Every Living Thing

  EVERY LIVING THING

  Aladdin Paperbacks

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster

  Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Copyright © 1985 by Cynthia Rylant

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  First Aladdin Paperbacks edition, 1988

  Also available in a hardcover edition from

  Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers

  Printed and bound in the United States of America

  40 39

  Rylant, Cynthia.

  Every living thing/stories by Cynthia Rylant; decorations by S.D. Schindler.—1st Aladdin books ed. p. cm.

  Summary: Twelve stories in which animals change people’s lives for the better.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-689-71263-0 (ISBN-10: 0-689-71263-4) (Aladdin pbk.)

  1. Children’s stories, American. [1. Animals—Fiction.

  2. Animals—Fiction. 3. Pets—Therapeutic use—Fiction. 4. Short

  stories.] I. Schindler, S.D., ill. II. Title.

  [PZ7.R982Er 1988]

  [Fic]—dcl9 88-19359 CIP AC

  0810 OFF

  For Gerry

  and all the living things we have loved

  Contents

  Slower Than the Rest

  Retired

  Boar Out There

  Papa’s Parrot

  A Pet

  Spaghetti

  Drying Out

  Stray

  Planting Things

  A Bad Road for Cats

  Safe

  Shells

  And of every living thing of

  all flesh, two of every sort shalt

  thou bring into the ark, to

  keep them alive with thee …

  GENESIS 6:19

  The Holy Bible

  Slower Than the Rest

  Leo was the first one to spot the turtle, so he was the one who got to keep it. They had all been in the car, driving up Tyler Mountain to church, when Leo shouted, “There’s a turtle!” and everyone’s head jerked with the stop.

  Leo’s father grumbled something about turtle soup, but Leo’s mother was sympathetic toward turtles, so Leo was allowed to pick it up off the highway and bring it home. Both his little sisters squealed when the animal stuck its ugly head out to look at them, and they thought its claws horrifying, but Leo loved it from the start. He named it Charlie.

  The dogs at Leo’s house had always belonged more to Leo’s father than to anyone else, and the cat thought she belonged to no one but herself, so Leo was grateful for a pet of his own. He settled Charlie in a cardboard box, threw in some lettuce and radishes, and declared himself a happy boy.

  Leo adored Charlie, and the turtle was hugged and kissed as if he were a baby. Leo liked to fit Charlie’s shell on his shoulder under his left ear, just as one might carry a cat, and Charlie would poke his head into Leo’s neck now and then to keep them both entertained.

  Leo was ten years old the year he found Charlie. He hadn’t many friends because he was slower than the rest. That was the way his father said it: “Slower than the rest.” Leo was slow in reading, slow in numbers, slow in understanding nearly everything that passed before him in a classroom. As a result, in fourth grade Leo had been separated from the rest of his classmates and placed in a room with other children who were as slow as he. Leo thought he would never get over it. He saw no way to be happy after that.

  But Charlie took care of Leo’s happiness, and he did it by being congenial. Charlie was the friendliest turtle anyone had ever seen. The turtle’s head was always stretched out, moving left to right, trying to see what was in the world. His front and back legs moved as though he were swimming frantically in a deep sea to save himself, when all that was happening was that someone was holding him in midair. Put Charlie down and he would sniff at the air a moment, then take off as if no one had ever told him how slow he was supposed to be.

  Every day, Leo came home from school, took Charlie to the backyard to let him explore and told him about the things that had happened in fifth grade. Leo wasn’t sure how old Charlie was, and, though he guessed Charlie was probably a young turtle, the lines around Charlie’s forehead and eyes and the clamp of his mouth made Leo think Charlie was wise the way old people are wise. So Leo talked to him privately every day.

  Then one day Leo decided to take Charlie to school.

  It was Prevent Forest Fires week and the whole school was making posters, watching nature films, imitating Smokey the Bear. Each member of Leo’s class was assigned to give a report on Friday dealing with forests. So Leo brought Charlie.

  Leo was quiet about it on the bus to school. He held the covered box tightly on his lap, secretly relieved that turtles are quiet except for an occasional hiss. Charlie rarely hissed in the morning; he was a turtle who liked to sleep in.

  Leo carried the box to his classroom and placed it on the wide windowsill near the radiator and beside the geraniums. His teacher called attendance and the day began.

  In the middle of the morning, the forest reports began. One girl held up a poster board pasted with pictures of raccoons and squirrels, rabbits and deer, and she explained that animals died in forest fires. The pictures were too small for anyone to see from his desk. Leo was bored.

  One boy stood up and mumbled something about burnt-up trees. Then another got up and said if there were no forests, then his dad couldn’t go hunting, and Leo couldn’t see the connection in that at all.

  Finally it was his turn. He quietly walked over to the windowsill and picked up the box. He set it on the teacher’s desk.

  “When somebody throws a match into a forest,” Leo began, “he is a murderer. He kills trees and birds and animals. Some animals, like deer, are fast runners and they might escape. But other animals”—he lifted the cover off the box—”have no hope. They are too slow. They will die.” He lifted Charlie out of the box. “It isn’t fair,” he said, as the class gasped and giggled at what they saw. “It isn’t fair for the slow ones.”

  Leo said much more. Mostly he talked about Charlie, explained what turtles were like, the things they enjoyed, what talents they possessed. He talked about Charlie the turtle and Charlie the friend, and what he said and how he said it made everyone in the class love turtles and hate forest fires. Leo’s teacher had tears in her eyes.

  That afternoon, the whole school assembled in the gymnasium to bring the special week to a close. A ranger in uniform made a speech, then someone dressed up like Smokey the Bear danced with two others dressed up like squirrels. Leo sat with his box and wondered if he should laugh at the dancers with everyone else. He didn’t feel like it.

  Finally, the school principal stood up and began a long talk. Leo’s thoughts drifted off. He thought about being home, lying in his bed and drawing pictures, while Charlie hobbled all about the room.

  He did not hear when someone whispered his name. Then he jumped when he heard, “Leo! It’s you!” in his ear. The boy next to him was pushing him, making him get up.

  “What?” Leo asked, looking around in confusion.

  “You won!” they were all saying. “Go on!”

  Leo was pushed onto the floor. He saw the principal smiling at him, beckoning to him across the room. Leo’s legs moved like Charlie’s—quickly and forward.

  Leo carried the box tightly against his chest. He shook the principal’s hand. He put down the box to accept the award plaque being handed to him. It was for his presentation with Charlie. Leo had won an award for the first time in his life, and as he shook the principal’s hand and blushed and said his thank-you’s, he thought
his heart would explode with happiness.

  That night, alone in his room, holding Charlie on his shoulder, Leo felt proud. And for the first time in a long time, Leo felt fast.

  Retired

  Her name was Miss Phala Cutcheon and she used to be a schoolteacher. Miss Cutcheon had gotten old and had retired from teaching fourth grade, so now she simply sat on her porch and considered things. She considered moving to Florida. She considered joining a club for old people and learning to play cards. She considered dying.

  Finally, she just got a dog.

  The dog was old. And she, too, was retired. A retired collie. She had belonged to a family who lived around the corner from Miss Cutcheon. The dog had helped raise three children, and she had been loved. But the family was moving to France and could not take their beloved pet. They gave her to Miss Cutcheon.

  When she lived with the family, the dog’s name had been Princess. Miss Cutcheon, however, thought the name much too delicate for a dog as old and bony as Miss Cutcheon herself, and she changed it to Velma. It took Princess several days to figure out what Miss Cutcheon meant when she called out for someone named Velma.

  In time, though, Velma got used to her new name. She got used to Miss Cutcheon’s slow pace—so unlike the romping of three children —and she got used to Miss Cutcheon’s dry dog food. She learned not to mind the smell of burning asthmador, which helped Miss Cutcheon breathe better, and not to mind the sound of the old lady’s wheezing and snoring in the middle of the night. Velma missed her children, but she was all right.

  Miss Cutcheon was a very early riser (a habit that could not be broken after forty-three years of meeting children at the schoolhouse door), and she enjoyed big breakfasts. Each day Miss Cutcheon would creak out of her bed like a mummy rising from its tomb, then shuffle into the kitchen, straight for the coffee pot. Velma, who slept on the floor at the end of Miss Cutcheon’s bed, would soon creak off the floor herself and head into the kitchen. Velma’s family had eaten cold cereal breakfasts all those years, and only when she came to live with Miss Cutcheon did Velma realize what perking coffee, sizzling bacon and hot biscuits smell like. She still got only dry dog food, but the aromas around her nose made the chunks taste ten times better.

  Miss Cutcheon sat at her dinette table, eating her bacon and eggs and biscuits, sipping her coffee, while Velma lay under the table at her feet. Miss Cutcheon spent most of breakfast time thinking about all the children she had taught. Velma thought about hers.

  During the day Miss Cutcheon took Velma for walks up and down the block. The two of them became a familiar sight. On warm, sunny days they took many walks, moving at an almost brisk pace up and back. But on damp, cold days they eased themselves along the sidewalk as if they’d both just gotten out of bed, and they usually went only a half-block, morning and afternoon.

  Miss Cutcheon and Velma spent several months together like this: eating breakfast together, walking the block, sitting on the front porch, going to bed early. Velma’s memory of her three children grew fuzzy, and only when she saw a boy or girl passing on the street did her ears prick up as if she should have known something about children. But what it was she had forgotten.

  Miss Cutcheon’s memory, on the other hand, grew better every day, and she seemed not to know anything except the past. She could recite the names of children in her mind—which seats they had sat in, what subjects they were best at, what they’d brought to school for lunch. She could remember their funny ways, and sometimes she would be sitting at her dinette in the morning, quietly eating, when she would burst out with a laugh that filled the room and made Velma jump.

  Why Miss Cutcheon decided one day to walk Velma a few blocks farther, and to the west, is a puzzle. But one warm morning in September, they did walk that way, and when they reached the third block, a sound like a million tiny buzz saws floated into the air. Velma’s ears stood straight up, and Miss Cutcheon stopped and considered. Then they went a block farther, and the sound changed to something like a hundred bells pealing. Velma’s tail began to wag ever so slightly. Finally, in the fifth block, they saw the school playground.

  Children, small and large, ran wildly about, screaming, laughing, falling down, climbing up, jumping, dancing. Velma started barking, again and again and again. She couldn’t contain herself. She barked and wagged and forgot all about Miss Cutcheon standing there with her. She saw only the children and it made her happy.

  Miss Cutcheon stood very stiff a while, staring. She didn’t smile. She simply looked at the playground, the red brick school, the chain-link fence that protected it all, keeping intruders outside, keeping children inside. Miss Cutcheon just stared while Velma barked. Then they walked back home.

  But the next day they returned. They moved farther along the fence, nearer where the children were. Velma barked and wagged until two boys, who had been seesawing, ran over to the fence to try to pet the dog. Miss Cutcheon pulled back on the leash, but too late, for Velma had already leaped up against the wire. She poked her snout through a hole and the boys scratched it, laughing as she licked their fingers. More children came to the fence, and while some rubbed Velma’s nose, others questioned Miss Cutcheon: “What’s your dog’s name?” “Will it bite?” “Do you like cats?” Miss Cutcheon, who had not answered the questions of children in what seemed a very long time, replied as a teacher would.

  Every day, in good weather, Miss Cutcheon and Velma visited the playground fence. The children learned their names, and Miss Cutcheon soon knew the children who stroked Velma the way she had known her own fourth-graders years ago. In bad weather, Miss Cutcheon and Velma stayed inside, breathing the asthmadora, feeling warm and comfortable, thinking about the children at the playground. But on a nice day, they were out again.

  In mid-October, Miss Cutcheon put a pumpkin on her front porch, something she hadn’t done in years. And on Halloween night, she turned on the porch light, and she and Velma waited at the door. Miss Cutcheon passed out fifty-six chocolate bars before the evening was done.

  Then, on Christmas Eve of that same year, a large group of young carolers came to sing in front of Miss Cutcheon’s house; and they were bearing gifts of dog biscuits and sweet fruit.

  Boar Out There

  Everyone in Glen Morgan knew there was a wild boar in the woods over by the Miller farm. The boar was out beyond the splintery rail fence and past the old black Dodge that somehow had ended up in the woods and was missing most of its parts.

  Jenny would hook her chin over the top rail of the fence, twirl a long green blade of grass in her teeth and whisper, “Boar out there.”

  And there were times she was sure she heard him. She imagined him running heavily through the trees, ignoring the sharp thorns and briars that raked his back and sprang away trembling.

  She thought he might have a golden horn on his terrible head. The boar would run deep into the woods, then rise up on his rear hooves, throw his head toward the stars and cry a long, clear, sure note into the air. The note would glide through the night and spear the heart of the moon. The boar had no fear of the moon, Jenny knew, as she lay in bed, listening.

  One hot summer day she went to find the boar. No one in Glen Morgan had ever gone past the old black Dodge and beyond, as far as she knew. But the boar was there somewhere, between those awful trees, and his dark green eyes waited for someone.

  Jenny felt it was she.

  Moving slowly over damp brown leaves, Jenny could sense her ears tingle and fan out as she listened for thick breathing from the trees. She stopped to pick a teaberry leaf to chew, stood a minute, then went on.

  Deep in the woods she kept her eyes to the sky. She needed to be reminded that there was a world above and apart from the trees—a world of space and air, air that didn’t linger all about her, didn’t press deep into her skin, as forest air did.

  Finally, leaning against a tree to rest, she heard him for the first time. She forgot to breathe, standing there listening to the stamping of hooves, and she c
hoked and coughed.

  Coughed!

  And now the pounding was horrible, too loud and confusing for Jenny. Horrible. She stood stiff with wet eyes and knew she could always pray, but for some reason didn’t.

  He came through the trees so fast that she had no time to scream or run. And he was there before her.

  His large gray-black body shivered as he waited just beyond the shadow of the tree she held for support. His nostrils glistened, and his eyes; but astonishingly, he was silent. He shivered and glistened and was absolutely silent.

  Jenny matched his silence, and her body was rigid, but not her eyes. They traveled along his scarred, bristling back to his thick hind legs. Tears spilling and flooding her face, Jenny stared at the boar’s ragged ears, caked with blood. Her tears dropped to the leaves, and the only sound between them was his slow breathing.

  Then the boar snorted and jerked. But Jenny did not move.

  High in the trees a bluejay yelled, and, suddenly, it was over. Jenny stood like a rock as the boar wildly flung his head and in terror bolted past her.

  Past her. …

  And now, since that summer, Jenny still hooks her chin over the old rail fence, and she still whispers, “Boar out there.” But when she leans on the fence, looking into the trees, her eyes are full and she leaves wet patches on the splintery wood. She is sorry for the torn ears of the boar and sorry that he has no golden horn.

  But mostly she is sorry that he lives in fear of bluejays and little girls, when everyone in Glen Morgan lives in fear of him.

  Papa’s Parrot

  Though his father was fat and merely owned a candy and nut shop, Harry Tillian liked his papa. Harry stopped liking candy and nuts when he was around seven, but, in spite of this, he and Mr. Tillian had remained friends and were still friends the year Harry turned twelve.

  For years, after school, Harry had always stopped in to see his father at work. Many of Harry’s friends stopped there, too, to spend a few cents choosing penny candy from the giant bins or to sample Mr. Tillian’s latest batch of roasted peanuts. Mr. Tillian looked forward to seeing his son and his son’s friends every day. He liked the company.