CHAPTER THREE

 

 

The next day was Saturday. When Fergie woke up that morning, he had the strange feeling that he had been having a horrible dream—but he couldn't remember anything about it. Except that it was bad. He had a confused impression that someone was yanking him this way and that, shaking him the way a terrier shakes a rat. But nothing else was clear. He got out of bed and slowly got dressed in a T-shirt and jeans.

His mom was sitting at the kitchen table, and she looked up from the morning newspaper when he came in. "Good morning," she said brightly. She was a worn-looking woman with stringy gray hair, and she was wearing an apron over a red flower-patterned dress. Years of pinching pennies and hard work had left her with a tired expression, but she always perked up when talking to Fergie or his dad. Mrs. Ferguson put the paper aside and asked, "What do you want for breakfast today?"

"I dunno," mumbled Fergie. "What're you having, Mom?"

"Coffee and Cream of Wheat," she told him.

Fergie made a face. He hated all hot cereals and would just as soon eat a big pot of steaming library paste. He went to the refrigerator and got out a quart milk bottle. He rattled the cereal bowls, put one on the table, and then retrieved a box of cornflakes from the cabinet. He shook some of these into the bowl, spilling a few, and then sloshed milk over them. Some of it splashed out onto the table.

Mrs. Ferguson said, "Here, I'll get a towel—"

"Mom!" Fergie rolled his eyes. "For Pete's sake, you'd think I was a baby or somethin'." He got up and found a kitchen towel, which he used to swab up the spilled milk. Then he wolfed down his bowl of cereal. He dumped the empty bowl and the spoon into the sink. After breakfast Fergie hurried back upstairs to his room and locked the door. His heart was beating fast. The closet door had a frame that stuck out about an inch all the way around. Long ago he had rigged up a secret hiding place by taping a flap of cardboard across the top of the frame and to the inside wall of the closet. The cardboard made a sort of pocket that he could put private stuff in. The book he had taken from the public library was there now. He had meant to look at it long before this, but somehow he had never had the courage. Every time he had taken the book down, he remembered the loud, eerie bell—and the mysterious old man. Three times before, he had replaced the unopened book in his secret spot, but he promised himself that this morning he was actually going to read some of its pages.

Pushing a chair over to the open closet door, Fergie climbed up and reached inside, felt for the top of the cardboard pocket, and then fished the book out. It felt strangely heavy in his hands, as if it were bound in sheets of lead instead of cardboard and cloth. He got off the chair, sprawled on his bed, and turned the book this way and that, just studying it.

In the light of morning, it didn't look frightening at all. The black cloth cover was fine grained and might once have looked expensive and neat. Now, though, the corners were battered and smashed, with frayed threads and the gray cardboard showing. The spine was cracked along its length, and the pages didn't quite meet smoothly in the center. The stamped red title-and- author label looked as if it had been a shiny metallic color, but now it was a dusty crimson, with tiny flakes missing here and there.

"The Book of True Wishes,'' muttered Fergie. "Yeah. Like fun it is." He was a sensible boy who always looked for the logical and rational explanation of anything odd. He didn't believe for a moment in genies' lamps or wishing rings, and he knew there was no such thing as a fairy godmother who made your dreams come true. Still, he had to admit that the book gave him a very unusual feeling. A feeling of, well, power, as if he knew something that no one else on earth even suspected.

Fergie clenched his teeth and opened the book.

Bo-o-o-n-nng! The windows of his room actually vibrated as the heavy bell tolled. Fergie caught his breath and waited for his mother to come rushing up the stairs to ask what in the world he was doing. But nothing happened.

He looked down and frowned. He had meant to open the book to the first page, but the thin leaves had stuck together, and he had cracked the volume to two full pages. He tried to turn back, but the left page seemed stuck to the cover. With a grunt, Fergie read the incomplete first paragraph:

 

warnings, you must freely choose to read. That is an easy choice, my boy, for you are always eager for knowledge. And the knowledge you gain from this book will never leave you. Like the book itself, it cannot be destroyed.

 

"Oh, man," said Fergie, shaking his head. This was too much. He knew that it would be easy to destroy this little volume—it was only a thin book about six by nine inches. It could be burned or ground to a pulp or the pages could just be ripped out and scattered. It—

Fergie paused, feeling a chill creep up his spine. His eye had gone to the next sentence in the book: "Of course, you're thinking the book can be burned or ground to a pulp. Or maybe the pages could just be ripped out and scattered. But you are wrong. You may try now."

"Okay," said Fergie, feeling suddenly angry. He grasped the right sheet and tore it—or tried to tear it.

To Fergie's astonishment, he could neither rip the page nor pull it out of the book. The paper felt flimsy and thin, so smooth that it was almost oily, but it was too sturdy for him to injure it in any way. And he had the sick feeling that even if he threw it on a blazing fire, the book wouldn't be scorched. When he let go of the page, it turned itself. The reverse side of that sheet was blank, and the right page held only five words, in big black letters:

 

What Is Your First Wish?

 

"Huh," snorted Fergie. "Okay, Mr. Whosis, I'll play along. I wish my dad had a job that paid him so good he didn't have to travel. What about that?"

He turned the page. And blinked. He felt his heart trying to climb up his throat and jump out his mouth. There was his own father's name—and his. Swallowing hard, Fergie frantically began to read:

 

Mr. Ferguson hardly suspected that when he had trouble with his automobile on his way back to Duston Heights he would ask help from a passerby who owned a thriving business. When he began to speak to the stranger, he had no way of knowing that the prosperous fellow would offer him a good job before their talk was through. And when he accepted the job offer, Mr. Ferguson could only look ahead with eager anticipation to the pleasure his announcement would give to his wife, Alice, and to their son, Byron. They would be so happy, and he would not have to travel ever again!

And Fergie would be secretly proud that he had given his father the opportunity. He would not even mind the small price that he had to pay.

 

Bo-o-o-n-nng!

The thunderous peal of the bell made Fergie jump and yelp. The book fell closed, and he leaped out of bed, shoved the chair over to the closet, and stuck the mysterious volume back in his hiding place. He slammed the closet door shut and went running downstairs. He reached the kitchen doorway and froze, holding onto the door frame. His mother stood at the sink, washing the breakfast dishes, and she looked around in alarm. "What's wrong?" she asked with a gasp.

"Uh—did you hear somethin' just now?" panted Fergie.

"I heard you running downstairs like a herd of rhinos," his mother replied, drying her hands on a white dish towel.

"When—when's Dad comin' home?" asked Fergie.

Mrs. Ferguson frowned at her son. "Why? You know he won't be back until next Friday afternoon," she said. "He still has all of his New Hampshire territory to visit."

Fergie tried to keep his voice steady. "Have—have you heard from him? I mean, in the last coupla days?"

"He called me last night from Burlington," said Mrs. Ferguson.

"An'—an' he was all right and everything? Did he, uh, say anything about his job or—or anything?" finished Fergie lamely.

Looking worried, Mrs. Ferguson shook her head. "No, dear. He just said he was looking forward to coming home again."

Fergie closed his eyes and pictured the family's car, an old blue Ford. Then he asked one more question: "Did he say anything about the car actin' up?"

"No, son," said his mother. "Are you sure you're all right? You look a little feverish."

"Mom, I'm fine, okay?" Fergie took a long, shaky breath. The Book of True Wishes, huh? Well, it sure didn't seem to be doing its job! So much for magic and sorcery and all that baby stuff! Fergie turned in the doorway and stalked toward the front door. "I'm goin' out," he said.

"Where are you going?" his mom asked.

"Out," Fergie yelled over his shoulder. He got his leather jacket from the hall closet and shrugged into it.

Mrs. Ferguson followed him into the hall. "But Byron, when will you—"

"I'll be back when I get back!" snapped Fergie. He banged out the door. Something made him look over his shoulder. His mom stood in the doorway, her hands clasped in front of her apron, an expression of distress on her face. Fergie almost waved at her in a reassuring way. But then he heard, or imagined he heard, a voice: "Don't bother with her. You've got big things ahead of you."

And so he hunched into his jacket, lowered his head, and went trotting off into a warm spring morning, heading for the athletic field. He was glad to get away from home, he told himself. He was really looking forward to playing flies and grounders with Johnny and Sarah. That would get his mind off that loopy book, off the strange man in the library, and off his mother, who lately had developed a real knack for getting on his nerves. Still, when Fergie thought about how worried his mother had looked, his stomach seemed to fall.

And so he decided not to think about her anymore. Maybe never again, in fact.