All About Max, page 3
Chapter IV
In which Maximilian five learns enough of his fate, to know that it definitely does not sound too promising, no indeed, not promising at all.
O UR problem? Who cared about OUR problem, which translated really meant THEIR problem.
“What about MY problem?” asked Maximilian with a stony face that could crack granite.
“Well...well...well,” stammered Mr. Fitzbottom. “Your problem then, my boy. It has taken some doing and hours of research, none of which covered by any Maximilian Pettigrew Westmorington Bassford Thorndike Finstersill Smith the Fourth funds, of which I regret to say there are no longer any. All pro bono, my lad, entirely. You know what pro bono means, don’t you?”
Mr. Fitzbottom dropped his face and gave Maximilian a significant look out from under his eyebrows. Maximilian’s look back became even stonier. He knew that pro bono meant “free”. He’d learned that in his Ballyhoo Latin class. But so what? Mr. Fitzbottom must have already helped himself to a big portion (with second helpings!) of a former Maximilian Four “pile”. He didn’t get that pink, pudgy face from nowhere.
So what could be solved about Maximilian Five’s problem if all the elusive (meaning slippery as Jell-O) “piles” were gone. And gone they must be if there wasn’t even enough to do some stupid research. Research into what?
“Well,” said Mr. Fitzbottom, “we have at last uncovered a relative who has agreed to accept you as his problem. What do you think of that!?”
“Whoopee!” said Maximilian.
“Now, my boy,” said Mr. Fitzbottom, “there’s no need to take that tone. You’re in a very precarious position, you know. You don’t seem to be aware of that.”
There stood Maximilian in an apartment so stripped of everything, their voices echoed in the hallway and bounced off the walls of empty rooms. The servants but for one now asleep over an old newspaper in the kitchen, were gone. Maximilian’s pets were gone. All his toys were gone. And, of course, there was the small matter of his parents being gone as well. How could Mr. Fitzbottom think Maximilian wasn’t aware of all this? Did he think Maximilian was some kind of moron? In answer to the question, he gave Mr. Fitzbottom a look even stonier than the previous two, if that were possible.
“So who’s the relative?” he asked. “I didn’t know we had any.”
“We were beginning to think you didn’t,” said Mr. Fitzbottom. “It took some fancy sleuthing, I’ll tell you, digging into old files and records at the library. As I said, it took hours and hours, and we came close to giving up, but at last we hit the jackpot.”
“Jackpot” sounded like money to Maximilian. Maybe things might be looking up after all. “Well, who is he? Or is it a she?” he asked.
“It’s a he,” said Mr. Fitzbottom. “He’s a very distant relative, a fifth cousin twice removed, actually. There must be a million Smith’s in this country alone, and it was pure luck that we found the right one. We went out to see the man, and had our findings confirmed by a family tree written up in an old family Bible he had. In it we found that he was related to a Maximilian Pettigrew Westmorington Bassford Thorndike Finstersill Smith the First and Second.
“As there is no doubt not another family in this world with that name, we have to believe this Mr. Smith is also related to Maximilian Pettigrew Westmorington Bassford Thorndike Finstersill Smith the Third, Fourth, and, of course, the Fifth, which is you, my boy. Mr. Marmaduke Smith agrees that this is probably true. And he finally agreed to have you come live with him and be appointed your guardian. Isn’t that splendid?”
So far, other than learning that someone had been found who was somehow or other a member of the same family, Maximilian hadn’t learned anything splendid about it. If this Mr. Smith “finally” agreed to having him, he must have had to have his arm twisted into doing it. How “splendid” was that?
“What about Mrs. Smith and all the little Smiths?” he asked. “Did they finally agree to have me too?”
“There is no longer a Mrs. Smith,” replied Mr. Fitzbottom. “And no little Smiths either.”
“What does he do?” asked Maximilian. “Does he own a company or anything like that?”
“Well, let’s say he manages a lot of people,” said Mr. Fitzbottom. “But, it’s a stroke of luck, our finding him, my boy. Furthermore, he’s not asking anything for your support, which is also lucky, as, of course, there isn’t anything. Our office, has, ahem, taken up a little collection for your bus ticket and a bit of pocket change.”
Losing his home and his pets, never mind losing his parents. Pencival, heir to bathtubs and toilets, walking out the house with a smirk on his face and all his best toys. Now Maximilian learned that a collection had had to be taken up for a bus ticket and pocket change!
Rotten spoiled Maximilian, which he definitely was, would like to have done one of two things. He would like to have thrown himself on the floor and had the tantrum of his life. Or, using what he had learned in his boxing class at Ballyhoo, he would have liked to punch Mr. Fitzbottom right in his big fat pink face.
But Maximilian had learned something from Sir Launcelot and Lady Guinevere, who had remained dignified as they were being led away. And after all, he wasn’t a Ballyhoo boy and gold medal winner for a heroic kitten rescue for nothing. But most of all, he finally realized there were no “piles” left lying around for him. He was a penniless, parent-less, friend-less, pet-less orphan. He was smart enough to know that the chips were down and he was licked. Mr. Fitzbottom had made his case and won.
So rotten spoiled obnoxious Maximilian took a deep breath and calmly, coolly held out his hand to take the nervous, sweaty, pudgy hand extended to him.
“Thank you, Mr. Fitzbottom,” he said.
Chapter V
In which Maximilian finds that if he believes things have finally become as bad as they can get, he is about to learn that no matter how bad things get, they can always manage to get worse.
M aximilian, to date, had managed to keep from shedding any tears. Not even at night in the dark in his room where no one would know about it did tears drizzle down his cheeks. Perhaps because he continued to believe everything was going to turn into a happily-ever-after ending for him. Maximilian had always been a great believer in fairy tale endings. Until he actually got ushered onto the bus by Mr. Fitzbottom, he had continued to believe that there was a “pile” hidden in some bank vault for him somewhere, waiting to be discovered.
But now at long last he had finally and forever given up on this belief. The only “pile” he had was pocket change collected for him in Mr. Fitzbottom’s office, two small suitcases that held his clothes, one toy, Mortimer, the shabby teddy bear with one ear half missing (chewed off by Sir Launcelot when he was a puppy) and Maximilian had slept with since he was two years old, and the gold medal in his pocket.
Finally he now was coming perilously close to having tears happen on the bus ride to the small town located somewhere between nowhere and nowhere, where supposedly a Mr. Marmaduke Smith, who had had to be persuaded to take him in, would be waiting for him.
The one ray of hope left to him was that he considered Marmaduke to be a snooty kind of name. So it was entirely possible that Marmaduke Smith was possessed of some “piles”. Looking back on it, Maximilian now realized that Mr. Fitzbottom had avoided giving any details about him other than to say he was probably “about” the age of Maximilian’s father. That wasn’t much to go on. Furthermore, “about” could mean just about anything. But Maximilian didn’t give up easily. He had convinced himself that Mr. Marmaduke Smith was a proud descendant of his own Smith family, and thus could quite possibly be enormously rich.
Binge, who was staying behind to close up the apartment, helped Maximilian pack and get ready for his bus ride, and strongly recommended that he should be dressed comfortably in jeans and a windbreaker. But Maximilian had his own ideas. So he put on his best pair of trousers, his best white shirt, his Ballyhoo blazer with the Ballyhoo gold shield on the pocket, and his blue-and-gold Ballyhoo tie. He had Binge polish up his best black dress shoes. He wanted Mr. Marmaduke and his “piles” to know what he was dealing with when he’d “finally agreed” to take in Maximilian. He wasn’t just some piece of driftwood picked up at the beach, or a dirty paper sack swept up on the city street. No indeed!
The bus finally pulled into a small station, and Maximilian struggled down the steps with his two suitcase and five other people. A few people were milling around on the station platform, and he tried to guess which one was going to come up and greet him. When a very nice-looking, well-dressed man about his father’s age came toward him, Maximilian put out his hand. But the man went right past him to hug a woman and little girl who had left the bus with him.
A man who had been leaning against a back wall busy reading a ragged paperback book, finally looked up and lifted his faded blue sweatshirt to jam the book inside his belt. Then he began to amble toward Maximilian. The man looked like someone who might have been closer in age to Maximilian Third than Maximilian Fourth so Maximilian Fifth decided at once this could not be Mr. Marmaduke Smith, who was probably late arriving at the station.
Untidy tufts of salt-and-pepper hair poked out from this man’s well-worn canvas cap that could have passed for white if not too closely inspected. His baggy blue jeans had a tear on one knee, and his sweatshirt was frayed at the cuffs. The words “Been There, Done That” were also faded, but still visibly printed across the front. On his feet were grimy once-white track shoes.
As he approached closer to Maximilian, Maximilian pretended not to see him. He must be somebody who was going to ask for money. If he wasn’t noticed, he might just go away. But the man kept right on ambling until he was standing right in front of Maximilian, practically nose to nose.
“You waiting for me?” he asked.
Maximilian found himself looking into a pair of shrewd, bright blue eyes under bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows.
“I don’t think so,” said Maximilian. “I’m waiting for Mr. Marmaduke Smith.”
“You’re looking at him,” said the man. “You must be Max.”
“Maximilian Pettigrew Westmorington Bassford Thorndike Finstersill Smith the Fifth,” said Maximilian stiffly.
“Whatever,” said the man. His eyes were twinkling, but it was a kind of dangerous twinkle. “Do your friends call you that every time they have to say something to you?”
“No, they call me Maximilian,” said Maximilian His idea that he should perhaps attempt a Pencival-type sneer departed almost as soon as it arrived.
“Okay, then, Max,” said Mr. Marmaduke Smith. “Let’s get going.” He picked up both Maximilian’s suitcases and marched off, leaving Maximilian to scurry after him.
When they arrived at a once-blue station wagon that had clearly seen better days, he threw the suitcases into the rear.
“Climb in, Max,” he said.
Max climbed. It was quickly clear to him that arguing with this man wouldn’t do him much good. He had been Maximilian all of his life, but for the time being would humor Mr. Smith by being Max. “For the time being” was because in hardly more than an instant, he decided that he would simply have to run away. Run to where he had not the wildest idea. But might an orphanage not be better after all than having to live with this fellow? Running away, though, would take some planning. “For the time being” he would just have to play along.
“Excuse me,” he said in his best Ballyhoo boy polite tone, “but how should I address you, sir. Should I call you Cousin Marmaduke?”
“Not if you value your life,” replied Mr. Marmaduke Smith. “Just call me Moose.”
He began to chuckle. “Marmaduke! My aching eyebrow!”
Every so often as they drove along, he would chuckle again.
Max (as he must now be called) didn’t say anything more. He knew that as a “pile”-less, parent-less boy, he didn’t have too many choices open to him as to his future in the world. Tantrums were out. So was punching anyone in the nose, especially punching this Moose fellow’s nose. This was no flabby Mr. Fitzbottom. It was clear that he was pretty solidly built, and Max had seen him lift two suitcases as if they were filled with feathers. His Ballyhoo boxing class wouldn’t help a bit. No, as they drove out of the town and on and on, Max decided the only option was running away.
They drove for some time past houses and several miles of forest. Every so often the road would curve and they could see the ocean. Finally, they pulled into a broad driveway. It curved in front of an enormous, imposing stone house that featured an impressive oak door with stained glass panels on either side. And it was then that a thought suddenly shot through Max like a thunderbolt.
He remembered when once he’d been taken sailing with his father and some of his father’s friends on a yacht. The men were all dressed in old, ratty clothes just about like what Cousin Marmaduke, or rather Moose, was wearing. And Max knew they were all enormously wealthy, and dressing that way was just for the fun of it. So if this was the house Moose lived in, he must have a lot of “piles”, and could dress any way and even drive any old ratty car he pleased. Max’s heart took a sudden leap upward. Maybe he wouldn’t have to consider running away after all.
They didn’t stop in one of the parking places in front of the fancy door, however, but drove right on past until they arrived at a wide, two-door garage. But instead of going into the garage, they continued past the garage doors to a regular door off to one side, where they finally stopped.
“Okay, this is it,” said Moose, starting to climb out of the car.
“This is what?” asked Max.
“Where I live,” said Moose. “What did you think?”
“Don’t...don’t you live in the big house?” stammered Max.
“I hope not,” replied Moose. He climbed out and went around to the back of the car.
Max remained frozen in his seat.
“Well, come on,” said Moose, dragging out Max’s suitcases and setting them down on the ground.
What kind of cousin did Max have who lived in a garage? Was he going to have to start thinking of running away again?
“Who...who does live in that house?” asked Max.
“The residents,” said Moose. He set down the suitcases and pulled a ring of keys from his jeans pocket. “I couldn’t live there if I wanted to. I don’t qualify.”
“Who...who does?” asked Max.
Moose had put the key in the lock, but didn’t turn it. Instead, he just dropped his hands to his side, and gave Max a piercing look. “Your pal, Mr. Fitzbottom didn’t tell you?” he said.
“He’s not my pal,” said Max. “He’s a big, fat jerk.”
“I see,” said Moose. “So what did he tell you?’
“Well, when I asked if you were the head of a company, he just said you...you managed a lot of people,” replied Max.
Moose grinned. “Well, he’s right, in a way. But manage isn’t quite the word for it. ‘Look after’ is more or less what I do.”
“Look after who?” Max asked.
“See here, Max,” Moose said, “did you read that sign on the highway, and then the brass plate on the front door?”
“Sort of,” replied Max,
“And you didn’t wonder what they meant?” asked Moose.
“No,” said Max. Why would he? He was too busy thinking about either
a) running away or b) figuring if Moose had enough “piles” to make it worth sticking around. Signs and brass plates didn’t figure into this.
“Well, the sign and the plaque say Measley Manor,” said Moose. “Used to be Dolly Manor, but now under new management. This is a retirement home, taken over by Ruby and Pearl Measley, whom you will be privileged to meet very soon.”
“Retirement home?” said Max. “You mean a place where old, wrinkled people live?” Then he added under his breath. “They give me the creeps.”
“Sorry to hear that,” said Moose. “At any rate, the reason I don’t live in that building is because I’m not retired,” he went on. “I just work here. I’m the general caretaker, and doer of any odd jobs that need doing. The only reason you’re here is because Mr. Fitzbottom explained all that’s happened to you, and persuaded me that I’m the court of last resort. So I in turn persuaded the Measley girls we could use extra help right now. Didn’t your Mr. Fitzbottom explain all this to you?”
“He’s not my Mr. Fitzbottom,” said Max, gritting his teeth.
“Sorry, I forgot,” said Moose.
Of course, the moment Max realized that he was not going to be living in a big stone house with a cousin who had lots of “piles” and dressed the way he did because he had to, Max instantly once again decided he would have to run away.
He would walk back to town, and after all, he still had that pocket change collected for him by Mr. Fitzbottom and the rest of the “we” in his office, probably enough for bus fare. He would show up at Mr. Fitzbottom’s office and tell them he was ready to go to an orphanage. At least there he wouldn’t be around a bunch of old wrinkled people that would give him the creeps, and working for a low-life handyman who probably hadn’t even graduated from grade school.
How this man had come to be a member of the Maximilian P.W.B.T.F. Smith family was some kind of freaky accident, or a big mistake altogether. The old Bible that supposedly had this written up had probably been bought by Moose himself at some yard sale.
“Anyway,” Moose said, “Come on in to see the place, and you can wipe that scowl off your face. The boys might not like it.”
Before Max had a chance to ask another question, or say anything at all, Moose had unlocked the door. As soon as it opened, Moose was instantly attacked on either side by the two boys, both black with assorted white markings.
“Meet Moxie and Mojo,” said Moose. “I hope you like dogs, Max.”
Now, though Max’s mental roller coaster, which had gone plummeting downward in the orphanage-would-be-better-than-this direction, suddenly started slowly back upward in the sticking-it-out direction. But only slowly. Here were two dogs, and Max loved animals. He doubted an orphanage would allow anyone to have animals.
