The Secret Life of Lincoln Jones Read online

  Which was true, only the B mailbox never seemed to have anything in it.

  “I bet it’s condemned,” she said a few days later when she noticed how our floor sags by the wall we share with B. And after inspecting it some more, she told me, “Don’t walk over here, you hear me, Lincoln? It’d kill me if you crashed to your death before I could get us in a better place.”

  I tested the floor myself after she’d gone to bed, and it was springy all right, but nothing that was gonna swallow me whole. Besides, the market was straight below. If I crashed through after hours, there’d be Snickers to keep my mind off the pain.

  But back to the footsteps.

  Since nobody ever came up the stairs and nobody ever came to our door, hearing steps outside on any other day would have been strange, but now?

  Visions of Cliff popped into my head.

  “Who’s out there?” Ma whispered.

  Like I could tell with the blinds shut?

  “Switch off the light!” she told me, scurrying to put the bowls down.

  “Why?”

  “Just do it!” she hissed.

  So I did, and after we stood around in the dark for a minute listening and hearing nothing, Ma crept over to the window, put two fingers between blind slats, and spread them apart slow and sly.

  “Is it Levi?” I whispered, hoping it was the Man and not Cliff.

  “Hush,” she said, like she was stifling a sneeze. Then she spread the slats wider and looked down toward B.

  “Is it Cliff?”

  She interrupted her spying to look at me like I was dumber’n dirt. “What did we just talk about? And how on earth could it be him?”

  “So who, then?”

  She went back to spying through the blinds. “It would help if there was a light out there. And I don’t hear anything anymore!”

  I tried getting in to see, but she swatted me away. And then, like rolling thunder, those footsteps were back.

  Ma jumped away from the window and sucked in a scared breath.

  “Who is it?” I asked. “Did you see?”

  Before she could say, our door went bam, bam, bam, and you’d better believe I jumped back, too.

  “Hello?” a man’s voice called. “I’ve got a delivery for next door. Can you help me out?”

  “A delivery?” I whispered, exchanging pie-eyes with Ma.

  “Please,” the voice said. “I’m from Shop-Wise Grocers, just trying to make a delivery. My truck broke down, which is why I’m so late. I think Mrs. Graves is already asleep.”

  Ma did squinty-eyes at me and mouthed, “Who?”

  She’d moved aside, which gave me a clear shot at the window. So I darted over and peeked through the blinds.

  There was a man out there, but it wasn’t Cliff fakin’ a delivery. Or Levi the Zombie Chicken Man.

  It was…a leprechaun.

  That’s what he looked like, anyway. He was short with kinda pointy ears and was wearing big boots and a green Shop-Wise ball cap. There were tufts of red hair poking out around the cap and his ears, and his stomach was like a little potbellied stove, pushing out against his Shop-Wise shirt.

  “Ma!” I said, ditching the blinds and shooting her a frown. “What are you ’fraid of?” Then I switched on the light and yanked open the door.

  “Oh, thank you,” Leprechaun Man said with a mighty gust of air. “It’s been a horrible day.” He set two bags of groceries inside and handed Ma a clipboard. “If you could sign right here?”

  Ma didn’t take the clipboard. “I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong place.”

  “Don’t I wish. But no, I’ve been here every other week for years.” He smiled, and his teeth were like shiny stars flashing through deep space. “But you’re new.”

  Ma just stared at him.

  The stars went dark, and he heaved a sigh. “Please. If you could just give these bags to her in the morning? She’s my last stop. I’d really like to get home.”

  “Who’s your last stop?” Ma asked.

  “Carol Graves? Your neighbor in B?”

  Ma looked down the hallway. “Someone’s living there?”

  I could see a whole litter of thoughts go scampering through his mind. But all he said was, “Yes. And you’d be doing us both a big favor.”

  I reached for the clipboard, but Ma snatched it first. “You’re signin’ nothing,” she growled at me, then scribbled something that was definitely not her signature and handed the clipboard back.

  “Thanks,” Leprechaun Man said, and he was gone before the ink was done drying.

  “So now what?” I asked Ma when the door was closed.

  She frowned, first at the bags, then at me. Like it was my fault there were strange groceries in the room.

  “Check for perishables,” she said, turning her frown back to the bags.

  “For church food?” I asked, ’cause I didn’t know what perishable meant and that was the first thing that popped into my head.

  “Perish,” she said, “not parish.”

  Sounded pretty much the same to me.

  “Stuff that might spoil,” she added, nosing through the first bag like a twitchy little mouse. “That’s what the ladies at Brookside call it.”

  When she’d moved on to the second bag, I couldn’t keep it in anymore. “Any Lucky Charms?”

  She stopped nosing. “Lucky Charms?” She frowned at me. “Even if there was, I wouldn’t let you at them. This food is not ours.”

  “No! I meant because…” I shook my head. “Never mind.”

  “There’s cans of soup,” she said, moving on. “And applesauce…and oatmeal…a bottle of cranberry juice…and cat food.”

  “There’s a cat living next door?” I asked, caught up in the wonder of it. I’d never heard mewing or scratching or…anything. But right through the saggy-floor wall was a cat?

  “And a person,” Ma said, and she seemed to be caught up in the wonder of that, too.

  Cats like me. I don’t know why, but they do. Back in my old neighborhood they’d follow me, slinkin’ along ten yards behind me like little spies. I’d coax them in with empty tuna cans and then sit and stroke them over and over and over. Something about the flick of their tails. And their fur, so soft and smooth. And the way they nuzzle in for a rub when they’re done scouring tuna. Yes, sir. Me and cats get along fine.

  Ma said she was beat-up tired from her long week at Brookside and went to bed early. I was so happy to not be at Brookside or school that I sure didn’t want to waste free time sleeping. Besides, I needed to get back to my story. Lucas was still on the roof with a killer after him, and I couldn’t just leave him there. How was he going to escape? The killer was determined! And could fling a knife with the speed and aim of an arrow!

  So I got back to writing and followed Lucas to a point where he was considerin’ leaping from the roof to escape the killer. He couldn’t go down the way he’d come up—that’s where the killer was! But jumping would be mighty painful. It was a long way down, and if he broke bones, he’d be crumpled and crippled—a sitting duck! The killer would laugh at him—bwa-ha-ha—from the rooftop, then send the wicked point of a knife flying straight through his heart.

  Jumping seemed the only choice, but just as Lucas was fixin’ to do it, a cat appeared on the rooftop. It was a silver cat, silent as snow, with emerald eyes and abalone claws, and it ran straight for the killer, whose head had just appeared over the roofline.

  The cat hissed at the villain, its mouth wide and fierce.

  “Nice kitty, good kitty,” the killer said as he yanked a knife from the side of the cabin. But before the villain could strike, lightning claws slashed across his face. “Aaargh!” he cried, and then down, down, down he fell.

  “Well, hey there,” Lucas said, crouching beside the cat. And as they both looked over the edge at the crumpled killer below, he added, “Thank you.”

  “Mrow,” the cat said back, then nuzzled Lucas’s leg, finding the pocket where a tuna sandwich had been a few ho
urs before.

  The story wrapped up great after that, and even though it was really late when I finally wrote The End, I wasn’t tired. I was too happy to be tired. The bad guy was defeated! And I really liked the cat. I even changed the name of the story to “The Silver Cat,” and I started thinking maybe I’d write more stories about him. There was something cool and mysterious about him. Pretty soon I started imagining what it would be like if the Silver Cat had some sort of telepathy.

  What if he could read Lucas’s mind?

  I fell asleep thinking about the Silver Cat. And when the smell and sizzle of sausages cooking woke me up, it was from a dream about the Silver Cat. I don’t remember much about it except for purring. That was enough, though. The Silver Cat was happy being in my dream.

  Ma seemed recharged, even hummin’ a little as she fixed breakfast. And I was all for her being in a good mood. There’s nothing like grits and eggs and sausage to start a day off right.

  “Thanks, Ma,” I told her after I was stuffed to the gills.

  She smiled at me and said, “I have a hunch you’re gonna need the fortification.”

  Sounded like trouble to me. “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “Carol Graves. Our neighbor.”

  “Why does having a neighbor take fortification? What does that even mean?”

  “It means you’ll be needing your strength.”

  “Uh…why?”

  “Because I’ve been thinking,” she said, clearing plates.

  “Uh-oh,” I said under my breath.

  “We’ve been living here nearly three months, and the whole time we’ve had no idea she was in there. Who’s taking out the garbage? Who’s doin’ the laundry? Who’s cleaning the cat box?”

  “Not me!” I said, twisting around in my chair.

  “My guess is she’s old.”

  “Old?” Nowhere on my wish list was getting to know another old person.

  “Applesauce, oatmeal, cranberry juice, soups…nothing solid. I’m guessin’ she’s old, has trouble with her teeth, and could probably use a little help.”

  “Ma, no! Don’t we help enough old folks every single day?”

  “We?” She gave me the steely-eye. “And it’s not every single day.”

  “But today’s Saturday. Can’t we get away from old folks on our one day off?”

  “Lincoln,” she warned. “I don’t know what the situation next door is, but you’re coming with me, and if some trash needs taking out, you’re volunteerin’ to do it.” She frowned. “And right now, I’d like you to volunteer to do the dishes.”

  I didn’t say what I was thinking—that volunteering was not the same as being ordered around. I just frowned right back and said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  But while I was doing the dishes, I started wondering if the cat next door was silver. And if its eyes were green. And if it had claws like abalone shells.

  Maybe that’s why the Silver Cat had popped into my story. Maybe he did have telepathy!

  I got so deep into picturing the cat and how it was going to purr, and feel so soft, and maybe read my mind, that by the time Ma was ready to go, I was all for taking out the neighbor’s trash.

  “Here,” Ma said, handing me a Shop-Wise grocery bag. “You take one, I’ll take the other. That way it’ll seem like we’re both there for a reason, not just nosing into her business.”

  It seemed a surprising thing for her to say. “So we’re going over to nose into her business?”

  Ma eyed me. “I’m pretty sure her business needs some nosing.”

  “But nobody wants their business nosed into. I sure don’t want her nosing into ours!”

  “Well, hers needs it. Ours doesn’t.”

  “But…how do you know?”

  “Oh, hush, Lincoln,” she said, closing our door and leading me down the hallway. “Just trust me.”

  There’s no such thing as doorbells in our building, so Ma just went right up and rapped on the door with the dangling B.

  Ma’s got solid knuckles. Knuckles that mean business. Still, no one came runnin’ to answer the door. She waited a minute, her ear perked near the flaky paint of the door, before using those knuckles again. “Mrs. Graves!” she shouted. “We’ve got your groceries!”

  After another minute, I whispered, “I still say it’s just storage. Or empty. Look at the knob.” It was loose from the wood, and kind of sloppy. Like nothing important was stored behind it, and definitely not a person.

  Which made me think that the Shop-Wise guy was actually just a wise guy who’d played some sort of trick on us. Although I couldn’t really put my finger on what that trick might be.

  Ma’s mind wasn’t on storage or the Shop-Wise guy. “Ha!” she huffed, giving me the sly-eye, with a grin to match. “Here she comes.” She pulled her ear away from the door and whispered, “A hundred dollars says she’s old.”

  I had all of zero dollars, so I couldn’t take that bet. And that’s a good thing, ’cause when the door finally creaked open, we were definitely looking at old.

  Old face.

  Old clothes.

  Old smell.

  “Mrs. Graves?” Ma asked, turning up the volume. “We’re your new neighbors. I’m Maribelle, and this is my son, Lincoln.”

  She said it like she was talking to someone underwater, but the words still seemed to swim right by Mrs. Graves.

  “We have your groceries!” Ma shouted.

  “I can hear you, Maribelle,” the old lady said, and she bared her dingy teeth a little, like a dog fixin’ to bite. Then she turned to me and said, “Nice to meet you, Lincoln,” and did the dog-bite thing again, which I was catching on was her way of smiling.

  Ma held her bag a little higher. “Would you like us to carry these into your kitchen?”

  “Not necessary,” Mrs. Graves said back.

  “We don’t mind,” Ma said. “And Lincoln would be happy to take out your trash, or whatever else needs doing.”

  Mrs. Graves gave me a doubtful look. “He would, would he?”

  “Sure,” I said after Ma nudged me. And it did seem like something I should do. Besides being old, Mrs. Graves was small. Her body was like twigs stuck together inside a heavy wool sweater.

  I sneaked a peek past her, wondering how much work I might have gotten myself into. Her place was bigger than ours, but what I noticed most was sunshine. It’s something that never sets foot in our place, but here, right next door, it streaked in through a window, making the air seem like it was dusted with gold.

  A cat nosed in, its face poking out between the door and Mrs. Graves’s leg. It was black and white and had crazy green eyes that were bright and deep and hypnotizing.

  “Me-ow!” it cried, and the sound was so pitiful I had an instant wish for a can of tuna.

  I knelt down to pet it and could see another cat padding over that looked like the twin of the first cat, but wasn’t. It was the mirror image. All the markings were in the exact opposite place, except the white tip of the tail, which was in the exact same place.

  I was so busy figuring out the Mirror Cats that at first I didn’t see a third cat coming from the other side of the room. It was dusty gray and small, with one eye insistin’ on sleeping while the other one was wide open, scouting things out. I thought, Pretty neat trick, but as the cat moved closer, I figured out that the one eye wasn’t sleeping after all. It was missing.

  My mind started flashing around. Whatever had happened must’ve been epic. Maybe dogs had cornered him in a dark alley! Maybe he’d been viciously attacked! Left for dead with a geyser of blood spurting from his eye!

  I was just picturing him staggering home in a tattered war uniform, with a crutch and a lame leg to go along with his bloody eye, when Mrs. Graves pushed One Eye aside with her foot.

  It was a quick move, and she did the same thing to the other two without even looking down. “Just leave the bags there,” she told Ma, pointing to the ground at our feet.

  “They’re heavy,” Ma said.
“Why don’t you let us—” But the door was already closing in Ma’s face.

  After staring at flaky paint for a solid minute, Ma finally set her bag down next to where mine was already resting. “Did you see the cats?” I whispered on our way home, and I was all pumped up.

  “I didn’t have to see them to smell them,” she said, letting us into our apartment. “How can she even breathe in there?” Her head quivered like the tail of a snake, and what rattled out of her mouth was, “Where are her kids? Where is her family? What is wrong with folks?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Didn’t you notice? There were dishes everywhere! And piles of garbage!”

  I almost let out, “There were?” but I pulled back the reins in time and said, “Maybe she doesn’t have kids?”

  “I saw pictures. In frames. By her couch.”

  “You did?”

  “I’ve got a good eye for these things,” she said, giving me a stealthy look.

  I couldn’t believe how we’d been looking through the exact same doorway and had seen such different things. “Were they pictures of people?” I asked.

  “What else would they be of?”

  “I don’t know…cats?”

  She grinned at me like she thought I was joking, but when she saw I wasn’t, she got all serious. “Her kids need to know.”

  “Need to know what?”

  “That she’s living in unsanitary conditions with seventeen cats!”

  “Seventeen? I only saw three!”

  “Where there’s three, there’s seventeen,” she said with a huff.

  That made no kind of sense to me, but she sure seemed serious.

  And I liked the happy feeling that it might be true.

  Saturday is Ma’s one full day off, but she treats it like a workday, which means it’s a workday for me, too. Groceries. Laundry. Cooking. Cleaning. It’s a full day of gearing up for the next week, and the only part of it that feels like any kind of time off is being at the Laundromat.

  I like the Laundromat. I like the way it smells, the way it sounds, the way it’s noisy and quiet and busy and still all at the same time.

  The folks who use it are interesting, too. They’re fun to watch because you can tell they’ve got stories, which I try to piece together from the way they act and the things they say and do.