Raymie Nightingale (12 page)

And Raymie walked toward the open door.

They knocked on the front door of Ida Nee’s house and rang the doorbell, and when no one answered, Louisiana said, “Maybe she needs help. Maybe the Three Rancheros should come to her rescue.”

“Ha,” said Beverly.

“Maybe you should break and enter,” said Louisiana.

“Now, there’s an idea,” said Beverly. And she got out her pocketknife and picked the lock on Ida Nee’s front door.

“Miss Nee?” shouted Louisiana. “It’s us, the Three Rancheros.”

From somewhere deep inside the house, there came the sound of singing and also the sound of snoring.

Louisiana went around the corner first. Beverly followed her. Raymie followed Beverly.

“She’s asleep,” whispered Louisiana, turning back to them. “Look!” She pointed at Ida Nee, who was stretched out on a plaid couch. One arm was hanging almost to the floor, and with the other arm, she was holding her baton close to her chest. She had on her white boots.

There was a country music song playing on the radio. It was somebody singing about how somebody else was leaving. So many country-western songs seemed to be about people leaving other people.

Ida Nee’s mouth was hanging open.

“She looks just like a sleeping princess in a fairy tale,” said Louisiana.

“She looks like she’s drunk,” said Beverly. She bent over and tickled the top of Ida Nee’s arm.

“Oh, my goodness,” said Louisiana. “Don’t do that. Don’t make her angry.” Louisiana bent down close to Ida Nee’s ear. She said, “Rise and shine, Miss Nee. It’s lesson time.”

Nothing happened.

Raymie looked at Ida Nee and then she looked away. There was something scary about watching an adult sleep. It was as if no one at all were in charge of the world. Raymie stared, instead, at Lake Clara. The lake was blue and sparkling.

Clara Wingtip had sat in front of her cabin for thirty-six straight days, waiting for her husband to return from the Civil War. And then on the thirty-seventh day, she went and drowned herself in the lake. By mistake. Or on purpose. Who could say how it had happened?

On the thirty-eighth day, David Wingtip had returned.

But it was too late. It didn’t matter. Clara was already gone.

How long are you supposed to wait? That was another question that Raymie wished she had asked Mrs. Borkowski. How long should you wait, and when should you stop waiting?

Maybe,
thought Raymie,
I should go out to the garage and ask the moose head that question.

Tell me, why does the world exist?

“I’m going to take her baton,” said Beverly.

“What?” said Raymie.

“I’m going to take her baton. Watch.”

“No, no, no,” said Louisiana. She put her hands over her eyes. “Don’t do it. I can’t watch.”

Beverly leaned over the sleeping Ida Nee. The world became very quiet. The song on the radio ended. Ida Nee stopped snoring.

“Oh, no,” said Louisiana from behind her hands.

“Please,” said Raymie.

“Don’t be such big babies,” said Beverly. She bent over Ida Nee, and the baton became a silver rope running through Beverly’s fingers. “Ta-da!” said Beverly. She stood up. She held out the baton. It flashed in the light shining off of Lake Clara.

“Oh, my goodness,” said Louisiana.

Beverly threw the baton up in the air and caught it. “Sabotage!” she said. “Sabotage, sabotage!”

Another country music song came on the radio. Ida Nee snorted once, twice. And then she started to snore again.

Beverly threw the baton up in the air, higher this time. She twirled it behind her back. She twirled it in front of her, so fast and furious that the baton became almost invisible.

“Oh,” said Louisiana, “you’re a genius at twirling.”

“I’m a genius at everything,” said Beverly. She kept twirling. She smiled, revealing her chipped front tooth. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”

And they did.

They left Ida Nee’s and started walking down Lake Clara Road, back toward town. Raymie was carrying Beverly’s baton and her own baton.

Beverly stopped occasionally to beat Ida Nee’s baton against the small rocks and gravel on the side of the road. The lake glinted, appearing and then disappearing again, as the road curved and they walked farther and farther away.

“Where are we going?” asked Raymie.

“We’re getting the heck out of Dodge,” said Louisiana.

“That’s right,” said Beverly. She stopped and beat some more gravel with Ida Nee’s baton. “Getting. The heck. Out.”

“I know what,” said Louisiana.

“What?” said Raymie.

“It’s time. We Three Rancheros should go and rescue Archie.”

“We’re not the Three Rancheros,” said Beverly.

“Well, who are we, then?” asked Louisiana.

“Look,” said Beverly. “That cat can’t be rescued.”

“You said you would help. Let’s just go to the Very Friendly Animal Center and ask for him.”

“There is no Very Friendly Animal Center!” shouted Beverly. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”

Raymie stood between Beverly and Louisiana and flexed her toes. She was suddenly terrified.

“Are you going to help me or not?” said Louisiana. She stared at Beverly and Raymie. Her bunny barrettes glowed a molten pink on her head.

It was so hot.

“Fine,” said Beverly. “We can go and look for the cat. All I’m saying is that you don’t understand how the world works.”

“I do so understand how the world works,” said Louisiana. She stamped her foot on the gravel. “I know exactly how it works. My parents drowned! I am an orphan! There is nothing to eat at the county home except for bologna sandwiches! And that is one way the world works.”

Louisiana took a deep breath. Raymie heard her lungs wheeze.

“Your father is in New York City,” said Louisiana. She pointed at Beverly. “And you tried to get to him, but you couldn’t. You only made it to Georgia, and Georgia is just the next state up. That’s not far away at all. And
that’s
how the world works.”

Louisiana’s face was very red. Her bunny barrettes were on fire. “And your father,” she said, twirling to face Raymie, “has run away with a tooth-cleaning person, and you don’t know if he’ll ever come back. And that’s how the world works! But Archie is King of the Cats, and I betrayed him. I want him back, and I want you to help me because we’re friends. And that’s also how the world works.”

Louisiana stamped her foot one more time. A little cloud of gravel dust rose up between the three of them.

Raymie could feel her soul somewhere deep inside of her. It was a small, sad, heavy thing, a tiny marble made out of lead. She knew, suddenly, that she wasn’t going to become Little Miss Central Florida Tire. She wasn’t even going to
try
to become Little Miss Central Florida Tire.

But Louisiana was her friend, and Louisiana needed to be protected, and the only thing Raymie could think to do to make things better right now was to be a good Ranchero.

And so Raymie said, “I’ll go with you to the Very Friendly Animal Center, Louisiana. I’ll help you get Archie back.”

The sun was high, high above them. It was beating down on them, staring, waiting.

“Fine,” said Beverly. She shrugged. “If that’s what we’re doing, then that’s what we’re doing.”

They walked the rest of the way into town in silence.

Louisiana led them.

The Very Friendly Animal Center was a building made out of cinder blocks that were painted gray. Once, maybe in some other, happier time, the cinder blocks had been pink. In several places, the gray was peeling away to reveal the pink, so it looked like the Very Friendly Animal Center had a skin disease.

There was a small sign on the door. It said
BUILDING 10
.

The door was made out of warped wood painted gray.

There was one small tree cringing in front of the building. It was leafless and brown.

“This is it?” said Beverly. “This is the place?”

“It says it’s Building Ten,” said Raymie.

“This is the Very Friendly Animal Center. This is where Granny brought Archie.” Louisiana’s voice was high and tight.

“Okay, okay,” said Beverly. “Fine. This is the place. Do me a favor and let me do the talking, okay? Keep your mouth shut for once.”

It was very dark inside Building 10. There was a metal desk and a metal filing cabinet and a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. The floors were cement. There was a woman sitting at the desk eating a sandwich. And there was a door that was closed and that led to who knew where.

Each of these details emerged out of the gloom slowly, grudgingly.

“Yep?” said the woman at the desk.

“We’re here to pick up a cat,” said Beverly.

“No cats,” said the woman. “We put the cats down the day they come in.”

“Oh, no,” said Raymie.

The woman took a bite out of her sandwich.

“Put them down?” said Louisiana. “Put them down where? Put them down what? A chute?”

The woman didn’t answer. She sat and studied her sandwich.

From behind the closed door, there came a terrible noise. It was a howl of desperation and need and sorrow. It was the loneliest sound Raymie had ever heard. It was worse than Alice Nebbley shouting for someone to take her hand. All the hairs on the back of Raymie’s neck stood up. Her soul shriveled. She grabbed hold of Louisiana’s arm.

“What’s behind that door?” said Louisiana. She pointed at the door with her baton.

“Nothing,” said the woman.

“Look,” said Beverly. “The cat’s name is Archie. Can you check your records or something?”

“We don’t keep records of cats,” said the woman. “Too many cats. The cats come in. We put the cats down.”

“Down where?” said Louisiana.

“Come on,” said Beverly. “We’re leaving.”

“No,” said Louisiana. “We’re not leaving. He’s my cat. I want him back.”

The howl rose up again. It filled the building. The woman at the desk took another bite out of her sandwich, and the lightbulb in the center of the room swayed back and forth as if it were trying to get up enough energy to leave Building 10 and go and find another, better room to illuminate.

Raymie was still holding on to Louisiana. Beverly grabbed Louisiana’s other hand. “Come on,” she said. “Now. We have to leave.”

“No,” said Louisiana. But she let them pull her toward the door and then out the door and into the sunshine.

“What does she mean
put down
?” asked Louisiana when they were all the way outside.

“Look,” said Beverly. “I told you. I’ve been telling you. The cat is gone.”

“What do you mean gone?” said Louisiana.

“Dead,” said Beverly.

Dead.

It was such a terrible word — so final, so inarguable. Raymie looked up at the blue sky, the sun.

“Maybe Archie is with Mrs. Borkowski,” said Raymie to Louisiana. She had a sudden vision of Mrs. Borkowski sitting in her lawn chair in the middle of the street with a cat in her lap.

“No,” said Louisiana. “You lie. Archie isn’t dead. I would know if he was dead.”

And then before anybody could stop her, Louisiana opened the warped wooden door and went back inside.

“Hey,” said Raymie.

“Here we go,” said Beverly.