Shoebag Returns Read online

  “Sweetsong!”

  “Here!”

  “Jiminez!”

  “Here!”

  “Greenwald!”

  “Here!”

  On and on down the list, all of their yellow Butter badges were pinned under the lapels of their blazers. The one yellow sock each member wore was also hidden, under a regulation white sock.

  After roll call, Stanley Sweetsong stood and addressed the gathering.

  “As you know we are secret secret!” He yawned and rubbed his eyes.

  “We are not sleepy sleepy, however,” said Josephine Jiminez. “Did you have another of your nightmares, Vice President Sweetsong?”

  “Yes. I dreamed again that there was a fourth tank in Mr. Longo’s Science Room, and I was in it.”

  “Pull yourself together, Vice President Sweetsong! We have club business to attend to!” Josephine Jiminez said.

  Stanley Sweetsong straightened his shoulders and blinked his eyes, continuing. “The rumor is that C. Cynthia Ann Flower suspects that the Butters still exist!”

  “Ha!” snorted Millie Greenwald. “She can’t believe she’s not Butter!”

  “Butters are better than Betters!” the club members chorused. “Betters cannot believe they’re not Butters!”

  “We have to be on guard,” said Stanley Sweetsong.

  “I would like to put that tarantula in C. Cynthia Ann’s bed!” said Cleo Kanowitz.

  “That poor tarantula is suffering enough in that stuffy tank!” Stanley said. “I would like to set him free. And the African frog, too, and the king snake! … No wonder I have bad dreams!”

  Josephine Jiminez gave Stanley Sweetsong the elbow and said impatiently, “Make the major announcement.”

  “The major announcement,” said Stanley Sweetsong, “is that Miss Rattray has asked an actor to come for Career Day.”

  “An actor!?”Cleo Kanowitz said. “We have never had an actor here!”

  “Exactly!” said Josephine. “But now one is coming, thanks to my shrink! I believe he thinks it will control my rage.”

  “So you won’t be the Doll Smasher anymore,” said Stanley.

  “Yes,” Josephine agreed, “although with all my new duties, the Black Mask Theater has had very few performances lately.”

  Just like Stuart Bagg, the whacking of the walls was no more, too.

  “The Butters,” Josephine continued, “are underground. But there is no sense being underground if above ground no one knows you still exist. So we must plan something dramatic to do on Career Day!”

  “An actor!” Cleo Kanowitz couldn’t get over it. “A famous actor?”

  “Fairly famous,” said Josephine Jiminez.

  “But not that famous,” said Stanley.

  “We must come out of hiding on Career Day with a bang!” said Josephine.

  “What actor?” Cleo Kanowitz said.

  “Everyone’s favorite,” said Josephine. “He is the spokesboy for Great Breath chewing gum.”

  “He’s C. Cynthia Ann’s favorite, not mine! You call him an actor?” Cleo Kanowitz was the argumentative type, a saucy little blonde from New York. “Gregor Samsa just does that one commercial! All he says over and over is ‘Does your smile smell?’”

  “I didn’t choose him,” said Josephine. “Miss Rattray did. Now let us put our heads together and decide on a plan of action.”

  Stanley Sweetsong closed his eyes as his father always did when he was concentrating on something very serious. (Should our next car be an Infiniti or a Porsche?)

  Everyone was silent, except for Cleo Kanowitz, still saying “Gregor Samsa” to herself, making a face as though she had just smelled something putrid.

  Stanley thought and thought, but it was hard to concentrate, hard not to think of Bagg.

  Bagg would know what to do. He could come up with an answer as easily as he fit into Stanley’s clothes. And Stanley missed that, too, having another boy around. Having a pal.

  Twenty

  SOMETIMES COOK HAD TO tidy the halls herself, a task she felt was beneath her.

  What she did was sweep them, then scoop it all up with her Dustbuster and put it back in its slot without emptying it.

  It was pitch-dark inside.

  There was not just dust in there, but also lint, the corpses of a cricket, and a fly, the leg of a spider and half his dragline, a paper clip, a third of a Life Saver, a yellow M & M, and Shoebag.

  Awake, Shoebag said the Cockroach Prayer for the Dead, for he was sure that he would die.

  “Go to a better life,” he murmured, licking the M & M, shifting his shell away from the burden of the paper clip.

  When Shoebag could sleep, he dreamed that Under The Toaster was scowling at him, saying “I TOLD YOU SO!” and pushing Drainboard aside as she held out her legs to embrace Shoebag. But there was only one real leg with him in the Dustbuster: the spider’s hideous, hairy one.

  Sick as Shoebag still was from the Zap dose, he was even sicker thinking of his family en route somewhere without him.

  Sick as Shoebag was from this tragic blow by the Fickle Finger of Fate, he wondered if he would ever see Stanley Sweetsong again. Or ever again be Stuart Bagg.

  Knowing Cook’s lazy ways, knowing she hated emptying the Dustbuster, Shoebag forced down the fly corpse, thinking of it as his last meal. For the piece of Life Saver was too hard to chew, and the M & M was licked down to a sliver.

  How could he eat a cricket which was from the noble old order of orthoptera, as Shoebag was himself?

  Twenty-one

  THAT SUNDAY, AFTER CHURCH and before Sunday dinner, Stanley Sweetsong called home.

  “What a strange name for a club,” said his mother.

  “And why are you only the VP?” his father said. “Why aren’t you the P?”

  “Because Josephine Jiminez is the P.”

  “She’s only the P because her father is a famous general, I’ll bet,” said Mrs. Sweetsong.

  “She’s a good president,” Stanley defended her. Not only good, but also in agreement with Stanley about what the Butters would do on Career Day.

  “In an all-girl school,” said Mr. Sweetsong, “what chance does one boy have when they vote for a president?”

  “There was no vote,” said Stanley.

  “No vote?” his father said. “What kind of a school is that?”

  “It’s changed since my day,” said Mrs. Sweetsong. “In my day there was always a vote. And in my day the parents did not get letter after letter asking for money.”

  “The school wants to build a larger Science Room,” said Stanley, “so Mr. Longo can imprison more poor creatures in tanks.”

  “Now, don’t dwell on those tanks in the Science Room!” said Mrs. Sweetsong. “That’s all you write about in your letters. Snakes and frogs and whatnot in those tanks.”

  “And a tarantula, too, like Tattle’s, only this one is a Mexican blonde!”

  His father said, “What do you call two spiders who just got married?” Mr. Sweetsong was always trying to cheer up his only son and sole heir.

  “What do you call two spiders who just got married?”

  “Newlywebs,” his father laughed.

  But Stanley did not need that much cheering up where Mr. Longo and his ugly tanks were concerned. On Career Day the Butters would strike! One tank would be empty. They could not let the snake or the frog go free, for they had been captives too long. They would not know how to fend for themselves, and it would be impossible for the Butters to care for them.

  But Stanley could care for the tarantula until Thanksgiving. Then he would take him home to Tattle, who knew all about this king of spiders!

  And the Mexican blonde was the perfect choice, since it had been donated to the Science Room by none other than C. Cynthia Ann Flower.

  There had been a vote on that, and it was unanimous!

  In honor of Gregor Samsa, there would be nine glowing smiles on the faces of the Butters, and none of the smiles would smell.
/>   The tarantula would have a new, safe home, and to replace him in the tank, there would be a Butterfinger.

  “You haven’t said you miss us,” said Stanley’s mother.

  “You haven’t said you wish you were back at Castle Sweet,” said his father.

  “I have been very busy,” Stanley said.

  “But never forget,” his father said, “someday this will all be yours!”

  “I can make my own bed now,” Stanley said.

  “You won’t have to here,” said Mrs. Sweetsong.

  “But I am not there,” said Stanley. “And I have eight friends here.”

  “Thanksgiving is coming,” said Mrs. Sweetsong. “Then you will be here and not there.”

  “We’ll have a big turkey!” his father said. “Where do all good turkeys go when they die?”

  “Where?” Stanley asked.

  “To oven!” his father laughed.

  “Not funny,” Stanley said, because one thing the Butters stood for was kindness to all critters large and small.

  There was yet another reason for the Butters to dislike C. Cynthia Ann Flower. For there she was, on that blustery Autumn noon, as Stanley came out of the phone booth, dressed in her royal blue blazer, white skirt, and white sock and red sock. A fur collar on her parka. Rabbit fur, it looked like to Stanley Sweetsong.

  So he said to her, “Anyone who’s better, ought to have a better idea to keep warm than wearing the fur of a dead animal.”

  “Anyone who was butter,” she replied, “was melted down by Miss Rattray into a yellow puddle, and no longer exists. Isn’t that right, Stanley?”

  She opened her parka and flashed her white button with the red letters: WE’RE BETTER!

  Next to it was a button with Gregor Samsa’s photo on it, for C. Cynthia Ann Flower was a big fan of the Great Breath spokesboy.

  Her beautiful beautiful face smiled meanly at Stanley.

  She said, “For a while I thought the Butter Club was meeting secretly, but the meltdown finished you, didn’t it?”

  Stanley wished he could laugh in her beautiful beautiful face, but the Butters were an underground club, and underground people kept their cool, and waited for just the right moment to strike.

  Career Day.

  C. Cynthia Ann Flower would be in for a little Butter Surprise the second week in November.

  Now everything was working out.

  The only thing missing was Bagg.

  Twenty-two

  AT THE END OF October, the Betters treated the Lower School to pizza at Pie in the Sky, for Patsy Southgate’s birthday.

  Everyone went but Stanley Sweetsong.

  He did not like to be the only boy along on these treks to town.

  He stayed in his room, playing a game on his computer, guiding a speeding car through a treacherous course. Eating a Butterfinger, the official candy of the Butters. Talking to Butter, who had taken to hanging out in the dustballs under Stanley’s bed.

  He was surprised that Josephine joined the group.

  He was amazed that the Black Mask Theater had not had a single performance in a month!

  Josephine did not even like Patsy Southgate, nor any other Better. But all the Butters were going, and Josephine said since the VP wouldn’t go, the P would have to.

  “I thought I’d find you here,” said Miss Rattray, standing in the doorway. “May I come in?”

  “Yes, ma’am … I did not feel like having pizza.”

  “Sometimes it’s hard to be the only boy, isn’t it?” She sat down on Stanley’s bed.

  “Not all the time it isn’t,” he said.

  He turned around in his desk chair and faced her.

  The tip of Butter’s tail protruded under the dust cover, whipping the floor impatiently.

  Miss Rattray never saw things she had to look down to see. She had no inkling the cat was studying her ankles with an eye to batting one with his paw.

  Stanley was devoted to Butter now. The cat seemed to favor him, and preferred to spend most of his time in Stanley’s room.

  “You have learned to make your bed in a proper way, Stanley,” said Miss Rattray, “Congratulations!”

  “Thank you. I only make my own bed here, though. At Castle Sweet a maid does that.”

  “Do you miss Castle Sweet?”

  “I used to.”

  “And now?”

  “Not so much,” said Stanley.

  What was she doing there, he wondered? Had she heard about the underground Butters?

  Had she waited until everyone in the Lower School was gone to tell him she’d found out what was going on in the Music Room certain afternoons?

  “One can learn to do without servants,” said Miss Rattray. “I sometimes think we are too dependent on them here … and they are not always dependable. Even this very morning I had to speak to Cook about emptying the Dustbuster. Cook believes she shouldn’t be expected to do anything but cook!”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “But we all have little extra duties, some we don’t foresee. And that is why I’m here, Stanley. I have a surprise for you.”

  “Is it a good surprise or a bad one?”

  “A good one, I think. I want you to be Gregor Samsa’s student escort on Career Day. You will help me greet him, and then you will be his guide while he’s with us.”

  “Fine,” said Stanley. “That is a good surprise.”

  “Have you ever met an actor before?”

  “No, ma’am, but I have chewed Great Breath gum.”

  “Not here, though,” said Miss Rattray, her eyes narrowing.

  “No. At Castle Sweet I chewed it.”

  “Because we don’t chew gum, do we?”

  “No, ma’am, we don’t.”

  Miss Rattray rose, “Gregor Samsa is not much of an actor, but he has had other small parts in theater, though not big parts.”

  “Then why was he picked for Career Day?”

  “He is popular with the girls, and Great Breath chewing gum is making a donation to our building fund.”

  “So there can be more tanks in the Science Room,” Stanley said gloomily.

  “More educational exhibits, yes,” Miss Rattray agreed. “All right, then, Stanley, I am counting on you. Go back to your game. The girls should return soon from Pie in the Sky.”

  Stanley could hear the girls. He could hear the laughter of Josephine Jiminez. This was a rare sound, unless she was playing the part of Monroe, the masked Kewpie doll who always told the others they were not good enough to get in the club. But in Monroe’s voice, the laughter was mean, not high and happy as it sounded now from next door.

  Then, suddenly, Stanley heard Josephine wail, even louder than the wail she had let out at the news C. Cynthia Ann Flower was president of both school clubs!

  “Oh, no!” she called out.

  And Butter, who could not tolerate sudden noises, shot out from under the bed, running hair-raised to the door.

  “No! No! No!” Josephine Jiminez yelled.

  But she did not whack the wall.

  She was not putting on a play at all.

  Whatever had happened, had to be real.

  Twenty-three

  “WHY WERE YOU WAILING, Josephine?” Stanley asked.

  “I just read a letter from my mother. Listen to this!”

  Dearest Daughter,

  We are coming for Career Day. Are you surprised? Your father and I have another surprise for you, too. We have been thinking long and hard about how unhappy you are at school. We never realized what all our moving about the world has done to you. Then last week we had a conversation with Dr. Dingle that helped us make a decision.

  Darling, why didn’t you ever tell us that you felt like a cockroach — something no one wants around? No wonder you are often lonely and angry!

  Your father has decided to take early retirement from the Army. We are making plans to buy a house in Knoxville (known for coal, marble, aluminum sheeting, and textiles), Tennessee, where your f
ather grew up. On Career Day we will take you home with us. It will be the last day you have to spend at Miss Rattray’s.

  So cheer up, dear daughter, you will never again feel like a cockroach. You will be our little girl. … The decision is final.

  Love, Mother.

  P.S. You’d better start packing! See you in three weeks!

  “I never knew you felt like a cockroach,” Stanley said as Josephine slapped the letter down on her desk.

  “I never felt like one is why you never knew it!” said Josephine. “What is to become of me?”

  Stanley moved Arlington, Monroe, and Washington out of the way and sat down on the bed. “And what is to become of the Black Mask Theater?” he asked.

  “I don’t care about that so much. We haven’t had a performance in weeks.”

  “I know. You haven’t whacked the walls in a long time.”

  “A president has more things to do than put on the same play over and over,” said Josephine.

  “You’d better fax your mother and tell her you do not want to move to Tennessee.”

  “Tennessee is one of the few states where we have never lived! I know nothing about Tennessee!”

  “The Sweetsongs have visited every state in the U.S. of A.,” said Stanley Sweetsong, remembering a riddle his father had told him when they were tooling through Nashville, Tennessee, in their Rolls Royce. “What did Tennessee, Josephine?”

  “What did Tennessee?”

  “She saw what Arkansas.”

  “Not funny!” Josephine said. “And it will do no good to fax my mother. In our family, when a decision is final, it is final!”

  “Fax her anyway,” said Stanley. “Tell her you like it here.”

  “I never said I like it here!”

  “But you do, don’t you, Josephine?”

  Josephine Jiminez sat down on the bed beside Alexandria, the wooden doll with pink-rouged cheeks. She frowned as she thought over Stanley’s question.

  “I never did before,” she said. “I was never part of the ‘in’ crowd.” Then she grabbed the masked Kewpie doll, Monroe, and said in his deep, stern voice, “If you’re not in, you’re out,” but there was none of the old anger, only sadness in her tone. And she did not smash any doll against the wall.