The Spoon in the Bathroom Wall (2 page)

Martha slogged along in a daze of gloom. She didn't feel like going home to the boiler room. Her father would read her face like three-inch headlines and know that something was wrong. Then she'd have to fudge about the Marthur incident. But sooner or later, he'd hear about it. The jibe about being the daughter-of-a-janitor would jolt him like a jab in the ribs.

“I'll go see Ferlin,” she muttered. “If anybody can perk me up, she can.” Martha walked up to Ferlin's door and nearly bonked into it, she was so lost in her worries.

“Hello, Martha,” called Ferlin from inside. “Come on in.”

That's so odd
, Martha thought.
How does she know I'm here
? She opened the door and went in.

The science room had a strange feeling about it, as if magic had sparkled up from Somewhere and shimmered all through it. If there
was
magic around, however, it was not powerful enough to keep things clean. There were messes all over the place (even on the ceiling). There were artifacts and relics scattered about and wildlife on the loose. A sign on Ferlin's desk said:
ENJOY THE WEIRDNESS
.

Normally, Martha would have first talked with the griffin (a regal beast—half eagle, half lion), which was daintily nibbling figs off Ferlin's desk. The griffin was wonky for figs. Whenever it smelled one, even a mile away, the creature sallied forth to find it. (The griffin always stayed stock-still around Dr. Klunk. He thought it was a fake; the kids knew it wasn't.)

This day Martha didn't even glance at the griffin. “How did you know I was outside?” she asked Ferlin.

“Sensed it. I'm loaded with sense!” Ferlin laughed heartily.

Ferlin was wearing her favorite outfit: a plum-colored gown spangled with Oreos in orbit and a hat made from a neon-orange construction cone. Her earrings were oversize lumps resembling (or
were
they?) asteroids. Her white hair shot out in a frenzy, like electrified cotton candy. Her eyes flared as though she were constantly hatching plots. (She was.)

“You look a bit dolorous,” said Ferlin.

“Huh?”

“Downcast. Despondent. In the dumps. It's the name, isn't it?”

“You heard it on the loudspeaker, right?”

“I didn't hear a thing. I had my earplugs in earlier—to enjoy the gorgeosity of SILENCE.” (Her earplugs were big fat lima beans that glowed like little lightbulbs.)

“So how come you know about the name?”

“Who can say?” Ferlin said mysteriously, gazing off into space. Ferlin always knew stuff before you told her. “I think
Marthur
has a certain
je ne sais quoi
,” she went on, fumbling for something in her voluminous purse. “Rhymes with
Arthur.
He was quite a king.”

King!
Martha thought. She was about to mention the odd saying on the wall, but Ferlin kept right on talking.

“Your new name could be worse.”

“Not much.” Martha moped.

“Could be—Martholomew.” Ferlin's eyes glittered like glass.

“
No way!
I'd rather kiss a slug than be called
that!
”

“Then be grateful it's Marthur.”

“I guess I'll have to be.”

Ferlin kept rummaging in her handbag. “What I have in here is absolutely hush-hush.” She lowered her voice. “My reputation's already a bit iffy.”

“Hush-hush,” Marthur repeated. She could hardly wait to see what it was.

“
Ah-ha!
” Ferlin cried suddenly. “
There
you are!”

She pulled out a violently purple egg carton, embellished with the letters
X-C
and a funny emblem that looked like a weird old spoon. She took the eggs out of the carton one by one and placed them precariously on a slanted desktop.

“Look out! They're going to smash!” yelped Marthur. She dashed to stop the eggs' roll. But before she could catch them, they sprouted legs, stood up, and tap danced.

“Eggs with legs!” Marthur clapped happily. “I love them!”

“I knew you would,” said Ferlin. “Care to place them back in there? They were running around all morning.”

Beaming like a jack-o'-lantern, Marthur carefully put the eggs into the purple carton. One kept trying to escape. “NO NAP!” it grumbled loudly.

“Stop that!” said Ferlin severely.

The egg dragged its feet, but at last climbed into its cardboard nest.

Gently, Marthur closed the carton. Everything got quiet. Almost.

“Did you hear that?” Marthur asked.

“What?”

“Scraping. Outside.”

“Didn't hear a thing,” said Ferlin. She poked inside her ears and muttered, “Did I put those beans back in?”

Marthur was worried. Was somebody out there? Rufus, maybe? Would he spill the beans about the eggs to Dr. Klunk?

Marthur listened closely, holding her breath. Nothing. “Could I say good night to the eggs?” she asked Ferlin.

“Certain!'.”

Marthur leaned close to the carton. Twelve times she whispered shyly, “Good night.” She heard a dozen mumbled “good nights” in reply and shivered with delight.

“Thanks, Ferlin,” said Marthur. “I feel much better.”

“Jolly good,” said Ferlin. “But remember—don't tell anybody.”

“I never would,” Marthur promised.

They went their separate ways. It was late and the school was pretty quiet. But a few kids were still straggling around, having a bubble-gum-blowing contest—even though that was against the rules. Marthur wouldn't tell on them. Everything was against the rules at Horace E. Bloggins.

“Hi, Marthur!” the kids yelled between bubbles. “Wanna hang out?”

“Hi!” she called back cheerfully. “I can't. I've got to go see my father!”

Marthur was definitely perked up.
Eggs with legs.
She giggled on her way to the boiler room. Like magic, Marthur had forgotten her troubles—clanking pipes, her mangled name, and Dr. Klunk and Rufus. She had also forgotten about the king.

Marthur never saw her father much; he was so busy doing junk for Dr. Klunk. That made her terribly sad. Their hours rarely crisscrossed. But when they did, the Snapdragons made the most of it. After they gulped supper (in case he had to leave in a rush), Luther read aloud to Marthur (both without earmuffs). He read any story bit he could fit in before some more work came up, hollering over the scronk of the pipes.

Sometimes he stopped reading and bellowed out of the blue, “What's your dream, dear? Apart from wanting bacon, I mean. What's your utmost fondest most preposterous outlandish wish?”

Marthur would gaze at a picture on the wall. (With love, Luther Snapdragon tacked up all of her drawings.)

“I want to be a teacher. Just like Ferlin. She makes things better for the kids at Horace E. Bloggins.”

Marthur's wish was always the same.

“How I love to hear that,” said her father every time. “It's an unselfish dream—the very best kind.

“Hold fast to dreams,” Luther quoted at the top of his lungs while the pipes clanked, “'Cause when dreams go—well, they just go. A great poet wrote that.”

Each time her father said the poem, it was a bit different. But he always got the gist.

 

Still thinking about the dancing eggs, Marthur danced through the door and into the boiler room.

“Hello, my sweetheart!” cried Luther Snapdragon above the hiss of the pipes. “Did you have a frabjous day?” (He enjoyed using odd words to entertain her.)

“FRABJOUS!” hollered Marthur. Then they both laughed.

“Can we read, Daddy?” Marthur asked.

“I've only got time for the ‘hold fast' poem, then it's back to work.” Luther blasted out energetically, “Hold fast to dreams. 'Cause if dreams run, life is like having—uh—no sun! A great poet wrote that.”

“I know,” Marthur yelled, “a
very
great poet!”

“What's your dream, dear?” Luther asked.

“To be a teacher. Just like Ferlin,” said Marthur. “Daddy, what's
your
dream?”

“For your dream to come true. Well, gotta go!”

Luther kissed her on the top of the head (in a hollow spot where she'd cut some gum out).

“Hold fast, my dumpling!”

“Hold fast, Daddy!”

 

Luther Snapdragon hadn't been gone long when—
wham! wham! wham!
—a frightful pounding rattled the sweltering boiler room. Marthur had put her earmuffs on while she did her homework. But the racket was so loud, she still heard it. (And felt it.) Suddenly, a length of old pipe slumped like a log on a fire. She braced herself for the whole place to cave in.

But nothing collapsed on her. The sound was coming from only one spot. Somebody was pummeling the door! (Luckily, she'd locked it.)

“Who is it?” she yelled.

“Rufus, you doofus!”

Marthur's stomach dropped. What in the name of all that was horrible was
he
doing there? Why wasn't he home? And why would he come to Marthur's, of all places?

May as well be the big bad wolf
, Marthur thought. She held her breath and waited for him to huff and puff and blow the whole place down.

“What do you want?” She tried to sound brave, but her voice was shaking.

“I WANT THOSE DANCING EGGS!”

Marthur's legs quivered like jelly. Her head spun. The dancing eggs were a secret between her and Ferlin!

“What did you say? You want to dance?” she shouted at Rufus, hoping she'd heard him wrong.

“In your dreams, brain-o! I want the eggs!”

So... She hadn't imagined that scraping sound outside Ferlin's classroom. It was Rufus the rat, spying for Dr. Klunk.

“
Which
eggs?” Marthur stalled like mad. “Ferlin's got goose eggs and tortoise eggs and platypus eggs and hummingbird eggs and eel eggs and grouse eggs and louse eggs and snake eggs and steak eggs and—”

“Shut your stupid egg-a-thon up!” Rufus hollered. “Anyways, there's no such thing as steak eggs.”

“Where do you think steaks come from?” Marthur blathered on.

“Don't mess with me, smarty-pants. I mean the eggs your precious Ferlin pulled from her purse. I've got a plan for those little hoofers!”

“What gophers?” Marthur shrieked. “I don't know what you're talking about!”

“Yeah, right!” Rufus roared back. “Get 'em or I'll pulverize—” Rufus stopped. He had a better idea. “Get 'em or we'll dump over every trash can in school!”

Marthur groaned, imagining mounds of garbage everywhere.

“Your daddy'll look like a slacker and lose his job. Then you'll be in the street—and you'll stop buggin' me!”

“Me bug YOU? You're
crazy!
”

“Shut your face and get the eggs from that science freak!”

“No!” Marthur yelled frantically. “They're Ferlin's!”

“Tough tarantulas! I want 'em! An' I want 'em TOMORROW!”

Marthur gasped. “But
how!
”

“You're so
smart
, figure it out.”

“I CANT!”

“Swipe 'em, brain-o!”

Then Marthur remembered the king. She was desperate, so she hollered out, “The king is coming—and he's going to get you!”

“A king! Man, you'll try
anything!
” Rufus cackled like a lunatic hen. “Now get those eggs, or Daddy's had it!”

Marthur heard him scuttle away. Ferlin's words rang in her ears: “But remember—don't tell anybody.”

Marthur was aghast.
She'll think I told Rufus! Ferlin trusts me. How can I steal from her? But if I don't
...

Marthur's world was falling to pieces. She'd lost her name. She was about to become a thief and lose her friend Ferlin. For some crazy reason, Rufus hated her. Even if she got the dancing eggs, he was rotten enough to dump the trash, anyway. Then her father would be bogged down with more work—or he'd lose his job and they'd be on the street. On top of everything else, from shouting she had a sore throat. It was too much. A king couldn't help her. Nobody could. Marthur threw herself onto her cot and sobbed.

 

The next morning Marthur woke up wanting to urp. She'd hardly slept a smidgen. Dumped-over trash cans and stolen eggs got scrambled up in her nightmares. She was tom in two. What should she do about the little dancers? And what about her father?

Luther Snapdragon had always told her, “Blood's thicker than soup.” Now, crumpled on her rumpled cot, she knew what he meant: Family comes first. She had to stick by her father—and steal from her teacher.

Maybe a king really
was
coming. But she just couldn't wait for such a far-fetched thing. She'd steal Ferlin's key from Luther's master set and snatch the eggs when Ferlin wasn't there. Just one teensy problem: The watchful griffin would probably eat her. Yikes! She'd have to heist them from under Ferlin's nose!

Little by little, Marthur hatched a plan. She'd snitch the dancing eggs during science class.

It took Marthur a while to work out her plan, so class had already begun when she slouched into the room, hunched under her father's heavy dark coat. Her own was too raggedy and small to cover up stolen eggs. She looked like somebody wearing her own shadow.

Ferlin had just launched a small rocket fueled with cranberry juice. The rocket sizzled around the ceiling. All eyes were fixed on it. All but Marthur's. She pretended to spit her gum into the wastebasket while she looked all around. The eggs were nowhere in sight! Of course, Ferlin wouldn't just leave them out for somebody to pick up. Maybe break. Where
were
they?

Marthur stooped down, fumbling like she'd missed the wastebasket. And—what was this?—on the handle of a small cupboard, she saw the selfsame design as on the egg carton: that funny old spoon. She gave the handle a little tug, and—oh my!—it opened. Inside the cupboard was the purple carton.