The Prisoner of Snowflake Falls Read online

  “Where what?” I asked Leon.

  “I don’t think they’ve made up their minds yet,” said Leon. “The town council’s been trying to think of a slogan for ages. I hear they’re having a contest to find a saying that best captures the spirit of the community. I’ve been thinking of entering.” It was hard to miss the sarcasm when he added, “But I guess ‘Welcome to Snowflake Falls Where Nothing Much Ever Happens’ isn’t the best way to attract tourists.”

  In a few minutes we were on the main drag of Snowflake Falls, where we got out of the car to stretch our legs and take a look around. At first glance, the hub of town seemed like a bunch of tired-looking buildings huddled together for mutual support. At second glance, you couldn’t help but notice a lot of peeling paint. “Things were a lot more prosperous around here before the pulp mill went to a three-day week,” explained Leon. “Someone told me there even used to be a video arcade way back when.”

  Even though it was the middle of the day, there were only a few people on the street. I was about to point this out when Leon said cheerfully, “Man, it’s really busy this afternoon. The hardware store must be having its closing-out sale.”

  “You mean it doesn’t get any busier than this?” I asked.

  “Well, there’s Pumpkin Fest coming up in the fall,” said Leon. “Then there’s this holiday sing-along on Boxing Day that’s a big deal. In between, it can get a little sparse. Unless you’re into monster truck shows or the occasional professional wrestling match.”

  A few people waved at Leon while we were standing in the middle of the street. Leon waved back. “This town is big on waving,” he said. “You better get used to it.”

  An older man in checked golf pants called out in a booming voice, “Hey, Leon. What’s new?”

  Even though we were only a couple of feet away, Leon raised his voice as he backed away from the man. “Not much, Mr. McHugh.” I think he was hoping Mr. McHugh would keep on going. Instead, he headed straight for us.

  “Who’s your little friend?” Mr. McHugh said, chuckling like this was a joke all three of us could appreciate.

  “This is Henry Holloway,” said Leon. “He’s going to be staying with the Wingates for a while.”

  Mr. McHugh’s smile faded a bit. “Oh, yes,” he said. “I think I heard something about that.”

  “Mr. McHugh won the prize for the biggest squash at last year’s Pumpkin Fest,” Leon said to me. And then he added, “Henry here is very interested in competitive gardening, aren’t you, Henry?”

  Mr. McHugh perked up. “Is that so?”

  “Not really,” I said. Leon looked at me, all disappointed, until Mr. McHugh leaned forward and said, “Speak up, Hank. I can’t hear worth spit.”

  I spoke up. “I’m very interested in vegetable-growing contests.”

  Mr. McHugh grinned. “Well, stop by the house sometime. I’ll give you a few pointers.” We shook hands. “Good luck, son,” he said. “Watch out for that littlest Wingate. He’s hell on wheels.”

  As soon as Mr. McHugh’s checked golf pants were out of sight, I said, “How come you told him I was interested in growing vegetables? I couldn’t care less about a festival for pumpkins.”

  “You say that now,” replied Leon. “But in a few months you’ll be judging zucchini bread and carving jack-o’-lanterns out of sheer boredom. Believe me, I’m just saving you time.”

  As we began walking down the street, a woman with a blue tinge to her gray hair stopped to chat. She looked at Leon and said, “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” When Leon did, she said to me, “It’s always a pleasure to meet one of Leon’s special projects. Call me Sylvia, young man.” And then, turning to Leon, she asked, “Have you told Henry about Pumpkin Fest?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Leon. “He’s very excited about it.”

  “Where’s he staying?” asked Sylvia, like I wasn’t standing right in front of her.

  “With the Wingates,” said Leon.

  “Oh, my,” said Sylvia. She looked at me sympathetically and said, “I live just a few doors down the street. Drop by any time you feel hungry. I don’t care what he’s done, Leon. They wouldn’t serve Theodora’s pot roast in a maximum-security prison.”

  When Sylvia left, I asked, “What was that about?”

  “Mrs. Wingate’s very nice. But she’s probably the worst cook in Snowflake Falls.”

  I told Leon that the main drag was beginning to seriously depress me. “Well, I guess we should get to your new home then,” he said. “I just wanted to give you a few moments of peace before you meet Oscar.”

  It was only a short drive to the Wingate’s house. Leon said Mrs. Wingate was expecting us, and we walked right into the kitchen after a polite knock on the back door. Mrs. Wingate was scrubbing crayon scribbles off the wall. She was wearing the kind of black horn-rimmed glasses that you see on rocket scientists in really old movies and trying to keep her hair from falling over her fogged-up lenses.

  When she noticed us standing there, she stopped scrubbing for a minute. “Leon!” she whispered. It wasn’t like your usual whisper. It was a whisper full of relief, like Leon Tully was a Red Cross worker delivering supplies after a natural disaster.

  Leon squinted at the crayon scribbles on the wall. “Oscar is very artistic,” he observed. “Notice how what he has drawn looks a bit like a lopsided tornado?”

  “Not so loud,” said Mrs. Wingate, whose expression was practically the dictionary definition of harried. “I just put him down for a nap.”

  “Maybe we can show Henry his room?” suggested Leon.

  Mrs. Wingate put down her sponge and gave me a sympathetic look. “Well, Oscar’s sleeping in there right now,” she said. “And once he wakes up…”

  Mrs. Wingate didn’t finish the sentence.

  “But Henry’s supposed to get your spare room,” said Leon, squinting at Mrs. Wingate as if he had just caught her cheating at poker. “I know you have one.”

  “They didn’t tell you about the renovations?” asked Mrs. Wingate. She let out a long breath that sounded like a balloon with a slow leak. “The spare room’s being expanded. And we’re adding a bathroom.” She brushed a stray lock of hair off her forehead, but it fell right back to its original place. “We really need another bathroom,” she added wistfully.

  “Let me get this straight,” I said. “I have to share my room with a three-year-old?”

  “Actually, Oscar has to share his room with you,” Mrs. Wingate said. “And he’s still a couple of months away from turning three. I think he’s being very generous for his age.”

  “But what about my privacy?”

  Mrs. Wingate got a far-off look in her eye. “Privacy?” she asked, as if she was crawling across the desert, trying to remember what water tasted like. And then she giggled. “What’s that?”

  I could feel myself turning pale. I looked at Leon and said, “I want to launch an official complaint.”

  Mrs. Wingate gave me the most pleading look I’d seen since the last time my mother begged me not to steal. It softened me up quite a bit.

  “No offense,” I said, “but I don’t think this arrangement is going to work out.” When she didn’t say anything, I added, “How much do you know about me anyway? I mean, maybe I’m not a good fit…”

  Leon said, “She knows that you—”

  “Take things?” said Mrs. Wingate. That’s when I really softened up. I guess it was the way she said those two words. Gently. Like I was some forgetful old aunt who kept stuffing things into the pockets of her apron without realizing it.

  “I’ve stolen a car,” I confessed, thinking this might be a way out of staying with the Wingates. “More than once.”

  “What kind?” asked Mrs. Wingate. “I mean what kind was your favorite?”

  “I’d have to say the 1957 Thunderbird convertible,” I replied, not quite able to keep the pride out of my voice.

  “A convertible!” she exclaimed, almost as if she wanted me to go out and steal
one on the spot. “I haven’t ridden in a convertible in ages.”

  “Oh, man!” said Leon, who was probably wondering if he should include Mrs. Wingate’s thoughts on stolen convertibles in his official report.

  Mrs. Wingate must have realized how she sounded, because all the fun suddenly went out of her eyes and they were back to pleading with me. “Couldn’t you just try sharing a room?” she asked. “Oscar’s really a good boy. He just takes a while to warm up to strangers.”

  “I already told Henry he was a screamer,” said Leon, as if he’d taken care of all the important explaining.

  “Does he really bite?” I asked.

  “Oscar, bite?” said Mrs. Wingate, laughing a little too hard. “Don’t be ridiculous.” But her eyes were really pleading now.

  My eye caught an upholstered kitchen chair patched with gray duct tape. Just above it, a corner of wallpaper was coming loose. “I guess I could try it for a couple of days,” I said reluctantly.

  Mrs. Wingate offered me her hand to shake and said, “Call me Theodora.” Just then, we were interrupted by the most nerve-racking scream I’ve ever heard outside of a late-night horror movie. “Excuse me,” said Theodora, as if she’d just heard the doorbell.

  When she left, I asked Leon, “Is he always this loud?”

  “Are you kidding? He’s practically on scream cruise control. That’s just his casual ‘I want out of my crib’ scream.”

  “I don’t know much about kids,” I said, “but isn’t he getting a little old for a crib?”

  “I think the bars on the side give everyone a false sense of security,” said Leon.

  Theodora came back with Oscar in her arms. To look at him, you’d never think it was in his nature to scream or bite. He was still sleepy; his cheeks were flushed and his blond hair was sticking out in all directions, making him look like he’d just stuck one of his little fingers in a light socket. His eyes were big and blue. He had the type of face that looked like it should be on a tv commercial for whatever toddlers ate for breakfast.

  Theodora addressed the youngest Wingate very formally. “Oscar,” she said. “You already know Leon.” Oscar looked at Leon and let out a big belch as if it were his way of saying hello. This surprised everyone, including Oscar, who giggled.

  “Oscar,” she said. “This is Henry.”

  I was preparing myself for another volcanic burp, but instead, the kid gave me a big smile and said, “Hen-wee!”

  This surprised Mrs. Wingate and Leon even more than the unexpected belch. When I looked puzzled, Theodora explained. “Oscar doesn’t talk much.” Then her look of surprise gave way to another kind of expression. As if she’d just made an important discovery that was going to brighten her entire day.

  “Would you mind holding Oscar for a minute?” she asked me.

  “Actually, I would mind very much,” I said as politely as I could.

  “Just until I finish scrubbing the wall,” she pleaded. Next thing I knew, Oscar had been dumped into my arms. The kid just threw his arms around me and put his head on my shoulder. Before I knew it, his eyes were closed and his mouth was hanging open, leaving a little string of drool on the front of my shirt. I could feel his breath going in and out below my ear. It smelled like overcooked asparagus.

  Within a few seconds, Oscar felt like a drooling economy-sized sack of flour. This gave me a queasy sensation in the pit of my stomach. I think Leon sensed my discomfort and decided that it was a good time for him to get out of town. He gave me his business card like he really didn’t want me to use it, and Theodora suggested we take Oscar outside so he could snore in the fresh air.

  Leon and I stood out on the front porch, watching nothing in particular while Oscar made the sort of noises that should never come out of an innocent baby. A few very slow seconds passed. “Maybe it won’t be so bad,” I said, doing my best to ignore what my stomach was trying to tell me.

  Leon looked doubtful. “Wait till you meet Charlotte,” he said.

  We stood there for a moment and watched a dog yawn while it peed on a rusty fire hydrant. Then the dog looked at us hopefully, like maybe we could give him a lift out of town. “You’re planning your escape right now, aren’t you?” asked Leon. Keeping in mind that Leon Tully was a government official, I didn’t say anything. A few seconds passed before Leon shot me a look of total pity. “Well, good luck with that,” he said. It sounded like he really meant it.

  EIGHT

  After a while, I knew I couldn’t put off going into the house any longer. The bad news was that I had nowhere else to go. The good news was that Mrs. Wingate took Oscar back. She was very happy that he was still dozing. “I think he might sleep for a while longer,” she said, as if I’d performed some impossible magic trick. “Have you ever heard of those people who whisper to nervous horses and make them calm down?” she inquired. When I nodded, she said, “Well, maybe you’re like a Baby Whisperer. Wouldn’t that be exciting?”

  “I think I’d rather share a room with a horse,” I said.

  Mrs. Wingate laughed and asked me to come with her while she put Oscar back in his crib. At first, his room seemed like a typical baby’s room. It had wallpaper with a pattern of circus animals on it and all sorts of toys on the floor. There was also a regular single bed that looked almost comfortable enough for someone like me to sleep in. But since the room was quite small, it sat uncomfortably close to Oscar’s crib.

  It was hard not to notice the crib because, even if you didn’t know much about baby furniture, you could tell right away it was different. The bars on the side were much higher than your average crib. When I pointed this out, Theodora said that the crib was custom-made by her husband. “Harrison calls it the supercrib. Once you get to know him, you’ll find he has quite a playful sense of humor.”

  I looked at the smallest Wingate sleeping peacefully in his one-of-a-kind crib. His little mouth was wide open and contentedly sucking in air. He was snoring loudly with a happy expression on his face. “Why does he need a supercrib?” I asked.

  Mrs. Wingate smiled lovingly at her son. “That’s a perfectly reasonable question when you’re watching him sleep,” she said, as if she was searching for the most delicate way to phrase her explanation. “I’m afraid Oscar can be a bit of night owl. He used to climb out of his regular crib and go looking for things to do.”

  She didn’t say what sort of things Oscar liked to do in the middle of the night, but they probably weren’t very restful. “Does he always snore like that?” I asked. Before I could stop myself, I added, “He sounds like one of those little vacuums people keep in the kitchen to suck up spilled milk.”

  “It is rather loud, isn’t it?” said Theodora. “We took him to the pediatrician about it. But the doctor said there was nothing to worry about. It’s probably something he’ll outgrow sooner or later.”

  I looked at the single bed again and asked, “Do you think there’s any way it could be sooner?”

  “It’s hard to tell with Oscar,” she replied. “He doesn’t do a lot of things the regular way.”

  And then, as if looking for something positive to tell me about Oscar, she added, “He took to his potty training right away. He hardly ever has accidents anymore.”

  “That’s great.”

  “It is great,” said Mrs. Wingate. “I know he’s really bright, but even though I keep telling him the words for things, he never repeats them. Our pediatrician says children develop at different rates, but I think Oscar really can talk. He just chooses not to.”

  You know how sometimes people give themselves a little pep talk so they can try to believe something they’re not really sure of in the first place? Well, that’s exactly how Mrs. Wingate sounded. For some reason, I wanted to make her feel better so I reminded her that Oscar had said “Henry.” Sort of.

  Theodora looked so grateful that I got embarrassed. So I decided to change the subject. “This really is where I’m sleeping, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid so,�
� said Mrs. Wingate.

  “Couldn’t I just sleep on the couch?”

  “Oh, no,” said Theodora, as if I had suggested something that would lead to the downfall of Western Civilization. “That would offend Mr. Wingate’s sense of order. He always says, ‘The living room is for living, not sleeping. That’s why it’s called the living room.’”

  “He doesn’t nap on the sofa?”

  “Absolutely not,” she replied. “Harrison is philosophically opposed to any form of napping. He considers it a waste of valuable time.” Then Theodora looked at me as if she could read my mind. “Oh, I’m sure you and Harrison will get along fine,” she said. “The rules in this house are clear as mud.”

  “I’m not all that good at following rules,” I confessed.

  Theodora gave me a sympathetic smile. “Just don’t mention that awful Bargin Barn. My husband is very sensitive about it.”

  She started to say something else. But then she noticed Oscar’s drool on my shirt. “I can get that right out with a little detergent,” she said, continuing to stare at the stain. She seemed to be getting a little emotional about it. For a second, it looked like she might even cry.

  “It’s just a little drool,” I said. “I mean, it’s not like he threw up on me or anything.”

  “Can I tell you something just between us?” she asked. Before I could say no, she said, “Oscar’s not really what you’d call a people person.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, he doesn’t take to a lot of people. But he really likes you. I can tell.” Just then, Oscar let out a particularly loud snort.

  “He seems to be a very advanced snorer for his age,” I said.

  “I’ve thought of that,” said Mrs. Wingate. She opened the drawer of my bedside table to reveal a brand-new package of earplugs. “Don’t let Oscar see these,” she cautioned. “He likes to take things from drawers and hide them. I’m still looking for my favorite pair of earrings.”

  You might think that this was enough for me to digest in one day. But a few minutes later, when Mrs. Wingate and I were back in the kitchen, I had the pleasure of meeting Charlotte Wingate. I could see her leaning her bike against the back porch. It was a pink bike, with goofy-looking white, sidewall tires, a pink basket attached to the handlebars and a lot of girly streamers. There was even an old-fashioned bicycle bell next to the handgrip, the kind that every self-respecting kid used to have on their tricycle.