The Anybodies (15 page)

IF YOU WERE GOING TO TAKE ON SOMEONE LIKE
the Miser in, let's say, an old abandoned gas station where your father was being held captive, and you could shake a book and make something from inside that book pop out of it—and perhaps you can, what do I know?—what book would you choose?

The Bible? Did someone say the Bible? Yes, yes, smart thinking. But what if the Red Sea pours out? Do you even know how to part the Red Sea? No, I didn't think so.

Did someone say King Arthur? Well, that's a fine guess. Except of course the horses could get all tangled up on the way out, which is cruelty to animals and
therefore illegal. And what if all of those knights don't know whom they're supposed to conquer, and they turn on you?

Did someone say Robin Hood? I heard someone say Robin Hood, very softly, someone being almost too shy to say anything at all. Robin Hood is always a nice choice if you're looking for a hero. But quite frankly the whole damsel-in-distress bit turns me off. Robin Hood goes around thinking that women can't take care of themselves, and women can, for goodness sake, especially in this day and age! Especially Fern!

Fern wanted to bring her mother's diary. That was a thought that crossed her mind, but it was with Howard, although now she knew Howard wouldn't really be able to decode it since it was most likely not in code, but hypnotized. Fern thought for a minute about what other book she could bring instead—one that could save her and the Bone. It didn't take her long to figure out. She wanted to save the Bone herself. That meant there was only one sensible book to bring along—her own diary. This is important to remember. Sometimes you need to dig down deep, to rely on your own resources. This is a very American thing, self-reliance. Our forefathers and our foremothers, and, for that matter, our foreaunts and foreuncles, would say that self-reliance is a cornerstone of something or other.
I've lost my train of thought, but hopefully you know what I mean. Self-reliance. Fern trusted herself—now that she knew who she was—and she brought her own diary because she knew that she could trust it. In short, she had faith in herself.

Fern held her diary close to her heart. She had
The Art of Being Anybody
in her lap as she and her grandmother were bumping along back roads in her grandmother's truck.

“It's an old gas station,” Fern told her. “The pumps look ancient. It's abandoned. It seems like a perfect spot.”

“Yes, yes,” her grandmother said. “I know the one. I know! How smart of you.”

“I come by it naturally, Dorathea Gretel!” Fern said, trying out the name for the first time. “Dorathea Gretel. Dorathea Gretel…” There was something about it she liked very much.

The road was dusty and pocked with potholes. “Are we almost there?”

“Almost.”

Meanwhile, the army of fairies had Mrs. Appleplum's address stamp and an ink pad. They were stamping Mrs. Appleplum's address on each letter as the return address. The mailman would be there soon and so they were working fast, buzzing like a hive, the
droning hum of wings. Above the dull roar, the redheaded fairy was barking orders. “Go, go, go!” she shouted. “We've got orders to follow!”

Meanwhile, Howard was feeding Mr. and Mrs. Drudger monkey food that he'd ordered through the Internet. He'd been to the bank with Mr. Drudger dressed as an ape, and things had gone well. Mr. Drudger was a hit. A mother with two young kids asked Howard if his father did birthday parties. Howard said yes and gave the woman their phone number. The Drudgers seemed to enjoy the monkey chow, and it was quiet enough for the moment so that Howard could pore over Eliza Bone's diary. He saw no patterns emerging. Nothing, which isn't really a surprise to us, now, is it?

And the Bone? Well, Fern was right. He was in the garage of an old gas station, one that he remembered from his youth. They used to spend long afternoons there together—Eliza, the Bone, and the Miser—listening to old records. The Bone remembered it all—the oil stains, the dust, the stacked antiques, the smell of grease. But now the Bone was tied to a chair. He was concentrating on the Great Realdo. He was thinking,
I need you. Where are you?
The Miser was pacing in front of him, pacing, pacing. His spies were gathered by the front door, keeping guard.

“You are a thief, Bone. You stole Eliza from me.”

“No, she chose me. There was nothing I could do. I loved her,” the Bone said.

“No, you were a sneak. You hypnotized her into loving you. And I wasn't powerful enough to turn her love back to me. But who's more powerful now? I am! And I will have my way!”

“But remember when we were kids, riding unicycles together? We were best friends. Remember you used to be—” the Bone said.

“Shut up!” the Miser yelled.

“You used to be—”

“Stop it!”

“You used to be so sweet, so kindhearted!”

“I have not been myself! And it's your fault, Bone. Your fault! If you were dead, maybe then everything would be better!”

Fern and her grandmother parked right in front of the old station. The red van with its gold lettering—
HAISERBLAITHERNESS LIGHTS
,
PLASTICS
,
AND TOILETRIES
—was parked near the pumps, as if gassing up. “You go in, Fern,” her grandmother said. “You can do it.” “By myself?” “Yes!” her grandmother urged. “But he's not alone!” “You'll do wonderfully.” “No, I can't. I need help.”

“You have all the help you need.” Her grandmother nodded at the books in Fern's arms.

Fern popped open the door and slid off the seat to her feet. “Wish me luck.”

“You don't need luck,” her grandmother told her.

Fern closed the car door and walked toward the gas station, the books clamped to her chest.

FERN KNOCKED ON THE DOOR. THERE WERE LOUD
rummaging sounds and lots of whispery voices. “It's her,” she heard. “She's here.” The door opened slowly, but the entrance was blocked by a row of small, tightly muscled bodies—the Miser's spies. They wore matching red jumpsuits that had H
AISERBLAITHERNESS
L
IGHTS
, P
LASTICS
,
AND
T
OILETRIES
stitched in gold letters over small pockets on their chests. Some stood with their arms crossed and eyed Fern menacingly, while others seemed edgy, nearly frantic, glancing around excitedly.

“What do you want?” one asked in a loud voice; then he added in a whisper, “You should go. He's in no mood.”

“I want to see the Miser,” Fern told them, jutting out her jaw proudly.

“You aren't supposed to be here,” one from the back said urgently. “You should go, go on home!”

“Is something wrong?” Fern asked.

“No, no,” they all said too quickly, some wagging their heads no, others nodding.

“She's here!” a spy called out. “She's right here! Now! At the door.”

Fern heard the Miser growl. “Not now!” he said.

“Yes!” another spy piped up. “Right now!”

“Get going!” the Miser's voice boomed from inside the garage. “I don't need any of you!”

And so the spies ran off. One muttered, “Best of luck.” They raced to the red van, each jumping up the step. The engine revved quickly, and the van sped off in a whirl of dust.

Something was wrong. Fern knew it. She was certain of it. The Miser had been thrown off his plan somehow. Fern stepped deeper into the garage. He looked worn down, furious, but with a weariness in his eyes.

“Do you have the book?” the Miser asked, sneering at Fern. He was trembling with nerves.

“I do, but I want to see the Bone first. I want to make sure he's safe.”

“Don't make me angry!” the Miser said, but it wasn't so much threatening as it was pleading.

“I want to see him now!” Fern said, and she tried to push her way past the Miser, but he was too strong. Fern could feel her grandmother watching her from the car. Her grandmother had faith in her. Fern had faith in herself. She dropped to the ground quickly and dashed between the Miser's legs.

“Bone?” she cried, racing around the garage. “Bone? Where are you?”

But the Bone was gone. All that sat there was an old wooden chair with ropes tied loosely around it. There
was no back door. Fern wondered where the Bone could have gone. How had he escaped? She felt a rise of chatter inside herself. She would have to start her talking. She could feel it. But then she held the books tighter to her chest.
There's no time for that
, Fern thought to herself.
I don't need to chatter. I need to think clearly and calmly, to be strong.

She was right. There was no time. She heard a high-pitched howl, a screech. There was a breeze, then another breeze, then another breeze. She turned around slowly, ever so slowly. The flapping of enormous wings, a long neck, and a pointy snapping beak. The Miser had become a vulture.

This was worse than Fern had expected. She opened her diary. While holding on tight to
The Art of Being Anybody
, she shook the diary as best she could, hoping something good would slip out—something to help her. She shook and she shook. The Miser was flapping harder now. The room was gusty. Some loose pages of sheet music in the corner rose up and swirled. The vulture screeched again. The first thing to plop out was a plump, drowsy hobbit.

“What? Where?” he sputtered. The vulture swooped over his head and the hobbit scrambled under a table.

“Sorry!” Fern said.

She shook some more and books tumbled out, a small pile. A book spilling books, not surprising at this
point. She shook again, and there was Mary Curtain, the flustered nurse who'd accidentally swapped Howard and Fern so many years ago, sprawled on the floor in a flowered house dress and apron. Fern recognized her because, well, Marty had done a good job of being Mary Curtain after all. He'd looked just like her, and Fern had written about the real Mary Curtain in her diary, a good bit, in fact.

“Excuse me!” she said. “I don't know how…I was cooking muffins!” In fact, she was still wearing her oven mitts. “My husband will wonder…He's watching his favorite TV program and—”

But she had no time to finish the sentence. Fern was still shaking when out swung a bowling ball, connected to an arm, and Marty came flying out behind it, right into Mary Curtain, bowling her over.

“Who are you?” Mary Curtain asked.

“I was about to bowl on lane eight! I'm…Hey, you're Mary Curtain, the nurse,” Marty said.

“Marty? Is that you?”

But there was no time for further hellos. The vulture let out a sharp cry, and Mary did too.

“What's this?” Marty asked, tucking his bowling ball under his arm.

“Don't ask,” Fern said, shaking the book some more. “Just get under there.” She pointed to the hobbit, who smiled awkwardly, trying to make the best of the
situation. The vulture squawked again, and Mary and Marty did as they were told.

“C'mon!” Fern urged, rattling the diary with all her might. “C'mon now!” But Fern's diary had almost no weight to it. She felt a rise of panic. What if it was refusing to give anything else? It felt empty.

And then, miraculously, there was a glimpse of blue. A butterfly flapped from the pages. A butterfly? How was that supposed to help her? But, no, she'd written about the Great Realdo. She'd written about the Bone being visited by the butterfly while getting the ladder to climb to Eliza's room that night so many years ago. Had the Great Realdo come to help her?

The butterfly climbed and darted through the air. It flapped clumsily toward the vulture. Fern wanted to make a break for the door, but still couldn't. There was only one door, and all of the action was taking place in front of it. She squatted down under an old wooden desk across from Mary, Marty, and the hobbit. She was still clutching the two books. The vulture beat at the butterfly with its tough wings, lunging and snapping. But the butterfly just skittered along, bouncing around in front of the vulture's face.

This only made the Miser angrier. He grew big furry clawed feet. The wings shrank and his teeth grew. His head became blunt, golden, and then sprouted a wild mane…a lion.

“Oh, my!” Mary Curtain squealed, grabbing on to the hobbit, who was wide-eyed and confused.

Just then the butterfly dipped to the ground. It began to shake its wings, and soon it had trembled into a tiny, speedy mouse.

“The Great Realdo…,” Fern whispered in awe.

The brown field mouse tore around, zigzagging under the lion's paws. The lion's mouth lathered. It pounced this way and that, but always too late. The big beast grew mad and dizzy, finally breathless.

Fern crawled to the back of the garage. She rubbed circles on the back windows. She was looking for the Bone. She didn't see him. She glanced around the garage again. The lion was staggering away from the front door. Now she might be able to get out. In fact, Mary Curtain had grabbed the hobbit and was running for the door with him clutched to her bosom like a baby. Marty was close behind, still holding tight to his bowling ball. The Great Realdo, as a little mouse, was squeaking at Fern, and seemed to be saying
Go, go now
.

Fern was thinking back. She was trying to remember that first car ride in the old jalopy with Marty disguised as Mary Curtain. What had the Bone said when she asked him about transforming into a bird then a dog?
Maybe, just maybe, if our lives depended on it, we could have some great sparkling moment….
What if the Bone didn't get away? What if he was still right
here? What if he transformed into the chair? The ropes?

But this musing didn't last long. The Miser was convulsing. His body was rattling into some new shape. He was growing leathery, scaled. His shoulders broadened. He stood hunched on two large clawed feet, his forearms shrank, hung as two claws at his chest. Muscled, vicious, hulking. The Miser was now a dinosaur. Fern didn't have perfect knowledge of dinosaurs. An oviraptor? She knew some random facts about meat eaters,
T. rex.
She'd read about paleontologists. She stood in the dinosaur's looming shadow. He was no longer distracted by the mouse. He walked toward her, roaring now, his thick nails clicking. He clawed the air.

The mouse was darting around nervously. The Great Realdo didn't seem to know what to do. Fern thought as hard as she could. What had she read about oviraptors? Something, something about the males…they protected their eggs! That was it. Once they were thought to steal eggs, but someone had discovered that they weren't thieves, they were proud fathers.

“Egg!” Fern yelled to the mouse. “Become an oviraptor's egg!”

The mouse scurried to a spot on the ground between Fern and the dinosaur. It trembled and then bloated to the size and shape of a huge speckled egg. The Miser, despite himself, turned his gaze on the egg. He snatched it up in his front claws and took it to the far end of the
room, where he curled around it lovingly. In moments, he was fast asleep.

Fern jumped up and began shuffling through the stacks of old things—warped golf shoes, rusted flour sifters and sugar canisters—as fast as she could. “Bone?” she said. “Bone?”

Fern felt frantic. She accidentally knocked over an old trombone, which hit a stack of slippery records. One jostled the record player, flipping a switch. The old thing hummed. Its arm popped up and the needle moved over to the record. It all happened so fast that Fern couldn't get to it in time. The record started up: “Sweet, sweet, my sweet darling angel, where have you gone, where have you gone?”

But it wasn't anyone famous singing—it wasn't Elvis or a Beatle or anything—it was the Bone's voice. Fern would recognize it anywhere.