide range of noisemaking devices designed to provide encouragement to passing riders during the race.

A painted cowbell rang just outside my window. Even through the glass pane, the metallic clanking jarred my eardrums. I don’t know how the sound affected professional cyclists, but it certainly would have spurred me to pedal faster—if only to get away from the nuisance of its noise.

The cowbells had a much more positive effect on Monty. His green eyes sparkled as he soaked up the energy of the crowd. He couldn’t wait to join them.

“Look at all these people,” he enthused. His voice squeaked higher as he pointed to a couple walking their rides through the throng. “Some of them have their bikes!”

The commotion on the street finally woke Rupert from his slumber. He sat up in his carrier and tried to see out the front windshield as Monty slowly circled the van behind Broad Street to our hotel’s parking lot.

There were only a few open spaces; much of the lot was occupied by television vans bearing brightly painted logos from state and local media. Gigantic satellite dishes were mounted on the vehicles’ roofs; metal antennae spikes poked out from every angle.