The Prisoner of Snowflake Falls (14 page)

NINE

I
woke up way later than everybody else. Mostly because I'd had the most horrible night's sleep of my life. Oscar was the worst roommate you could ever imagine. When he wasn't snoring, he was awake and saying my name over and over again. “Hen-wee! Hen-wee! Henwee!” When he got tired of repeating my name, he would try out different kinds of screams.

They weren't the kind of terrifying screams that would make Theodora come running. It was more like Oscar was screaming for fun. He'd found the perfect volume for screaming at night. Not loud enough to wake anybody else. But just loud enough to make my life totally miserable.

Finally, I remembered the earplugs. But when I reached inside my drawer to get them, they had vanished. Oscar was standing up in his crib, with his chubby little hands around the bars. “Where did you hide the earplugs?” I asked sternly. He let go of the bars and looked at me, all innocence. Then he shrugged, with his palms up in the air.

“Just go to sleep!” I said.

“Seep!” said Oscar, pointing to his stuffed toy, a little lamb with a missing eye. “Baa-h!”

“Not sheep!” I said. “Sleep!”

But it was too late. Oscar began to run through his collection of barnyard noises. He was imitating the snort of a pig for the forty-eighth time when I realized it had blended into one long snore. I must have managed to sleep for a little while after that, because I do remember opening my eyes in the morning and forgetting where I was.

At first, I expected to see the familiar wooden beams on the inside of Evelyn's tree house roof. Instead, I saw a mobile of circus animals attached to the ceiling. I looked over at Oscar's empty supercrib and suddenly remembered that I was in Snowflake Falls. I pulled the blankets over my face and let out a big groan. Even my worst night in Evelyn's backyard had been better than my first night in Oscar's room.

I thought maybe I would just roll over and go back to sleep for a while, but then I felt a small tug on the bottom of my blanket, followed by a piercing scream. It sounded a bit like a really loud smoke alarm. Except that every once in a while, the smoke alarm would pause for breath before starting right up again.

I looked up from under the covers and there was Oscar, fully dressed and all flushed from screaming. As soon as he saw my face, he broke out into a big smile. “Please don't say ‘Hen-wee,'” I begged.

“Hen-wee!” he said, with a high-pitched squeal of glee. Then he opened the bottom drawer of the dresser and started to throw my folded underwear all over the place. “Put down my underwear,” I shouted. “And it's not Hen-wee. It's Hen-ree.”

After throwing my only clean T-shirt across the room, Oscar squinted at me with his mouth hanging open. Observing his baby squint, I realized that he was probably going to end up needing big clunky eyeglasses. Just like the rest of the Wingates. For a second or two, it made me feel sorry for him. So I thought I'd teach him to make the “R” sound. “Hen-ree!” I repeated. “Hen-ree!”

“Hen-wee!” said Oscar, before racing out of the room and giving me a few moments of valuable peace. When he was gone, I noticed that he had stepped on my only clean T-shirt. There was a perfect outline of his dirty little shoe right on the front.

The next thing I knew, I was staring into the Wingate's bathroom mirror while wearing my stepped-on T-shirt. There were dark circles under my eyes. And no matter how much water I slapped on my face, I still looked and felt exhausted. I was a little slow getting to the kitchen table. Oscar had already finished his breakfast. He was sitting on the kitchen floor, building towers of blocks and then knocking them over. Charlotte was at the kitchen table, drinking vitamin-enriched orange juice and reading the
Wall Street Journal
.

When I asked where Mr. Wingate was, Charlotte told me that he was back from his usual early morning jog, getting ready for another day at the store. When he came downstairs, dressed for work, he looked at his son, busy with his blocks. He crouched down and looked at him very intently. “Oscar!” he said. “What does a sheep say?”

Oscar looked up from his blocks, and Mr. Wingate repeated the question. Since Oscar had made a sheep noise exactly sixty-seven times last night, I was fully expecting the kid to go “Baa-h.” But all he did was look at his dad, puzzled. As if he'd just been asked to repair the dishwasher.

Mr. Wingate pulled out a little tape recorder and spoke into it. “Note to self,” he said. “Work on the sheep sound with Oscar.” He put the tape recorder back in his pocket, looked at Theodora poking at a hardening batch of scrambled eggs and said, “I'll just have orange juice, honey. I'm running a little late.”

I was trying to figure out a way to just have orange juice without hurting Theodora's feelings, when Mr. Wingate said, “You know what all great men have in common, Henry? They are early risers.”

“I'm not exactly what you'd call a morning person,” I said, rubbing my raccoon-like eyes. “I guess I'm just not destined for greatness.”

“Why would you say that about yourself, son?” asked Mr. Wingate. “You're admitting defeat before the day even starts.”

“Harrison, he was making a joke,” said Mrs. Wingate.

“I fail to see the humor, Theodora,” he replied. “A family should run like a well-oiled machine. Everybody has to do their part to make sure things go smoothly.”

“That's not fair, Dad,” said Charlotte. “Oscar probably kept Henry up all night long.” Turning to me, she added, “He gets to wreck our well-oiled machine all the time.”

Mr. Wingate looked at the dark circles under my eyes. “Is that true, Henry?” he inquired. “Did Oscar disturb your sleep?”

“I guess I'm just not used to sharing a room yet,” I said. Oscar knocked down a tower of blocks with a sudden crash that made me jump in my chair.

I suppose Harrison Wingate took a little pity on me, because he said, “Don't worry, young man. We'll have that guest room done before school starts.”

“That reminds me,” said Mrs. Wingate. “The Nutley brothers phoned to cancel again.”

“Again?” said Mr. Wingate, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

“Nutley Construction is doing the remodeling,” Charlotte explained. Oscar knocked down another pile of blocks.

“I'm beginning to think it would have been easier just to do the job ourselves,” said Theodora.

“You know I can't spare the time from the store,” replied Mr. Wingate.

“Maybe we should get somebody else,” said Charlotte. “I saw one of the Nutleys buying supplies from Biggie's.”

Mr. Wingate looked crushed. “You didn't go in there, did you, Charlotte?”

“Never!” said Charlotte, who explained that she had been looking through the window. “I'd rather die than go inside the Bargin Barn!”

Mr. Wingate gazed at his only daughter with open pride. “I guess we'll just have to find somebody else to do the renovations,” he said.

“Harrison,” said Mrs. Wingate. “There's nobody else left.”

Mr. Wingate considered this gravely. “I'll talk to the Nutleys,” he said. Then he pulled out his tape recorder. “Note to self. Talk to a Nutley today.” He looked at me and said, “Henry, I've scheduled a private conference with you in the living room this afternoon at three thirty sharp.”

While I thought it was unfair to let the living room double as a conference room when not even a single nap was allowed, all I said was, “Yes, sir, Mr. Wingate.”

After Mr. Wingate left for work, Charlotte showed me the new bedroom and bathroom that the Nutley brothers were supposed to be working on. The room looked like a bomb had just exploded in it. “This will never be ready in time for the school year,” I said to Charlotte. “In fact, I doubt it will be ready for my graduation.”

“That was a joke, wasn't it?” asked Charlotte. “I often don't understand what makes other people laugh. One of my goals for entering grade eight is to comprehend more jokes.”

But I was more concerned about the state of the spare room than Charlotte's humor problem. “Why is it taking so long to get the renovation done?” I asked.

“My father is meticulous,” explained Charlotte. “None of the local tradesmen can tolerate his exacting standards. Especially the Nutleys.”

I groaned, and she suggested giving me a tour of Wingate's Department Store to cheer me up.

“Won't your dad be there?” I asked reluctantly.

“He has meetings all over town for most of the day,” said Charlotte. “Entrepreneurially speaking, we're in crisis mode right now.”

“All because of the new Biggie's?”

“They're taking away a lot of our customers,” she said. “We just can't compete with their prices.” Charlotte's face began to turn pink with aggravation. “Do you know that there's actually no such person as Biggie?” she asked.

I thought of the huge sign on every Biggie's Bargin Barn: a cartoon figure of Biggie himself, a chubby guy in overalls and a straw hat who snipped away at high prices with a special hedge clipper that looked like a giant pair of garden shears. “They just want you to think that there's some obliging bumpkin cutting prices all day long,” continued Charlotte. “Isn't that the most dishonest thing you ever heard in your entire life?”

“I'm not the best guy to ask about honesty,” I replied.

“Oh,” she said, not unkindly. “For a minute, I totally forgot you're a crook.” She began looking me up and down like she was considering returning me to the houseguest store for a full refund. Mrs. Wingate walked into the room just as Charlotte said, “Hmmm…”

“No, Charlotte!” said Theodora.

“Mother, whatever do you mean?” asked Charlotte.

“I mean I've seen that look before,” said Mrs. Wingate. “Henry is not your pet. He's a human being.”

“But, Mother,” protested Charlotte. “Look at those dreadful clothes. He has a footprint on his shirt.”

“That was Oscar's fault,” I said.

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Don't use Oscar's behavior as an excuse,” she said. “I've never seen anybody in such desperate need of a total makeover.”

“Charlotte, you're getting all wound up again,” said Mrs. Wingate evenly. “This is just like the time we bought you that rabbit for Easter…”

“Coco has nothing to do with this,” Charlotte replied. “Besides, I'm being perfectly reasonable.”

“Coco?” I asked. “Who's Coco?”

“Coco Chanel, my rabbit,” said Charlotte, who was talking very rapidly. “She ran away. But this is different, Mother.” She looked over at Theodora and begged. “Please, can I dress him?”

“Dress me?” I asked, horrified.

“She means pick out some new clothes for you,” explained Mrs. Wingate. “The government supplies you with a clothing allowance, and Wingate's would be happy to provide you with your clothes at cost.”

“That means we're not making a profit on it,” said Charlotte.

“I know what it means,” I said. “And I can pick out my own clothes.”

“Of course you can, Henry,” said Mrs. Wingate. “I was going to suggest you go down there this afternoon—”

“But he has no idea how to dress responsibly,” said Charlotte, whose cheeks were getting flushed. “He looks just like the sort of person you might see through the window of Biggie's, hovering over a bin of discount sweatpants.” And then, just for good measure, she added, “Henry, if you buy anything at Biggie's, I'll never speak to you again!”

“Promise?” I said, quite sarcastically. “Because, in that case, I will purchase a pair of Biggie's sweatpants immediately.”

Charlotte was getting on my nerves. Still, almost right away, I regretted being cranky. Mostly because I could tell by Charlotte's expression that her feelings were hurt. “I'm sorry,” I said. “I guess I don't like the idea of taking handouts. From your store or the government.”

“You'd rather steal things than accept help?” asked Charlotte. I don't think she said it to be malicious. It was more like she was puzzled and a little curious.

Even so, Mrs. Wingate said, “Charlotte, you apologize this minute.”

The next thing I said surprised even me. “She doesn't have to apologize. She's right. I'd rather steal something than take charity any day.”

Mrs. Wingate just looked me straight in the eye through her oversized glasses and asked, “So how's that working out for you, Henry?”

I didn't answer right away. First, I thought about how my professional habits had put me on the road that ended in Oscar's snores, Charlotte's bossiness and private meetings in the non-nap room with Mr. Wingate. “Not so good, lately,” I admitted.

“Thank you for being so honest,” said Theodora.

“Yes, thank you,” said Charlotte.

If you are thinking, Boy, that Henry Holloway is turning over a whole new leaf, you would be wrong. In fact, I had already decided that I would liberate myself from Snowflake Falls and the Wingates at the first reasonable opportunity.

Of course, it is always best to be extra cautious when the government has its eye on you. Leon had said he might turn up unannounced “at any time” to check on me. Also, with colder weather approaching, I could not simply return to my former tree house lifestyle. Before taking off, I needed money and a solid plan of action. I had to make sure that nobody would pick up my trail after I was gone.

I figured that maybe the best way to approach the Wingate situation was the same way I approached any strange domicile that I was thinking of burglarizing. Second-rate burglars are perfectly content to find the most convenient way into the place they intend to rob, but the true professional always looks for the most convenient way out before he even thinks about going inside.

I mention this because living with the Wingates was beginning to make me feel a bit like a second-rate burglar. It was as if I had found my way into an unfamiliar house without knowing the safest exit strategy. The only way to determine the best escape route from my immediate predicament was to find out more about the Wingates themselves.