Shoebag Returns (2 page)

Miss Rattray was a very tall, sturdy woman, who looked as though a string suspended from the ceiling was attached to her head. She had a very erect posture, large black spectacles, and short black hair. She wore a blue-and-white striped seersucker suit, for the school colors were royal blue and white.

“I hope you will be happy here, Stanley.”

“The bed isn’t made,” said Stanley Sweetsong.

“Here we make our own beds, dear.”

“I have never made my own bed in my entire life.”

“No time like the present to start,” said Miss Rattray.

Then with a smile and a wave she left the boy by himself in the room, except for Shoebag, now clinging to the twenty-second slat in the Venetian blind.

When the boy sat down on the unmade bed, he put his hands up to his face and sobbed.

“Cheer up,” Shoebag said. “It’s not
that
bad here.”

But, of course, humans rarely hear anything roaches have to say, and Stanley Sweetsong was crying too loud, anyway.

“W
HY ARE YOU CRYING?
” the little girl asked. She was taller than Stanley, a skinny redhead with freckles on her face, her arms, and probably on her long legs, though Stanley could not tell for she wore white knee socks. She was in the school uniform: a royal blue blazer with gold buttons, a white shirt with a royal blue tie, and a white pleated skirt.

“I’m crying because I had to make my own bed and unpack my own trunk, and I am also crying because I am the only boy in Miss Rattray’s School for Girls.”

The little girl stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, a look of exasperation on her freckled forehead.

“We cannot practice with you crying so loudly,” she said.

“What do you practice?” Stanley asked.

“We are putting on a play, and the play must go on!”

“No one told me anything about a play.”

“My name,” she said, “is Josephine Jiminez, and I am the director, producer, and playwright for the Black Mask Theater.”

“My name is Stanley Sweetsong. I’ve been to theater, but it was in New York City. It was a play called
Cats.”

The little girl folded her arms and took one step into Stanley’s room. “Our play is called
If You’re Not In, You’re Out!”

Stanley said, “Can I see your play?”

“Do you have any Mallomars, Hydrox cookies, something like that? For dessert tonight we only got one awful pear.”

“I have no food, just my allowance.”

“How much do you get?”

“Five dollars a week.”

“That’s what it’ll cost you to see it.”

“But it is only Monday. What if I need money for the rest of the week? And what will I put in the offering in church, on Sunday?”

“You can’t afford our play, I guess,” she said.

“How long will it run? I could save up.”

Josephine took another step forward. “It is the longest running play ever at Miss Rattray’s School for Girls.”

“And now one boy,” said Stanley. “Where is this theater?”

“Right next door.”

“In the next building?”

“In the next room,” said Josephine.

“In a room like this room?”

“Not exactly like this room, since the Cast of Characters lives there with me.”

“Then it must be a big, big room!”

“Come and see for yourself.”

Stanley jumped down from the badly made bed, and followed the girl.

“Do the Cast of Characters share the bathroom across the hall with us?” he asked. He had never shared a bathroom with anyone. At Castle Sweet he had his own big bathroom.

“They don’t need a bathroom,” said Josephine.

“Everyone needs a bathroom.”

“They
don’t!”
she said. “You have to be quiet as we enter. They are in the middle of their rehearsal.”

It was a dark room, for she had pulled the blinds shut. A floor lamp with its shade tilted was aimed at a square royal blue rug, filled with a dozen dolls.

“Shhhhh!” Josephine said.

On the bed, on the two chairs, on the bureau, there were more dolls.

All the dolls wore black masks.

Stanley had never seen so many dolls. He had never seen any doll wearing a black mask.

“All right, everybody!” Josephine shouted. “We’ll have a ten-minute break!”

Stanley said, “So this is your theater.”

“This is it,” said the girl.

“And this is your Cast of Characters.”

“This is it.”

Stanley was too polite to say what he was thinking: that it was all just make-believe, that none of it was real.

“And what is your play about?” Stanley asked Josephine Jiminez.

“It’s about a secret club.”

“We belong to the Bucks County Country Club,” said Stanley, “and also to the Red Fox Hunt Club.”

“Who
belongs to them?” Josephine asked as she moved two masked dolls aside to sit on the bed.

“We Sweetsongs do.”

“But they are not secret clubs.”

“No, they are not.”

“And anyone can belong.”

“No, they cannot. Only members can belong.”

Josephine Jiminez heaved an impatient sigh and shook her head vigorously. “What I mean is, anyone can be a member.”

“No, they cannot,” Stanley insisted, “unless they have a lot of money.”

“You cannot buy your way into
this
club!” said Josephine. “You don’t know beans about this club. You don’t know anything about such a secret club!”

“Why should I?” Stanley answered. “Where I come from clubs are not secret!”

“But you are here now,” said Josephine. “And here there
is
one! And the one that there is, is the most important club in Miss Rattray’s School for Girls … and now one boy.”

“Then possibly I’ll join it,” said Stanley, looking around for someplace to sit where there wasn’t a masked doll in the way.

“Join
it?” said Josephine Jiminez, her eyes narrowing, her skinny body leaning forward. “JOIN IT?” she thundered. Then she let out a hoot of ridicule.

“I have to go back to my room,” Stanley said, for he realized that he must have said something very laughable, or very sad, or very stupid … and possibly all three.

As he left the room, Josephine Jiminez was rocking back and forth on her bed filled with masked dolls, stamping her feet, holding tight to her freckled arms, laughing while she tried to exclaim:

“He thinks … he’s … ha-ha … going to
join
the Better Club!”

Y
OU HAD TO BE
asked
to be a member of the Better Club.

Even Under The Toaster had to laugh at the idea of anyone thinking he could join the Better Club, and Under The Toaster was not a big laugher.

Father of so many roaches he could not count them all, father of so many roaches he only remembered the ones who’d been felled by fatal accidents, when Under The Toaster
did
laugh, he roared.

No one in roachdom wanted him to laugh.

It was dangerous when he laughed.

On the rare occasions he was unable to keep from laughing, the yellow kitchen cat roused himself from his sleep and went on the prowl for any cockroaches scurrying around. This sent everyone scampering up walls and into floorboards.

Drainboard predicted that one day Under The Toaster would die laughing, or else he would be laughing while one of his own died.

Still, at their late-night picnic beside the hall night-light, Under The Toaster could not help himself.

“He thinks he can just join that club — har-de-har-har!”

And a moment after he’d roared at what Stanley Sweetsong had said, he blew a stale bread crumb at Shoebag’s antennae and declared, “Even
you
were a smarter boy than that one, back when you were Stuart Bagg!”

“I was not a dumb boy, Papa.”

But Under The Toaster could not forget, or forgive, that when Shoebag was a boy, he often saved teensy greasy morsels just for Drainboard. What kind of son broke the old roach rule that fathers
always
ate first and had their pick of choice treats?

So spitefully, Under The Toaster often teased his son about the time he’d changed into this tiny person.

“I remember when you were Stuart Bagg. You had to wear clothes!”

“I liked wearing them, Papa.”

“But you couldn’t wait to get back to being a roach!”

“It was not the clothes, though. It was because I missed you and Drainboard, and my brothers and sisters.”

“Family is everything,” said Under The Toaster. “I am head of the family so I am more than everything!”

“This is true, Papa,” Shoebag agreed.

It was Gregor Samsa, a roach once himself, who had given Shoebag the formula to change back to a roach.

And it was Gregor Samsa who had gone back and forth from roach to human, before he decided to abandon roachdom for stardom.

Shoebag had never wanted to be a star. Besides missing his family, he had also missed having six legs, a shell, and antennae. He had missed the late-night picnics, like this one, too.

Still, there were times when he remembered sleeping in a bed, eating at a table, attending school — all the things he’d done when he was a tiny person. And Shoebag wondered at such times if it was possible for him to go back and forth just once more. Gregor Samsa had warned him never to do it without having a good reason.

Shoebag munched on the stale bread crumb his father had tossed his way and thought about it.

Down the hall, Josephine Jiminez was calling out, “Curtain Up!”

Shoebag had always enjoyed hanging out in Josephine Jiminez’s little room with all the dolls. He liked to sleep there in the ear of a masked Kewpie doll named Monroe. The room was always nicely dark, too, for it was a theater. There were bits of food everywhere, as well, for Josephine Jiminez had a big appetite like Under The Toaster. She was always eating.

The catch (and there is always a catch when a roach finds a safe and agreeable place to dally) was the plays she put on in there.

“Curtain up!” she would call out, just as she had done a moment ago, and then the play would get underway.

The same old thing, time after time.

She made the Cast of Characters speak in various voices.

Monroe was the featured player, so Shoebag would have to hop out of the Kewpie doll’s ear, and run off to the pencil sharpener on the wall.

The same old dialogue, time after time.

“You say you want to be a member of the club?” Monroe would ask in a deep and very stern voice.

Then Alexandria, the wooden doll with the rouged cheeks would answer, “Yes, please, can I get in?”

“You think you’re good enough?” Monroe again.

“Yes, please, can I get in?” were the only lines Alexandria had, the only lines any of the bit players had.

Then Monroe would bark, “Well, you’re
not
good enough!”

Next came the terrible moment when Josephine Jiminez reached out for the wooden doll.

And next came the vengeful voice which Josephine Jiminez gave to Monroe, shouting the lines:

“IF YOU’RE NOT IN, YOU’RE OUT!”

While Shoebag shivered inside the pencil sharpener, Josephine Jiminez would smash Alexandria against the wall.

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

“YOU ARE JUST NOT GOOD ENOUGH, ALEXANDRIA!”

They never were, were they?

The doll named Sam Houston wasn’t. The doll named Arlington wasn’t. The doll named Heidelberg wasn’t. Nor was the doll named Seoul, the one named Washington, or the googly-eyed doll named Huntsville.

Just like Josephine Jiminez herself, not one doll in her collection was good enough to get into the club.

Not even Monroe was, really, for the play would always end with Monroe bellowing,
“NONE OF US ARE GOOD ENOUGH! IF YOU’RE NOT IN, YOU’RE OUT!”

Even at that moment, the wall-whacking was in progress.

“What is that noise?” Drainboard asked.

“It’s the Doll Smasher, that’s all,” Under The Toaster replied, his mouth full of half a pea.

“No, I mean that
other
noise,” Drainboard said.

“What
is
it?” Under The Toaster said. “It’s too low to be sobbing.”

But it was not too low to be sobbing, when it was a small boy sobbing. Shoebag remembered that sound from his school days in Brooklyn when some little boys broke down and cried … and tried to hide it from big people and girls.

Shoebag had even made that sound once himself, when he was human, muffling it with a pillow.

Poor Stanley Sweetsong.

Shoebag’s small roach heart went out to him, for Shoebag suddenly had a clear memory of his first night as a tiny person, naked, under bright lights in strange surroundings. … It was not always easy to be a little boy.

“Never mind. Eat up!” said Under The Toaster, and he pushed a wilted sprig of parsley at his wife, for he was full, finally, and ready to crawl behind the light socket for a nap.

Shoebag would wait until his family was asleep.

Then he would crawl down to Stanley Sweetsong’s room. Even if he could not make him feel better, he would be there for him. He would try to send him some cosmic cockroach message that would help him get through his misery.

Y
OU COULD NOT MISS
a Better.

For one thing, a Better wore a white button with red letters which said
WE’RE BETTER!

For another, a Better wore one red sock on the right foot, the regulation white one on the left.

Stanley Sweetsong noticed the Betters that morning in assembly. The Betters always had the better seats, down in the front row.

There were half a dozen of them there as everyone stood and sang the school song.

We are Miss Rattray’s girls,

We are Miss Rattray’s pearls,

Royal Blue to say we’re true,

White to show delight,

At being in Miss Rattray’s School,

Hoo-rah, hoo-ray, We start our day

Sing-ing,

Sing-ing

Sing-ing!

After the assembly, Miss Rattray herself confronted Stanley Sweetsong as he started down the hall toward his first class.