CHAPTER 15
THE BAD PART
THIS IS THE PART of the book where the main character—what one’s English teacher might call the protagonist, before brushing chalk off the arm of their sweater and taking a deep breath in a way that suggests that their dishwasher broke that morning—is sunk. Down in the dumps. Has hit rock bottom. Is burnt toast. I’ve chosen to feature Gertrude as the protagonist of this story, though any of the Porches or Millicent could have been a very fine protagonist; I just happen to know Gertrude a little better in real life, which makes it easier to speculate about what the protagonist is feeling and wanting and losing and gaining and all those things that protagonists have to do. It’s not easy to be the protagonist, because you are the one who has to feel the most, and ugh, who has the energy?
Anyway, there comes a time when the protagonist has lost it all. It’s not fun to write, and it’s certainly not fun to read. Someone you hopefully have come to care about or perhaps relate to in some way is in pain and probably alone and doesn’t know what to do next. Maybe it reminds you of a time when you felt that way too.1
In any case, Gertrude’s rock bottom involved being trapped as well—not in a basement like I was, but in a turret2 at the top of a winding staircase in the attic of Aunt Desdemona and Uncle Ansel’s house.
Gertrude had been sitting on the floor of the turret3 since yesterday afternoon, when Aunt Desdemona had collected her from Town Hall. “Lavinia-Steve has told me everything,” she’d said. “About how Marjory Questions told you to steal my brooches, and how she followed you to the mayor’s office—and then I call there to locate you and I find out that you’re ranting about canceling the dog contest? Why? Why would anyone try to cancel a dog contest?”
Lavinia-Steve, now an official traitor, could be heard weeping softly in the background the entire time.
Eugenia had said it best: “Once a Lavinia, always a Lavinia.”
“You, Rude-Gert, are a menace to all bichon-kind,” Uncle Ansel had said. “There’s no way you’re going to the dog contest, and there’s no way you’re going back to Marjory Questions, whoever she is. How was the furniture in the mayor’s office, by the way? Gorgeous?”
Grantie Lettuce had turned her head toward Gertrude in slow little jerks, like a sputtering sprinkler. “I smell a Silly Sally.” There was something like triumph behind her long, milky stare as Desdemona marched Gertrude upstairs and locked her away, with only a rotten apple to eat for dinner.
After a night of fitful sleeplessness, Gertrude had awoken that morning, freshly sickened by the knowledge that the dog contest would be starting soon. Her face was puffy from crying, and her mouth was dry. She thought she might have dreamt the whole torturous sequence of events—but there she was, still trapped in the cold turret4 sandwiched between Uncle Ansel’s collection of snakeskin belts and a colony of sleeping brown bats hanging from the rafters.
Aunt Desdemona had locked Eugenia and Dee-Dee in their bedroom (which was of course the shed behind the compost heap), and they were screaming and pounding on the doors, to no avail.
Gertrude thought of Millicent, who at that moment was probably waiting on her front porch and tapping her toe and checking her watch and wondering, Where are they?! I can’t trap this worm by myself! Probably she would be jumping at each rustle in the bushes, crestfallen each time a chipmunk emerged instead of her new pupils. I guess they didn’t like me after all, she would think, wondering if it was the worm guts on her boots that did it, or the worm guts in her hair, or just the whole package.
Gertrude even thought of the Kyrgalops, barreling toward the cluster of little bichons. The worm would just be trying to get a bite of its favorite snack, oblivious to the consequences. It was merely hungry, an orphan, a pawn in the KRA’s plot. After the deed was done, they would probably murder it and dump it in a ditch. This caused Gertrude to curl into a ball on the floor. What would the look in its eyes be as it realized that Mrs. Wintermacher, who had fed and cared for it, was just using it, and was now through? What did I do wrong? it would wonder.
I told you: a bummer!
Gertrude peered through the tiny window of the SMALL TOWER.5 To her great dismay, Aunt Desdemona, Uncle Ansel, the seven Lavinias, and their seven bichon frises were marching proudly out the door, each dog adorned with a different-color headband. They had no idea that they were walking right into the KRA’s devious trap, like lambs to the slaughter!
Lavinia-Steve craned her neck to look back toward the little window in the tower, her eyes red from weeping.
“Don’t go!” Gertrude cried out the window.
But none of them heard her.
Everything had gone wrong, despite her best efforts. Dogs would perish, evil would triumph, Millicent would be blamed, and everything good would be over.
It’s my fault, she thought. Me and my big ideas. I’m just foolish. Foolish to think that Majestina DeWeen would believe me. Foolish to think I could keep my sisters safe. Foolish to believe that my mother was a nice woman named Pookie who farmed garlic, foolish to believe that anyone ever really wanted me.
See what I mean? No one wants to read this, it’s such a dirge. And yet it’s how she felt. Have you ever felt something like this? Gertrude felt very alone in that moment, but was unaware that one day someone might read her tale and might feel similarly. So really she wasn’t alone, though there was no way of knowing that at the time.
She looked out the window again, at the shed where Eugenia and Dee-Dee were trapped. Through the dusty window she could see their frightened faces.
Gertrude had to send them a message, in the event that the worm made its way from the fairgrounds and ate them all. In the dust of her window, she wrote a message with her finger.
Inside the shed, Eugenia and Dee-Dee squinted at the message. Then Dee-Dee raised her finger to the dust and drew a message of her own.
Well.
At least, in the darkness, there was still the greatest of life’s offerings: little sisters.
Eugenia raised her finger to the window and made some additional markings to the heart.
Hmm, a bat? I wonder what she means, Gertrude thought, looking overhead at the bats as they napped in the rafters of the small tower. It was a bat that got us into this whole gigantic dill pickle in the first place, when you think about it. Oh, why did I have to bring a Bat Straightener to school? Why do I have to have such big, weird ideas? I mean, it was honestly kind of a good idea, even though it got us all expelled.
Gertrude waved hello to the bats. They had awoken from their nap, and they looked hungry.
She pulled the rotten apple that Aunt Desdemona had given her for dinner from her pocket, the one that she’d been too distraught to eat.
“Bottoms up, kids,” she said.
The bats looked around as if to say, “Who, us?”
“Yeah, you,” Gertrude said with a laugh. They fluttered down to Gertrude. They sat on her knees and on her shoulders and on the top of her head, and they munched on the soft red fruit.
They really were a beautiful sight. All creatures are, if you think about it.
Gertrude fished around her pockets for something else to feed the bats—a rotten pear, perhaps—but all she found was a crumpled rope with a vest sewed to one end and a miniature harness sewed to the other: the Bat Straightener, still there in her pocket from that fateful afternoon, turning up like a bad penny. She chuckled to herself. You still got it, old chap. You know, I bet I could hook up to all these bats and they could fly me out of here!
Imagine? That would be funny.
Gertrude pulled the wrinkled vest over her dress, then jokingly offered up the harness to the group of bats. “What do you think, fellas? Dorky, or cool?” Then, as if he understood that she needed help, one bat opened his wings, and Gertrude gently slid the straps of the bat harness over them. As soon as the first bat was strapped in the harness, a second bat hopped over to the harness and opened his wings, offering himself up as part of the ad hoc crew—then another, then another—until all the bats were strapped in, back to front. Gertrude couldn’t help but laugh at the surprise of it, the miracle of it.
Then, as if on command, the bats began to flap in unison, their wings working in tandem like a team of rowers, and Gertrude was lifted off the ground.
“Whoooaaaa there, little fellas!”
But the bats did not stop flapping. They flapped higher and higher. Then they flapped out the window, dragging Gertrude over the ledge and into the open air. “Whoa, bat friends!” she cried. “Are you sure I’m not too heavy?!”
Gertrude looked down at the ground four stories below and imagined plummeting onto the barbed wrought iron gate, or into the pile of broken porcelain from the third-floor bathroom renovation—but the bats flapped as hard as they could, swooshing in unison, and Gertrude was lowered gently to the ground, landing softly on a patch of grass in a pile of Taffetteen and bats.
She wept at how amazing it was, the profound generosity of nature. She freed the heroic team of bats from the harness and kissed each one on the soft brown fur atop his head before the whole colony flapped away, bellies full of apple. She could see the bones and muscles working inside the leathery brown wings, pumping, soaring, and she thought: Every creature, no matter how bizarre, or reviled, has a place.
And what was her place?
To help, or at least try.
To love the world, and treat it with tenderness.
To marvel at what is, while it still is.
She ran to the garden shed where Eugenia and Dee-Dee were being held captive and smacked the padlock off the door with an old iron pipe.
Eugenia and Dee-Dee emerged to find their older sister standing there, looking like some kind of hero.
Eugenia hugged her—quickly, but tightly, and with purpose.
Dee-Dee tipped her cowboy hat and winked. “Today is a big day for you,” she said. And though Gertrude didn’t know exactly what Dee-Dee meant, she could feel that it somehow might be true.
Just then, there was a humming overhead, like a thousand mosquitos. Through the din rang a majestic voice from the sky, the voice of Millicent Quibb: “Girls!” she cried.
“WE’RE LATE FOR THE PAGEANT!”
Footnotes
1 I know it does for me: I am reminded of the time when I accidentally locked myself in the basement of my house and had to stay there for eight weeks and survived on the one thing I buy in bulk and keep in the basement, which is string cheese. I had hypothermia and diarrhea. After eight weeks, I realized that the key to the basement door was stuck in my hair.
2 “Turret” is a slightly more succinct way of saying “small tower.” Why not just say “small tower” and omit the long footnote? I don’t know. Next time I’ll just say “small tower,” I PROMISE.
3 Gahhh, I’ve done it again! I’m sorry. Next time: small tower.
4 Gahhhhh! What am I DOING???
5 Happy? Do you miss turret now?