The Mechanical Mind of John Coggin (8 page)

D
USK WAS FALLING
over the fluttering flag of the big top as John drew the bay mare to a halt. While he tied up the horse, Page sprinted ahead to the Wayfarers, her shoes flapping against the soles of her feet. John knew they had to get straight out of town. His great-aunt wasn't going to stay stationary for long.

“Evening, Dung Boy.”

John jumped. Colonel Joe was sitting on the ground, leaning against a tree, a bucket by his side. A large lump of honeycomb lay in his right hand, his jackknife in his left. In the blue light, he was easy to miss.

“Had yourself a little adventure?” The Colonel dug his knife into the comb and dropped a hunk into the bucket.

John's throat felt too dry to form words. He tried to
swallow. He gagged instead.

“I may have the wrong end of the horse, but that looks a heckuva lot like the sheriff's bay mare.”

“Ack, ack” was John's reply.

Colonel Joe chewed thoughtfully on a piece of wax and gazed out at the swaying stalks of grass. From far off in the distance, John heard an owl shriek as it dove upon a field mouse. The soft breeze smelled of sleep.

“The Wayfarers want to see you. You ready to face the music?”

“Ack, ack.” John tried again.

Colonel Joe stood, shut his knife, and spat into the grass.

“Here,” he said, handing John the jackknife. “I got an inkling you may be needing this.”

The din inside the big top was deafening.

“Where's Boz?”

“I can't believe you took the girl!”

“This is no time for hijinks!”

“We have a b-b-bone to p-p-pick with you!”

The Wayfarers' admonishments grew louder and louder, drowning John's ears in a swarm of furious buzzing.

“Stop!” Page yelled. “He can't hear!”

Her voice calmed the crowd. They retreated, leaving Colonel Joe in the middle of the circle.

“We had a visit from our neighbor.” He tilted his head
in the direction of the cornfield. “Seems someone stole the mayor's automobile. There's a whole pack of people out looking for Boz. Where is he?”

“Gone,” John croaked.

Colonel Joe nodded.

“That would be about right. And you?”

“Me?”

“You gonna tell us where you've been?”

John threw his shoulders back and found his saliva.

“I was with him. We crashed it into a store. In Hayseed.”

“Because we saw Great-Aunt Beauregard!” Page exclaimed.

Colonel Joe glanced at John. He nodded.

“She's here looking for us. And the sheriff knows where Boz has been. You need to protect us!” He took an appealing step closer to the Colonel. “Please!”

Colonel Joe stuck his finger in his ear and jiggled it around.

“Told you once before, Dung Boy, I ain't got the last say.” He sighed. “'Fraid this one's going to have to go to a majority vote. You and your sister better sit on the bench while we make up our minds.”

John spent the next few minutes chewing his nails to bleeding beds. The Wayfarers had huddled themselves into a circle, giving him nothing to analyze but their backs. There were whispers, exclamations, and grunts,
but no identifiable words. Finally, excruciatingly slowly, they broke apart and turned.

John examined the group. Mister Missus Hank was inspecting her beard for nits. Tiger Lil was tying her shoe. Gentle Giant Georgie was priming his pipe. Porcine Pierre was rolling Priscilla's ball in his hand. And Mabel and Minny were fiddling with their hem. Only Alligator Dan and Colonel Joe met him eye to eye. They didn't look happy.

“We've decided you can't stay,” said Colonel Joe.

For a moment, John couldn't answer.

“Why?” he finally gasped.

“We're not harboring thieves and fugitives,” Alligator Dan retorted. “We g-g-got our own scales to think about.”

John suddenly remembered Colonel Joe's caution. So this was what it felt like to be fed to the wolves.

“They'll shut us down if they find you here,” Colonel Joe explained. “In the eyes of the law, we're kidnappers.”

“But you're not kidnappers,” John shouted. “We want to be here!”

“Tough chewy cookies!” Mister Missus Hank replied.

“It was a tight vote,” said Gentle Giant Georgie sadly. “Nothing we can do.”

“You can hide us!”

“You're not staying in our caravan,” the Mimsy Twins rejoined. “You smell.”

“But what about the Autopsy?”

“The one that's dead on arrival?” snarked Porcine Pierre. “Yeah, we're really banking on that.”

“It's special!” Page exclaimed.

“It doesn't work,” Alligator Dan said flatly.

It doesn't work
. Those words hit John like a cannonball to the solar plexus. Alligator Dan was right. The Autopsy was a dud.
He
was a dud. Even if he could stay, he'd be wasting Colonel Joe's money and time. This was the real world of coffins and contracts and cash. It was time to face facts.

“You're right.”

“Porcine Pierre can take you as far as Littlemere,” Tiger Lil said. “There's a big flour mill where they're always hiring new hands. We'll send the sheriff's mare south to provide a diversion.”

“What about Page?” asked John.

“I'm willing to risk hiding the girl,” piped up Mister Missus Hank. “She may get lucky with a goatee.”

“No.” Page crossed her arms. “I'm going.”

“You don't have to,” said Tiger Lil. “Georgie and I will keep you safe.”

Gentle Giant Georgie smiled.

“Glad to. Never had a daughter.”

Page shook her head. “No.” She walked over and stood facing John. “You're my brother. I'll never leave you, Johnny. I promise.”

“But Page,” John replied, “I don't know how I'm going to take care of you.”

“I was the one who made you crash. I go where you go.”

She looked so funny and brave, standing there with her mud-streaked nose and her frayed overalls, that John had an irresistible urge to smile.

Tiger Lil opened her mouth to protest, but Gentle Giant Georgie cut her off. “Better do as the girl says.”

John held on tight to Page's hand and turned to face Colonel Joe.

“We can't be found,” he insisted.

Colonel Joe nodded. “It's a three-day journey to Littlemere. We'll give you a good head start.”

John curtly returned the nod. “Thanks.” He turned his attention to his sister. She was studying the ground with keen intent. “Are you sure, Page?” he asked.

Page raised her head and grinned.

“I'll bring my bear.”

T
HE LONELIEST FEELING
in the world is to be on the outside looking in.

John stood in the middle of the road staring forlornly at the patches of lamplight in the farmhouse windows. His stomach was growling.

It had been a long haul with Porcine Pierre to Littlemere. By night, John and Page had slept along the road, rolled up in blankets too thin to beat back the cold. By day, they huddled under a tarp in the cart and discussed the future.

“I can work at the mills too,” Page offered.

“No,” said John. “Once I've got a job, we'll look for a room to rent in the city. And you can go back to school. But we can't be us anymore,” John instructed his sister. “You'll need to change your name.”

“I want to be Gardenia.”

“You can't be Gardenia, that's not a real name.”

“Okay, then I want to be Nora.”

John nodded. That was their mother's name.

“Then I'll be Harry.” That was their father's name. Just right for a no-good failure, John thought sadly.

Names were the easy part. Figuring out what story John was going to tell the mill owners was trickier. Whichever direction she went after Hayseed, Great-Aunt Beauregard would be searching for runaways and homeless siblings. What they really needed, John realized, was a fake family.

The challenge of coming up with one didn't settle his insides any. By the time they reached the outskirts of Littlemere, John felt about as optimistic as a slab of cold meat.

“Well, this is it,” Porcine Pierre griped. He'd been decidedly annoyed about abandoning his pets for a fool's errand. “Never thought I'd see the day when I'd have to play nursemaid.”

“Where are the flour mills?”

Porcine Pierre pointed in the vague direction of the city.

“Over thataway. Better get a move on if you want to find a place to bunk down. I have to give Priscilla her weekly worm medication.” He wheeled the cart around. “Good luck!” he called out as he trundled off into the night.

John took a deep breath. The money that Colonel Joe had given them wouldn't go very far. He was going to need to find work fast.

Page came up and laid her hand in his. It was chapped from the dry wind that was kicking up the leaves around them.

Then all of a sudden, from atop the dark jagged line of the spruces, up popped the moon. It was round and full and big enough to swim in, and it seemed to be saying to John, “Lamps may live and lamps may die, but I go on forever.”

John squared his shoulders and tried to suppress a yawn.

“C'mon, Page. We'll see if we can find something to eat.”

And so they began their weary walk. John was at least encouraged to see that Littlemere was quite unlike Pludgett. Instead of swampy marshes and sinking foundations, there were narrow streets and gingerbread roofs. In lieu of iron grills and sooty ashes, there were secret squares and gurgling fountains.

The houses were oddest of all, with second stories that sighed and sagged like the bosoms of fat old ladies. The overhangs were broad enough to shield a walker from the weather without shutting out the sky above. As John and Page trudged along the deserted cobblestones, petals from the window boxes drifted onto their shoulders.

But not one light was on, not one door was open. When they reached the center of Littlemere, the clock in the city hall read half past one. Slumped together in a corner of a large doorway, the siblings fell into an uneasy sleep.

It didn't last long. John was awakened by the clock tolling four and the eerie sensation of something climbing up his nose. He brushed it off and rose to his feet. The ladybug flitted away.

“Page, get up. We can't stay here.”

At the next corner, the Coggins ran into a blizzard of hanging signs. The boards creaked in chorus, whispering of their wares—“Luigi the Kosher Butcher,” “Pepe's Boots and Saddles,” “Gustaf Lingold, Dentist & Chiropractor.”

But by far the noisiest signs were for one profession that made John's mouth water. Littlemere, it seems, was a city of bakers.

Bread bakers, pastry bakers, cake bakers, cookie bakers, scone bakers, doughnut bakers, pizza bakers, muffin bakers, pie bakers—John could have made a wish for any of them, and the word would have miraculously appeared.

Even more torturous were the window displays of desserts. There were glossy golden piecrusts with geysers of cherry juice erupting from the slits. There were plump creams oozing out of their pastry shells. Worst of all, there were cakes. White cakes and orange cakes and cakes
berimmed with curls of shaved chocolate.

This sight, framed in the window of the bakery at the end of the street, was the last straw. Page moaned. John groaned.

“Are you ill?” came a concerned voice from above. It was a deep, warm voice, like custard itself. Page moaned again.

“Oh, my!” said the lemon custard, and a shutter slammed. John could hear the pitter-patter of footsteps on a wooden flight of stairs. The door to the shop was flung open. A floured pair of hands reached into the darkness. The heavy door swung closed behind them.

After John had recovered his equilibrium, he found himself in a room of shadows, with only a faint light from the street bouncing off the polished countertops.

“This way, this way,” the lemon custard urged.

They stumbled through a small passage and into a back kitchen. In the corner, a mighty stove sat grunting and grumbling and belching out gusts of heat. Fat circles of dough lay piled in bowls on a wooden table.

“There now,” the lemon custard said, depositing them on stools next to the table, “have a rest while I get the breakfast loaves out.”

John opened his eyes wide to get a good look at their mysterious benefactor and almost crushed Page's hand. The custard woman wasn't lemony at all, but a beautiful milky tea color, swathed in a red poppy dress and blue
apron. Everything about her was buffed of edges, from her sloped shoulders to her round-toed clogs.

“I was closing my bedroom window when I heard your voices,” she said, taking up a flat wooden paddle and opening the oven. “And I thought, who could that be at this time of night? But if there's one sound I know, it's the sound of hunger.”

Out from the oven came a glistening loaf, as brown as a walnut, which the woman placed in front of them. Steam erupted as she cut two slices. Then she spread a creamy slab of butter on each and handed them to John and Page.

“Careful! Very hot!”

John didn't care. He'd set fire to his stomach if it meant he could get more of that delicious melting crust. Page was matching him mouthful for mouthful.

“Slowly! You'll hurt yourselves if you're not careful.” The woman laughed. “You must have walked from the ends of the earth.”

“We have,” John said dreamily, his eyes closing of their own accord.

“We do a lot of walking,” Page added before her head slumped to the table.

And then the world went black. When John finally awoke, it was to the sound of whistling wind. He sat up and examined his surroundings. Page was fast asleep in the trundle bed beside him, tucked between starched
white sheets. They appeared to be in an attic. Apart from the beds, there was only a large bureau and a window to the sky.

John rose, wincing a little at the chilly boards beneath his feet, and crossed to the window. Chimneys upon chimneys greeted him. Smoke tendrils twisted in the breeze. From this height, he could see clear across the city to the spruce forests and the hills beyond.

“Page! Look at this!” he exclaimed, but Page was already beside him, her chin resting on the sill.

“Well, good afternoon, sleepyheads!” said the voice from the night before. John and Page turned to see the woman poke her head in the door. “Feeling better? I'm Maria Persimmons. Come and be welcome.”

The Coggins followed her down the stairs to the kitchen.

“I'm finishing up some apple-and-fennel tarts for the dinner crowd.” She flicked a towel over the floury stools. “Pull up a pew.”

John shot at a glance at his sister as he sat down. “Why did you say that?”

Maria appeared puzzled.

“Pull up a pew? I learned it from my grandmother.” She pulled a pan from the oven. “This is her recipe,” she added, placing a gigantic tart in front of them. An aroma of crisp sunshine rose from the pastry.

“Now, then.” Maria sat down with a thump on her
chair and began to carve the tart. “I'd like to ask you a few questions, if I might.”

John twitched. Boz was much better at the lying game.

“Okay.”

“First of all, what do I call you?”

“Harry,” replied John quickly. “And this is Nora,” he said, before Page could speak.

“Excellent,” Maria said, handing John a piece of tart. “How do you do, Harry?” She handed Page another. “And how do you do, Nora?”

“I'm thirsty.”

Maria laughed and stood up to fetch Page a glass of water from the sink.

“And where do you come from?” she asked with her back to the table.

John looked at Page and Page looked at John. Maria turned in time to catch the end of the exchange. “Are you runaways?”

John shook his head. “Not exactly.”

Maria sat down at the table. “Are you in any kind of trouble?”

John shook his head again. “Not really.”

“Do you have any family?”

John paused. “Not precisely.”

“I seem to be asking all the wrong questions, don't I?” Maria rubbed a bit of flour from her nose. “Well, then, let me try again. Do you have anywhere to go?”

John laid down his fork reluctantly. The tart was delicious.

“I'm headed to the mills to find work.”

Maria gasped. “But you must be only nine!”

“I'm eleven.” John raised his chin. “I'm short for my age.”

“And are you going to work in the mills too?” she asked Page.

Page shook her head. “I'm going back to kindergarten.”

Maria scratched a bit of dried dough from her arm. “I'm not sure I understand this. . . .”

“Look, sorry we bothered you,” said John, pushing back his stool. The sooner they got going to the mills, the sooner Maria's interrogation would be over. “Thanks for the food and the beds and stuff. We'll be leaving.” He took Page's arm. “Let's go, Nora.”

“No,” Page said firmly, holding on to the edge of the table with a grip of steel. “I don't want to.”

“We're bothering the kind lady.” John tugged harder.

“I DON'T WANT TO GO!”

Maria coughed politely. John and Page looked up.

“Could I make a proposal?” asked Maria. “My cousin Leslie is away for the next few months, and I always have room in the attic. What if you two stayed here?”

She turned to John and smoothed her hands over her apron.

“I'm not going to stop you from trying the mills, but
I
will
say that I'm currently short of help in the bakery. You could work for your room and board, and I could have some company. It's not a great job offer, but I hope you'll consider it.”

John didn't have to ask Page what she thought of this idea. She was hopping up and down on her stool like one of Mister Missus Hank's fleas.

But John's mind was in turmoil. Should they stay? It seemed like the ideal choice now, but what if Maria kept asking questions? What if she started blabbing about her new boarders all over town? What if Great-Aunt Beauregard tracked them down?

“I should have added,” Maria said, watching John's expression, “that this arrangement has to be completely under the table. The Littlemere police would have a hissy fit if they knew I had children working in my shop.”

John nipped at his thumbnail. If the arrangement was under the table, then . . .

“Okay!” shouted Page. “We'll stay!”