The Carnival of Lost Souls : A Handcuff Kid Novel (4 page)

The petits fours were devoured. The teacups were drained. Mildred clapped furiously, a genuine smile spread across her face. Jack and his handcuffs had found a home.

Jack had almost two entire weeks of living in the professor’s house under his belt when a strange feeling started to creep in. He’d just returned to McDovall Academy after his brief suspension, and at first he suspected that he was having a heart attack. Either that or a bad case of indigestion. It was spaghetti day in the cafeteria, and he had wolfed down his lunch, including two slices of garlic bread, in, like, five seconds. He considered asking his geometry teacher, Ms. Turner, to call the paramedics, but then he pictured her giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Grooming was an extracurricular activity Ms. Turner didn’t participate in, as her she-stache proved. After a minute he reminded himself that he was only twelve, and probably not having a heart attack. He
realized he was feeling excitement—a feeling he had never before associated with going home. No wonder he mistook it for a heart attack.

As soon as he got home, Jack ran into the kitchen to help Concheta cook dinner. Concheta was more than a housekeeper; she was the professor’s caretaker, who came to the house every day. Jack suspected that the professor liked having other people around, and so Concheta kept coming and cleaning the already clean house. She was such a tiny woman that Jack thought he could pick her up and twirl her in a circle—she was that small.

Donning his apron, the professor joined Jack and Concheta in the kitchen, where he pulled fresh vegetables and meat from the refrigerator. Dinnertime was an event in the Hawthorne household. None of the food came out of a box, not even the mashed potatoes.

More than once in his life, Jack had gone to bed hungry. He used to dream of Chinese takeout in those cool little white fold-up boxes, or steak cooked just right, not too bloody or too burned. And he loved birthday cake with his name written on it in squiggly icing. He never dreamed of neon orange powdery cheese and macaroni, which he had eaten so many times in his life that the instructions on the box were ingrained in his memory. The professor was a risk-taker in the kitchen, giving the recipe a quick glance and shutting the book.
Recipes aren’t written in stone, he’d say, someone made them up, and the best recipes are created when the chef adds his own signature. Jack liked the idea of adding his own signature to things.

“It is very important that you learn how to cook,” the professor said, opening the oven. A wave of hot air drifted over Jack’s skin. He closed the oven and placed a hand on Jack’s arm. “Fate dealt me a terrible blow, my boy. None of my three stunningly beautiful wives—Matilda, Claudia, or Beatrice—knew how to cook.” He shook his head and brandished a stalk of celery in the air. “It was as if their beauty had exhausted any and all domestic skills.”

Jack laughed. “At least they were beautiful.”

“Ah, the view, my boy. The view was intoxicating.”

Jack stirred the milk with scallions floating in it so it didn’t scald. Then the hot cubes of cooked potato went in and the whole mess got mixed up with beaters. Jack pulled out the beaters prior to slowing the speed, sending hunks of potatoes splattering all over the stove, his face, and his shirt. Concheta howled with laughter from where she sat at the kitchen island shucking the last of the fresh peas. She hopped down off of her stool, walked over, and wiped a blob of potato from Jack’s cheek. Then she licked it right off her finger and said, “
Mi chico
tastes delicious.”

Jack beamed. He was a mess, and he had never been
happier. He didn’t mind it that much anymore when the professor called him “my boy,” and he really liked it when Concheta called him “my boy” in Spanish, “
mi chico
.” It wasn’t so much the
chico
part, but the
mi
part. No one had ever thought of him as
theirs
before.

As the professor spooned heaping piles of mashed potatoes onto the plates, Jack saw a flash of dark blue on the professor’s wrist. He squinted, focused on the color, and leaned over the professor to get a better look, but the professor’s gigantic gold watch blocked his view. Poking the professor with the end of the potato spoon, Jack casually tried to nudge the watch back, causing the platter of steaming potatoes to teeter in the professor’s grasp.

“Settle down, my boy. Dinner will be ready in a minute. What’s gotten into you?” The professor set the plate down. His arm fell to his side, out of Jack’s view.

“Nothing. I just wanted to help.” Jack maneuvered to the professor’s other side. Looking quickly, he saw a flash again—the midnight blue stain. He knew it! Unable to get a good look by stealth, Jack took the direct approach. “What’s that on your wrist, Professor?”

The professor grabbed his watch and pulled his arm close to his body. “Oh, this? It’s nothing.” He turned his back, creating a wall between himself and Jack while he continued with the dinner preparations.

Jack’s eyes lit up. He had seen marks like this before,
but never on a teacher, and he never imagined he’d see one on the professor. He grabbed the professor’s arm and tried to push his sleeve up. “No way! Let me see.”

The professor slipped out of Jack’s grasp and shoved a steaming dinner plate in his hands. “Take this to the table.”

Jack took the plate grudgingly. Maybe the professor was embarrassed and that was why he didn’t want to show him what was concealed beneath his watch.

“Can I see it?” Jack asked, and then whispered, “I won’t tell anyone.”

The professor moved around the kitchen, tense and quick. “Very observant of you, my boy. You have discovered my little secret.” He reached behind his back to untie his apron, yanking at the strings. “A folly from my youth. I wasn’t much older than you when I got it.”

“Please, I just want to take a look at your wrist.” Jack rested his head against the professor’s arm and stared at the watch.

“See.” The professor held up his palms and wiggled his fingers, finally showing Jack the wrist without the watch.

“The other wrist,” Jack said, nodding at the watch.

The professor flitted around the kitchen, collecting hot used pans like an anxious bird. “Oh, yes.
This
wrist.” The gold watch shone in the light of the kitchen as the professor shifted his wrist from side to side. The shiny reflection winked up at Jack, hiding a secret.

Jack latched on to the professor’s arm, unable to contain his excitement any longer. “Can you take the watch off, please?” If the professor didn’t hurry up and take the watch off, Jack would yank it off for him.

At last, the professor relented, unhooking his wristwatch and slipping it off. Jack wrinkled his nose and pressed his face to the professor’s bony arm as he examined the mark closer. An inky, round outline bled into the professor’s skin. A thrill cascaded over Jack, because he was right. He stared down at a stunning work of art—a tattoo! The professor had no reason to be embarrassed. An impressively detailed drawing, the tattoo portrayed the face of a clock divided in half by a moon and sun, with stars surrounding the outer circle. There were tiny, swirled graphic symbols for noon, three, six, and nine o’clock, with an hour hand pointing to the symbol for twelve. Solemn expressions on the faces of the sun and moon reminded Jack of the drawings on old maps.

“I never thought you’d have a tattoo,” Jack said, wondering what else he didn’t know about the professor.

“Sometimes people confound your expectations. I’m not such a boring old goat.” A feeble smile drifted across the professor’s face.

“This is a good one. I like that you got it on your wrist, too. That’s not a typical place for a tattoo.” Jack rubbed his finger over the surface of the tattoo to make sure it was real.

“I wanted it on a place my mother wouldn’t see. But I think she caught on to my ruse, as from then on I bathed with my watch on.”

Jack laughed at the image of a scrawny young Professor Hawthorne sitting in a bathtub, wearing just his wristwatch. “Where did you get it done?”

“It’s a long story. I’m sure you have better things to do than listen to me prattle on.” The professor leaned wearily against the counter.

“Not really,” Jack said, persisting. “Tattoos are never boring.”

The professor rubbed at the mark like it irritated him, a deep itch he couldn’t scratch. He slipped on his watch, the tattoo vanishing beneath a flash of gold. He slowly rolled his sleeves down as he spoke. “Tattoos are painful, and sometimes so are the stories that brought them about. My story is an unpleasant one. It would be unwise of me to risk telling you.”

“Risk what?” Jack pushed.

The professor glanced over at Concheta, who had been silently watching. “I can’t.” The professor shook his head. “I don’t want my old story to give you nightmares.”

“I’ve
got
to hear it now.” Jack crossed his arms and dug his heels in. “We can hang out together after dinner and talk.”

“Don’t push the professor,
mi chico
. If he wants to keep his secrets, let him,” Concheta said.

Jack frowned at Concheta’s rational answer. “Sorry to pry, Professor.”

The professor paused, briefly drifting in and out of his own memories. “This story is serious business. I would have to be certain that you realize what you are getting into.” Behind the professor’s eyes Jack could see his mind working, thinking, hiding something other than a tattoo. And Jack had the suspicious feeling his comment was less of a warning and more of a dare.

“I don’t scare easily,” Jack said, sticking out his chest.

“Well, you were going to find out about it sooner or later.” The professor tapped the face of his watch. “If you insist.”

“I insist. I insist,” Jack said, beaming at Concheta. Pulling out that win was easy, maybe a little too easy, but he got what he wanted.

“After dinner I’ll tell you the tale about the man who gave me this tattoo.” The professor turned around and almost whispered, “It’s a dangerous story I can never forget.”

“Awesome! I love scary stories,” Jack said, bounding over to the dinner table. “Can I get a tattoo?”

“
No
!” Concheta yelled. “Only hoodlums get tattoos. No offense, Professor,” Concheta added quickly, smiling at the professor. She handed Jack a pile of silverware. “Now set the table,
mi chico
. And be careful.”

After dinner Jack plunged his hands into the scalding dishwater and scrubbed as fast as he could so that he could hear the tattoo story before bed. The professor informed Jack that sadly, his beautiful wives hadn’t done dishes, either. Another lesson to learn.

Jack hurried down the hall and into the office, which had previously been off-limits. The professor’s office was creep city. Towering bookshelves, filled with thick, dusty books, lined the walls of the dimly lit room. A huge desk strewn with paper dominated the center of the office, and a collection of weird, yellowed animal skulls hung on the lone empty space on the wall above the desk. Jack grimaced, sickly fascinated by the skulls. It was like their hollow eye sockets were watching his every move. The professor was getting more interesting by the second.