Authors: George Gipe
Barney looked sideways at his new companion, backed away a few steps. It looked so soft and gentle, but from dealing with squirrels, he knew that the cute ones had the most devilish tricks. A low growl rose involuntarily from his chest.
“C’mon, Barney,” Billy laughed. “Be a good boy. He’s not gonna hurt you.”
Returning his attention to the strange animal, Billy put his finger gingerly through the holes in the box to touch it. Surprisingly, the creature did not flinch or cower. Its fur was warm and downy, like that of a Persian cat.
“Where’d you find him?” Billy asked.
“Some old junk store in Chinatown. Had to lay down a bundle for him, too.”
Lynn looked closely at the creature. “Did he come with papers?” she asked.
Rand shook his head.
“Well, suppose he has rabies or something,” his wife persisted. “Doesn’t he need shots? Is he housetrained?”
“I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” Rand muttered. “Honey, I didn’t have time to check that out. I was worried they wouldn’t let him on the plane. As it was, I had to smuggle him aboard in my garment bag. Don’t worry. He’ll be all right.”
But Lynn was not to be assured so easily. “What if he’s some kind of rat or something?” she sniffed.
Billy, tickling Gizmo’s chin, looked askance at his mother. “No, he’s too cute to be a rat,” he said.
Lynn shrugged. “He’s cute, all right. But I sure hope he’s not carrying something. And speaking of that, how can we be sure he’s a he?”
“The Chinese fella told me it’s a he,” Rand replied.
“A he what?” Billy asked. “Didn’t he say what kind of animal he is?”
“Yeah. He’s a Mogwai . . .”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know. It’s something in Chinese, I think. Anyway, we’ll call him Gizmo, O.K.?”
“Why not?” Billy said. “That’s as good as anything, and since we don’t know what he is, it sure fits.”
Gizmo, more at ease now around his new family, had started to hum in his unearthly falsetto tone. The three were delighted and amused by the sound, Billy breaking into applause. Only the four-legged creature remained aloof and in the background.
“Well, Merry Christmas,” Rand said.
Billy gave him a hug. “Thanks a lot, Dad,” he said, smiling. “It’s really a wonderful present.”
“Glad you like it, son.”
When she saw Billy lift the creature from the box and cuddle it to his chest, Lynn couldn’t resist the urge to capture the moment on film. Reaching quickly into the drawer, she brought out her Instamatic camera, slid back a few feet until she had Gizmo and Billy neatly framed, then glanced out of the viewfinder.
“O.K., smile!” she said.
As Gizmo reached up to lick Billy’s cheek, Lynn pressed the button. As the flashbulb went off, Gizmo let out a wild shriek, threw himself over Billy’s shoulder, and, whining piteously, scrambled beneath the sofa.
“What happened?” Lynn asked.
“Forgot to tell you,” Rand replied. “The little fella’s scared of bright lights. That’s why I turned the lights down, but I forgot about the flashbulb.”
As he talked, he fumbled beneath the sofa until he found Gizmo’s foot. “C’mon, boy,” he soothed. “It’s O.K. It’ll be all right. We won’t do that again. Promise.”
Gentle urging finally calmed Gizmo to the point where he allowed himself to be slid from the cool dark comfort beneath the sofa. His humming had stopped, though, and he shivered slightly.
“Still a little scared, I guess,” Billy said. He stroked Gizmo’s head gently.
“I should’ve told you about the light,” Rand said. “There’s a couple other rules to remember about this guy. At least that’s what the Chinese boy said. Number two is to keep him away from water. And number three is, never let him eat after midnight.”
Lynn broke into laughter. “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said. “What difference could it make when he eats?”
“Don’t ask me,” Rand replied. “I’m just tellin’ you what was said to me.”
Lynn stood up. “O.K., we’ll go along with that. I just hope he doesn’t have to eat filet mignon every night.”
“No, he eats anything,” Rand said. “No restriction on that. As a matter of fact, the boy’s grandfather said he even ate cardboard, that white stuff they pack boxes with, and a rubber washer. He probably has a stomach like the town incinerator.”
“He ate a washer?” Billy repeated.
“That’s what the man said.”
Billy reached into the magazine rack adjoining the sofa and found a crumpled piece of cardboard. Rolling it into a ball, he offered it to the furry creature.
“Here, Gizmo,” he said. “Try this for a snack.”
Gizmo sniffed at the pulpy white mass. Many years before, on a whim, he had decided to humor the Chinese man by eating a tasteless object. He had enjoyed seeing the old man’s pleasure and fortunately, it was a pleasure that was not perpetrated on him very often. That was because the Chinese gentleman had a sense of responsibility and self-control. Rapidly assessing his new situation, Gizmo doubted seriously that these people would be able to restrict themselves quite as well. If he gave in to them now, before long they would have him eating every insipid piece of junk they could find, just to have a laugh. No, clearly this was the time to train these new owners and train them right. Turning aside, he refused to have anything to do with the cardboard.
“I guess he’s not hungry,” Billy said. “Either that or the Chinese man was pullin’ your leg.”
Lynn returned from the kitchen holding a small slice of meat loaf in the palm of her hand. “Let’s see what he does with this,” she said.
Gizmo sniffed, quivered with anticipation a moment, then snapped up the delicious morsel and forced himself to chew slowly so as to savor it. By the time he swallowed the mouthful, his contented hum had returned.
The family seemed pleased. Gizmo was pleased, too. At least with this group he’d never swallow another petroleum-based product again.
C H A P T E R
EIGHT
T
he few days remaining before Christmas passed quickly, except for the youngsters of Kingston Falls Junior-Senior High School. Because of a heavy early snowfall in November, which had canceled classes for nearly a week, the pre-Christmas vacation had been shortened by two days, which meant that classes seemed to drag on interminably. If the kids didn’t like this state of affairs, Roy Hanson liked it even less. Getting their attention was difficult enough under the best of circumstances; breaking through the wall of lethargy so close to Christmas was another definition of impossible.
Still, one had to try. That was part of the challenge of teaching, and if there was one thing Roy Hanson liked, it was a challenge. The first black instructor at an exclusive private school in the county, he had left there three years ago to become only the second black teacher in Kingston Falls. Now, at thirty-four, he was recognized as one of the best biology and natural science instructors in the area. Tall and stockily built, he was a teacher with whom few students messed. Corporal punishment in the public schools was a thing of the past, of course, but at times Hanson could be so aroused by an uncooperative student that some wondered if there might not be a one-day revival. Keeping the class members a bit nervous—particularly the potential troublemakers—was part of Hanson’s strategy, and it generally worked. Soon he had no undercurrents of cross talk to compete with and certainly no overt wisecracks. That was exactly the way he wanted it.
There were limits, of course. He could command their attention but not necessarily their interest. Recognizing this, he decided to abandon their study of the circulatory system of the frog in favor of an illustrated talk he had worked up dealing with “new” animals. It was a pet (so to speak) topic to which he had dedicated considerable research. Someday he hoped to sell it as an article or monograph in a scholarly magazine. One thing was sure: if he could raise these students from their lethargy with it, it had to have something.
“We hear a lot about animals becoming extinct,” he began, “but what we don’t hear much about is some new animals which have only recently been discovered. In 1812, a scientist named Georges Cuvier announced that every species that existed on earth had been discovered already. But he was wrong.”
Pressing the slide-changing button, he produced a photo of a deerlike animal with long wavy horns.
“Anybody know the name of this animal?” he asked.
No one did.
“It’s called an okapi, and it’s a close relation to the giraffe. Man didn’t see his first live okapi until 1900.”
He changed the slide. “Anyone know the name of this animal?” he asked.
No one did.
He told them about the mountain nyala, pygmy hippopotamus, Komodo dragon, Andean wolf, Congo peacock, kouprey, coelacanth, and long-nosed peccary, all of which had been discovered—or rediscovered—during the twentieth century. No one knew anything and no one volunteered any questions.
Except Pete Fountaine.
“Mr. Hanson?” he said.
Hanson nodded, silently thankful that someone had gotten more out of his lecture than twenty minutes’ worth of daydreaming.
“Yes?”
“Is it worth anything if you discover a new animal?”
It was, Roy Hanson thought, a surprisingly good question. Embarrassingly, he didn’t know the answer.
“I really guess it depends,” he replied. “I suppose if you found one animal that the government or a zoo wanted very badly, you could sell it for a good sum. Most scientists are more interested in the glory that goes with such a discovery, though.”
“That would mean money, wouldn’t it?” Pete persisted. “I mean, they could go on TV and recommend pet food and stuff.”
The class giggled, Roy Hanson smiled, and Pete beamed at having created a joke without having to brave the teacher’s wrath.
A mild chain reaction was caused by Pete’s question. One student asked where you could go in the hopes of finding a new species; another asked how you could tell if an animal was “new” or just something strange he had never seen before. It was all academic, of course, since there was practically no chance a person would casually encounter a new species. Such spontaneous interest in a topic was rare, so rare that Roy Hanson encouraged the discussion to go on until the bell ended the class.
“Tomorrow we’ll get back to the frog,” he said, smiling when the class emitted a predictable groan.
As he turned his attention to some papers on his desk, he caught a glimpse of Pete Fountaine about to leave. He smiled and gave him a little wave.
Pete smiled slightly in response, the most that he would allow himself lest some other student accuse him of playing up to the teacher. Outside, he continued to feel good about the attention he had gotten and discussion he had generated. He was feeling so good, in fact, that he decided to go visit Billy Peltzer after putting in a couple of hours as a Christmas tree.
For the past few days Billy had gotten up early and returned home as soon as he finished work at the bank. The reason, of course, was Gizmo. He was such a fascinating creature Billy wanted to be with him every minute. He was vulnerable, too. Once, while shaving (with Gizmo watching contentedly), Billy had accidentally turned the mirror so that it caught the hallway light and reflected it back at Gizmo. Shrieking loudly as the beam of bright light blinded him, Gizmo had toppled from the edge of Billy’s desk into the waste can—falling on his head.
By the time Billy got to him, the tiny creature was bruised, bleeding, and quivering with shock and fear. He was in such a bad state that even Barney, still chafing with jealousy, whined in sympathy. Billy wrapped the wound in a bandage, talked soothingly to him for a long time, and eventually lulled him to sleep.
The next day Gizmo was markedly better. Billy was glad, for he would not enjoy taking Gizmo to a veterinarian who would have no idea what sort of animal he was.
“Watch Gizmo for me, will you, Mom?” Billy called as he left the house for work.
“Why?” she asked. “He’s in the cage, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, but with that cut on his head and all . . .”
“O.K. I’ll drop in every once in a while and see how he’s doing,” she promised. “And we can keep the hot line open to the vet.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
He arrived at work early, a habit he’d taken up since the incident with Mrs. Deagle. The door to Roland Corben’s office was open, but no one else seemed to be in the bank. Hearing a rustle of paper, he hung up his coat and looked around for the source of the sound.
“Billy?” he heard Kate’s voice whisper.
She was in Corben’s office. On the desk was a large map of Kingston Falls, detailed enough to include every street, home, and business. Some of the buildings were marked in red, all included in a section bounded by a dotted black line. Kate was staring down at the map, her lips tight and eyes blazing.
“Have you seen this?” she asked.
Billy shrugged. “Kingston Falls,” he murmured. “Yeah. I’ve been there.”
She didn’t appreciate his flippancy. “Look at the places in red,” she said.
“What’s it mean?” he asked.
“Those are the homes of people who are renting or leasing from Mrs. Deagle. Most of them are people who are out of work, laid off, or just can’t afford to keep up the payments. And Mrs. Deagle is taking advantage of that.”
“How? She can’t evict all those people at once.”
“The heck she can’t.”
“But then who would pay the rent?”
“She doesn’t need the rent money. It looks like she’s interested in a takeover. Here.” Kate put her finger on one of the squares. “Your house is in red, and so’s mine.”
“Yeah. But Dad’s not that far behind in the payments. Just one or two.”
“Neither is my family. In fact, we’re in O.K. shape.”
“So what does the red mean?”
“I think it means property she can take over in a hurry if she wants to. Something about options.”
“But what’s she gonna do with all of them?”
“She wants to own everything . . .”
“Why? What for?”
“I heard them talking in the office a few days ago,” Kate whispered. “Mrs. Deagle’s been having meetings with the president of Hitox Chemical. She wants to sell them the land.”