the Atheist’s Church.
After much hemming and hawing, Basmati finally decided upon the School of Fearians’ sleeping quarters. He placed Mrs. Wellington in the Greenhouse for Dead Plants, Abernathy and Schmidty in the attic, and the children in the basement. His logic was as follows: Mrs. Wellington was so old she could go at any second, and if she did in fact die, the greenhouse would be the perfect place to store her body. As for Schmidty and Abernathy, the attic possibly contained a bunk bed suitable for the duo, but most important, there was little of value up there to break. (Basmati was concerned that Schmidty’s portly frame could do damage to some of the house’s more delicate items.) Lastly, Basmati offered the children the choice of either the Hospital for Spreading Contagious Diseases or the basement, two rooms he deemed capable of handling the wear and tear of children and animals. Rather understandably, as no one was interested in contracting a contagious disease, the children thought the basement a better bet.
After bidding good night to the others, Mrs. Wellingtonmade her way to the greenhouse. The glass-encased room, filled with hot, dry air, was designed to literally dehydrate plants to death. Overflowing with mounds of brown foliage and dried flowers, the dreary space did not contain one stick of furniture. So, after lying on the hard floor and finding herself unable to sleep, Mrs. Wellington grabbed a few dead plants to use as cushions. And while the slight pricks of the thorns did not bother her, the incessant crinkling drove her mad. The noise conjured up images of Macaroni gobbling kibble, saliva spraying everywhere. As much as Mrs. Wellington loved Macaroni, she loathed the sound of him eating.
Situated directly next to the greenhouse was a copper-plated elevator on the verge of dilapidation. This was the sole means of accessing the attic. Fatigued after a long’s day journey, Schmidty and Abernathy halfheartedly shoved their bodies into the narrow cart and closed the cagelike door. While the elevator sputtered toward the attic, Schmidty’s tremendous polyester-clad stomach pressed awkwardly against Abernathy’s side. It was a most unfortunate scenario, as Schmidty was nearly as sensitive about his stomach as he was about his comb-over. Regardless of what he told Theo, he too wasashamed of his protruding midsection. For this reason, he had long pulled his black slacks up to his armpits, desperate to create an optical illusion.
Eager to escape the close confines of the elevator, both Schmidty and Abernathy darted out upon reaching the attic, where they were greeted by an impenetrable wall of debris. Broken furniture, boxes, and much more created a daunting obstacle between them and the bunk beds they’d been more or less promised. (Basmati had confirmed and refuted the existence of the bed more times than either Schmidty or Abernathy could count.)
“This reminds me of when you were a boy, and I would search the grounds of Summerstone for you,” said Schmidty to Abernathy. “Sometimes it took hours to track you down, but when I did, you always smiled, and then I couldn’t stay mad at you. Do you remember those days?”
“Of course. You were always so kind to me… not like
her,
” Abernathy squeaked, digging through the rubble of the attic.
“Oh, it wasn’t all bad with Madame; don’t you remember when she took you to the circus? You were so fond of that monkey—what was his name?”
“Garfunkle. And I wasn’t fond of him, Schmidty, I was handcuffed to him.”
“Yes, now that you mention it, that does sound familiar. Of course, Madame was only trying to stop you from running away. She knew you wouldn’t get far with a monkey on your arm.”
“Schmidty, do you recall how that night ended?”
“With ice cream sundaes in the kitchen?”
“Garfunkle tried to kiss me!”
“Perhaps this wasn’t the best memory to bring up, although in Garfunkle’s defense, you had spent
After much hemming and hawing, Basmati finally decided upon the School of Fearians’ sleeping quarters. He placed Mrs. Wellington in the Greenhouse for Dead Plants, Abernathy and Schmidty in the attic, and the children in the basement. His logic was as follows: Mrs. Wellington was so old she could go at any second, and if she did in fact die, the greenhouse would be the perfect place to store her body. As for Schmidty and Abernathy, the attic possibly contained a bunk bed suitable for the duo, but most important, there was little of value up there to break. (Basmati was concerned that Schmidty’s portly frame could do damage to some of the house’s more delicate items.) Lastly, Basmati offered the children the choice of either the Hospital for Spreading Contagious Diseases or the basement, two rooms he deemed capable of handling the wear and tear of children and animals. Rather understandably, as no one was interested in contracting a contagious disease, the children thought the basement a better bet.
After bidding good night to the others, Mrs. Wellingtonmade her way to the greenhouse. The glass-encased room, filled with hot, dry air, was designed to literally dehydrate plants to death. Overflowing with mounds of brown foliage and dried flowers, the dreary space did not contain one stick of furniture. So, after lying on the hard floor and finding herself unable to sleep, Mrs. Wellington grabbed a few dead plants to use as cushions. And while the slight pricks of the thorns did not bother her, the incessant crinkling drove her mad. The noise conjured up images of Macaroni gobbling kibble, saliva spraying everywhere. As much as Mrs. Wellington loved Macaroni, she loathed the sound of him eating.
Situated directly next to the greenhouse was a copper-plated elevator on the verge of dilapidation. This was the sole means of accessing the attic. Fatigued after a long’s day journey, Schmidty and Abernathy halfheartedly shoved their bodies into the narrow cart and closed the cagelike door. While the elevator sputtered toward the attic, Schmidty’s tremendous polyester-clad stomach pressed awkwardly against Abernathy’s side. It was a most unfortunate scenario, as Schmidty was nearly as sensitive about his stomach as he was about his comb-over. Regardless of what he told Theo, he too wasashamed of his protruding midsection. For this reason, he had long pulled his black slacks up to his armpits, desperate to create an optical illusion.
Eager to escape the close confines of the elevator, both Schmidty and Abernathy darted out upon reaching the attic, where they were greeted by an impenetrable wall of debris. Broken furniture, boxes, and much more created a daunting obstacle between them and the bunk beds they’d been more or less promised. (Basmati had confirmed and refuted the existence of the bed more times than either Schmidty or Abernathy could count.)
“This reminds me of when you were a boy, and I would search the grounds of Summerstone for you,” said Schmidty to Abernathy. “Sometimes it took hours to track you down, but when I did, you always smiled, and then I couldn’t stay mad at you. Do you remember those days?”
“Of course. You were always so kind to me… not like
her,
” Abernathy squeaked, digging through the rubble of the attic.
“Oh, it wasn’t all bad with Madame; don’t you remember when she took you to the circus? You were so fond of that monkey—what was his name?”
“Garfunkle. And I wasn’t fond of him, Schmidty, I was handcuffed to him.”
“Yes, now that you mention it, that does sound familiar. Of course, Madame was only trying to stop you from running away. She knew you wouldn’t get far with a monkey on your arm.”
“Schmidty, do you recall how that night ended?”
“With ice cream sundaes in the kitchen?”
“Garfunkle tried to kiss me!”
“Perhaps this wasn’t the best memory to bring up, although in Garfunkle’s defense, you had spent
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