Free The Anybodies by N. E. Bode Page A

dysfunction. Her real mother never would have called her a fibber. Her real mother would have understood. Fern caught Mr. Harton’s eyes, then lost them, then caught them again. Fern had to try to do this. She had to. She kept at it and, eventually, he was staring at her out of one eye, his head turned away, as if he were a bird with an eye on the side of his head. Yes, she had him!
    The Bone slipped Fern a pocket watch on a goldchain. The pocket watch didn’t work, of course. The Bone didn’t keep track of time, as you all know by now. But the watch was shiny and, on its long chain, it swung nicely, which were the qualities the Bone looked for in a pocket watch.
    â€œHold it up by the chain. Make it sway back and forth and back and forth. That’s right. You’ve got it.”
    Fern was making the watch sway like a clock’s ticktock, and Mr. Harton’s watery eyes were hookedon it. Fern was very proud. She smiled at the Bone, but he shook his head. “Not done yet,” he said. “More to it than that. Now don’t look at the watch yourself, Fern. Don’t look at it.” He began to whisper into Mr. Harton’s ear, “You are getting sleepy. Very sleepy.” He kept on with this until the man’s eyes blinked again and again, more slowly, until they shut and didn’t open.

    Fern let the watch drop to her lap.
    The Bone handed her a bell, small and brass with a black wooden handle. Then he put his hands on Mr. Harton’s shoulders. He said to Fern, “Say these words: ‘You are not a rooster. You are a man. Return. Return. Return.’ And ring this bell softly, softly each time you start to say it again. Try that.”
    Fern rang it once, then started to say the words. “You are not a rooster. You are a man….” And the Bone started to hum, a deep low note. Fern felt something electric, a snappy static all around them. Each time the Bone took a breath to hum again it was like a car trying to start up. There was a vroom vroom of energy, something buzzing and zapping. But the engine never really revved up. She could feel the electricity rev and stall, rev and stall. But she kept on repeating it, “Return, return, return.” She was holding the bell in front of Mr. Harton’s face, ringing it softly. Her arms were tired. The Bone’s hum was breaking up.
    Finally he said, “Okay, ring it loud now. Ring it like crazy.”
    She did, and Mr. Harton startled awake with a gasp, like someone who’d been trapped underwater coming up for air.
    â€œStand up,” the Bone told him. He did, shakily. He glanced at the vacuum, and it was clear that he recognized it.
    â€œGood. Good,” the Bone urged. “Walk to it.”
    Mr. Harton looked at Fern and the Bone. He looked longingly at the vacuum cleaner.
    â€œWhat is it?” the Bone asked. “Do you want to tell us something?”
    Mr. Harton nodded and then smiled broadly. He pitched back his head and let out a loud clear yodel, a clear timeless cry of “Cockadoodledoo!” Then he put his head to his chest. His face crumpled. His eyes spilled two tears. Fern knew there had been something, some kind of magic charge, and although it wasn’t enough, she knew she’d felt it and it was undeniable. She wondered if spies were listening to all of this, if the Miser would hear about this sad failure.
    The Bone sighed, and Mr. Harton half-heartedly stepped to the vacuum cleaner, grabbed its handle, and rolled it toward the door. The Bone opened the first door for him, then the second. Mr. Harton, still a rooster man, bobbed his head, but Fern couldn’t tell ifit was an acknowledgment or simply a rooster like flinch. Fern and the Bone followed him outside and watched him strut down the street with his vacuum cleaner bumping and rolling behind him.

4
SPIES
    THAT NIGHT, THE BONE THREW SHEETS ON A ROW of saggy beanbag chairs—a bed for himself—and