Bully-Be-Gone (9 page)

“Well—” said Millicent. This wasn't going so well.

Mr. Pennystacker's face suddenly went soft, the pinch in his expression easing into a mushy grin. “Say, do you smell that?” he asked.

“Smell what?”

“That,” Mr. Pennystacker said dreamily, pointing to the air around him as if he were trying to get a bird to land on his finger. “That lovely, lovely smell.”

“No,” replied Millicent. She'd never seen Mr. Pennystacker with such a spectacularly goofy look on his face.

“It smells like—like cinnamon buns,” said Mr. Pennystacker, “and a Saint Bernard I had as a child. Her name was Magda.”

“Magda?” asked Millicent. She was getting uncomfortable, less because of her wet clothing than because of Mr. Pennystacker's growing strangeness.

Mr. Pennystacker leaned back in his chair and continued as though he were alone in his office, talking to himself. “Magda,” he said, staring at the ceiling. “I called her Mad Dog, though. Her favorite game was cinnamon bun diving. We had an Olympic-sized swimming pool with a diving board at my childhood home. I'd climb onto the diving board, Mad Dog behind me, sniffing at a cinnamon bun I had in my hand. I'd throw the bun as far as I could into the pool and Mad Dog would leap off the diving board and paddle her heart out to get to that bun. We'd go like this for hours. Up and down the diving board we went, in and out of the water went Mad Dog until she was utterly exhausted. My, my. What fun. What a happy memory.”

Mr. Pennystacker sat for what seemed like minutes, beaming.

No wonder Mr. Pennystacker is so scary
, Millicent thought. His happiest memory involved torturing a dog with a pool and breakfast pastry.

Millicent cleared her throat.

“Oh,” said Mr. Pennystacker. “What are you doing here, Mad Dog—I mean, Millicent?”

“I'm, uh, I'm wet,” answered Millicent. She was tempted
to remind Mr. Pennystacker why she'd been called into his office in the first place, but she thought better of it. Bully-Be-Gone seemed to be working like it was supposed to for once.

“Silly girl,” Mr. Pennystacker said. “You mustn't wander about drenched. You might catch cold.” He stood up, walked around to Millicent, and tenderly placed a hand on her head and patted it. “I want you to go home,” he continued, escorting Millicent to the door. “Get out of those clothes, take a hot bath, and spend the day in bed, cuddled up with a warm blanket and warmer milk.”

Millicent crept out of Mr. Pennystacker's office, her evaporating footprints the only evidence she'd been there.

F
elicity peeked into the room while the gilded porter held the door. Inside, metal shelves stood from floor to ceiling, each weighted with stacks of luggage. Outside, Pinnimuk City Station bustled with activity.

“Please,” the porter said, gesturing for her to enter. She did and he shut the door.

“Are you going to lock me in here?” asked Felicity, feeling a little more than claustrophobic.

“No, no,” he replied.

“Are you going to stow me away in a steamer trunk?”

“No, no,” he said again. He pulled out a couple of suitcases
from a bottom shelf. He sat on one and offered the other to Felicity. She sat without a word. “The Fabulous Flying Felicity. My, my.” He took off his cap and scratched his head. “You were my very favorite performer.”

“Was I?” Felicity clasped her hands together on her lap. He was a fan. She wanted to hear more about how much he'd liked her act.

“Oh, yes,” he said.

“Do tell,” she said. “What was it about me you admired so?”

“Your bravery,” he said, “the way you made it look so effortless.”

“I was pretty good, wasn't I?” asked Felicity.

“Goodness, yes. Mother and Father took me to see you every visit the circus made to town. I loved acts of extreme daring. But my personality is of the type better equipped to watch such exhibitions of courage.” He paused for a moment, looking as though he were making a wish. “I collected your autographs, though,” he continued. “To this day, I have them arranged in a scrapbook in order by date. In fact, I got your signature scant minutes before you went through the tent roof—my last entry under your name.”

“Ah,” she sighed.

“Saddest day of my life,” he said.

“Mine too,” she said.

She wished she could tell him she remembered him. There were so many children, though. Too many to identify their adult faces years later. Did that matter? What mattered
was right now. Now, he was a grown-up child with a face full of wonder. In him, she saw the face of every child who'd ever loved her.

“Say,” he said, pulling a piece of paper and pen from his chest pocket, “can I have another autograph?”

“Gladly,” said Felicity, taking the paper and pen. She was almost brought to tears again, happy to have a name to sign and a fan for whom to sign it.

She signed the piece of paper and handed it to him.

He folded it carefully in two and put it in his wallet. “So, what happened to you? How can you be alive? The fall alone would've killed anyone.”

Felicity told him of the events following her supposed demise.

After ripping through the circus tent, she'd hurtled through the sky for a number of minutes, Pinnimuk City stretching below her like a relief map. She truly thought all was lost. Fortunately, Pinnimuk City's annual Hot Air Balloon Festival had been taking place the same day. The sky bulged with hundreds of hot air balloons in every size and color, like a huge kaleidoscopic mattress, to break her fall. She saw one balloon in particular growing larger and larger with each fraction of a second. She didn't remember the impact, but the balloon pilot, a kindly man who went only by Ed, later told her that she'd appeared out of nowhere and came crashing into his carriage, hitting her head in the process. She'd gotten amnesia from the collision and lain unconscious for nearly an hour.

Upon awakening, she remembered nothing of her human cannonball career, of her inventor husband. Her helmet had come off when she'd torn through the tent and the polka-dotted leotard she once adored now embarrassed her.

Ed invited her to stay at his place, in a gardener's cottage on his property. In exchange for free room and board, he asked that she care for his small agricultural plot while he conducted balloon rides and trainings. She agreed since her schedule was wide open for the foreseeable future.

She lived there, on Ed's Balloonist Dude Ranch, for a year, tending his gardens and eating fresh vegetables. Over time, though, she became restless. One spring day, the weather full of promise and the vegetable seeds tucked into their soil beds, she told Ed the time had come for them to part. Ed gave her a seldom-used brown tweed suit of his and a jar of pickled beets. He bid her a teary farewell and a smiling good luck.

She wandered for the next twenty or so years, up and down the complex street system of Pinnimuk City, searching for that special house that would jog her memory. She didn't find it. Gradually, she came to accept the streets as her future and discarded her dreams of a warm fire, a place to belong, and love. Home, she came to believe, was a cardboard box, a burrow under a bridge, or a space between trash cans in an alley.

She managed to maintain her health and enjoy hot meals through the generosity of the Sisters of Routine
Kindnesses and Involuntary Thoughtfulnesses, an order of nuns who wore wool habits as soft to the touch as asphalt, and who gave the downtrodden free medical and dental exams and baked lasagna.

This was her life thus far: a series of unsavory places to rest her head, of dental torture, of free Italian food. And it would have proceeded so if it were not for the recent smells in the park. She told him that she'd been asleep on a grassy knoll, that she'd been awakened by the most marvelous smells descending from the sky. They were circus smells, love smells, smells of her past. And she inhaled them like fresh air. What was wrong had been righted simply by breathing. Her memory had returned.

“And that,” she said, “is what happened.”

“Remarkable,” the porter said. “Astounding.”

“And that,” she said, “is why I must get home to my inventor. I've been gone for so long.”

“We will get you there,” the porter said. “Name's Garner, by the way. Garner Netterby.” He reached out his hand. She took it heartily and shook it, nearly seesawing his arm off. “First, we need to get you some presentable clothing, or you won't be allowed on the bus,” he said, standing.

“I've got five measly dollars,” Felicity said. “I don't think I can afford an outfit.” Her heart dropped. She was on the verge of crying yet again, unable to handle another obstacle.

“My dear.” Garner laughed. “You are sitting in the unclaimed baggage storage room—the final resting place of all abandoned, unwanted travel accessories. Amazing
what people leave behind: dresses, shoes, socks, makeup. Where the people go, why they desert their belongings is a mystery. Anyway, whatever you can find in this monstrous pile of luggage that fits you and is to your liking, you can have.”

“Oh,” whispered Felicity, surveying the room, awestruck, her eyes welling with tears. “How can I thank you?”

“By washing and dressing quickly,” he replied. “I could get into trouble for this. Regulations state that only employees are granted access to this room. There's a shower through there.” He indicated a door on the rear wall. “Now, hurry. I'll be outside guarding the entrance. Knock when you're ready.”

T
wenty minutes later, a rap at the door rang out. Garner, who stood at attention, leaned toward it secretively. “You done?” he asked.

“Yes,” Felicity answered.

Garner opened the door. He did a double take.

“Interesting choice,” he said.

“You like?” Felicity asked, doing a fashion model turn.

“Well,” said Garner, thinking briefly. “Yes. Yes, I do.” He laughed. “I do. Get it? I do?” he asked.

Of the garments available to her, in those mounds and mounds of totes and duffels and suitcases, Felicity had chosen a wedding dress. It was the color of a parchment scroll or breakfast tea with milk—beige, with tiny pearls
cascading from the neckline down to the waist. The narrow sleeves ended in points at the wrist and the skirt was a hill of satin. She'd swept her silvery hair into a bun. Yards of matching gossamer tulle formed the veil, sprouting from a ring of silk flowers resting solidly on her head.

Layered over the wedding dress was an orange parka with a fur-trimmed hood and so many pockets it looked like an overgrown fishing vest.

“I love this dress,” Felicity cooed from beneath the veil, swishing her skirt around, “and the jacket is divine. Lots of storage space.”

“You gonna wear the—” Garner started to ask, pointing to the veil. “Never mind. You look stunning.”

She pulled the veil back to reveal that she had done her makeup: purple eyeshadow, peach lipstick, and round pools of berry-colored blush on her cheeks.

“I picked out shoes, too,” she said, lifting her skirt to show him her selection. “They kind of match my eyelids. Hope I didn't go overboard.”

His eyebrows jumped at the sight of the lilac hiking boots she had on. “Not in the least.”

“It's been so long since I've felt pretty,” she said. “I feel magical. Absolutely magical.”

“Good,” said Garner, “because we're going to need a dose of magic to get you on the last bus to Masonville. C'mon.”

He grabbed her by the arm and they ran together, weaving through the throngs of people, to the south ticket
counter. Garner sounded his gold whistle to clear a path. People applauded as they swept past, cheering what they thought was a bride. They clattered over one of the glass bridges where Felicity stopped to wave at a gondolier. Garner urged her forward.

Soon, they stood breathless at the ticket counter.

“Nick,” said Garner to the ticket agent, who was preparing to shut his gated window, “we need to get this beautiful lady a ticket to Masonville.”

“But it's leaving in—” complained Nick, checking his watch, “one minute. Regulations say we can't sell tickets within five minutes of departure.”

“Nick, my friend,” said Garner, leaning so that his nose touched the glass window. “Regulations, schmegulations. This is urgent.” Nick stared at him blankly. “It's her wedding day,” he lied.

“Okay, okay,” said Nick. “Don't tell anyone I did this.” His fingers flew across the buttons of his ticket machine and a strip of hard paper shot out. He slid it under the glass partition. “No need to pay. It's on the house,” he said to Felicity. “Have a wonderful wedding.”

Garner and Felicity ran to the platform. The Masonville bus was pulling away from the boarding zone. He blew hard on his whistle and the bus screeched to a stop, then gasped. The double doors hissed open.

“Madame,” he said, “your coach awaits.”

She put her palm to his cheek. “I can't thank you enough,” she whispered in his ear as she hugged him tightly.

“Nonsense,” he said, his forehead going red. “On board you go.”

Felicity hiked up her skirt, easing into the bus as though she'd worn a wedding dress every day of her life. She found a seat near a window. The bus groaned into action.

Garner stood, waving with his right hand. His chest puffed. He was proud to have played a small part in sending his boyhood heroine on the most important trip of her life. He stuck his left hand in his jacket pocket, feeling for a hanky to dab a tear from his cheek. He felt a crumpled piece of paper and he removed it. It was a five dollar bill.

From her seat on the bus, her hand pressed against the window, Felicity watched Garner get smaller and smaller as the bus backed out of the station, until he was the size of a child—a child who would grow into an exceptional young man.