Small as an Elephant (5 page)

Thinking about Mom and the next steps made his brain hurt. So he let his heavy eyes shut, let snatches of dreams about winding roads, pine trees, anchors, and telescopes turn his mind inside out, grab hold of him and pull him down, down, down. Sleep had become his only way out of worry.

But not for long.

A noise woke him — a snuffling noise. Rustling. It took a moment for him to remember that he was not in his tent but out on his own in the woods. And there was someone or something in the dark — nearby. Did other people camp in the woods? Homeless people, maybe?

Jack’s breathing slowed, at times stopped altogether. Buried in the sleeping bag, he didn’t dare pop his head out. He wished, oh how he wished, he had his tent to act as a barrier. He thought of rolling over and flattening himself against the ground — it seemed as if he would be less vulnerable, more capable of springing up and running, in that position — but he couldn’t risk being heard.

Whatever it was made a clicking noise followed by a low rumbling, and Jack thought he’d die of a heart attack before he was discovered. Should he continue to play dead or run? If it was a man or a bear, it was likely he’d be chased. He remained frozen.

It was coming closer, definitely closer. If it was an animal — and, from the snorting sounds, Jack was now pretty certain it was — it no doubt smelled him. What could be in these woods? Bear, moose, coyote. Jack didn’t think a moose would intentionally hurt a boy, at least not one stretched out on the ground, but he was definitely less certain about bears and coyotes. Or wolves. He’d forgotten about wolves.

His flashlight was in his backpack. What would happen if he shone a light in the eyes of a wild animal? Would light frighten it away? Anger it? Jack supposed it would depend on the type of animal. He uncurled his fingers, testing their ability to reach for his backpack. To grasp. Why hadn’t he thought to tuck the flashlight into his sleeping bag with him?

Scooting up in the sleeping bag in slow, carefully measured increments, Jack reached for his backpack, stretching out his whole arm. But just as his fingers grazed the fabric of the strap, the backpack jerked away.

Robbed. He was being robbed! Whoever it was knew he was here on the ground (had he been seen going into the woods?), knew he had a backpack, knew it and wanted it.

Dang it! He’d already lost a mother and a phone. He couldn’t afford to lose anything else. He sat up and yelled, “Hey!”

Yelled at the thief, yelled at the . . . at the
raccoons
who had confiscated his cheese, leaving his backpack on the ground, and were now scrambling away in the bright moonlight.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It wasn’t a man or a bear. Just some silly raccoons.

But his cheese. His last bit of food. He could have sworn his stomach growled in protest. Growled at the thought of not eating again, of having no food and too little money to purchase more.

It was barely light when he woke, and he was freezing. No way was the earth’s center a ball of fire. At this moment, Jack was certain that the core was an ice cube and that it was sending frozen daggers to its surface. He pulled on his Windbreaker, hoping it could stop the cold from penetrating, but it wasn’t nearly enough.

So he got up. He rolled up his sleeping bag, put on his backpack, and headed into town.

First line of order was breakfast. Fifty-three cents wouldn’t even buy something on the McDonald’s Dollar Menu, a menu he knew by heart. He’d have to find a grocery store. And even then, what would a handful of change buy? Cereal bars were a lot more than this. Were doughnuts? He wasn’t sure, but, looking down, he came up with a solution: soda cans and bottles.

He’d seen
ME
next to
MA
on cans all his life, so he was pretty sure that in Maine, just like in Massachusetts, they were returnable. That meant he could get five cents for every drink container he took to the store. He picked up the Diet Coke can at his feet. It was crushed and had been on the side of the road for so long, the label was fading away, but he hoped they’d take it anyway.

On Mount Desert Street, he found a couple of plastic bottles. Fifteen cents in bottle returns gave him sixty-eight cents in all. He hoped to find enough drink containers to bring him to a dollar.

He had his head down, searching, when he nearly bumped into an old man wearing a plaid hunting jacket.

“Look out, son,” the man said, not unkindly.

“Sorry!” Jack blurted. “Hey, could you tell me where the nearest grocery store is?”

The man stopped and studied Jack. “You’re industrious this morning, aren’t you? Go down Roberts Avenue,” he said, pointing to the side street next to an inn that looked like a wedding cake. “When you get to the end, turn left.”

Roberts Avenue had several houses with signs out front, bed-and-breakfast places. His mother was always telling him how much she loved B&Bs — how the rooms were all different and old-fashioned. “It’s like going back in time, Jack,” she’d say. “You can imagine that you’re someone else altogether.”

Jack had never wanted to stay in these places, which looked (at least on the Internet) more like fussy homes than hotels. Besides, they never had swimming pools or cable TV, and those were the best things about traveling.

But . . . maybe? Maybe his mother had walked down this very street, and the pull of puffy bedding, lacy curtains, and not being Becky Martel for a while had been too strong to resist. He stood on the sidewalk and tried to imagine which of these places would call to her: The Maples Inn? Canterbury Cottage? Aysgarth Station? He had no idea what an aysgarth was, or why they’d call a house a station, but he bet his mom would pick that one. It had the most unique name, and his mother was drawn to anything that promised a story.

Jack decided his search would start there. He left his backpack, the two bottles, and the can on the lawn of the B&B, behind a little picket fence, and then bravely walked inside.

No one was in the entryway, so he rang a little bell. A woman popped her head out from around a doorway.

“Is there a Becky Martel staying here?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” she said, but she didn’t seem sure. She wandered over to a book and put her glasses on to check. “No, we don’t have a Martel. . . . Does she go by her own name?”

The question startled Jack. Was she asking if his mother might have registered under a different name? Which seemed possible, what with her wanting to feel like someone else and all.

“I mean,” said the woman, seeming to read Jack’s confusion, “does she have a different name from her husband?”

“Oh. She doesn’t have a husband,” Jack said, perhaps a little too quickly. And then, feeling as if he needed to say more, he added: “She’s my aunt, and she’s coming for a stay on the island, but she must be at another B and B.”

The woman nodded but looked at him more carefully now.

He tied the clothing around his waist tighter, said “Thanks anyway!” and bolted out the door.

He threw on his backpack and was ready to run to the next street over, when he realized that his can and two bottles were missing. Who would have taken them? Someone else as hungry as he was at this moment?

“Threw them in the recycling bin,” said a man coming around the corner with a rake in his hand. “It was good of you to pick them up.”

No! Should he ask for them back?

The man leaned his rake against the porch and went into the B&B.

As much as he wanted to run from the place before the lady inside spotted him again, he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving the can and bottles behind.
Maybe,
Jack thought,
the bin is out back — maybe in a shed.
He could find it and get his can and bottles back himself. Behind the B&B was a hinged wooden box about the height of a trash can, and he guessed it might hold recyclables. After making sure no one was watching, he carefully lifted the lid. If the man appeared again, he could say he was just getting his own bottles back.

Sure enough, there they were, on top of a bunch of other soda cans, wine bottles, and even big juice containers. He pulled his can and the two plastic bottles off the top while he calculated the worth of the cans and bottles below.

They wouldn’t mind, would they, if he took a couple? Sure, they were worth money, but the man had just taken
his,
hadn’t he? And he hadn’t thought a thing of it, which probably meant he was planning to recycle these cans and bottles, not redeem them.

What could he put them in? Jack looked under the lid of a second barrel. It was filled with garbage. He spied the handle of a plastic shopping bag and pulled it free. Then he filled the bag with bottles and cans, tallying up nearly two dollars’ worth, trying to shut up the voice in his head that whispered,
You’re stealing, you know.

Suddenly, something came flying toward him, and the heavy top of the box came crashing down on Jack’s right hand. He didn’t scream, for fear of being caught, but tears jabbed his eyes as he pulled his hand free. It was his pinky, the pinky on his right hand. His pinky was killing him.

He stared at the black-and-white cat that was now perched on top of the box. Its tail twitched as it stared at Jack. Was this a guard cat? Was it protecting the property?

Frozen there, holding his hand, Jack recognized a familiar scent coming from the kitchen. Bacon. One of his favorite things. His stomach called out, reminding him that he needed breakfast. No way was he going to get crispy bacon at the grocery store, but he had to get something. He hadn’t really eaten since the picnic yesterday, and, between the hunger pangs and the throbbing in his pinky, he was in no condition to go searching for his mom.

He moved back toward the bin slowly, expecting the cat to hiss or jump at him. Sure enough, the cat crouched, giving only a moment’s warning before it leaped into the air.

Thankfully, it didn’t leap at Jack but away from him.

Jack quickly lifted the wooden cover, grabbed his nearly full plastic bag with his good hand, and ran down the road toward the grocery store.

First stop in the supermarket was the bottle-and-can machine, where he made one dollar and ninety cents. Next stop: freezer section. Jack had to get some relief for his hand. Behind a glass door, he found the frozen peas, his mom’s ice pack of choice, and plunged his hand deep inside mounds of crunchy bags. Fortunately, it was still fairly early, and most of the shoppers were more interested in coffee than frozen vegetables. He left his hand in as long as he could stand the cold and then pulled it out.

It helped, but he’d hardly made it to the frozen pizza before his pinky started throbbing again, so he slid it into another freezer case. This was how Jack moved up and down the aisles: clinging to frozen orange juice, wrapping his fingers around pints of ice cream. Even yogurt cups, which were not frozen but cool to the touch, provided relief.

He considered spending his money on a bag of ice, or even on some Advil, but knew that the ocean was close by and that he’d be able to give his finger a long soak if the pain didn’t go away soon. Instead, he chose trail mix and a bottle of water. The two items had taken all but twenty cents of his money. Sure, there was a water fountain in the store, but he was, once again, really thirsty. He figured he could keep the bottle and fill it up in restrooms, making this the very last time he would have to purchase a drink. As for the trail mix, he’d be careful this time, eating only small amounts as needed.

Easier said than done,
he thought as he devoured his first handful, sitting on a sunny wooden bench he’d found sandwiched between the shopping carts and a bike rack, right around the corner from the entrance to the store. He looked out at the parking lot and made himself eat one peanut, one cranberry, and one sunflower seed at a time. Only when he’d chewed what he had in his mouth completely did he allow himself to put his hand back in the bag.

But his hunger was insatiable. And eating took his mind off his finger.

I’ll find more bottles and cans,
he told himself as he tilted the bag and poured the last remaining seeds into his mouth.
Or better yet, I’ll find Mom.