A Nose for Adventure Page 8

  “Safe? I suppose so. We have to make a plan about Sally. My mom will hit the roof if I bring a dog home. We’ve got to find a way to hide her.”

  “Ah.”

  “The first question is, do we tell Beatrice? That’s my nanny.”

  I think a minute. “Was she supposed to meet you at the airport?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And I guess she’s the older lady who takes you for ice cream?”

  Frieda nods.

  “Then don’t tell her,” I say.

  “Why not?”

  “Because she doesn’t make you laugh. A secret like this is something for people who make you laugh.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “That’s pretty good,” she says. “You’re not always as stupid as you look, kid … I mean, Alan.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  “But what am I going to do? I really … oh, I really want to keep her.”

  Sally slouches up to the wagon. Puts her head in Frieda’s lap. Frieda puts her arms around the dog and squeezes hard.

  “Where were you?” I ask. “What was so exciting behind the car there?”

  – Fire hydrant, says Norbert curtly.

  Bird stands in the middle of the sidewalk looking up and down and all around. The street is cleaner than the one he is used to; the buildings are better kept, the cars are nicer looking. The same steam pours out of the manholes.

  Frieda looks up from the dog to stare at me. “What’ll I do?” she asks, a girl with a dirty face and ripped clothes, sitting in a wagon heaped with junk.

  I don’t have a real answer. “Wait and see,” I say.

  “Do you think you could hide Sally in the house?” she asks me. “Hey! There’s an idea! I’ll distract Beatrice, and you find a place for the dog.”

  “Me?” I say.

  “My mom’s Tutankhamen Society will be meeting in the living room. Don’t try there. Or the kitchen. Beatrice is usually there. Try my bedroom.”

  “You mean me?”

  “Yes, my bedroom will be the best place. It’s the third-no, the fourth – room on the left. Don’t make any noise, though.”

  “You’re still talking about me?”

  She frowns. “And sometimes you are every bit as stupid as you look.”

  Bird pulls the wagon along the sidewalk, towards the ramp. “You okay?” he asks her.

  “Fine,” she says. Her mouth is closed in a thin line.

  The lady who opens the front door is short, chubby, and tearfully happy. She wears an apron over plain dark clothes, and smells of furniture polish. All of which lead me to suspect that she is not Frieda’s mom.

  “Oh, MadredeDio” she says, or something like that, running the words into one and clasping her small red chapped hands together. “It is you, my little one.” She runs forward, ignoring me and Bird and the dog and the dirty wagon, bending down to throw her arms around Frieda.

  Even though I have a mission, hiding Sally, and even though I’m not the one being hugged, I find myself relaxing. The immediate threat is over.

  – Pssst, Dingwall. Let’s go! Norbert knows what I’m supposed to do.

  Beatrice is still weeping into Frieda’s shoulder. Frieda makes angry shooing gestures at me behind her nanny’s back. Bird watches the whole thing with the biggest smile on his face. I grab the dog and walk into the house.

  A large square hall with flowers and statues and wood paneling. A smell of sweet smoke coming from somewhere. Stairs off to the left. Voices off to the right. A high-ceilinged corridor ahead of me. I don’t have much time. I run down the corridor counting doors, feeling like a burglar or a secret agent. The fourth room has two glass doors. A big room. I open the doors. Sally runs past me.

  It can’t be a bedroom – too many chairs and no bed. A lot of books on shelves running all the way along one wall. A marble table in the middle of the room, with chairs grouped around it and a huge stone planter in the center. A photograph of the Sphinx on the wall.

  The smell is stronger. Sweet-smelling smoke spirals up from a brass doodad on the floor. The lights are low. The drapes are closed.

  I look around for Sally, but she’s gone. I go out in the hall. She’s not there either.

  “Sally!” I hiss. A good name for hissing. “Norbert! Where are you?”

  No reply.

  Well, I was told to hide the dog, and I’ve hidden the dog. I can hear voices from the front hall. Time to go.

  Beatrice has her hands on her hips. She has big dark soft eyebrows, which arch downwards now. Her eyes are wet. Her lipstick is smeared. Frieda is rubbing some off her cheek.

  “But how did you get here?” Beatrice is asking. “Your plane was early? You look untidy. And where …” she shakes her head in utter incomprehension “… where is your chair?”

  “Early?” I say, joining the group. “What do you mean, the plane was early? It was right on time.”

  Beatrice stares at me without seeing me. Then she returns to Frieda. “You are all right? You are safe? Tell me you are safe.” In Beatrice’s black eyes, the tears look like treacle.

  “I’m okay,” Frieda tells her.

  “Are you sure, little one?”

  “Of course I’m sure. I’m home now, aren’t I?”

  Beatrice roots around inside a big hall closet – good place for hiding a dog, if I’d noticed it – and pulls out a wheelchair. It looks like the other one, only a bit smaller. Frieda takes a deep breath and swings her legs around to the side of the wagon. Beatrice settles her into the chair with the ease of much practice.

  “Well, well, look who’s home!”

  And here she is. Frieda’s mom is a striking woman, posed in the doorway, one hand on her hip and the other out beside her. Her head is pointing to one side, making her look two-dimensional – all on one plane. Taller than my dad, with a beehive hat making her look even taller, draped in a black something or other from neck to ankle, she looks a lot like Snow White’s wicked stepmother. She brings the sweet smoky smell with her.

  “Frieda, my dear.” Her voice is deep for a woman, and husky. “We weren’t expecting you so soon. I’m afraid you’ve picked an awkward time to arrive. The Tutankhamen Society is just about to start our meeting.”

  “Yeah,” says Frieda. Her voice sounds pale and pinched. “Here I am, though.”

  Mrs. Miller moves her head very slowly, until it’s in profile on the other side. “And what have you been playing at? You’re quite dirty, my dear. You’ll want to change right away, I should say. Are you two boys acquaintances of Frieda’s?”

  “Shew-ah,” says Bird. He takes off his sunglasses, smiles up at her.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say. “We met in the –”

  But she cuts me off. “I really must be going,” she says. “Professor Malchus will be addressing the society as soon as he finishes at the buffet. The poor man arrived late. He has an absolutely unique artifact to tell us about. Apparently, it supports a theory he … yes, dear?”

  “Mother, we’re hungry,” Frieda says. “We haven’t eaten lunch yet.”

  Mrs. Miller sighs theatrically, and raises her arm to her forehead. “Very well. Please arrange your refreshment as quietly as possible, and eat in the kitchen. Frieda, my dear, I’m so glad to see you.”

  She turns in the doorway, and stalks sideways down the hall and into the room with the other voices. Frieda opens her mouth to call after her, then closes it again. I can sympathize. My mom doesn’t have a lot of time for me either.

  “What did she mean, about not expecting you until later?” I whisper. Frieda shrugs.

  “Come in,” says Beatrice. “All of you. You must be starved! The kitchen is this way.” She leads us down the corridor. Frieda wheels herself forward. “Where did you hide Sally?” she whispers.

  I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know,” I say.

  There’s a warning rumble from outside. Thunder.

  I call my dad again, while Beatrice makes lunch.

  “Marketing Department
. Mr. Dingwall’s office.” A secretary’s voice – calm, efficient, not very interested.

  “Hi,” I say. “My name is Alan Dingwall. I’m Mr. Dingwall’s son.”

  “Well, hello, there. What can I do for you?”

  “I was kind of hoping you could tell me where my dad is.”

  “Your dad’s in a meeting right now, Alan. With some very important clients. He’ll be sorry he missed your call. I know he’s looking forward to seeing you later today.”

  “Later?”

  “That’s what he said. You are coming today, aren’t you? Did he get the date wrong?”

  “No, no. It’s today. I mean, I’m here today.”

  “Good. I’ll tell your dad you called, okay, Alan? And he’ll see you later.”

  “Um,” I say.

  “Bye, then.” She hangs up.

  I hang up. I don’t know what else to do.

  I’m all on my own, and I don’t like it. I’d like to like it. I should be having the time of my life. I should be enjoying myself more. I’m always telling my mom to let me do more on my own, and here I am, in the middle of a real adventure, and all I want is to go home.

  Why can’t I be more heroic? It looks easy in the movies.

  The kitchen phone is in an alcove, with a mirror at eye level. I stare at myself. I try to cock one eyebrow, the way Bruce Willis does. Can’t quite get it.

  “Lunch is ready,” calls Beatrice.

  There’s a place for me at the table: place mat, glass of milk, and a plate of sandwiches.

  “Thanks very much,” I say to Beatrice. She smiles.

  I bite into my sandwich. Spiced meat and strong cheese on a crusty roll. It’s really good.

  Why can’t I be more like Bruce Willis? My favorite part in his adventure movies is when the hero, having gone through flood, fire, and flying glass, finally dispatches all the villains, changes his shirt, and walks down the street to get a hug from his wife or girlfriend. And she asks how his day went, and he cocks one eyebrow and says something like “Routine,” or “It wasn’t boring.” I love that. He doesn’t want to make a big deal out of being a world saver. He is so Not Uncool. Even more not uncool than the kids on the skateboards.

  I eat three sandwiches; also two glasses of milk, and a bunch of deep-fried pastry things that Beatrice calls cannoli. Bird eats well too.

  Frieda is describing our morning’s adventures to Beatrice, who is shaking her head and saying things in … I guess it’s Italian. I don’t know the language, but Beatrice is easy to follow. She’s saying whatever the Italian is for Holy Cow, and Isn’t that awful, and Oh, you poor thing.

  Bird points at the last cannoli. “You want?” he asks.

  I gesture for him to take it.

  “You all right?” he asks me.

  “Me? Oh, yeah,” I say, as heartily as I can. “I’m just fine.”

  “You don’t look fine,” says Bird.

  I sigh. I don’t feel fine. Mom was right about Dad. Maybe she was right about me too. Maybe I’m not ready for too much independence.

  Frieda goes off to change her clothes. Beatrice collects the dirty dishes and puts them in the dishwasher. Bird and I wander over to the big kitchen window and stare up. The sky is filling up with clouds. A big gray one drifts by. Looks like an airplane coming in to land. The thought gives me goose bumps. This seems like a good opportunity to do something I’ve been meaning to do for a while. “By the way, uh, Bird,” I say. “I want to thank you for helping us.”

  He keeps looking out the window. “It was nice of you to let Frieda use your wagon,” I say. “And to fix the lady’s van. We’d never have made it here without you.”

  “Shew-ah,” he says, the way he usually says it. Sure. Routine. I stare up at him, noticing for the first time a cleanly healed cut on his forearm. The puckered scar tissue shows white and fresh.

  “Don’t worry about getting back,” I say.

  He doesn’t reply.

  “I’m sure Frieda’s parents will make sure you get home. You might even have a chance to ride in a cab.”

  He stares into the distance. A tear forms at the corner of his eye, falls onto his cheek. He doesn’t say anything.

  Frieda rolls into the kitchen. She’s wearing jeans, a button-down shirt, and a frown. “Sally’s not in my bedroom,” she whispers. “I’ve looked all over and I can’t find her!”

  “I don’t know where she is either,” I say. “I left her in the room with the glass doors.”

  Her jaw drops. “The library? I just went past it. That’s where the Tutankhamen Society is meeting.”

  I think about the incense. And the stone planter, as big as a bathtub. And the picture of the Sphinx.

  “Oh,” I say.

  Somebody screams – a shrill piercing sound that goes on and on.

  The glass doors are open. All the lights are on in the library. Weird music is playing softly. We stare in from the hallway.

  The room is full of well-dressed people. Women in hats, men in suits. They are all sitting around the marble table, except for one small man, with black hair and eyes to match, who is standing beside a flip chart; and one large woman, with purple hair and lips to match, who is sprawled back against the bookshelves with her hand covering her mouth.

  She’s the screamer. “In there!” Her purple-tipped finger points at the planter in the center of the table. Flower tops peep over the rim, and there’s a dinky pine tree sticking out, like the mast of a small boat. Very decorative. I notice the picture writing on the sides of the planter. “Anubis!” she cries. “I saw him – as large as life!”

  We studied Ancient Egypt in school last year, so I know that the picture writing is hieroglyphics, and the planter is really a sarcophagus – a kind of coffin.

  “Really?” says the small man by the flip chart. His shoulder-length hair is long and thick and black. The rest of his body is short and thin and pale. “Really? There are records of divine visitation on the Rosetta stone,” he says, in an accent from Masterpiece Theater. “And there is a group on the West Coast who claim the god Thoth as a regular communicant. Tell me what you saw just now!” He leans forward. His eyes are huge. His body vibrates with interest.

  It might be a school assembly, but it might be a church service too. There’s an atmosphere of mystery. The incense is part of it. So is the music – scales with missing notes, played on things that sound like pop bottles and tin cans.

  “I tell you, I saw him!” says the purple lady. A frightened but, at the same time, tremendously excited look is on her face. Not the sort of look you see in an assembly – or, very often, in church, for that matter. “Quiet! Listen!”

  Behind the music, even I can hear an irregular scratching noise. It seems to be coming from inside the sarcophagus.

  The lights flicker. Thunder booms outside. Everyone jumps.

  There’s power here; I can feel it. The curtains are drawn, shutting us in. I can hear the rain beating against the windows.

  Bird smiles next to me.

  “Can you believe all this?” I whisper.

  “Shew-ah,” he says.

  I’m trying to remember which god Anubis is. I think he’s the one with the pointy ears and a long nose. But he’s not real. He can’t be real, can he? Ancient Egypt was five thousand years ago. We learned about it in history class, just before the Ancient Greeks. If Anubis is real, does that mean that Zeus and Athena are real too?

  I’m carrying my uncertainty like a bag of rocks. There’s another prolonged scratching sound, and a head appears above the rim of the sarcophagus. Like Anubis’, this head has pointy ears and a long nose. Also, a pink tongue.

  “There!” screams the purple woman.

  The effect is electric. Gasps, screams. The purple woman points triumphantly. Another woman covers her face with her hands. The guest speaker stares as if he would swallow the apparition with his black eyes. A fat man at the far end of the table falls sideways in a faint. Good thing the carpets are soft.

&n
bsp; Needless to say, I don’t feel any of this excitement. The second I actually see the mystery being, and hear its voice, the atmosphere clears. The thunder is just thunder. My worry floats away. When the apparition speaks, I feel an overwhelming desire to giggle.

  – Is it hot in here, or is it me? And what’s with the smell? On Jupiter, we take our smells seriously. You could get in trouble for burning this stuff.

  Frieda lets out a little squeal of delight. She rolls herself into the room. Bird and I follow. “Talkin’ dog,” says Bird. No one pays any attention to us.

  “What did I tell you!” cries the purple-haired, purple-nailed, purple-lipped lady. Voices rise like bubbles in soda. “Help us, Professor Malchus!” the lady cries.

  The little man in black takes charge. I guess he’s the professor. He’s got the right kind of voice, as deep and rich as a layer cake. “O dog-headed being! Apparition with Anubis’ face! Relic of Ancient Empire! Speak to us!” he cries, his arms raised, his voice warm and quivering.

  The assembly, or congregation, gives a collective moan of horror and excitement.

  Sally whines.

  – Awooooooo! says Norbert, in a spooky squeaky voice. Filtered through Sally’s whine, it sounds other-worldly. Awooooooo! Anubis to you too.

  “He speaks to us from across the centuries!” cries the professor.

  – That’s me, says Norbert. Across the centuries, here in your home.

  “But you are not Anubis,” says the professor. “Anubis has the body of a man.” -Who? “Anubis, the god of the dead!”

  – Oh, I remember him! My uncle told me all about him. Umm … No. Anubis couldn’t come today. He was busy, so he sent me.

  “Then, who are you?”

  A long pause. The whole society is leaning forward, as if their life’s dream has knocked on the door and asked to borrow a cup of sugar. I don’t dare laugh.

  – You may call me … Norberto!

  I cover my mouth with my hand. The professor frowns.

  “Norberto?” he says. “Norberto? I have spent my life learning about Ancient Egypt. I have read everything that has been written on the subject. And I have never heard of Norberto.” He walks towards the table as if under a spell.