Raising Rufus (2 page)

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eep reep deedy bip!

The ringtone wasn't that loud, but Martin was so deep in concentration that it made him jump a little. He reached across his workbench and grabbed the phone.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Martin, do you have my cheese grater?”

“Um…yeah.” He had the grater, all right. He'd been using it to scrape at the grit and grime that was stuck to that egg-shaped stone he'd found in the quarry.

“What are you using it for?”

“You know. Stuff.”

“Honey, I need it back. I'm doing one of those cheesy-noodle things you like.”

Actually, Martin didn't much care for the cheesy-noodle thing. But he didn't feel like arguing the point. “Okay.”

“Listen, your dad called from work and he can't find his truck keys. Would you be a star and bike over there with the spare set?”

“Oh, um—”

“You're the best, monkey-bean. And bring my grater before you go.”

Martin was trying to think of an excuse not to go, but he wasn't quick enough; she was gone. So he took a deep breath, rubbed his eyes, and geared up to venture out of the lab and face the world.

It wasn't an actual
lab,
of course, with test tubes and weird equipment and that sort of thing. But it definitely worked for Martin's purposes. The land that his family's house was on had once been part of a small dairy farm, and though the house itself was fairly ordinary by Menominee Springs standards, the backyard was huge, and there was a big stone barn at the far end. The good thing for Martin was that his parents never used the barn for anything more than a giant storage space, so he had talked them into letting him use a corner of it for his own private science lab.

And he spent a
lot
of time in that lab. Not having any real friends to speak of, he hung out in there pretty much every day after school, and on weekends, too. The lab was where he got to hang with some
real
friends—friends
who always listened to him, who never snubbed him or made fun of him, who were there to support him when things got him down. True, these friends tended to be not exactly
living
—collections of stones, dried leaves, and dead bugs, all neatly arranged on shelves and in display boxes. But Martin looked forward to hanging out with them every day and, naturally, adding to their numbers on a regular basis. He even had names for his favorite pals, like the perfectly preserved cecropia moth he called Gigundo because it was so—well,
gigundo,
and a brilliant purple piece of quartz he called Charlie, though he wasn't sure exactly why.

The other great thing about the barn was that the door was only a few steps from the edge of the woods, which conveniently started right where the Tinkers' yard ended. So, on a typical spring day like today, Martin could come straight home from school, make a quick stop in the house to grab a snack, hustle on out to the barn to pick up his bug net and assorted gear, and head right out into the pine groves for a new day of discovery and adventure. Out there he might catch a few interesting bugs, dig up one or two new rock specimens, maybe skip stones across a pond for a while, sit on a rock and leaf through a good bug book—and never have to cross paths with another human being.

His mom worked in the public library in the afternoons and didn't like the idea of Martin wandering out there alone among the bugs and badgers and bears and lord-knows-what. But his dad had convinced her that it was healthy for Martin to exercise a little independence, so they decided to let him go—as long as he knew the full rules of the road, which she quizzed him on regularly.

“How many leaves on a poison ivy twig?”

“Three.”

“You can touch stream water, but…”

“Don't drink it.”

“What if it looks like rain?”

“Come right home.”

“And if you see a bear…”

“Back away slowly, don't make eye contact, and call nine-one-one. Then start singing, because they hate that.”

Nobody had ever seen a bear in that part of the woods, but it made no difference to Mrs. Tinker; she wanted Martin to be totally prepared for anything. So she gave him a can of Harlan Ziffer's Bear-Away Spray to carry with him on his hikes—just in case. She also insisted he take a sun hat, a water bottle, a first-aid kit, a banana for energy, a pocket knife, a plastic poncho, an air horn, mosquito repellent, and an extra battery for his phone.

Martin knew his mom meant well, but to him it seemed a bit extreme. It was just way too much stuff to haul around. So he generally made it a point to “forget” to take most of it with him on his nature walks.

Martin was pretty grumpy about having to do this errand, and he was eager to get it over with. He really wanted to get back to his lab to study that big, frozen oval stone, and all those fascinating fossils, too. There was one that looked like part of a spiky flounder, and another one that could have been either a very ugly shrimp or a very hairy spider, before it got flattened forever onto a smooth piece of rock. Martin couldn't wait to study them and learn more, but for now, wait was what he would have to do.

As he pedaled his bike across town, the postcard-pretty surroundings and soft breezes took his mind off his lab work and gave his mood a boost. After all, late April was the best time of year in Menominee Springs: the deep chill of winter was gone, flowers were just starting to bloom, the local fauna were making their summer debut, and the swarms of tourists hadn't yet descended on the town. It seemed like everybody was out and about, and smiles were as plentiful as the bumblebees on the spring daffodils.

Part of the reason everybody was so chipper was that they were looking forward to the many dollars the tourists would soon be bringing to town with them. And nobody looked forward to that more than Mr. Tinker's boss, Ben Fairfield, who was already the richest man in Menominee Springs. He got that way by being the owner of the Trout Palace, a sprawling house of amusements that attracted vacationers from hundreds of miles around. Set on thirty acres of prime wooded parkland, the Trout Palace had, as Mr. Fairfield loved to boast, something for everyone.

Martin rode up and parked his bike next to the big wooden sign at the front gate that said it all:

Martin went through the gate and walked past the outdoor rides, which hadn't really interested him much since he was about eight—a mini train, a merry-go-round, a slow-speed coaster, pony rides, and a few other unchallenging
distractions—and
stepped up to the front entrance of the main building.

The Trout Palace was a big half cylinder of corrugated steel that reminded Martin of a hangar for a jumbo jet, if there were a way to get a jumbo jet into the middle of the woods. The inside was laid out so that anywhere you looked, something would draw you in. Everything promised on the sign was there, and more, though none of it was as modern and thrilling as you might expect. Most of the attractions had been there, unchanged, for more than thirty years.

There were a lot of reasons to visit Menominee Springs in the
summer—fishing,
camping, hiking, waterskiing, or just soaking in the relaxing, woodsy atmosphere—but it was the Trout Palace that really brought people in. There was just something about catching your own lunch in a man-made pond or watching a dancing beaver in a tutu that made folks want to pile their families into the SUV and head across the state. And they kept coming year after year, defying all logic—never mind the video games, the Internet, the big-screen TVs, and all the other modern gadgets that usually occupied people's leisure time.

All of which made Ben Fairfield a very happy man. Or so you might think if you were one of the visitors he would personally greet just inside the entrance with a big smile and a firm handshake, his bald dome glistening under the tube fluorescents.

“Hi there! Welcome to the Trout Palace!” he'd say. “Where're you folks from?”

“La Crosse.”

“Oh, yeah. My favorite town.” Then he would lean down to the kids. “You ready to have some fun, partners?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, don't spend all your dad's money. Ha ha ha ha ha!”

Martin didn't much care for Mr.
Fairfield—partly
because he always called him Murphy, and partly because of the way he treated the Trout Palace employees, which was nothing at all like the way he treated his customers. The people who worked there were mostly high schoolers on summer break, and Mr. Fairfield never missed a chance to throw off a nasty remark or make them feel stupid. Whenever Martin was in the place, he couldn't help feeling sorry for them.

There were a few Trout Palace employees, though, who were treated quite a bit better by Ben Fairfield. These were the ones with a lot of skills and experience, the ones Mr. Fairfield realized he needed as much as they needed him—like the technical supervisor, Mr. Gordon Tinker. Martin's dad was the man who made sure all the electrical and mechanical contraptions were in top working order at all times. He was the best there was, and Mr. Fairfield knew it.

Nobody was busier in the weeks before the Trout Palace opened than Mr. Tinker. So as Martin walked up to the building's grand entryway, he was hoping it wouldn't be too hard to find him. He still had that bizarre frozen fossil on his mind, and he just wanted to pass off the keys and get back home to the lab. Plus, a quick exchange would minimize the chances of running into Mr. Fairfield.

Luckily, just as Martin came in the main door, he ran into his dad—or his dad's legs, actually. He was standing on a ladder with the upper half of his body inside a giant fiberglass fish that hung from wires attached to the ceiling. The fish's gaping mouth had some gear work connected to it, and Mr. Tinker was wrestling with a very stubborn bolt.

“Get loose, you little bugger…”

“Hi, Dad. I got your spare keys.”

“Huh?…Oh, great. Thanks, buddy.” He slipped the wrench into his tool belt and got set to come down the ladder. “Y'know, I had those things when I got out of the truck this morning—”