Lantern Sam and the Blue Streak Bandits (27 page)

Clarence tipped his cap at me as he stepped aboard the Shoreliner, already in motion. “Take care of Sam for me, Henry. He’s living on borrowed time.”

I saluted him. “Yes, sir. I’ll get him back to you in one piece, I promise.”

“Let’s go get him, kid,”
said Lantern Sam as the Shoreliner faded into the distance.

As I turned into the driveway, I read the name that had been stenciled on the mailbox and smiled at my wife. A storybook-perfect farmhouse stood before us, and on a slight rise behind it sat a small barn, its red sides glowing against the dull gray sky. In the backseat, my great-grandson Kevin stared out the rain-streaked side window of the station wagon and sighed loudly.

“Where are we? Who are the Nockwoods?”

“We’re in a town called Dunkirk. Carl Nockwood is a friend. I met his grandfather, Clarence, back in 1938 when I was about your age. He was the conductor on the Lake Erie Shoreliner, a very famous train.”

“What are we doing here, anyway?”

“We’re picking up a kitten. And visiting old friends.”

“A
kitten
? We drove two hours to pick up a
kitten
? There are kittens in Pittsburgh, you know.”

“This is not just any kitten,” I said, turning off the engine and glancing at him in the rearview mirror. “This is a very special cat.”

“One in a million,” said my wife with a wink in my direction.

“It’s turning to snow,” Kevin said, opening his door. “Grrreeeaaat. My sneakers will be ruined.”

“Don’t you want to know why he’s special?” I asked, resisting the temptation to remind him that I had told him to wear boots.

“Not really,” said Kevin. He must have realized how rude he sounded, because he tried to act interested as we trudged along the slushy path to the barn. “Okay, what’s so special about it? Is it like a show cat or something?”

“No, nothing like that. Do you know what a calico is?”

“I’ve heard of it. But no. I guess not.”

“Calicoes have three colors: black, white, and orange. They’re quite common; you’ve seen a million of them. What you probably
didn’t
know is that there’s something special about them. They’re almost always female. If you want to know why, you could look it up on that computer of yours;
it’s all about genes and chromosomes and the sort of thing you learn about in school. But notice that I said
almost
always. That’s because every once in a great while, when the sun and the moon and the stars are in the right spots at exactly the right time, something very special occurs: a male calico. Clarence was fond of saying that it was a one in a million chance, but he had a habit of exaggerating. It’s really more like one out of every three thousand calicoes.” I opened the barn door and we all stepped inside.

I waved at Carl, who was feeding some calves at the far end of the barn.

“Be with you in a minute!” he shouted.

Kevin tugged on my sleeve. “Is that why we’re here? Are you getting a male calico?”

I nodded, and he actually smiled; it was his first of the day. “Cool.”

“He’s not just any male calico, either, you see. This kitten also
happens
to be related to a very special cat—a cat I met when I was exactly your age. His name is Lantern Sam.”

“Was.”

“Sorry?”

“You said, ‘His name
is
Lantern Sam.’ I think you meant to say
was
.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “Of course. It was all a very long time
ago. Seventy-four years this May. Seems hard to believe.
Tempus fugit
.”

Clarence’s grandson Carl joined us, and after the usual greetings, he led us to the stall where the mother cat, a mostly white calico, cared for her five kittens.

“This one’s the boy,” said Carl, lifting and handing me a miniature version of Sam, minus all the scars and missing ear parts. The patch over his eye and the lantern-shaped spot on his side matched Sam’s almost exactly.

“Remarkable,” noted my wife.

“Spitting image,” I said.

“Yessir,” Carl said with a chuckle. “I never met the original, but I’ve seen the pictures of Lantern Sam, of course. Kind of famous in these parts. If you stuck your nose in every barn in town, you’d probably find one of Sam’s descendants in almost all of them. I don’t think anybody knows how many generations it’s been, but once every ten or fifteen years, a boy pops up and everybody makes a big fuss. Last one was back in ninety-nine, just up the road. Little girl got her picture in the paper with him. As soon as I saw this furry fellow, I knew I had to call you two. I think Gramps would have come back to haunt me if I hadn’t.”

“I—we—appreciate that,” I said. “When do you think we can take him home?”

“He’s six weeks now. Let’s give him another four or five weeks. How does that sound?”

“Perfect. Let’s make it March 15.”

“The Ides of March,” said my wife. “Sam would have appreciated that. He did love his Shakespeare.”

“What?” said Kevin. “You’re kidding, right?”

Carl caught my eye. “You haven’t told him?”

“No, not yet,” I said. “I’ve been waiting for … the right time.”

“The right time for
what
?” Kevin asked. “What didn’t you tell me?”

I set the kitten in the straw with his siblings. “We’ll be back for you real soon, little fellow. That’ll give us time to come up with a proper name.”

“Grandpa! Grandma! What is going on?”

“Oh! Almost forgot!” I said, reaching into my coat pocket. “I have something for him! Sail On sardines. These were always—”

“Mrrraaa,”
came the voice of an unseen cat, hiding somewhere near the back of the barn.

I craned my neck and caught the briefest of glimpses of a calico as it slipped through a narrow opening in the wall. A
very
narrow opening. Now, I’m not saying that this means anything, and I’m not a hundred percent certain,
but it seemed to me that the top half of that cat’s tail had a
definite
left-hand bend.

“Everything okay?” asked Carl. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“What’s that? Oh, yes. Everything’s just perfect. Now, as I was saying, these were always Sam’s favorite. He always insisted that they had the
perfect
amount of oil. And salt. Just the right balance. Wish I had a nickel for every time he said
that
.”

Kevin bounced up and down, growing more and more impatient. “Who said?”

I ignored him and handed the sardines to Carl. “Thanks again for calling us. We’ll see you in a few weeks. Let me know what he thinks of the sardines. Something tells me that he won’t be shy. If he doesn’t like them, you’re going to hear about it.”

“Wh-what?” cried Kevin. “Did I miss something?”

My wife took him by the arm and led him toward the car. “I think it’s time we told you a little story. What do you think, Henry?”

“I think you’re right as usual, Ellie.”

All right. By now you have figured out that I didn’t die when I went flying out the door of the Shoreliner as it crossed the Chautauqua Creek Bridge.

Or the time I was squashed by a cow.

Or when I was skewered by an arrow.

Or chucked overboard into Lake Erie.

Or even when a rooster with anger-management issues thrashed me, forcing me to leap from a moving pickup truck onto the street, where I was promptly flushed down a sewer drain and into Lake Erie (again).

Or the time that I, sleeping soundly, plummeted fifty feet from a treetop and landed on a Chihuahua.

Or when I was very nearly decapitated by a cleaver-throwing cook.

Or incinerated by a railroad lantern and then turned into an ice sculpture.

Or even the time I was trapped between the Hound of the Baskervilles and the 5:15 from Akron.

Now, I don’t know about you, but when
I
read that list, I count nine lives. But here I am—breathing, eating, drinking, stockpiling sardines—doing all those normal cat activities, plus a few of the not-so-normal variety, such as solving crimes and writing an autobiography. I suppose there’s a reasonable explanation. Perhaps some of my misadventures were just bad days—not the kind I would ever want to repeat, but maybe not quite worth a whole
life
. Take, for example, my first dip in Lake Erie, courtesy of the captain of the
Susie G
. Yes, I was a few miles offshore, and yes, the lake was rough that day, but I knew how to swim and, sooner or later, I would have made it back to shore. So maybe that one doesn’t count.

I guess the real question is: How many of those nine lives
have
I used up? And how will I ever know the answer?

Look, here’s what I think: Two lives, or five, or nine? What’s the difference when you get down to the nitty-gritty? Because the truth is, whether you’re a cat like me or some being of lesser intelligence, it’s not the number of lives that’s
important; it’s what we
do
with the time we’re given that really matters. Take it from someone who has been through the wringer a few times: I know what counts most in life, and it’s the simple things. Family. Good friends. A warm bed. Fresh milk. And, of course, quality sardines.

My philosophy of life, which, I’ll admit, I borrowed from a shampoo bottle, goes something like this: Carpe diem. Sleep. Repeat.

And don’t ever stop.

Although the Lake Erie Shoreliner is a fictional train, the Blue Streak, in Conneaut Lake, Pennsylvania, is very real, and celebrated its seventy-fifth-anniversary season in 2013. In 1993, the American Coaster Enthusiasts recognized it as an ACE Coaster Classic—one of the first roller coasters to be so named. They further granted it a Coaster Landmark Award, honoring historically significant roller coasters, in 2010.