Francine Poulet Meets the Ghost Raccoon

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Coda

  Francine Poulet was an animal control officer.

  She hailed from a long line of animal control officers.

  Francine’s father, Clement Poulet, had been an animal control officer, and Francine’s grandmother Nanette Poulet had been an animal control officer, too.

  Francine had won many animal control trophies — forty-seven of them, to be exact.

  In addition, Francine was the Gizzford County record holder for most animals controlled. She had successfully and officially and expeditiously (for the most part) captured dogs, cats, rats, pigs, snakes, squirrels, chipmunks, bats, raccoons, and, also, fish.

  One time, Francine had faced down a bear. The bear and Francine had stared at each other for a long time.

  The bear blinked first.

  Francine Poulet was an excellent animal control officer.

  She was never, ever afraid.

  Late one afternoon in May, the phone at the Animal Control Center rang.

  Francine Poulet was sitting at her desk. She answered the phone. She said, “Animal Control Officer Francine Poulet here. How may I help you?”

  “Yes, hello,” said the voice at the other end. “Mrs. Bissinger speaking.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Francine.

  “I am being tormented,” said Mrs. Bissinger.

  “Yep,” said Francine.

  Everyone who called the Animal Control Center was being tormented in one way or another. Francine was never surprised to hear about it.

  Nothing frightened Francine Poulet, and nothing surprised her either.

  “A most unusual raccoon has come to reside on my roof,” said Mrs. Bissinger.

  “Right,” said Francine. “Raccoon on the roof. What’s your address?”

  “Perhaps you were not listening,” said Mrs. Bissinger. “This is not your average raccoon.”

  “Right,” said Francine, “not your average raccoon.” She leaned back in her chair. And then she leaned back a bit farther.

  Francine leaned back so far that the front legs of the chair lifted off the ground. This was a bad habit of Francine’s. Her father, Clement Poulet, had tried to break her of it, but he had never succeeded.

  “One of these days, Franny,” her father used to say, “you are going to tip all the way backwards in that chair and whack your head, and then you will be sorry.”

  Clement Poulet was dead, and it been many years since he had warned his daughter about chair-tipping. Francine missed Clement. She even missed his dire predictions. However, she had yet to tip all the way backward and whack her head. Francine had been gifted with an extraordinary sense of balance.

  “This raccoon,” said Mrs. Bissinger, “shimmers.”

  “He what?” said Francine.

  “Shimmers,” said Mrs. Bissinger. “He seems to glow. In addition, and more disturbingly, this raccoon calls my name.”

  Francine slowly lowered the chair legs to the floor.

  “Interesting,” said Francine. “The raccoon says, ‘Mrs. Bissinger’?”

  “No,” said Mrs. Bissinger. “He says ‘Tammy.’ He screams my first name. He screams it like a banshee. Perhaps this raccoon is a ghost raccoon?”

  “There are no ghosts,” said Francine Poulet. “And there are no ghosts of raccoons.”

  “Be that as it may,” said Mrs. Bissinger, “there is a shimmery raccoon on my roof who calls my name. And so on.”

  “Right,” said Francine. “The address?”

  “Forty-two fourteen Fleeker Street,” said Mrs. Bissinger.

  “I’ll see you tonight,” said Francine.

  “Bring a ladder,” said Mrs. Bissinger. “The roof is very steep and very high. You are not afraid of heights, are you?”

  “I am not afraid of anything,” said Francine.

  “How inspiring,” said Mrs. Bissinger. “I look forward to making your acquaintance.”

  “And I look forward to catching your raccoon,” said Francine. She hung up the phone. She leaned back in her chair and studied her trophies, all forty-seven of them. She started to hum.

  Francine’s father had always told her that she was like a refrigerator.

  What he said exactly was, “Franny, you are the genuine article. You are solid. You are certain. You are like a refrigerator. You hum.”

  Francine leaned back in her chair. She balanced the chair on two legs.

  “A talking ghost raccoon?” she said. “I don’t think so.”

  She hummed louder. She leaned back farther.

  “Watch out, Mr. Raccoon,” said Francine Poulet. “I am going to get you.”

  That night, Francine Poulet drove her animal control truck to 4214 Fleeker Street. She rang the doorbell.

  A woman wearing a large diamond necklace, dangly ruby earrings, several flashy rings, and a multi-stone brooch answered the door.

  Francine squinted.

  “Mrs. Bissinger?” she said.

  “Exactly,” said Mrs. Bissinger. “Tammy Bissinger. How do you do?”

  “I do just fine,” said Francine. “I am here about your raccoon.”

  “I assumed,” said Mrs. Bissinger. She stood there glittering. “And so on,” she said.

  “Well,” said Francine, “okay, then. I think I will just head up on the roof and catch this raccoon.”

  “You will find him to be a wily adversary, almost supernatural in his abilities,” said Mrs. Bissinger.

  “Uh-huh,” said Francine.

  “He insists on saying my name,” said Mrs. Bissinger.

  “Yep,” said Francine. “You told me that.”

  “Has a raccoon ever said your name?”

  “Nope,” said Francine. She turned her back on Mrs. Bissinger and headed to the truck.

  She unloaded her ladder. She retrieved her net. She checked her flashlight for batteries. And then Francine put the ladder against the side of the house. She turned the flashlight on and put it between her teeth. She grasped the net firmly in one hand and a rung of the ladder firmly in the other.

  Francine Poulet started to climb.

  As she climbed, she hummed.

  She was solid. She was certain. She was Animal Control Officer Francine Poulet.

  At the top of the ladder, Francine stepped out onto the roof. She took the flashlight out of her mouth. She turned and shone it back on the ground, and there was Mrs. Bissinger, standing and looking up at her, all her jewelry twinkling and glowing.

  “Be careful!” shouted Mrs. Bissinger. “He is an extraordinary raccoon! He shimmers! He screams like a banshee! And so on!”

  “Right,” said Francine. “Yep. Yep. You told me. He shimmers. He screams like a banshee. Got it.”

  Francine turned off the flashlight.

  The thing about catching wild animals is not to let them smell your fear.

  Since Francine Poulet was never, ever afraid, this was not a problem for her.

  The other thing about catching wild animals is that the more you chase them, the faster they run.

  It is best to let the wild ones come to you.

  Francine sat down on the roof. She stretched her arms and legs. She cracked her knuckles. She hummed.

  “What are you doing?” shouted Mrs. Bissinger from down below.

  Francine ignored her.

  It was pleasant, sitting on the roof in the dark, ignoring Mrs. Bissinger.

  Francine hummed louder.

  “Oh, Mr. Raccoon,
” whispered Francine, “everything is perfectly fine. There is no one here except for you and me, and we are friendly friends, you and me.”

  Francine closed her eyes. She hummed some more.

  She heard a footfall. And then another footfall.

  Francine smiled a very big smile without opening her eyes. She kept humming. Slowly, slowly she reached out and put her hand on the animal control net.

  And then there came a high-pitched scream.

  It did not sound like the raccoon was saying “Tammy.”

  Instead, it sounded like this: “Frannnnnnnnnnnyyyyy!”

  Francine couldn’t believe it. The raccoon was saying her name.

  She opened her eyes just in time to see a shimmery, raccoon-shaped object flying through the air. It was headed directly for her.

  “Frannnnnnnnnyyyyyyyyy!” screamed the ghost raccoon.

  Animal Control Officer Francine Poulet, daughter of Animal Control Officer Clement Poulet, granddaughter of Animal Control Officer Nanette Poulet, was, for the first time in her life, afraid.

  In fact, she was terrified.

  The raccoon was running straight toward Francine. His teeth were bared, and they did not look like ghost teeth. They looked like raccoon teeth.

  “Frannnnnnnnnyyyyyyyyyy!” screamed the raccoon.

  Francine Poulet dropped her net. “Aaaaack!” she screamed back.

  Francine’s heart was beating so fast that she thought it might actually leap out of her chest and skitter across the roof.

  She started to run.

  She could feel the raccoon at her heels. She could smell his breath, and it did not smell good.

  Where was the ladder? Where had she left it? She couldn’t think.

  “Frannnnnnyyyyyyyyyyyy!” screamed the raccoon.

  No one in Francine’s life had ever called her “Franny” except for her father.

  How did the raccoon know to call her secret name?

  Was the raccoon truly a ghost?

  These were exactly the kinds of questions that Francine did not think she should be considering at this juncture.

  She looked around her wildly. She spotted the ladder. She ran toward it. She had one foot on the ladder and one on the roof when she heard Mrs. Bissinger’s disembodied voice say, “Have you captured the raccoon?”

  “What?” shouted Francine.

  “Frannnnnnnyyyyyyyyyyyy!” screamed the raccoon.

  “The raccoon,” said Mrs. Bissinger. “Have you captured him?”

  “Forget the raccoon,” said Francine. “I am trying to save my life here.”

  “How disappointing,” said Mrs. Bissinger. “And so on.”

  Francine started to climb down the ladder.

  “I told you he was not an ordinary raccoon,” said Mrs. Bissinger’s extremely annoying voice. There was a long pause. Mrs. Bissinger cleared her throat. “But then, I had heard that you were not an ordinary animal control officer.”

  Something about this comment stopped Francine. Mrs. Bissinger was right. Francine Poulet was not an ordinary animal control officer. She was the owner of forty-seven trophies. She was the proud holder of the Gizzford County record for most animals controlled. What was she doing running from a raccoon just because he was screaming “Frannnnnnnnnyyyyyyyyyyyy”?

  Francine started to climb back up the ladder.

  “How inspiring,” said Mrs. Bissinger. “How truly inspiring. Back into battle. And so on.”

  Francine got to the top of the ladder. She put one foot on the roof and then the other foot. She crouched. She waited. Everything was very silent. Francine could hear her heart beating. She was afraid. She knew that it was dangerous to be afraid. But she wasn’t sure how, exactly, to stop being afraid.

  “Mr. Raccoon?” whispered Francine.

  The raccoon answered her. He answered her by screaming his terrible scream and by bounding out of the darkness and throwing himself directly at her.

  The raccoon hit Francine with such tremendous, raccoon-y force that she lost her balance and fell forward.

  “Oooof,” said Francine.

  Not knowing what else to do, she grabbed hold of the raccoon. She wrapped her arms around him.

  He didn’t feel like a ghost. He felt extremely solid. He smelled like a dirty winter coat.

  Also, he was very loud.

  He kept screaming.

  Actually, there was a lot of screaming. Someone else was screaming, too. Who was it?

  It was Francine Poulet who was screaming!

  How embarrassing, thought Francine.

  But still, she couldn’t seem to stop.

  She and the raccoon were rolling around together and they were both screaming, and then, somehow, she and the raccoon were falling.

  They were falling together, and they were falling for what seemed like a very long time.

  Francine thought, Mrs. Bissinger is right. This is a very tall roof.

  And then Animal Control Officer Francine Poulet hit the ground.

  Everything went dark.

  Francine Poulet woke up in a hospital bed. Her left leg was in a cast, and her right arm was in a cast. Her neck was in a brace. Her head hurt.

  “I am solid as a refrigerator,” said Francine out loud.

  These words didn’t sound very believable.

  “I am Animal Control Officer Francine Poulet,” said Francine.

  These words didn’t sound very believable either.

  She sniffed. She smelled cigar smoke.

  “Over here, Franny,” she heard someone say.

  Francine turned her head very, very slowly and saw that her father was standing beside her bed.

  “Pop?” she said.

  “The one and only,” said Clement Poulet.

  “Aren’t you dead?” said Francine.

  “Absolutely,” said her father.

  “Oh,” said Francine.

  Clement Poulet puffed on his cigar. He blew the smoke into the air above Francine’s bed.

  “What were you doing up there, Franny?” he said.

  “Up where?” said Francine.

  “Up on the roof,” said Clement Poulet.

  “I was trying to catch that raccoon,” said Francine.

  “You panicked, though, didn’t you?” said her father.

  “I thought that raccoon knew my name. I thought that maybe the raccoon was a ghost.”

  “Pooh,” said Clement Poulet, “that raccoon was nothing but a screamer. There aren’t ghost raccoons, Franny. You know that.”

  Francine nodded, even though it hurt her head to nod. She knew there were no ghost raccoons. Of course she knew that.

  “Also,” said Clement Poulet, “Poulets do not panic. Even in the face of screaming raccoons.”

  Francine nodded. She knew that, too.

  “It will be okay, Franny,” said Clement Poulet.

  “Will it?” she said. She felt a single tear roll out of her left eye and down her cheek. Francine missed her father telling her that everything was going to be okay. A tear rolled out of her right eye. And then tears fell from both eyes. Francine gave herself over to crying. After a while, she fell asleep.

  When she woke up, her father was gone and Mrs. Bissinger was sitting in a chair beside the bed. She was wearing all her jewelry and she was holding a copy of the Gizzford Gazette. The front-page headline read:

  Below the headline, there was a picture of Francine Poulet taken at the previous year’s awards banquet. She was holding a trophy (number 47) and smiling a very large smile.

  Underneath the picture were the words “Raccoon Still at Large; Animal Control Officer Poulet Recuperating at the Gizzford Regional Hospital.”

  “They call that a tumble?” said Francine. “I fell three stories.”

  “Oh, good,” said Mrs. Bissinger, “you’re awake. Shall I read you the entire article?”

  “No,” said Francine. Her left foot, the one in the cast, itched.

  “Can you scratch my left foot?” she said to Mrs. Biss
inger.

  Mrs. Bissinger put down the paper and stood up and gave Francine’s foot a tentative little tap.

  “How’s that?” she said.

  “That didn’t help at all,” said Francine.

  “Oh, well,” said Mrs. Bissinger. “I’ve never been much good at scratching people’s feet.” She picked up the paper and sat back down.

  “It says here that your father was an animal control officer,” said Mrs. Bissinger from behind the paper.

  “That’s true,” said Francine.

  “It says here,” said Mrs. Bissinger, “that you are the most decorated animal control officer in the history of Gizzford.”

  “That’s true, too,” said Francine.

  Mrs. Bissinger lowered the paper. She looked Francine in the eye. She said, “Yet you failed to capture my raccoon.”

  “Yes,” said Francine. “I failed. I panicked.” She turned her head and looked out the window. It was dark outside. Francine could see the lights of Gizzford winking and blinking, mocking her.

  “Well,” said Mrs. Bissinger, “your leg will heal and your arm will heal and you will exit the hospital and you will continue in the world. You will find a way to continue in spite of your failure, I suppose. And so on.”

  “No,” said Francine.

  “Beg pardon?” said Mrs. Bissinger.

  “No,” said Francine. “There will be no ‘and so on.’ I quit.”

  “What?” said Mrs. Bissinger.

  “I quit,” said Francine. “I am no longer Animal Control Officer Francine Poulet.”

  Time passed.

  First the cast came off Francine’s arm, and then the cast came off her leg. Francine walked with a limp and a cane. Sometimes her leg ached. Sometimes her arm ached.

  But she was healed, sort of.

  And so, early one morning in September, Francine walked into the Animal Control Center and turned in her uniform.

  “What is the meaning of this?” said Mordus Toopher, chairman of the board of the Animal Control Center.

  Mordus Toopher wore a brown corduroy suit and a brown-and-orange toupee. The toupee had always disturbed Francine. It reminded her of a chipmunk pelt.