The Scamp

I’ve always been a bit of a scamp.

Okay, wait. Maybe more than a bit. The thing is, unlike what old Barnaby thought of me, I was damn clever.

I was, oh, close to eight years old when they stuck me in that snooty home with Miss Mary and Barnaby. His friends called him Bernie (don’t know how they got that from Barnaby), but I called him Barnacle . . . behind his back. He told me to call him Father – sort of arm’s length away from personal. Miss Mary wanted the name Mommy. Do I sound like a “Mommy” person to you? She fancied herself real hands-on and lovey-dovey but I only saw her once in a blue moon – usually when the pills wore off and she remembered I was there. Never figured out why they picked me in the first place and didn’t ask.

From what I could tell, Barnacle was the really uppity one. Fancied hisself high society because he had a bunch of money and a big house. He seemed disgusted by Miss Mary and her “spells.” Pitied me cause my parents had been poor and we’d lived on a old crusty houseboat, but I loved that boat. We could always move it away from trouble, seemed like. And the best part? My sister Clemmie and me never had to go to school. Anyway, the boat burned and Mama and Daddy done drowned. That’s what got me in this pickle. The social department people came looking for me in the park and nabbed me off the bench.

Barnacle and Miss Mary never knew about Clemmie. They didn’t know I kept in touch, took food to her and got advise on how we could escape. She’d managed to avoid getting caught, mainly cause I told those social department people she drowned, too. She changed parks all the time but I always knew where she was. She was six years older than me and way smarter. She’s the one told me to hunt around the house cause rich folks always had money hidden away. If I found it, she said we could get to Mexico and no one would care. No one would come looking for us.

So I started snooping. I had lots of opportunities, too. Barnacle was gone all day (sometimes all night) and Miss Mary – sorry, Mommy – was a skinny little twig with a soft constitution and a mind to match. She spent most days sleeping all twisted up under those rose-scented sheets and the plumpy purple blanket, clutching some stupid, beat up teddy bear. The days she came downstairs were mostly just to go out for groceries. She would get all dolled up – matching pillbox hat, gloves, purse and shoes - I guess so everyone knew she was still alive. Never invited me along.

I started with Miss Mary’s room. Nothing. I tackled Barnacle’s room next. Nothing. So I headed for the library with the slippery, polished wood floors, leather chairs and rugs so fluffy I disappeared when I lay down in the middle. The desk seemed the most likely spot to hide stuff and, sure enough, I found a bottle of whiskey tucked in the back of a bottom drawer. I won’t be tasting that stuff again. Nasty.

Then I found the little built-in hidey-hole underneath the desktop. It had nudies of that woman who dropped by from time to time to check on Miss Mary. She always brought cookies.

Ain’t all she brought.

There were about a dozen pictures, and she didn’t have nary a stitch of clothes on. Jesus, I sure hoped I never looked like that. Big ole sloppy boobies and hair in strange places. Ugh. I stacked them on the desk and looked around.

What else could I find? Where would I hide money if I were Barnacle? It would have to be close by. I figured that would probably be the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. For sure it would have to be easy to reach. He wasn’t gonna put hisself out and do something physical like climb on a ladder.

I plopped down on the ottoman (fancy word for stuffed footstool) and stared up at the shelves. Just look at all them dusty books. There had to be something there. What didn’t seem to fit? My eyes wandered along the rows and, finally, I spied it. That little black notebook. It was crammed in between the fat, olive green book and the dark blue one with the cracked, spiderwebbed spine. It was shoved in so you almost didn’t see it. Almost.

I couldn’t reach it but, heck, I could move a footstool just as good as the next person. I scooched the ottoman over, balanced on top, and started tugging at that little notebook. It was scrunched in there kinda tight but I finally pried it out. What do you know? Barnacle had sliced out the innards and put a bunch of money in there. I counted $20,000 (well, I wasn’t actually sure if it was $2,000 or $20,000 cause all the zeros confused me). Anyhow, now me and Clemmie could go to Mexico. We could get a new houseboat. Then we could move down the shore if the social department people came after us again.

Somehow, I was so busy dreaming about life on a boat that I missed Miss Mary slinking in the door. I quick-like crammed the notebook back in the slot. I scampered down in too big a hurry and that’s when things went south. First the ottoman caught on the rug and tipped over, hitting the desk chair. Miss Mary ran in, all panicky that it scratched the polished floors, and that’s when she saw the nudies I’d forgot to put back in the hidey-hole. She froze. Her hand flew up to her pearls. Red spots blazed on her cheeks. Then she plopped down so hard in that desk chair, I swear it rattled her teeth. She spread the pictures across the desk. When she recognized the cookie lady, she gasped.

Right away, she banished me upstairs. About an hour later, I heard Barnacle stumble in, drunk as a skunk. Miss Mary hadn’t moved an inch from behind the desk, just waiting spider-like. I scrunched up against the door to listen. Boy, the yelling was fierce. They called each other all kinds of names. Then suddenly I heard my name. I cracked open the door. Barnacle told her to get rid of “the stupid kid” cause he’d had enough of both of us and was leaving. He said she’d never be able to support me on her own and he sure as hell wasn’t taking “that scamp.”

I was a little put out, I have to tell you. Who put up with who? I was the one forced into shiny Mary Jane shoes and frilly, starched petticoats. I hadn’t caused them no trouble.

But those words – “get rid of” - scared me. I didn’t want to go back to the home; I didn’t want to stay with Miss Mary; and I didn’t want to live in the park.

Barnacle teetered out the door, slamming it behind him. Miss Mary “retired” to her room (we all know what that meant). I sat against the bedroom door, chewing my nail. What would be the smartest thing to do? What would Clemmie do?

So what happened, you ask?

Hold on a second.

“Excuse me. Waiter?” I held up my empty glass. “Uno más, por favor.”