The One Hundredth Thing About Caroline

8

Caroline dreamed. She dreamed the same dream three nights in a row: first when she was sleeping at Stacy's, and then again for two nights in her own bedroom, curled up with her soft Stegosaurus beside her again.

In the dream she was walking barefoot through thick foliage, in a warm, moist jungle where huge trees grew up out of mossy earth. Ferns and vines brushed against her face and arms as she made her way through the tangled undergrowth. Narrow beams of sunlight filtered down through the high branches; all around was the noise of birds calling in shrill cries, and the jungle floor was alive with small creatures scurrying and darting here and there.

She felt very happy in the dream. She knelt, pushing aside thick leaves, and watched some tiny creatures playing. One smiled at her, and she could see its tiny teeth. It wagged its long, thin, scaly tail; she recognized it as a Compsognathus, the very smallest of the dinosaurs. With one finger she stroked its bobbing, three-inch head, and it scampered away to join its timid friends.

Looking up, she watched the flying creatures soaring among the thick trunks of the tall trees. There was the small Pterodactyl, its leathery wings outstretched as it moved from tree to tree, perching now and then on branches and nodding down to her. Much more clumsily, the awkward Archaeopteryx swooped by. She laughed.

Poor Archaeopteryx. It didn't really know whether it was a bird or a lizard. Its feathery wings propelled it from tree to tree, but its long snaky tail was in the way; again and again it lighted on branches, holding tight with the little clawed hands on the end of each wing, cocked its head, and nodded to Caroline below.

Splash! Caroline turned, in her dream, and looked at the pond behind her, laughing aloud in delight to see the huge, ridiculous Anatosaurus poking his duck-billed face out of the water to grin at her.

"You ought to have a dermatologist take a look at those warts," Caroline told him politely. But he grinned again, tossed his bump-covered head, and splashed off for a swim.

Suddenly the nature of the dream began to change. The jungle noises became quiet. The silly Anatosaurus blinked and submerged. Beneath her feet, the tiny Compsognathus scuttled away to hide under a bush. The Pterodactyl and its friend, Archaeopteryx, gave brief cries of alarm and flew away.

A chill changed the warm, humid air and made Caroline shiver. The sunlight that found its way through the foliage disappeared, consumed by a monstrous shadow that darkened everything. The earth beneath her feet began to shake. Terrified, she looked up and saw the Great Killer moving slowly toward her: Tyrannosaurus Rex, his teeth exposed in an evil smile, his small claws moving in the air high above her head. Casually he ripped small trees and dropped them to the ground as he made his way closer and closer to where she stood.

"Run," Caroline ordered her dream-self. And she did, knowing as she did that it was hopeless, that the monstrous dinosaur could, with one or two lurching moves, catch up. She glanced back over her shoulder as she stumbled through the tree roots. He was closer. Now his face was clearly visible, even so high above her in the jungle growth. It had a small beard and bushy eyebrows. It was Frederick Fiske.

On Monday night and Tuesday night, she had the dream and woke in a panic. On Wednesday night, she had it again. But this time she didn't wake as quickly. This time the Tyrannosaurus with the face of Frederick Fiske was approaching, tearing the jungle growth aside, when something else appeared at her side and said gruffly, "I'll help you."

It was close to human size—about the size of a man, but it was bent over, supporting itself with a lengthy tail. With one of its thin arms, it took her hand and, in the husky voice, reassured her again. "I'm the one who can save you," it said.

Now she woke. This time she was not terrified, but felt calm and safe. The thin, long-tailed creature was the one who could protect her from Frederick Fiske, the Great Killer. But Caroline groaned, sitting there in her bed, watching the early morning light begin to appear through her window. She recognized, now that she was wide awake, who her protector had been. It was Coelophysis, her least favorite dinosaur, the one with bad posture and a bad temper. It was her brother, J.P.

Dressing slowly, even before her mother's newly repaired clock-radio alarm sounded wake-up time, Caroline thought about the dream. Maybe the nasty-tempered Coelophysis had a good side, after all. Maybe her brother did. Maybe she should tell him that a murderer lived upstairs.

But at breakfast, J.P., while slurping his orange juice with his usual gross manners, furrowed his eyebrows and stared at Caroline malevolently over the top of his glass.

"Why are you staring at me in that creepy way?" Caroline asked. It was unnerving.

J.P. gulped the last of his juice and put his glass down. He grinned. "Someday I'm going to invent a pill that can turn eyeballs into lasers. Then you can incinerate someone just by staring at them."

"Why me?"

J.P. shrugged. "You're just a test case. A guinea pig."

"James," said his mother, "if you would divert your inventive energy into worthwhile projects, you could be very successful someday."

"Yeah," he replied. "I could be an only child, too, after the eyeball lasers are perfected."

Joanna Tate sighed in exasperation. "It would be terrible to be an only child. It would be lonely."

"WRONG," said Caroline and J.P. in unison. They glared at each other with laser-beam glares.

"Listen," said their mother as she stacked the breakfast dishes, "I want you guys to promise me that you won't kill each other tomorrow night. I'm going out, so you'll be alone here. Alone together."

"What do we get for dinner?" asked J.P. "And can I eat in my room?"

"TV dinners," said his mother. "The fried chicken ones. And yes, you may eat in your room if you promise not to leave garbage in there. I do not want to have to deal with cockroaches."

"If I perfected my laser eyeballs," mused J.P., picking up his schoolbooks, "I could be an exterminator. I could go around staring at cockroaches. Zap! Zap! Gotcha!" He moved his eyes in all directions, staring fixedly at imaginary cockroaches.

"Where are you going tomorrow night?" asked Caroline as she pulled on her sweater.

Her mother grinned. "I have a dinner date," she said. "First time in ages. He's taking me to an Italian restaurant."

"Who's taking you?" Caroline asked. But she knew. Somehow she knew the answer.

"Scoot, guys, you're going to be late for school. It's that nice-looking man who moved in upstairs. Fred Fiske."

I've got to tell someone, Caroline thought, all day during school. Someone. Not just Stacy. Stacy will just write headlines, KIDS' MOM DATES LONER, Stacy will say. woos MOM, SLAYS KIDS.

By afternoon it was all she could think about. In history class, she could hear Mr. Winslow droning on and on about the Phoenicians—and ordinarily Caroline liked the Phoenicians—but she didn't listen to what he was saying. Who can I tell? she was thinking.

Then she remembered: Mr. Keretsky would be back by now. Gregor Keretsky was the only person she knew who would go to Europe and then come right back home, not even staying around to have dinner in restaurants or to visit castles. His conference in London, he had said, was only for one day. He would be back in his office at the Museum of Natural History by now. She would visit him there after school. She would tell him everything, even how Frederick Fiske looked like a Tyrannosaurus. Gregor Keretsky would understand how sinister that was. She smiled and relaxed, looking up from her desk just in time to see Mr. Winslow peering over his glasses at her with an irritated frown.

"Caroline?" he was saying. "I don't think you've been listening to a single word. Can you tell the class, please, what the eastern and western boundaries of Phoenicia were?"

Caroline grinned. "The Mediterranean Sea on the west," she said. "And the Lebanon Mountains on the east." Hah, she thought. Even though I'm about to be the victim of a savage crime, I still do my homework, Mr. Winslow.

She jogged home from the bus stop, eager to drop off her books, change to jeans, and head for the Museum of Natural History. J.P. wouldn't be around, thank goodness; he always stayed after school on Thursday for Computer Club. Caroline fished her keys out of her backpack, opened the front door, and stopped to take the mail out of the box marked J. TATE.

Typical, she thought. Dentist bill. Bank statement. Child-support check from Des Moines. Addressed to her, from the museum, were illustrated brochures telling about a whale-watching expedition and a symposium on primates. She read them through carefully, standing there in the first-floor hallway. Too bad: the whale-watching trip was on a weekend, but it cost a lot. The primate symposium was free, but it was on a weekday afternoon, so she'd be in school. She'd have to write thank-you notes explaining why she couldn't come. She always did that, even though Mr. Keretsky had told her it wasn't necessary. But Caroline was afraid they'd quit inviting her if she never came and didn't explain why. Once, in fourth grade, she had invited a girl named Tamara St. John to come and play on Saturday at least four times, and Tamara St. John had never come and hadn't explained why. Finally Mrs. Tate had explained very gently to Caroline that it appeared that Tamara St. John didn't want to come and play at her house, so Caroline had quit inviting her. It seemed like the same sort of thing. So she always wrote a polite note to the President of the Board of Trustees of the Museum of Natural History, explaining why she couldn't attend seminars or lectures or safaris.

If her mother had simply refused to have dinner with Frederick Fiske without an explanation, she thought suddenly, he would quit inviting her, simple as that.

At the foot of the stairs, she glanced at the last piece of mail—and stopped dead in her tracks. It was another letter to Frederick Fiske from Carl Broderick. It had been in the Tate mailbox by mistake.

Sometimes that happened. Sometimes they found in their mailbox notices of chamber music concerts addressed to Mr. DeVito. Sometimes old Miss Edmond found Caroline's museum mailings in her mailbox by mistake. They would simply leave the mistaken mail on the hall table, and the right person would pick it up.

And that, Caroline realized, was what she should do with Frederick Fiske's letter. But she didn't. She looked back at the hall table, a Victorian monstrosity with an ugly vase full of dried flowers on it. Right there, on the dusty top of that table, was where she should put Frederick Fiske's letter.

Instead, she stuck it in between the two notices from the Museum of Natural History and took it upstairs. Ten minutes later, when she bounded back down the stairs and jogged toward 79th Street and the museum, the letter was in the back pocket of her jeans.