Return to Sender (3 page)

“Hello, cute little girl!” he said to Molly, handing her a lollipop. Molly wanted the lollipop badly, but she was too frightened to grab it. It's one thing to see a clown on television, or at the circus sitting twenty rows from the action. But to be face to face with that white skin and those big, decorated eyes and a nose like a bloodied Ping-Pong ball, well, it's not so amusing.

Molly ran to Mrs. Murphy and hugged her legs, whimpering.

Rosco, rather hurt, gave the lollipop to Whitaker, along with one for him. Both of the lollipops were red.

“I don't want this one,” Whitaker said. “I want a green one, please.”

Rosco, disbelieving at how difficult children could be, shook his painted head and traded a green lollipop for one of the red ones.

Whitaker forgot to say thank you, but he did remember to step on Rosco's gigantic feet as he passed the clown. Whitaker didn't mind making Molly cry—in fact he rather enjoyed it—but when some stranger did it, it upset him.

Once inside, Mr. Murphy decided that they had better start at the big department store. That way they could get most of their shopping done at one place and avoid unnecessary walking.

Whitaker was first.

“These pants look fine. What do you think?” Mrs. Murphy held up a pair of blue and red plaid corduroys, and waited for an answer from her husband.

“I think they stink,” Whitaker said. “I like my own pants.”

“I think they're pretty,” Molly said.

“They might—fine as they are—be a bit too flashy for Whit, here,” Mr. Murphy said.

“Well, I would like him to look decent at school,” Mrs. Murphy explained. She rummaged through the shelves and racks. “Now this is nice.” It was a matching set. Brown and white checked pants. And a tan shirt with a brown hippopotamus sewn on the pocket.

“That's cute,” Molly said.

“That's sick,” Whitaker said. “It's for babies.”

Mr. Murphy tried to hide a smile as he spoke. “Couldn't we find something a little less . . .
nice?
”

After wearing out four clerks, Whitaker was the not-so-proud owner of two new pairs of green jeans (in honor of Frogman), eight pairs each of T-shirts and socks, and a gray hooded sweatshirt.

Molly wasn't nearly as much trouble. She and her mother had quite similar tastes in clothing. So she ended up with the frilliest and laciest items Mrs. Murphy could find. It was certain: Molly would be a shoo-in for the title of best-dressed kid at The-Cow-Jumped-over-the-Moon Nursery School.

“L
ET'S GO OUT A DIFFERENT WAY
—not the same way we came in,” Mrs. Murphy said, wanting to avoid meeting Rosco again.

As sometimes happens between parents, Mr. Murphy knew exactly what Mrs. Murphy was thinking and agreed immediately.

So the four of them rambled through the mall, surrounded by trees in large ceramic pots and elaborate water fountains. Massive basins of tile caught the sprayed water on its downward tumble. Artificial flowers and real goldfish made their homes in the swirling water.

Whitaker knelt down beside one of the water basins and snatched a goldfish. Just as he was about to place it gently in his bulging pocket, Mr. Murphy grabbed his hand and pried it open above the pool. The fish fell back into the water.

“Why did you do that?” Whitaker asked.

“Because it didn't belong to you,” Mr. Murphy answered.

“Could we find out who it belongs to, then, so I can ask them if I can have it?”

Mr. Murphy simply sighed and said something about “kids,” in a muffled voice. Whitaker knew that that meant no.

They passed a cookie shop, a candy store, a video arcade, and a pet shop. Each was well worth stopping at as far as Molly and Whitaker were concerned. They begged and cajoled. Wheedled and coaxed.

“Just one cookie?” Molly asked.

“If you let me play
Astro Confusion,
I won't shoot my cornflakes around the kitchen anymore,” Whitaker bargained.

“My lollipop's got fuzz on it from when I dropped it. Can I get a new one?”

“Dad, we really could use a watchdog. Don't you think?”

“Mommy, lookit the kitties!”

“Maybe they have frogs! Can I get one?” Whitaker remembered to add, “Please?”

“Pretty please with sugar on top?” Molly said, trying to surpass her brother.

“. . . and spaghetti sauce and hot fudge and frogs and . . .”

Figuring that giving in a
little
would be better in the long run, Mr. and Mrs. Murphy sped Whitaker and Molly through the shops faster than water slides down a greased mountain. They did, however, end up with two chocolate chip cookies, a bag of lemon drops, two quarters worth of
Astro Confusion
, and—best of all—two free snails from the pet shop, their grand-opening special (they were out of frogs).

And as if that wasn't enough, when they reached the Zebra, there were two balloons tied to the coat hanger that functioned as a makeshift antenna. One was green and the other was blue.

“I get the green one,” Whitaker said.

Molly didn't argue.

At home, Whitaker and Molly—balloons in hand—sat down in the middle of the living room floor. The snails, two small grayish-green lumps, sat between them.

“I'm the oldest, so I get the biggest one,” Whitaker said.

Molly didn't argue.

Whitaker named his snail Squash because his shell was dented, as if someone had stepped on him. Molly called hers Pimple because he had a tiny bump on the middle of his shell. And then they had a race.

Whitaker and Molly lined Pimple and Squash on the edge of the braided rug and said, “Go!” But neither snail did much of anything. Squash just poked his head in and out of his shell. And Pimple just rocked from side to side.

“They're not very fast,” Molly said, rather disappointed.

“They're snails, they're supposed to be slow,” Whitaker replied, with all the sureness of a learned scientist. “But they should at least move forward. A little.” He urged them and pushed them and tapped their shells, but nothing more happened.

While they were waiting for a winner, Whitaker took his balloon, tied it in his hair, and tried to watch it float up. He helped Molly do the same, only pulling her hair once or twice.

“I think yours is higher than mine,” Molly said.

“That's because I'm taller,” Whitaker boasted. “And you know what?” he added proudly, “I always will be. I'm older.”

Molly didn't argue.

“What should we do now?” Molly asked.

Whitaker shrugged his shoulders. He glanced at the inactive snails, wishing that they were motorized. And that's when he got his idea.

He picked up Squash and tied the string from his balloon around the shell. He held Squash down on the rug and said, “Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . Blast-off!” The balloon slowly rose with Squash attached, poking his head in and out. “They won't race on the ground, but we can race them in the air!” Whitaker exclaimed. “See?”

Molly's eyes and mouth widened with amazement. Whitaker assisted her in preparing Pimple for his takeoff. Then Whitaker climbed up onto the couch to reach Squash, who was now hanging in midair, the balloon having been stopped by the ceiling.

When both snails were ready, Whitaker said, “On your mark, get set, go! First one to the ceiling is the winner.”

It was usually a tie. Except when Whitaker held Squash above his head.

“That's cheating,” Molly complained.

“I know,” Whitaker said.

By the time Whitaker and Molly were ready for bed, Pimple and Squash had survived more races than most snails could handle. The new pets were wished numerous good nights before being placed on the kitchen counter in an empty fish tank, to which was added some soil, leaves, a twig, lettuce, and a tiny dish of water. Close-by, the balloons, secured to the spindles of one of the kitchen chairs, kept watch throughout the night.

Molly was the first one up the next morning. Before she washed her face or combed her hair, she went to say good morning to Pimple and Squash. Pimple was rocking from side to side as usual, but Squash just lay there, still as a small gray rock.

Molly had pulled a chair up to the counter and was leaning over the snails when Whitaker entered the kitchen. He pushed Molly aside to get a full view of Pimple and Squash. When Squash refused to return Whitaker's greetings, Whitaker picked up the snail and shook him and nudged him and talked to him—without the hoped-for result. Squash didn't poke his head in and out. He didn't move at all. Nothing.

“You killed him,” Whitaker said to Molly.

“No,” Molly answered quietly.

“You killed him because he was bigger than yours, and didn't have a stupid pimple on his back. I hate you.”

“No,” Molly insisted. “I found him like that. Maybe he just sleeps late.”

In a fit of rage and sadness and jealousy, Whitaker flushed Squash down the toilet, and when Molly wasn't looking, tied Pimple to her balloon, opened the back door, and let them fly away.

“Where's Pimple and where's my balloon?” Molly asked.

“A ghost came and took them away,” Whitaker said, pointing out the window.

Holding back tears, Molly ran to the window and spotted Pimple and her balloon sailing upward until the branches of the apple tree in their backyard ended their flight.

“Look,” Molly shouted, “the ghost didn't get very far. Will you help me get them back?”

Thinking that by rescuing Pimple, he'd rightfully deserve partial ownership, Whitaker agreed to climb the tree. Sitting on his favorite branch—Pimple safely rocking in his pocket, the balloon's string wound around his wrist—Whitaker took a deep breath and surveyed the neighborhood. It was early yet, and still. Dew drops covered the lawns. They reminded Whitaker of the way the sun had shone on the water dish in the snail's tank. Little diamonds of light. He peered downward at the tiny jewels until, unfocused, they blurred in his vision.

“Whitaker,” Molly yelled, jumping up and down at the base of the tree, “is my snail okay?”

“
Our
snail is fine,” he yelled back.

If ever he needed a letter from a super hero, it was today.

B
ARNEY HAD BEEN NOTICING
the signs all morning—the signs that summer was ending and autumn was willing and ready to take over. The leaves were beginning to turn colors around the edges. The wind, as Barney would say, was getting sassy—surprising your face with a nip. And the sun, hot as it still was, was bowing out earlier and earlier, allowing more time for the moon to perform.

As he walked the streets of Franklinville, Barney decided that he was going to have himself one good-time kind of day. And it's certain—if Orson could have seen Barney that morning, he would have blown a fuse.

Barney was wearing his new Brewer baseball cap, not his official mail hat. And, he had eaten his breakfast on the route—three chocolate-frosted doughnuts. That meant chocolate fingerprints on half the mail delivered that morning. Barney even collected aluminum cans along his way, putting them in his sack with the letters, phone bills, and magazines. The thought of drips of Coke or Mountain Dew or Miller Lite defacing the mail never entered Barney's mind. But best of all was what happened in the Campbells' frontyard. Candy and Fletcher were running through their sprinkler, laughing and singing. Barney couldn't resist joining in. So he set down his sack, took off his shoes and socks and hat, rolled up his pants, and darted through the sprinkler with Candy and Fletcher.

It was the most enjoyable morning Barney had had in quite some time.

Meanwhile, Whitaker had convinced Molly that Pimple was a cousin of Frogman and that, like his famous relative, he too was capable of causing warts on little sisters. Although she had grown rather fond of Pimple, she didn't want to risk ruining her complexion, so Molly decided that Whitaker was right—Pimple should be his. Alone.