The Mechanical Mind of John Coggin (2 page)

2

“W
HAT ARE YOU
gawking at?”

John gulped. He had temporarily forgotten that Great-Aunt Beauregard was sitting next to him on the hotel terrace. Perhaps that was because she'd spent the better part of the hour arguing with the waiter about the freshness of her cocktail shrimp. Great-Aunt Beauregard spent a lot of time arguing with people.

“Nothing, sir.”

“Nonsense! You have had your head cocked sideways for the past five minutes. Unless you've developed rigor mortis, you were staring at something.”

“Well . . .” John swallowed and gestured hesitantly with his finger. “I was looking at him.”

“Him” was a tiny figure, no larger than John himself, who was standing upside down on the wall of the terrace.
Despite his hat being squashed against the stone and his feet waving dangerously in the wind, he seemed perfectly comfortable. In fact, he was grinning—although at this angle it looked like a gigantic frown.

“Cease and desist that immediately!” Great-Aunt Beauregard bellowed.

The feet waved in friendly reply.

Great-Aunt Beauregard rose in a tsunami of fury from her patio chair. The figure—with considerably more flexibility than John would have thought possible—leaped upright and did a two-step along the length of the wall. When he reached the end, he skipped over the saddle of a tethered horse, dipped in and out of the hotel fountain, and disappeared down the drive.

Great-Aunt Beauregard sat back down in high dudgeon and raised a toothpick menacingly.

“If I ever catch either of you two behaving in such a manner, no law will hold me responsible for the consequences.”

She stabbed the body of a large shrimp and proceeded to gnaw off the head. “Now, where was I?”

“You were going to tell us something about our future,” replied John.

“Ah, yes.” She swallowed and picked up her beer. “I had hopes of discussing it in detail before my afternoon appointment. But our addlepated waiter and that . . . thing . . . have ruined my moment. So we will
delay the announcement until dinner.”

“Are we moving here?” Page asked. John pinched her to be quiet.

“Oh, no,” said Great-Aunt Beauregard from beneath her foam mustache. “It's much, much better than that.”

For the life of him, John couldn't read what his great-aunt was thinking. Her whole body seemed to be fissuring with excitement. He'd never seen her like this before.

After the beer was through, Great-Aunt Beauregard cornered a brass salesman in the hotel lobby. John and Page were instructed to stand near the palms.

“John,” Page whispered, “who was that boy on the wall?”

“I don't think he was a boy,” John whispered back. “I think he was a little person.”

“Wrong on both counts!” a voice trumpeted from behind a palm. John and Page jumped.

Peeking out from between the leaves was a squashed lettuce of a face. Two blue eyes, spaced peculiarly wide apart, rose up over a nose and mouth so tiny they could scarcely be seen. It was as if someone had punched them in and forgotten to pull them back out.

But what the face lacked in drama, the scalp made up for. In all his life, John had never seen such hair. It sprouted and curled and frizzed and twisted and exploded in waves of orange. Whenever the head moved—and it always seemed to be bobbing—a fire of split ends moved with it.

“Greetings. I couldn't help but observe your predicament and thought it a fitting moment to offer my employment services.”

“Who are you?” Page asked. She was hiding behind John's shirt.

“Name is Boz.” He emerged from the palm and made a strange half bow, half curtsy.

“Short for?” John asked.

“Short for my size, but strong for my years. I once heard the president of Patagonia proclaim that she had never seen such biceps on the body of a biped.” Boz flexed his muscles in a helpful manner.

“What kind of employment?”

“Well, as I was cruising the perimeter of this fine establishment—not for any piratical purpose, mind you, but merely to admire the proportions of the Augustan facade—I happened to observe you and your sister tripping the light fantastic in aquamarine waters.”

“You were watching us swimming?”

“And turning some rather impressive somersaults. My dear boy, do you know that you and your acrobatic sister would make a fabulous headline on the touring circuit? Jill and Jackanapes. Or Contortion Cuties. Or maybe Twisted Sisters.”

“I'm not a girl,” John interrupted.

“Oh, we can fix that,” Boz said airily.

“Are you an acrobat?” Page asked.

Boz grinned. He was missing two of his teeth.

“Madam, I am a scholar and a gentleman. I have sailed the seven seas to the sands of Samarrand. I have surveyed the Matopolo Mountains and hurdled the Runyon Canyon in a single bound. I am every man's friend and no man's slave.”

“But are you an acrobat?” Page insisted.

“On occasion,” Boz said, conceding the point. “At this particular moment, I happen to be engaged in a more varietal occupation under the benevolent dictatorship of a circus impresario.”

“You're with the circus?” It was the only word in the speech that John could be sure he understood.

“Correct!” Boz twirled once, the bushel of hair twice. “However, Colonel Joe prefers to call them the Wandering Wayfarers, ‘circus' being a rather hackneyed term for a group of their caliber. A roving, rummaging lot with bells on their toes and bursitis in their hearts. You'd fit right in.”

John opened his mouth . . . and closed it. It was hard to concentrate on Boz's words with his hair still gyrating.

“So, do I have your considered assent? Shall we sign, seal, and deliver ourselves to the adventures of the open road?” Boz pulled hard on John's sleeve, tugging him toward the hotel's front door.

“Wait,” John said, pulling back and sending Boz
sprawling on his bottom. “We don't know you from Adam.”

Boz sprang to his feet.

“Oh, that's quite all right. I don't know Adam either.”

“But why should we join the circus?”

Boz raised what was left of a scraggly eyebrow.

“Well, my dear boy, forgive my unforgivable presumption, but it seems your mother—”

“Great-aunt,” Page corrected.

“Pardon me, great-aunt—may not exactly be the most congenial custodian of filial responsibilities.”

“What?”

“She appears to be a hag,” Boz explained.

John wrinkled his nose. This was undoubtedly true.

“And correct me if I am mistaken, but living with a hag does not strike me as being all barleycorn and brilliantine hair wax.”

John wasn't sure what barleycorn had to do with anything, but he nodded in agreement.

“Then why delay?” Boz shouted, his red head bobbing up above the leaves. “Life and linseed oil wait for no man. Let us sally forth and seek new lands!”

Page looked up at John. “Should we go, Johnny?”

For a moment, John was tempted. He'd heard of the Wandering Wayfarers. Though he'd never been allowed to see their act, they were often in town for Pludgett Day. It was possible that this . . . person . . . belonged to their
troupe. And it was alluring to imagine a life free of toe boards and trimming.

Then John glanced at Page's face, her wide-eyed trusting gaze, and he had his answer.

“No.”

“You cut me to the pectoral,” Boz said, clutching his hand to his breast. “Why not?”

John weighed his words.

“Great-Aunt Beauregard
is
horrible. But she's the only family we have. Besides, she might be changing. She took us on this vacation. And she said she was going to tell us something important about our futures. Maybe we'll be moving away from Pludgett.”

Boz was unimpressed. “It has been my experience that a sloth never changes his claws, nor is the future a gift. You make your own luck in this world, even if you have to steal the parts.

“But I can see that I am not going to be able to solder my suggestions of sojournings to your iron will. Au revoir, my little amis, may your hearts be free from sclerosis and your thoughts ever pure.”

And with that, he did a triple backflip into the legs of a bearded businessman. The hat went flying, the beard went flying, the businessman went flying. But when the dust had settled, Boz—and the businessman's briefcase—were nowhere to be found.

“Johnny,” said Page, “what does sclerosis mean?”

“I don't know.”

“Coggins! Where are the Coggins?” came the roar of Great-Aunt Beauregard.

John took Page's hand, swallowed hard, and they both went forward to meet their fate.

F
OR DINNER,
G
REAT-
A
UNT
Beauregard had reserved an enormous table in the dining room. She sat in one chair, Page sat next to her, and John sat next to Page. The remaining ten stood empty.

When the menu came, Great-Aunt Beauregard ordered for all. Page and John received an assortment of peas, carrots, and potatoes. Great-Aunt Beauregard received lobster bisque and champagne.

As the plates were put before them, a thin line of mucus with a fat pearl of snot began to ooze out of Great-Aunt Beauregard's left nostril. John shot a warning glance at Page, who was trying not to giggle, and applied himself to his potatoes. For minutes there was silence, until Great-Aunt Beauregard suddenly banged her knife on her glass.

“Right, that's enough bonding. It's time we come to the reason for our little celebration.”

The drop of snot swayed in excitement.

“John, I do not know if you are aware of this, but you turned eleven on Pludgett Day.”

John was distinctly aware of this, but couldn't quite believe that they were on vacation to celebrate his birthday. They had never celebrated it before.

“On this milestone, I feel you are ready to learn an important fact about your heritage.”

John's heart started to beat wildly. Could his prayers have been answered? Was it possible that Great-Aunt Beauregard wasn't his great-aunt after all?

“John Peregrine Coggin, I am pleased to inform you that I have made you the sole heir to the family business.”

In the split second of an instant, the bottom dropped out of John's world. He felt he was falling into a black pit far, far below him. He had a vision of his future self, draped in cobwebs, putting the finishing touches on his own coffin.

“Johnny, Johnny!” whispered Page. “Are you okay?”

“At eleven, you are old enough to appreciate the importance of our glorious family tradition. And unlike your nincompoop father, I know, you will not shirk from duty.”

John wanted to stand up, to shout, to bolt. But he couldn't move.

“But I have even better news.” The bead of snot was vibrating with ecstasy. “The surplus of deaths in Pludgett has created a demand for transitional establishments that cater to the crème de la crème of society.”

Great-Aunt Beauregard paused to admire this turn of phrase, then continued.

“Therefore, for the next chapter in our history, I plan to create the

COGGIN FAMILY FUNERAL HOME

Boutique Interments for the Bourgeoisie

And since you, John, are about as tactful as a bellyful of beetles with customers, I will be working with a new assistant on this branch of commerce while you handle workshop affairs.”

Great-Aunt Beauregard raised her glass while the snot thread quivered like a plucked harp string.

“John, please welcome the newest member of the family business.”

John scanned the empty chairs in confusion. Then he lifted the tablecloth and peered underneath.

“She's not on the floor, you dunderheaded dingbat. She's right here.” And ever so slowly, as the drop of snot fell into her soup, Great-Aunt Beauregard laid a meaty hand on Page's shoulder.

Page's mouth fell open. It was full of peas. John's
mouth fell open, and a piece of his potato went bouncing across the table.

“When we return to Pludgett, Page will begin her career at the Coggin Family Funeral Home. She will start by dressing our customers.” Great-Aunt Beauregard flicked her finger under Page's chin to close it. “You'll enjoy that, Page. It will be like dressing up a doll.” She winked. “And if you're very good, I'll let you apply their makeup.”

Page looked like she was about to be sick in her lap.

“Meanwhile, you, John, will begin work on our new line of Chestnut Deluxes.”

Great-Aunt Beauregard reached into her bag and pulled out a stack of papers and a fountain pen.

“Now then, I am perfectly aware that you are not old enough to run a large business like this on your own. So I have taken the liberty of drawing up a partnership plan. I agree to lend you my considerable expertise for the next twenty years, and you promise to provide me with room and board upon my retirement.”

John stared in horror at the stack in front of him. On the top page, written in thick ink, was one word:

CONTRACT

Great-Aunt Beauregard seemed to think her great-nephew's silence was panic about losing her. She patted
the paper confidentially.

“I wouldn't worry too much about my retiring. If my funeral home plan succeeds, as I believe it will, then the family will have decades of corpses and coffers to look forward to.” She raised her champagne glass. “To the Coggins!”

The blood in John's veins was congealing in terror. He tried to raise his hand, but his muscles would not obey. Great-Aunt Beauregard snorted in frustration and yanked the last page from the stack.

“Apparently, there's no need to thank me. You simply sign on the dotted line. Here.” She uncapped the pen and pointed to the . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . above his typewritten name.

John stared at the pen. A tiny blob of ink was pooling on its razor-sharp nib. He knew that this step was inevitable. He knew that it meant security for him and his sister for the rest of their days.

But he couldn't, he just
couldn't
, sign that document.

Great-Aunt Beauregard rapped her knuckles on the table.

“Time is ticking, John! We'll take the six a.m. train tomorrow and start construction on the funeral parlor at eight a.m. sharp.”

John looked from the pen to the ink to the paper. Then he drew a deep breath and said something he had never said to his great-aunt before.

“No.”

Great-Aunt Beauregard opened her mouth to speak, but only “Whhhh?” came out.

“No,” John repeated. “I won't sign that paper.” He stared straight into the eyes of his nemesis. “And you can't make me.”

There was an ominous pause.

“And what will you do instead?”

RUN, a little voice in John's head screamed. RUN!

Great-Aunt Beauregard read his thoughts.

“May I remind you what happened when your father ran away from the family business?” She stabbed the paper for emphasis. “He died”—stab—“penniless”—stab—“and diseased”—stab—“in a house infested with rodents”—stab. “Is that what you envision as your future?”

What John was envisioning was Page applying a dab of rouge to his cold, withered cheeks. He did not move, nor did he answer.

“Fine!” Great-Aunt Beauregard blasted, shoving the contract back in her purse. “If you are unwilling to seize upon the future, then you will stay in your room until YOU ARE!”

Batting a waiter out of the way, she seized both siblings by the scruff of the neck and headed for the lobby.

They were almost at the foot of the stairs when—

“Excuse me, but I wonder, Miss Coggin, if I could
steal a few minutes of your time.”

It was the brass salesman, a scruffy man who looked as if he could do with a lick, spit, and polish himself.

“No,” Great-Aunt Beauregard said, stomping her foot upon the first tread.

The salesman stepped neatly in front of her.

“I wouldn't insist, only I've had a letter from my supplier, and it appears that we may be able to reach some kind of”—he leaned forward suggestively—“accommodation.”

She paused. John's blood surged into life. If Great-Aunt Beauregard was busy downstairs, maybe they could—

“I have to put these things to bed,” she insisted.

“Of course, of course,” the brass salesman mewed. “I'll wait for you in the lounge.”

“Double whisky,” Great-Aunt Beauregard stated, “and none of your wishy-washy rocks.”

She tightened her grip on John's collar and continued the march upstairs.

“We will finish this discussion when I return, do you understand?”

John nodded. Page would have done the same, but she was having a little trouble breathing.

“Good.” They were now at the door of their room. Great-Aunt Beauregard opened it and unceremoniously thrust them inside. “Then I will be back in one hour. Do you hear me?
One hour.
”

She slammed the door shut. John heard the key twist in the lock and the sound of thunderous footsteps making their way down the hall. He waited until he could hear no more, and then he dove for the knapsack he'd packed for vacation.

“What are you doing?” Page asked as he dumped the contents on Great-Aunt Beauregard's bed and began tossing things on the floor.

“I'm packing. Quick, hand me your suitcase.”

Page was confused, but she pulled her suitcase out of the closet and handed it to John. He wasted no time in dumping that on the bed as well.

“Are we going somewhere?” Page asked. John grunted. He was too busy assessing underwear options.

“Johnny.” Page tugged on his sleeve. “Are we going somewhere?”

John nodded. “We're escaping.”

Page gasped. “Now?”

“We can't stay here,” John said, stuffing Page's socks on top of Walter Hancock's steam engine manual.

“But where are we going?” Page demanded.

“I don't know—maybe the circus.” John pulled the knapsack cords tight. “But I'm not letting you become a dead man's hairdresser. C'mon.” He slung the knapsack over his shoulder and grabbed Page's hand. “We've got to go.”

He strode over to the balcony door and turned the
knob. Nothing happened. He turned again. Still nothing.

“Johnny, I don't think this is a good idea.”

In desperation, John tugged and twisted as hard as he could, but it was no use. “She must have locked this one too. I can't move it.”

Page sighed, more in relief than anything else. “Then we'll have to stay.”

John looked at Page. Her face was bloodless and her eyes were drooping. He was almost tempted to give up too. Then he remembered the rouge and the lipstick, and he set his jaw.

“No!” he said, picking up Great-Aunt Beauregard's walking stick. “We're leaving.”

And with that, he rammed the end of the walking stick into the pane of the balcony door. Shards of glass twinkled like snowflakes to the carpet.

“Johnny!” Page said breathlessly. “You broke the door.”

But John was already battering the rest of the glass out of the frame. “Grab the footstool in the bathroom,” he commanded. Page ran for it. In a minute, John was through the window and out onto the balcony.

“C'mon,” he urged, holding out his hand for Page. She was looking at him funny.

“Is this going to be scary?”

John paused. Then he smiled.

“Not for the bravest girl I know.”