Дебора Хоу - The Celery Stalks At Midnight

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked in a somewhat garbled voice.

“I’m just hearkening to the call of chocolate,” I replied.

“Well, hearken to this before you go anywhere,” he said. “We’ve got to alert the Monroes to what’s going on. Now, you and Howie start whimpering. I’ll jump up on Bunnicula’s cage.”

“Well, all right,” I agreed somewhat reluctantly. “For Bunnicula’s sake.”

Mr. Monroe was turning out the lights. Mrs. Monroe stood at the bottom of the stairs ready to go up. A pile of clothes was in her arms. Howie and I ran to her side and whimpered pathetically.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, her voice full of concern. “Do you want some water?” She turned to her husband. “Robert, why don’t you check their water dishes before coming up? I want to start folding this laundry.”

I noticed that Chester had jumped up on the top of the cage, but as that part of the room was darkened already, no one paid any attention. Mrs. Monroe went up the stairs and Mr. Monroe into the kitchen. Chester jumped down.

When Mr. Monroe reentered, he stood looking down at us, shaking his head. “I don’t know what your problem is, fellas,” he said, “but you’ve got plenty of water.” Once again, I started to whimper as Howie tugged at Mr. Monroe’s pants leg. Chester, meanwhile, began hopping around the living room floor, looking as if he was trying to make his way over a patch of hot tar. Mr. Monroe just smiled at him. “Well, Chester, it looks as if you’re still full of energy. Too bad we can’t let you out. Good night.”

He patted each of us and went to bed.

“Gee, Pop, are you okay?” Howie asked. “Can I help?”

“You can help by not being so dumb,” Chester muttered, a look of disgust on his face. “I was trying to be a rabbit.”

Howie became confused. “Why would you want to be a rabbit?” he asked. “Aren’t you happy being a cat?”

I moved toward the stairs, the lure of crinkling cellophane (covering, I hoped, chocolate cupcakes) too strong to resist. Chester called after me.

“Harold, take the kid with you, will you? I’ve got to plan my strategy.”

“I want to stay with you, Pop,” Howie said.

Chester groaned.

“What strategy?” I asked.

“We’ve got to find that rabbit and return him to his cage before it’s too late.”

“Too late for what?” I asked. “I’m concerned about Bunnicula, too, but—”

“It’s not the rabbit I’m worried about,” he said. “It’s us , you fool. I shudder to think what could happen in one little night with that bunny on the loose.”

“Well,” I replied, “I’ll let you worry about that. I’ve got bigger worries on my stomach—er, mind—right now.”

I went up the stairs. I could hear Chester mumbling about rabbits and vegetables and vampires, and I knew his would be a restless night. But, I reassured myself, he would have Howie at his side to get him through. And what a comfort that would be.

After all, just as I turned the corner of the landing, didn’t I hear Howie remark, “Well, Pop, you know what they always say?”

“No, son,” Chester answered, “what do they always say?”

“Hare today, gone tomorrow.”

Chapter 2

Some Thoughts on

Vegetables, or A

Dead Beet in the

Neighborhood

I WAS RUDELY awakened the next morning by Pete’s crashlanding just inches from where I lay on Toby’s bed.

“Wake up, wake up, you sleepy-creep!” Pete cried as he yanked his brother’s pillow out from under his head and began badgering him with it. I was sorely tempted to pick Pete up by the tail-end of his pajamas and deposit him through the nearest open window, but decided this would not be particularly well-advised. Besides, I had morning mouth, and the thought of getting cotton all over my tongue gave me goose bumps. Yuck!

Toby, meanwhile, was screaming bloody murder.

“Help! Get out of here, Pete! What’s the matter with you, anyway? Mom!” As he began kicking furiously at his attacker, I did the only sensible thing left open to me. I jumped off the bed and headed straight for the door.

As I left, I noticed Pete pull the sheet across the bottom half of his face and say, “Today eez the beeg day! Heh-heh-heh!”

That’s a funny thing to say, I thought.

Pete’s momentary stillness gave Toby an advantage. He knocked Pete’s legs out from under him and went running out the door to the bathroom. I started down the stairs, narrowly missing being hit by the basketball that flew out of the bedroom and hit the closing bathroom door with a thud. It bounced back across the hall floor, causing the lighting fixture on the ceiling below to quake.

Boy, I thought, it’ll be nice to get downstairs to some peace and quiet.

Mrs. Monroe stood at the bottom of the stairs. I whimpered good morning.

“Toby! Pete!” she greeted me in return. “Stop all that noise this minute! Peter, let your brother get dressed. Come down here and eat your breakfast. It’s getting cold!”

As I sauntered across the living room, Mr. Monroe rushed into the house, letting the front door slam behind him. “You won’t believe it,” he said, “but the garage door’s been open all night!”

“Oh, no!” Mrs. Monroe said. “Was anything taken? We’re lucky no one broke into the house.”

Pete charged down the stairs, skipping every other step. “What about the—” he started to say.

His father waved his hands in the air. “Everything’s right where it belongs. Nothing’s missing. We were lucky this time. But we’ll have to be more careful in the future.”

A delectable aroma reached my nostrils. I thought back to the yummy chocolate-chip cookies Toby had shared with me the night before and decided a slice or two of the nice crisp bacon presently burning on the kitchen stove would be a perfect follow-up treat this morning.

“Oh, no!” Mrs. Monroe cried. “The bacon!”

“Mom!” Toby called from upstairs. “The toilet’s stuck. I think it’s going to run over.”

Mr. and Mrs. Monroe looked at each other and shook their heads.

“You to the bacon,” Mr. Monroe said, “I to the toilet.”

And I to the food dish, I thought.

Chester and Howie were already eating when I entered the kitchen with Mrs. Monroe.

“Good morning,” I said cheerfully.

“Good morning, Uncle Harold,” Howie yipped.

Chester, seemingly lost in thought—or at least in cat food—said not a word.

I was starved, but hesitated before digging in, hoping a little crumbled-up bacon might find its way to my dish. My hopes were not in vain.

“Great!” Mrs. Monroe said, whisking the sizzling frying pan off the stove. “Cold eggs and burned bacon. Well, this day is off to a terrific start. Here, fellas, it’s all yours.”

This day is off to a terrific start, I thought, as the bacon bits landed on my dish. Chester, who had still not said “good morning,” didn’t seem to share my attitude.

“What’s the matter with you today?” I asked.

“Pop’s had a rough night,” I was informed by Howie.

“Oh,” I said. “What happened, Chester?”

“Nothing happened,” Chester’s junior interpreter responded. “He just couldn’t sleep, worrying.”

“Oh, come on,” I replied. “What’s to worry about? So Bunnicula got out. He’ll come back. Everybody’s in such a hurry around here this morning, maybe they’re going out to look for him. Anyway, he’ll be all right.”

“It’s not Bunnicula that Pop’s worried about.”

I turned to Chester. “Chester, have you lost your facility for speech?” I asked.