Snakes Don't Miss Their Mothers (13 page)

“Don't get your hopes up, honey.”

“I know…. But if I got work in New York City, we could live out here on
Summer Salt II
and we could keep Placido.”

“It sounds too good to be true,” Sam Twilight said.

Jimmie put her arms around him, and they hugged.

Placido reacted to this glimmer of good news the same way Sam Twilight had—suspiciously. Then he felt an enormous fatigue overcome him, his usual response to doubt, dread, and fear.

He padded away, down the hall toward the master's cabin. It was time for his second nap of the day, which meant he had nineteen naps to go. Better get started, Sailor, he said to himself, for that was the name he had decided to take if this was to be his permanent home. A cat on a boat was not your average cat. A cat on a boat should have a nautical name.

Up on the shelf in the sun spot for nap number two.

But whoa, wait a minute, wait … a … minute.

Placido, aka Sailor, surveyed the scene before him.

Puffy white clouds above, rippling blue water below, and there on the aft deck, sitting on the saw left there by Sam Twilight, was Snack!

The gull was swallowing down something dead from the water.

Sailor felt his teeth chatter and his jaws tremble. And he felt something else. Something very slight, but very plainly fresh air. Something that was not blowing in through a crack either.

And then Sailor Placido saw it.

Sam Twilight must have opened it as he was working out there.

Sailor Placido moved down the shelf in a crouch toward the porthole.

He nudged it with his head. His whiskers felt the wind, then his nose did, then his ears.

He could just about squeeze through.

The stupid, garbage-mouth gull just sat there on his pink legs, the tail of some old fish disappearing inside him.

Placido's one eye was open wide with joy and disbelief as he targeted his prey.

One quick leap would do it.

Placido's behind shook in preparation.

His back legs flexed for the jump.

ONE
…
TWO
… and on
THREE
, Placido the Sailor became Placido the Flyer, sailing out into the morning wind, just as Snack, too, took off.

The difference was that Snack could fly.

Placido's target disappeared while his flight continued.

Out, out, then down, down.

SPLASH!

Placido sank into the bay, emerging with flailing paws.

Wet, wretched paws that were searching for something to grip.

But to grip with
what!

Not with his claws, for he had none.

G
OING DOWN FOR THE
third time, Placido thought of how the animals at Critters always called out, “Good-bye, Placido!” Now there was no one to wish him farewell. Off in the distance there was the sound of a boat's horn, a dog barking, and the wind blowing the waves into whitecaps.

It was very likely Placido would drown here in Gardiner's Bay, and as terrified as he was at the prospect, he was also appalled to realize that his body could float in the bay for days on end. Who would know where his poor body was?

It was quite possible that a fourteen-pound, one-eyed sealpoint Siamese would turn into fish fodder, and then Placido had another thought as he gagged on the salty bay water. It was quite possibly his last thought.

HE COULD BECOME A SNACK FOR SNACK!

What a degrading payback for all the mean, urpy, crabby, crappy, bullying, boisterous feline pranks he had committed in his tempestuous time on earth!

What a cruel twist of fate, just as he had his sea legs, his sailor identity, and for now, anyway, a new seafaring family.

So this was the end of him, was it?

Good-bye, Placido.

So long, Sailor.

And then and there, Placido died.

Died … and to his great surprise went to heaven.

For what would you call it when you saw the great golden light at the end of the tunnel?

What could that grip on your neck be but the angel pulling you out of the water, carrying you aloft, seeing you to shore?

If this was not your guardian angel helping you to ascend to the clouds above, what would you call it?

“Luck,” said Goldie. “Boy, are you ever in luck, Placido!”

Chilled to the bone, not dead at all, not even close to heaven, Placido lay on the ground beside the pier, panting for breath.

“How did
you
get here, Goldie?”

“I had just come down the gangplank of
We All Make Mistakes,
walking along with this woman, when I heard a voice cry, ‘Sister! Ursula!' from a dirty brown Bronco. I knew that car, and I knew who those red gloves on the wheel belonged to. The dog-catcher! Uttergore! Then I saw your splash, and I broke free of Madame U, and I swam as fast as I could away from them and toward you…. Let me get my breath.”

“You swam to rescue
me?”

“I did not know it was you, Placido. I have to be honest.”

“Then why did you swim after me?”

“It's in my nature. I am not a Labrador retriever for nothing!”

Goldie had been the dog, then, standing on the pier barking, as he dove into the bay.

At least three people had witnessed his gallant rescue of Placido. Now they were running toward the pair. The fisherman, Jimmie, and Sam Twilight.

“That's the stray I just gave to Madame U!” said the fisherman. Jimmie bent down and picked Placido up, hugging him to her, even though he was soaking wet. “Oh, Placido! We almost lost you! Daddy left that porthole open.”

“A stray?” Mr. Twilight said, bending over to pet Goldie. “You wouldn't be Goldie, would you? You wouldn't be Rex?”

Goldie barked and shook himself, barked and shook himself, and barked.

“Come along, Goldie, Rex, I think we know someone who's looking for you.”

Placido began to purr in Jimmie's arms.

Goldie walked along with them as they headed toward
Summer Salt II.

Down on the road a rusty brown Bronco was turning around to head the other way.

“Thanks, Goldie,” said Placido. “Thanks, Rex.”

“You're welcome,” said Goldie. Then he saw where they were going, and he said, “A boat? You live on a boat now, Placido?”

Placido, rapturous in the arms of Jimmie Twilight, interrupted his purring long enough to answer, “Aye, aye, sir! Welcome aboard!”

I
T WAS THE DAY
after New Year's Day.

Walter Splinter knelt before Marshall's cage. “I tried everything to get Dad to keep you,” he told the snake, who had heard him trying at the Star-Tintrees'. “He's dead set against it. He says I have to grow up and learn to care about
people.”

Not an easy task, Marshall mumbled to himself.

“I'm not going to say good-bye. It's too sad. But I'll be back to visit Grandma. I'll see you then.”

Walter fled before the tears in his eyes spilled down his cheeks.

After Walter left, Irving waited for Marshall to settle down. Irving had a new little cot, with a plaid cedar cushion on it. It was a Christmas gift from Mrs. Silverman, the volunteer who walked him every day. She had arthritis too, so she knew it would make Irving more comfortable, and still the workers would be able to wash out his cage.

“Walter hated leaving you, didn't he?” Irving finally spoke up. “He took it really hard.”

Marshall had climbed up into his plastic tree to hang around. He was not keen on discussing any hard feelings of Walter Splinter.

He said, “When did Baldy go?”

“Posh went yesterday. Do you want to know something unusual? Posh needs to be smeared with sunscreen before she goes outdoors. I heard Mrs. Splinter give the new owner directions.”

“I hope she croaks,” said Marshall.

“Be careful or you'll develop a bitter streak,” said Irving.

“Who wouldn't? Look around, Irving. First Placido went, and this time it looks like he'll have a home. I heard Mrs. Splinter say that Goldie was back home. Then the Star-Tintrees decided to keep Catherine. Then, let's see, there's Dewey—”

Irving interrupted him. “It's better not to dwell on it.”

“Do you call what I'm doing over here dwelling? This is not dwelling. This is hanging here pointlessly, nothing to look forward to but a frozen mouse. You know, all the taste is gone out of them once they're defrosted.”

Irving's eyes rolled away from Marshall wound around his tree branch. It was better to stay at Critters forever than to go on an overnight visit. A tiny taste of home was a real killer.

Irving knew that there was nothing he could do or say to cheer up his twisted pal, but he always made an effort.

“Days of Our Lives
is coming on soon,” he said. “They're still in the midst of that murder trial. It could be exciting, Marshall, and I'll tell you everything that's happening.”

“You've settled for a life of watching soaps, Irving.”

“It's not such a bad life, now that I have my plaid cedar cushion. There is plenty going on! Births and deaths, betrayals, weddings, funerals, everything in life is in that show.”

“There are no snakes, however.”

Irving had to agree. He had never seen a snake on a soap.

“I'm going to take a nap,” Marshall said. “I'm going to try and dream something magnificent. At least all sleeping dreams are true while they last.”

The sun was sinking and Mrs. Splinter was getting ready to lock up when Irving heard a voice he recognized.

“Do you remember me, Mrs. Splinter? Mom's parking the car.”

“Why, Bob! Bob Randall! Goldie hasn't run away again, I hope!”

“We call him Rex. Rex is fine. Happy New Year!”

“You came all the way from Montauk to wish me a Happy New Year?”

“That's part of the reason we came,” said Bob. “The other part is that I'd like to be interviewed for an adoption.”

Irving lifted his head from his paws to hear better.

“Do you have a particular animal in mind?”

“Yes, ma'am. When I was here looking for Rex, I saw that beautiful king snake you have. Is he still here?”

Irving barked and jumped up and down to jolt Marshall from his sleep.

“Thanks a lot, Irving,” Marshall complained. “I was just beginning to dream I was adopted.”

“You're going to be, Marshall.”

“I'll tell you something about yourself, Irving. You're too much of an optimist. Life is a struggle. Why can't you acknowledge that dreams don't come true? What dream of yours has ever come true?”

“My dream of a soft bed came true,” said Irving. “But this isn't about me—listen!”

Mrs. Splinter was continuing with the interview.

“Have you ever lived with a snake, Bob?”

“Never. But I'd take good care of him, ma'am. I know a lot about snakes. I've been thinking of him ever since I saw him back there. My mother said that if I was serious, she'd bring me down here so I could talk with you about it. My mother says it would be a way to repay Critters for the time you spent on Rex. And it would be my birthday present.”

Irving was up on all fours, wagging his tail.

“Did you hear that, Marshall?”

Unfurled, winding himself down toward his wood chips, Marshall's tongue darted in and out so fast he could not talk.

Sometimes impossible dreams come true, even for a serpent.

M
RS. RANDALL, BOB, AND
his baby sister were still not home when Rex tried once more to get Rags' attention.

“Just tell me if you missed me,” Rex said.

“Were you gone?” Rags answered.

“Was I
gone?
I was lost for weeks! Didn't you even notice that I was gone? Why, Percival Uttergore was out looking for me wearing his red gloves! His tricky sister fetched me and was taking me to the dirty brown Bronco!”

Rags cleaned his ears with his paws.

“Was I
gone?”
Rex bellowed. “I was at Critters, and I was running through the woods! I was in a house with a piano and the lady got mad at me because I couldn't sing! I had horns honking at me, branches catching my collar and tags, and I was even on a boat! Was I
gone?”

Rags had hind toes to clean plus nails to bite down on all four feet. He had his tail to attend to, and his belly.

“I even imagined you were calling me home…. And you won't believe this, Rags, but I saved a cat.”

Rags yawned. Soon he would have to check out the action in the yard. He would have to chase away the unkempt Persian cat with all the mats in her hair, and he would have to climb a tree or two.

“There's this one-eyed Siamese named Placido,” said Rex, but he could not finish telling Rags about him, because the door opened right at that moment.

In came Mrs. Randall, followed by Bob and his little sister.

Bob was carrying the kind of case cats come in.

“What's this?” Rags asked:

“I can't imagine,” Rex answered.

Bob set the case down on the floor.

He said, “Rags and Rex, you have a new brother.” He opened the top, and in a few seconds out came—

“Marshall!” Rex exclaimed. “Marshall!”

Rags took one look and made a dash for the cat door. Outside, his hair standing on end, his whiskers stiff, he went up a tree. On the highest branch he perched, collecting himself. A new brother, he thought, and he cleaned himself and cleaned himself, letting it sink in.

Was he expected to live with a snake?

Or was this some sneaky ploy of Bob's to unsettle him?

Whatever it was, Rags had no intention of showing that it mattered to him one way or another. For he was one clean, coot, green-eyed, sixteen-pound Maine coon cat. A poet at times, at other times not.