Mallory and the Ghost Cat Read online

  Meanwhile, the boys were still rapping, and the girls were still playing Miss Mary Mack. The two rhymes started to blend together:

  “She asked her mother, mother, mother

  For fifty cents, cents, cents

  I’m a real jammin’ dude and the girls agree

  To see the elephants, elephants, elephants

  There’s no cooler guy than Jordan P.

  Jump over the fence, fence, fence!”

  I put my hands over my ears. “I can’t take it anymore!” I yelled. “Mom, please tell them to stop.”

  She looked up at me, startled. “What, Mallory?” Then the noise seemed to register. She looked around the table. “Okay, that’s enough,” she said. “Time to settle down.”

  Nobody heard her. The rhymes continued:

  “They jumped so high, high, high,

  They touched the sky, sky, sky

  So, hey, don’t be jive

  And they didn’t come back, back, back

  Give the Pike high five!

  ’Till the Fourth of July, July, July!”

  The girls were clapping away, and the boys were giving each other their special high fives. They smacked each other’s palms first, then the backs of their hands, then their palms again.

  “Hey!” said Dad. “Yo!” That got their attention. “Time out,” he said, making a T with his hands. “I know you’re all excited about Uncle Joe coming. I am, too. But let’s try to keep the noise down to a dull roar, okay? We’re going to have to make an effort to be a little quieter while we have a visitor. We don’t want to scare him off, do we?”

  The kitchen grew silent.

  “Sorry, Dad,” said Vanessa in a small voice.

  “Yeah, sorry,” whispered Byron. “We’ll be quiet when Uncle Joe gets here.” He looked subdued.

  “Well, you don’t have to whisper,” said Dad. “Uncle Joe knows he’s coming to a house full of kids. He won’t expect total silence.”

  Mom looked at her watch. “We’d better get going,” she said. She looked over at me. “Are you sure you’ll be okay on your own?”

  I nodded. “No problem,” I said. Usually when my parents go out they hire two sitters (I’m one of them, most of the time), since there are so many kids to watch. But today they’d only be gone for an hour or so, first to the supermarket and then to pick up Uncle Joe. Mom had agreed to let me sit alone.

  Dad pushed his chair away from the table. “Okay, then,” he said. “We’ll be back soon. You guys will take care of this mess, right?” he asked, pointing at the breakfast dishes and now-empty cereal boxes.

  “Don’t worry, Dad,” I said. “The house will be spotless by the time you get here with Uncle Joe.”

  As soon as my parents left, I began cleaning up the kitchen. I told the triplets to clear the table, and I told Margo and Claire to wipe it down. Vanessa and I rinsed the dishes, and Nicky put away the milk and peanut butter. The job was done in no time.

  “Now can we tell?” I heard Claire whisper to Margo as I stood wiping my hands on a dishcloth.

  “Okay,” said Margo. “Hey everybody, want to see the surprise we made?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She motioned to Claire, and they ran to their room. They came back a few minutes later carrying a huge length of computer paper. Then Margo took one end and Claire took the other, and they displayed the banner they’d made. WELKOME UNCLE JOW! it said. Flowers and rainbows decorated every corner, and each letter was a different color.

  “Wow!” said Nicky. “That’s neat!”

  Margo and Claire grinned proudly.

  “You spelled some stuff wrong,” said Vanessa.

  I saw Margo’s face fall. “It doesn’t matter,” I said quickly. “Uncle Joe is going to be really, really impressed with that banner. It’s beautiful.” Actually, it was kind of a mess. I could see fingerprints in a few places, some of the flowers looked more like weird mushrooms, and several of the letters had big drips of paint running down them. But I knew that the girls had put a lot of time and effort into it, and I was sure Uncle Joe would be touched by their gesture. “I think we should hang it up on the front porch, where he’ll see it right away,” I said.

  “I’ll get a hammer,” said Jordan.

  “I’ll get the stepladder,” said Adam.

  “I’ll get some nails,” said Byron. The triplets love to play “handyman.”

  “What can I do?” asked Nicky.

  “You can help me make sure the banner is put up in the right place,” I said. “And that it’s not crooked.”

  We trooped out to the porch, and the triplets got to work. Nicky took his job seriously, offering suggestions and giving orders on how and where to hang the banner. Claire and Margo watched fearfully, worried that the banner would get torn. (Vanessa had gone to her room, saying that she wanted to write a poem for Uncle Joe.)

  By the time we had hung the banner (it was still kind of crooked, even after Nicky had done his best to give directions), I was checking my watch every five seconds. I knew Mom and Dad would be home any minute, along with Uncle Joe.

  I walked around the house, checking to make sure everything was neat. I opened the door of the den to see if Uncle Joe’s room still looked cozy and welcoming. My sisters and brothers followed me. For once, they were pretty quiet. The house was as clean as it ever gets, so I decided we might as well relax. We were sitting in the living room when we finally heard a car pull into the driveway. “He’s here!” yelled Nicky.

  “Vanessa!” shouted Margo. “Uncle Joe’s here!”

  Vanessa flew down the stairs. “My poem’s not done yet!” she gasped.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “He’ll be here for a while. You can read it to him another time.” We ran out the front door and stood on the porch, watching as first Dad, then Mom got out of the car. I could see a figure sitting in the backseat, but I couldn’t make out his features. Dad opened the door for him, and Uncle Joe climbed out, stiffly and slowly. He held Dad’s arm for balance. Then he and my parents turned and headed toward the house.

  Uncle Joe was thin, and kind of bent over. His hair was white, and he wore little spectacles with wire rims. He had on a blue suit, and a starched white shirt buttoned up all the way to his neck. He wasn’t wearing a tie, but he looked very dignified.

  “Uncle Joe!” cried Claire. She ran down the steps and threw herself at him. He stepped back, looking alarmed. Dad caught Claire and held on to her.

  “Gently, Claire,” he said. “Take it easy. Uncle Joe, I’d like you to meet our youngest daughter, Claire.”

  Uncle Joe nodded stiffly, but didn’t return the hug that Claire was trying to give him. “Hello,” he said, in a dry, papery voice. He smiled thinly and patted Claire’s head as if she were a dog.

  “You’re really my great-uncle,” said Claire. “My great, wonderful, totally terrific uncle!”

  Wow. Claire certainly was prepared to love Uncle Joe. And it was cute that she thought “great-uncle” meant that he was a great guy. But Uncle Joe didn’t even seem to hear what she’d said. He gazed up at the rest of us, still standing on the porch, and frowned. It was as if he’d never seen a bunch of kids before.

  “Come and meet the rest of the family,” said Dad. He introduced us each in turn, and Uncle Joe nodded to us. He didn’t seem interested in hugs or kisses.

  “Oh, look at that!” said Mom, pointing at the banner and smiling. “Isn’t that beautiful? I’ll bet Margo and Claire made it.”

  They nodded. “It’s for Uncle Joe,” Claire pointed out.

  Mom looked at Uncle Joe. “Did you see the banner?” she asked.

  He glanced up at it. “Yes,” he said shortly. “Very nice.”

  Claire and Margo looked a little stunned. But Claire wasn’t ready to give up. She grabbed Uncle Joe’s hand and pulled him toward the door. “Come and see your room,” she said. “We made it all ready for you.”

  Uncle Joe allowed himself to be led into the house, but as soon as he was inside the door he disengaged
himself from Claire. Then he turned to Mom. “Would you be so kind as to show me to a sink?” he asked. “I’m afraid the child’s hands are rather sticky.”

  I glanced at Claire’s hands. They didn’t seem any dirtier than usual, but maybe the Tootsie Pop she’d been eating earlier had made them a little sticky.

  Mom showed Uncle Joe to the kitchen sink, and he scrubbed his hands for several minutes. The triplets watched with their mouths open.

  Dad came up behind me. “Apparently he does this fairly often,” he said quietly. “The nurses at Stoneybrook Manor mentioned that he can’t stand dirt on his hands.” Dad looked a little sad. I guess Uncle Joe wasn’t living up to the character that Dad had remembered.

  Uncle Joe wasn’t telling funny stories, or pulling nickels out of people’s ears. He wasn’t warm or outgoing. In fact, he was pretty standoffish.

  He hardly glanced at the room we’d spent so much time setting up for him; he just directed Byron to put his suitcase on the floor near the bed. Then he said he thought he’d take a short nap, and he closed the door.

  We worked hard at keeping the house quiet while he slept. When he got up, he joined us in the living room. He still hadn’t taken off his suit jacket and when he perched himself on the couch he didn’t relax. He just sat there, bolt upright, frowning his little frown.

  Soon Mom announced that dinner was ready. Uncle Joe followed us into the dining room and took his seat. Mom served up the food, and I was totally depressed when I saw what was on my plate. Chicken breast with no skin. Boiled potatoes. Cauliflower. No spices, no gravy, just a plate full of white foods. Yuck.

  Uncle Joe ate carefully, taking small bites and chewing each one thoroughly. He didn’t speak. And you know what? Nobody else did either. It must have been the first silent meal in the history of the Pikes.

  We all went to bed early that night. The day we’d been waiting for had come and gone. How were we going to stand a whole month — or maybe longer — with Uncle Joe?

  I was happy to get out of the house for school on Monday morning. Uncle Joe was no more cheerful at breakfast than he’d been the day before. I thought about him on and off while I was in school. He seemed so withdrawn. He didn’t seem to take much interest in his new surroundings. “I mean,” I said to Jessi at lunch, “why did he want to visit us in the first place? He hasn’t even bothered to learn our names.” Jessi didn’t have any answers.

  After school, I headed for my job at the Craines’. I felt a little guilty about not going home, but to tell you the truth, I was secretly glad that I couldn’t. Life was a lot more pleasant over at the Craine house, with no grouchy old Uncle Joe sitting around like a block of wood.

  Sophie answered the door about two-and-a-half seconds after I’d rung the bell. “Mallory’s here!” she yelled, giving me a huge grin. “Guess what?” she asked me.

  “What?” I said, smiling back at her. It was nice to feel so welcomed.

  “Aunt Bud’s here!” she said.

  Oh. Did that mean they didn’t need me today? My smiled faded.

  “Mommy’s taking her to the doctor, but she came to our house for a visit first,” continued Sophie.

  Oh! That was better.

  “Come on,” said Sophie, pulling me by the hand. “Come and meet her.”

  I felt a little nervous as I followed Sophie into the kitchen. I’d never met a woman who rode a motorcycle before. She’d probably be wearing a leather jacket. What if she offered me a beer? I wondered if she had any tattoos.

  “Hi,” I heard as I walked into the kitchen. “You must be Mallory. The girls are already crazy about you!” The woman smiled at me. “I’m Ellen. Also known as Aunt Bud.”

  She was totally normal-looking, with curly brown hair and big blue eyes. No tattoos (at least none that I could see), no leather jacket, no beer can in her hand. She did, however, have a huge plaster cast on her right leg.

  “Hi!” I said. “I’m crazy about the girls, too. I’m glad I got the chance to sit for them, but I’m sorry about your leg.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “It’s not so bad. I only have to wear this cast for another few weeks, and then the doctors said I’ll have to take it easy for a while after that.”

  “Do you really have a motorcycle?” I asked.

  “Yup,” she said. “I just got it last year. It’s a lot of fun, but you have to know what you’re doing. I’m a pretty cautious rider.”

  I was about to ask if she would take me for a ride sometime after her leg was better (as if my parents would ever allow that), when Mrs. Craine came into the kitchen. “We’d better get going, Ell,” she said. “Hi, Mallory,” she went on, “thanks for being on time. Margaret will be getting home from school any minute, and Katie’s due to wake up from her nap soon. I told Sophie that you could make cookies together today. I bought that slice-and-bake kind, and it’s in the fridge.”

  “Great,” I said. Sophie and I followed Mrs. Craine and Ellen as they headed for the door. “Um, Mrs. Craine,” I said as she was slipping into her jacket. “I meant to ask you. Do you have a cat?”

  “A cat?” she asked, looking perplexed. “No, no cat. Why?”

  “I — I just wondered,” I said.

  She gave me a strange look, but she was in too much of a hurry to continue the conversation.

  “ ’Bye,” said Ellen, as she limped out the door. “Nice meeting you, Mallory.”

  “Have fun,” said Mrs. Craine, giving Sophie a quick hug. “See you in a few hours.” Sophie and I watched as they drove away.

  “Margaret told you we don’t have a cat,” she said to me.

  “I know. I just wanted to double check.” I felt bad that I hadn’t believed the girls, but I just couldn’t figure out what else could have been making that noise. “Hey,” I said, glad to be able to change the subject, “there’s Margaret’s bus.”

  Margaret skipped up the front walk. “Hi, Mallory!” she shouted. “Look what I made!” She held up a homemade book tied with ribbon. “I’m an author!”

  “Wow,” I said. “Let’s see.” I paged through the book she handed me. It was a funny story about a little girl who becomes friends with a dinosaur. Her pictures were quite good. “Neat,” I said.

  “I know.”

  I love how kids don’t pretend to be modest.

  “Can I see?” asked Sophie.

  “I’ll read it to you later,” said Margaret. Then she turned to me again. “We’re learning about readers and writers in my class,” she said. “Next week a really famous author is coming to talk to us.”

  “That’s exciting,” I said. “Why don’t you come in and get changed, and then you can tell us about it while we make cookies.”

  “Cookies!” she yelled. “Yay!” She dashed past me and headed up to her room.

  By the time Margaret was changed, Katie had woken up. She was a little cranky at first, but I held her and gave her a cup of juice, and soon she was smiling. “Okay,” I said, “time to make cookies.” I took the dough out of the fridge and turned on the oven. “Who knows where the cookie sheets are?” I asked.

  “I do!” said Margaret. She opened a cabinet and pulled them out.

  I set them out on the kitchen table. Then I put Katie in her high chair and sat the other two girls down next to her, Sophie in her booster seat and Margaret in a “grown-up” chair. I gave Margaret a butter knife, which I figured was too dull to hurt her, and let her cut up some of the dough. I cut the rest, and gave the pieces to Sophie and Katie. They arranged them on the cookie sheet.

  “I’m going to make a big, giant one,” said Sophie, sticking several pieces together.

  Katie smooshed her piece around until it was kind of gray-looking, then carefully put it on the edge of the cookie sheet. She looked up at me and beamed.

  “Good work,” I said, even though the little gray lump was basically disgusting.

  “I’m going to make a snowman,” said Margaret. She took three pieces of dough and started to arrange them on the sheet
. Just then, I heard it. That mewing sound! And you know what? This time, the girls heard it, too. We stopped what we were doing and listened hard.

  “Wow,” said Margaret breathily. “That sure does sound like a cat.”

  “Kitty!” cried Katie.

  “Let’s find him,” said Sophie.

  “I bet he’s under a bed or something,” said Margaret.

  “Find kitty,” said Katie.

  I turned off the oven and stuck the filled cookie sheets into the fridge. Obviously the cat was far more interesting than the cookies were, at least for the moment. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s start on this floor and work our way upstairs.” I led the way. The search felt familiar, since I’d been through the same thing last time I was at the Craines’. But the girls knew about a few nooks and crannies I’d missed. Margaret showed me a little cubbyhole beneath the stairs, and Sophie pointed out a broom closet I hadn’t noticed the other day.

  But we couldn’t find that cat.

  The mewing continued as we searched. It sounded very, very weak, like the cat was scared or hungry or sick or all three. I was really kind of worried about the cat.

  We climbed to the second floor and looked some more. No cat.

  “There’s no cat anywhere!” said Margaret. “Maybe it’s a ghost we’re hearing. Maybe our house is haunted!”

  “Shhh,” I said. “You’ll scare your sisters. Anyway, that’s just plain silly. Whoever heard of a ghost cat? If we keep looking we’ll find a real, live cat.” I sounded sure of myself. But you know what? Margaret’s idea had given me the shivers. That pitiful meowing was starting to get to me, and since we hadn’t found even one cat hair the idea of a ghost didn’t seem all that far off the mark.

  Suddenly I noticed that the room we were standing in was kind of dim. The afternoon had flown by, and it was beginning to grow dark outside. I switched on the light. I felt spooked enough; I didn’t need to be walking around in a pitch-black house. We were in Margaret’s room, and I sat down on her bed with the girls. We could still hear meowing and, as a matter of fact, it sounded louder on the second floor than it had on the first.