Boy's Best Friend (9 page)

Lester reached in his pocket and took out a bird whistle. He blew it loudly.

“That's lovely,” said Vivien. “What is it?”

“It's to call nightingales,” said Lester. “You want to try?” He held the whistle out to Vivien. She took it and looked at the end, wondering whether or not she should wipe it clean. She decided not to bother and put it directly to her lips and whistled.

“You can have it if you want,” said Lester.

“Thanks,” said Vivien. “But then how will you call nightingales?”

Lester twisted his lips into a knot and blew gently just like his father had shown him. The sound that came out was nearly the same as that of the whistle.

Vivien was impressed. “Where did you learn that?” she asked.

“My dad taught me,” said Lester, remembering his first visit to Cape Cod, when his dad had patiently taught him to whistle like a nightingale. Lester had practiced for days on end and it had come to pass. Sort of like a mantra, Lester thought. That reminded him that he'd not been practicing his. Lester repeated it quietly. “Moving is fun. Change can be positive.”

“What did you say?” asked Vivien.

“Oh, nothing,” said Lester.

George came around from the back of the house where he'd been searching for sticks to coax the caterpillars off the cement foundation and into the coffee cans.

“Hi, Lester,” he said. “I thought you couldn't come.”

“I didn't want to miss caterpillar city,” said Lester.

“Lester can whistle like a nightingale,” said Vivien. “And he's going to teach me. Can you teach George too?”

“If he wants,” said Lester.

“What about me?” said Zac playfully, ducking out of the garage. “I want to whistle like a bird.”

“No you don't,” said Vivien. She turned to Lester. “That's my brother Zac.”

“Hi, Zac,” said Lester.

“And this is Lester,” said Vivien.

Zac high-fived Lester. “Like your colored spokes,” he said, admiring Lester's bike. “I think George needs some of those.”

George nodded. “I checked Manny's,” he said. “But they didn't have any.” Then he handed Lester a coffee can and a stick.

Lester tapped the stick gently against the side of the can. Then he followed George around to the back of the house. The foundation was crawling with fuzzy caterpillars with yellow and brown flecks.

George began prying the caterpillars off the wall with his stick, watching their bodies tighten, coil, then give way as he shook them into the coffee can. He worked fast, getting as many as he could in case they got any ideas about crawling back out. But somehow they didn't. George had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He wondered how the caterpillars felt, if they knew what they were in for. Every year George hoped for some intelligence to change the pattern so they wouldn't return. But it didn't happen.

Lester's voice rose and fell in the background. “Hey, little bugger,” he said. “Come on over here. Where do you think you're going, fuzzy-wuzzy? Whoops, there you go. Two at a time.”

Vivien set down her coffee can and stick and blew into the bird whistle. Then she asked, “Where's caterpillar city? Lester wants to visit it.”

George fidgeted uncomfortably. “It's somewhere near the dump,” he said, lying.

George was glad when his father appeared dressed in his yard clothes—a faded corduroy shirt, a pair of stained khakis, canvas sneakers, and a fishing hat.

“How's it going, everyone?” he asked.

“Great,” said Vivien. She went back to work, winding her stick around the caterpillars, shaking them into the can. “Caterpillar city must be beautiful when the caterpillars turn into butterflies,” she said. “I'd like to visit it too.”

George pursed his lips. “I'm not sure that's a good idea,” he said. “Because we might scare them off.” George looked at Lester—one of those knowing looks that spoke of truth. Lester seemed to understand.

“Maybe it's not such a good idea after all,” he said. “I wouldn't want to risk scaring them.”

“Me neither,” said Vivien with a frown.

Mr. Masson stretched a hand toward Lester. “Who's this young man?” he asked.

“Lester,” said George. “He's just moved here from Denver.”

Lester wiped a hand on the leg of his pants and offered it to Mr. Masson. “Hi,” he said.

“So, Lester,” said Mr. Masson. “This must be a big change for you.”

Lester nodded. “Denver's a lot different,” he said.

Vivien spoke, interrupting them. “Do you think the caterpillars know they are going to the city? I'll bet the other caterpillars are waiting for them. Don't you, George?”

“Yup,” said George, feeling his stomach turn.

When they'd picked every last caterpillar off the wall, Mr. Masson checked to see that the lids were sealed and he set the cans in the garage.

“I got fifty,” said Vivien. “That makes two dollars and fifty cents.”

“Bravo,” said Zac. “What are you going to do with it?”

“George is taking me to the fair,” said Vivien.

“I am?” said George. He'd forgotten that he'd promised.

“Yes,” said Vivien. “This afternoon.” Vivien placed a hand on Lester's forearm. “Do you want to come with us?” she asked.

“I can't,” Lester said. “I still have to go somewhere this afternoon.”

“That's too bad,” said Vivien.

It is too bad, thought Lester. It would have been fun to go to the fair. But he was leaving for Denver.

“What are you going to do with your money?” Vivien asked him.

“I'm saving up for an aquarium,” said Lester.

Vivien wrinkled her nose. “You must like fish,” she said. “I think they're slimy. But George loves them, don't you, George?” Vivien turned to her brother. “George loves all animals,” she said. Then she furrowed her brow. “Are fish animals?”

“Close enough,” said George

“What about you, George?” asked Zac. “What are you going to do with your money?”

“I think I'll just save it,” said George.

“George never spends anything,” said Vivien. “He must have a million dollars by now.”

George rolled his eyes. “That's not true,” he said.

“Well, almost,” said Vivien.

Lester hopped onto his bike. “I better go,” he said. “Thanks.” He was about to say see you later, but then he remembered that he was going to Denver.

Meanwhile, George went into the house wishing and wondering. Wishing that he was going to caterpillar city with Vivien rather than the fair. And wondering if spring would ever come without the caterpillars.

Dear Dr. Sheldrake,

This question isn't really about dogs or telepathy but it's about animals so I hope you will answer it. Each year the caterpillars return to our house and climb on the foundation. There are hundreds of them. And each year we peel them off, put them in coffee cans, and burn them. But each year they come back again. Do you think this will ever change? Do you think they will ever learn not to come back?

Yours truly,

George Masson

Dear George,

When I was a child I used to collect caterpillars and watch them pupate and turn into butterflies. But here in England we don't have caterpillars that climb up houses so I've never actually seen this. Obviously the ones that get burned are not going to come back, but a new generation the next year climb up and fix themselves on the wall because it's their instinct to do so. It's an inherited behavioral pattern. And lots of them do it on trees or rocks, I suppose, because they must have been doing this long before people started building houses. Old instincts like this are hard to change. Also, insects don't learn very much, and I doubt they will stop doing it just because so many got killed the year before.

I certainly wish insects would learn. In the summer when I'm plagued by mosquitos, I kill them because I hate being bitten. But however many I kill, more keep coming. I suppose lots of other people do the same thing, and mosquitoes still keep trying to suck their blood. The fact is a lot of them succeed, and if they didn't suck blood they would die out. That's why animals need instincts, because it's how they survive. Even if lots of them get killed, enough survive to carry on breeding the next year.

Best wishes,

Rupert Sheldrake

 

18

When Lester got home from the Massons' he sat down to lunch—one of his favorites, chicken noodle soup with rye crisps. It actually tasted better because he knew it might be his last Cape Cod lunch for a while. That was strange.

After lunch Lester strolled into the backyard. Bill Gates was lapping up the midday sun. He looked content, maybe because he knew it might be the last time in a while that he'd be soaking up the Cape Cod sun. Lester wondered why people enjoyed things more when they knew they might not do them again. He knew the answer. It was because they were living in the present. Why couldn't people always live in the present? Lester asked himself. But the answer to that was harder.

Lester's father was in the garden studying a stubby tree dwarfed by its larger neighbors. He was neatly dressed in his yard clothes, a flannel shirt and overalls.

“I'm taking Bill Gates for a long walk,” said Lester. “Goodbye.” He said the word with emotion, but his father didn't seem to notice.

“Hmm,” grunted Mr. Shoe, who had gotten down on his hands and knees and begun sprinkling fertilizer around the roots of the stubby tree. “What the devil ails you?” he said.

For a brief moment, Lester felt a funny connection to the tree, a feeling of not being understood. “I bet if you talk to it nicely, it might start growing,” he said. He walked over to the tree and petted it just like he might Bill Gates. “There's nothing wrong with you,” he said. “You are a lovely, lovely tree.” Then he turned to Bill Gates. “Come on.”

Lester passed through the kitchen one last time. “Goodbye,” he said to Carlos.

“Goodbye, dear Lester,” said Carlos.

“Hey, when did you learn the word ‘dear'?” asked Lester.

Lester's mother was sitting cross-legged on a mat in her studio, deep in meditation. The scent of a lit candle wafted Lester's way. He thought it smelled like sunshine, or how he imagined sunshine would smell.

“Goodbye,” he said. “I'm taking Bill Gates on a long, long walk.”

Lester's mother nodded, but she didn't come out of her trance, nor open her eyes.

“They might not even notice we're gone,” said Lester. He gathered up his backpack and headed for the door.

“Bye, house,” he said, stopping before the faded cape. The shades waved gracefully as if to say goodbye. But suddenly Lester realized that he'd never really said hello.

 

19

Vivien clutched her money in her fist. “I'm going into the haunted house,” she said to George. “Want to come with me?”

George shook his head. “I think I'll stay here,” he said.

“I'll buy you a ticket if you want to come,” said Vivien.

“I don't really want to,” said George.

“Too bad Lester isn't here,” said Vivien. “You could have done something with him.”

George agreed. “I bet he would have liked the Flying Saucer,” he said. The Flying Saucer was a ride that sent you hurtling skyward while spinning in a circle. It made George feel like he was going into space.

Vivien puckered her mouth and squeezed her fist tighter.

“Are you scared?” George asked. He didn't think there was anything frightening about the haunted house—not if you were eleven, anyway. But Vivien was only eight. George couldn't really remember what eight felt like.

“I'm not scared,” said Vivien, mustering all her courage.

“I'll wait for you at the exit,” said George.

George watched Vivien climb the stairs of rattling bones and blinking lights. Every two or three steps she would look back at George with anticipation, and George would feel forced to wave. When she'd disappeared inside, George wandered toward the exit. He passed a booth with a redheaded fortune-teller, stopping just long enough to ask himself if anyone's hair could really be that color. The woman, who was holding a deck of cards, beckoned to George with a purple fingernail.

George didn't really believe in fortunes. Besides, they cost two dollars and fifty cents. He walked on, but after several steps he felt a mysterious pull propelling him toward the lady with the red hair and purple fingernails. He turned, walked up to the fortune-teller, and put two dollars and fifty cents on the table.

“What's your name?” asked the woman.

“George,” said George. “Masson,” he added, “with two s's.” He wanted to make sure she knew that in case it meant something.

“So,” she said. She took George's left hand in her palm and studied it. Then she told George that he was particularly intelligent and that he would have a long life. George smiled to himself. He bet she told that to everyone.

The fortune-teller paused for a few seconds. “I see you have an affinity for animals,” she said.

George wasn't sure about the meaning of affinity, but he guessed it meant that he liked them. He wondered how she could know that. Maybe he smelled like dog or had some hairs on his clothing. Maybe he looked like a pet lover. Or maybe she had some sixth sense that enabled her to read his mind. The thought was a little creepy.

The fortune-teller looked from George's hand into his eyes. “You, young man, will make an amazing discovery,” she said.

“Like what?” asked George. “And when?” Did she mean in a few days or a few years? There was a big difference.

The fortune-teller shook her head. “That I don't know,” she said.

George backed away slowly, disappointed. Then he turned toward the exit of the haunted house just as Vivien was being delivered in a cart.