Snakes Don't Miss Their Mothers (3 page)

H
E WAS AN AVERAGE
child with a face no one ever seemed able to remember, including his parents, who called him Quintin, for he was their fifth boy. That made him easy to spot among the others, as he was shorter and in a lower grade than they were, and if he spoke he was easily identifiable, for he lisped and stuttered. He much preferred listening. He listened to the radio, books on tape, teachers, and his older brothers.

His parents were disappointed when he brought home his failing report cards with the only As in manageability, but that was one less son to send to college, saving them thousands and thousands of dollars. While his brothers became lawyers and doctors and talk-show hosts, he would undoubtedly have a less glitzy career. He could sell things behind a counter or become a dogcatcher. The Smiths' other boys would bring them honors. This fifth one was a maverick, a word Quintin Smith had heard on the radio and believed described him: a person with unorthodox ideas.

“Whatever you say,” said his parents, who had no clue what his ideas were, since he seldom spoke.

After high school he invented a word game that brought him some earnings—until his idea was stolen by Barker Brothers, and he was left to his own devices again.

The ordinary name Smith bothered him, even though he did not love his parents any less. He changed his name to Quintin Quick, simply because the clerk at the change-of-name bureau grew impatient with his stuttering and stammering and shouted out, “Patience is not my forte! Quick!”

That was how Quintin Smith became Quintin Quick, soon to be a corporate head.

But not before he touched the impatient clerk's sleeve and said, “Excuth me? You just pronounced forte fortay. Tch! Tch! It's never pronounced that way except by musicians and f-f-f-fools. You must say fort. People will think the b-b-b-better of you for it.”

For Quintin Quick's forte (rhymes with sort), after years of listening, had become words. They would make both his lisp and his stutter disappear eventually. They would make him rich, and they would make him obnoxious.

“
I'M MR. QUICK, THE
C.E.O. of BrainPower Limited. Do you remember me? We met in Miami last summer, after your show. You've grown taller.”

“Not much taller,” said Jimmie Twilight.

“Not an inch taller,” said Ms. Fondaloot, a casting agent of importance. “She's the same height exactly!” Ms. Fondaloot paced around the studio in her high-heeled boots, wearing her rose-tinted shades.

“You see, I'm looking for someone who'll look like a teenager.”

“I believe you're right: She
has
grown taller,” said Ms. Fondaloot, “and she'll shoot up some more, too.”

“She
seems
taller,” said an assistant to Mr. Quick, who was eager to wind up this casting call and have Christmas Eve with his family.

The girl spoke up again. “The consensus of opinion seems to be that I
have
grown taller.”

“Do you realize what you just said?” Mr. Quick asked the girl.

“I said I guess I have grown taller.”

“That isn't what you said,” said Mr. Quick. “What you said was the general agreement of opinion of opinion.”

“I didn't say that!” the girl said.

“I didn't hear her say that!” said Ms. Fondaloot.

“Consensus means a general agreement of opinion. When you say ‘consensus of opinion' you're saying the ‘general agreement of opinion of opinion.' It's redundant … and worse, it's not smart. I'm looking for someone who'll appear to be very smart.”

“She's very, very smart,” said Ms. Fondaloot.

“Thank you for coming in on the day before Christmas,” said Mr. Quick.

“No problem,” said Ms. Fondaloot. “Jimmie works at Radio City Music Hall every year in the Christmas show. She's Twinkle Toes.”

“If you get this job,” Mr. Quick said, “you'll be called Jane Brain. You'll be the spokesgirl for our hot new learning game, Brainstorm. Jane Brainstorms French. Jane Brainstorms history. That sort of thing … Do you still have that smart little dancing dog?”

“Not anymore,” said the girl.

“Of course, if you want a dancing dog with her, that's easy to arrange,” said Ms. Fondaloot. “I have animal clients, too.”

Mr. Quick waved away the suggestion. “No, no, you couldn't find a dog as smart as that one. He was a pro!”

“I happen to have a pood—”

Mr. Quick didn't let Ms. Fondaloot continue. “Good luck, young lady. I'll be back in the booth watching.”

After the assistant led the girl to a small stage, she was handed a sheet with her dialogue underlined in blue pencil.

Waiting there was a boy called Art Smart, with his own sheet of dialogue.

“Ready?” a woman shouted from the shadows.

“Ready!” the boy shouted back.

“Go!”

GIRL
: I'm Jane. I wasn't always a brain.

BOY
: I remember. You thought Cuba was in Brazil.

GIRL
: Now I know that Cuba is in the Caribbean Sea and its capital is Havana; population, eleven million; currency, peso; area, forty-three thousand square miles.

BOY
: Excuse me, Jane, but have you been Brainstorming geography?

GIRL
: Geography, history, French, Spanish. Name any subject, Art Smart, and I bet I've Brainstormed it.

BOY
: How about Buddhism, Jane?

GIRL
: A yogin is one who practices mental training or discipline.
Eh ma!
is a Tibetan exclamation of astonishment or wonder.

BOY
:
Eh ma,
Jane. I'm impressed.

GIRL
: In one short month I have managed to impress Art Smart. You can impress people too. You can buy the Brainstorm books, or learn from the Brainstorm tapes. However you choose to do it, you're going to like yourself.

BOY
: You're going to
like
being a brain.

Ms. Fondaloot was waiting by the door, holding Jimmie's coat for her, telling her not to bother with her boots, there wasn't time.

“We have a car waiting,” she said. “We'll just make it to Radio City.”

Inside the car there was silence for some seconds, and then Ms. Fondaloot sucked her breath in with a slight
ssssss
sound, signaling that she was fighting to control her appalling temper.

Her voice was low and restrained as she said, “I
wish
you hadn't spoken out of turn. I
wish
you hadn't said ‘consensus of opinion.'”

“I
T'S FIVE O'CLOCK CHRISTMAS
Eve,” said Goldie triumphantly. “We're closed for the holiday now, and there's no sign of Placido!”

“There's no sign of our Christmas stockings either,” said Catherine. “I have my heart set on those lamb-and-rice sticks. Yum, yum.”

Irving said, “They're coming. I can see Mrs. Splinter out at the desk sorting them.”

“Just a minute, Catherine,” said Goldie. “Remember our bet. I get mine and yours, too.”

“It's only Christmas Eve. You don't get my stocking until the stroke of midnight on Christmas. Placido will surely be back by then.”

“You are a sore loser, Catherine,” said Goldie. “I heard that no one comes here on Christmas Day but Walter and the volunteer walkers. So far Placido has made it! He has a home, at least he does for Christmas.”

“The man who took him will probably leave him at the door in that tawdry carrying case. Critters doesn't have to be open to have Placido returned. Desperate people come up with desperate solutions.”

Irving gave a sharp bark. “Be fair, Catherine!”

“Why should
I
be fair?” Catherine said. “Don't talk to me about fair. Was it fair that I was dumped here after I won every race for two years?”

“Just be glad that Mrs. Splinter took you in,” said Irving. “Most used-up greyhounds go to heaven when their racing days are over.”

“Who are you calling used up?” Catherine demanded.

Then Marshall slid up the side of his glass case, his tongue darting in and out. “
Life
isn't fair,” he said. “Those policemen who found me in the bathtub tossed me into a wicker clothes hamper as though I were soiled laundry. That's how I, a
king,
ended up here surrounded by such depauperate strays!”

“‘Depauperate'?” Catherine said. “What does that word mean?”

“It means ‘stunted, severely diminished, arrested in development.' Look around you, my dear lady,” the snake replied.

“I,” said Goldie, rising up on all fours, “am a yellow Labrador retriever! When my master's father took me hunting, I went into the icy bay to bring back the ducks. I am known for my ability to swim! And here I am in a kennel for the homeless, including a serpent!”

Irving chuckled at the idea of Goldie hunting. He knew from experience quite a lot about hunting, although he disliked swimming and water.

“Some hunter you must have been, Goldie,” he teased. “You can't even point.”

“That's right,” Marshall chimed in. “At least Irving can point.”

“Not like a setter, though.” Dewey finally spoke up, although he rarely got involved in these silly arguments. But his Irish was up, for he was a purebred Irish setter, a red-coated trained bird dog. Yes, he was old. He had outlived his master, which was how he had come to Critters; how Irving had come to Critters, too. But everyone knew the Irish setter was the most handsome, most skilled of all the pointing breeds.

Goldie said, “I was never reduced to pointing. I went right in and retrieved the game.”

Dewey said, “Ask any duck shooter whether he'd rather hunt with a retriever or a setter. Catherine? Do you want to bet? The answer is a setter!”

Now Irving was up on all fours, too, barking his irritation at both Goldie and Dewey. And down the line a water spaniel was beginning to boast about his hunting and swimming abilities. In the next cage a foxhound was remembering the chase.

Then Mrs. Splinter's voice rang out. “Merry, Merry, Merry Christmas, everyone!” She was a tiny, white-haired woman who wore a white stocking cap with a red tassel and a white ball. “Mrs. Santa Splinter is here with your stockings!”

“Two for me!” Goldie looked across at Catherine. “And none for you!”

It is just a good thing humans cannot understand animal talk.

But never mind the mean-spirited things Goldie and Catherine were shouting at each other; Mrs. Splinter was in a festive mood. “Does everyone have the Christmas spirit?” she said. “It's starting to snow out! We're going to have a white Christmas!”

Then the dogs forgot their arguments and all began to bark gaily.

All but Catherine, who was never warm, and who also always shivered when she feared she had lost a bet.

Mrs. Splinter, paused by Catherine's cage. She looped Catherine's leash around the handle. “Are you sad, darling? Don't be,” she said. “Ginny Tintree has invited you to her home for all of Christmas weekend, starting tonight. Every year she takes a dog for the holidays. I wish all our volunteers were that generous.”

Marshall said, “Why just for the holidays, if she's so generous?”

“Because the Star-Tintrees already have a dog, and a daughter, plus they run the tree farm,” said Irving. “I was there two Christmases ago.”

“What are they like?” Catherine asked, dancing about with excitement.

“Little Sun Lily can speak Chinese because she happens to be Chinese. Nell Star is a news freak and a landscapes. Ginny Tintree is the brains behind the business. She handles the money.”

Marshall began to giggle meanly. “Don't forget the chanteuse who comes to visit with them on holidays. Placido told me all about her.”

“It's just Ginny's mother, Mrs. Tintree,” said Irving. “Her first name is Flo, and she's an animal lover just like Mrs. Splinter.”

“And Walter, and Mr. Larissa, and on and on,” said Marshall. “We attract zoophiles here at Critters.”

“Attract what?” Catherine asked.

“A zoophile is simply someone who has a fondness for animals,” said Marshall. “I need a nap, I think. I'm so very hungry I'm lethargic. I wish Mrs. Splinter would serve our Christmas snacks.”

Instead of a stocking with chew sticks and dog biscuits, for Christmas Marshall always received a defrosted mouse, which was in a Baggie on the office desk.

“Guess what!” Mrs. Splinter said. “The Star-Tintrees had a party today.”

It was her custom to babble away as she went among the animals. But the Star-Tintrees' having a party was
hardly
a guess what, Irving thought. That family was always having parties. When Irving was their Christmas dog, they had a party for fifteen—five kids from the Ross School and their parents.

Once, for a party, Mrs. Tintree had borrowed Placido. As she began to sing “Soft I Am and Purr I Do,” Placido had jumped from her lap, run behind Ginny and Nell's expensive printed linen drapes, and tangled himself up in them until he brought them down with a crash.

He had been returned to Critters in disgrace, marching angrily about the cat room, his tail whipping in the air, his dignity outraged.

Mrs. Splinter continued talking to the animals waiting for their Christmas stockings. “Guess what! The Star-Tintrees hired Placido's new owner to play Santa Claus! He might still be there, Catherine. You might meet him and learn how Placido is doing. Ginny Tintree left the party just to come here for you.”

Never one to lose her gambling spirit, even in blissful moments, Catherine sat on her haunches and said, “Who wants to bet that when I come back from the Star-Tintrees' in three days, Placido will be here?”