02 - Stay Out of the Basement Read online

  “Well, that doesn’t make him a mad scientist,” Margaret said defensively. She suddenly felt she had to stick up for her father. She wasn’t sure why.

  “I’m just telling you what I heard,” Diane said, brusquely tossing back her red hair. “You don’t have to bite my head off.”

  They played for a few more minutes. Diane changed the subject and talked about some kids they knew who were eleven but were going steady. Then they talked about school for a while.

  “Time to go,” Margaret called to Casey. He picked the Frisbee up from the lawn and came running over. “Call you later,” Margaret told Diane, giving her a little wave. Then she and Casey began to jog home, cutting through familiar backyards.

  “We need a lemon tree,” Casey said as they slowed to a walk. “They’re cool.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Margaret replied sarcastically. “That’s just what we need at our house. Another plant!”

  As they stepped through the hedges into their backyard, they were both surprised to see their dad. He was standing at the rose trellis examining clusters of pink roses.

  “Hey, Dad!” Casey called. “Catch!” He tossed the Frisbee to his father.

  Dr. Brewer turned around a little too slowly. The Frisbee glanced off his head, knocking the Dodgers cap off. His mouth opened wide in surprise. He raised his hands to cover his head.

  But it was too late.

  Margaret and Casey both shrieked in surprise as they saw his head.

  At first, Margaret thought her father’s hair had turned green.

  But then she clearly saw that it wasn’t hair on his scalp.

  His hair was gone. It had all fallen out.

  In place of hair, Dr. Brewer had bright green leaves sprouting from his head.

  9

  “Kids—it’s okay!” Dr. Brewer called. He bent down quickly, picked up the baseball cap, and replaced it on his head.

  A crow flew low overhead, cawing loudly. Margaret raised her eyes to follow the bird, but the sight of the hideous leaves sprouting from her father’s head wouldn’t go away.

  Her whole head began to itch as she imagined what it must feel like to have leaves uncurling from your scalp.

  “It’s okay. Really,” Dr. Brewer repeated, hurrying over to them.

  “But, Dad—your head,” Casey stammered. He suddenly looked very pale.

  Margaret felt sick. She kept swallowing hard, trying to ride out the waves of nausea.

  “Come here, you two,” their father said softly, putting an arm around each of their shoulders. “Let’s sit down in the shade over there and have a talk. I spoke to your mom on the phone this morning. She told me you’re upset about my work.”

  “Your head—it’s all green!” Casey repeated.

  “I know,” Dr. Brewer said, smiling. “That’s why I put on the cap. I didn’t want you two to worry.”

  He led them to the shade of the tall hedges that ran along the garage, and they sat down on the grass. “I guess you two think your dad has gotten pretty weird, huh?”

  He stared into Margaret’s eyes. Feeling uncomfortable, she looked away.

  Cawing frantically, the crow flew over again, heading in the other direction.

  “Margaret, you haven’t said a word,” her father said, squeezing her hand tenderly between his. “What’s wrong? What do you want to say to me?”

  Margaret sighed and still avoided her father’s glance. “Come on. Tell us. Why do you have leaves growing out of your head?” she asked bluntly.

  “It’s a side effect,” he told her, continuing to hold her hand. “It’s only temporary. It’ll go away soon and my hair will grow back.”

  “But how did it happen?” Casey asked, staring at his father’s Dodgers cap. A few green leaves poked out from under the brim.

  “Maybe you two would feel better if I explained what I’m trying to do down in the basement,” Dr. Brewer said, shifting his weight and leaning back on his hands. “I’ve been so wrapped up in my experiments, I haven’t had much time to talk to you.”

  “You haven’t had any time,” Margaret corrected him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, lowering his eyes. “I really am. But this work I’m doing is so exciting and so difficult.”

  “Did you discover a new kind of plant?” Casey asked, crossing his legs beneath him.

  “No, I’m trying to build a new kind of plant,” Dr. Brewer explained.

  “Huh?” Casey exclaimed.

  “Have you ever talked about DNA in school?” their father asked. They shook their heads. “Well, it’s pretty complicated,” he continued. Dr. Brewer thought for a moment. “Let me try and put it in simple terms,” he said, fiddling with the bandage around his hand. “Let’s say we took a person who had a very high IQ. You know. Real brain power.”

  “Like me,” Casey interrupted.

  “Casey, shut up,” Margaret said edgily.

  “A real brain. Like Casey,” Dr. Brewer said agreeably. “And let’s say we were able to isolate the molecule or gene or tiny part of a gene that enabled the person to have such high intelligence. And then let’s say we were able to transmit it into other brains. And then this brain power could be passed along from generation to generation. And lots of people would have a high IQ. Do you understand?” He looked first at Casey, then at Margaret.

  “Yeah. Kind of,” Margaret said. “You take a good quality from one person and put it into other people. And then they have the good quality, too, and they pass it on to their children, and on and on.”

  “Very good,” Dr. Brewer said, smiling for the first time in weeks. “That’s what a lot of botanists do with plants. They try to take the fruit-bearing building block from one plant and put it into another. Create a new plant that will bear five times as much fruit, or five times as much grain, or vegetables.”

  “And that’s what you’re doing?” Casey asked.

  “Not exactly,” their father said, lowering his voice. “I’m doing something a little more unusual. I really don’t want to go into detail now. But I’ll tell you that what I’m trying to do is build a kind of plant that has never existed and could never exist. I’m trying to build a plant that’s part animal.”

  Casey and Margaret stared at their father in surprise. Margaret was the first to speak. “You mean you’re taking cells from an animal and putting them into a plant?”

  He nodded. “I really don’t want to say more. You two understand why this must be kept secret.” He turned his eyes on Margaret, then Casey, studying their reactions.

  “How do you do it?” Margaret asked, thinking hard about everything he had just told them. “How do you get these cells from the animals to the plant?”

  “I’m trying to do it by breaking them down electronically,” he answered. “I have two glass booths connected by a powerful electron generator. You may have seen them when you were snooping around down there.” He made a sour face.

  “Yeah. They look like phone booths,” Casey said.

  “One booth is a sender, and one is a receiver,” he explained. “I’m trying to send the right DNA, the right building blocks, from one booth to the other. It’s very delicate work.”

  “And have you done it?” Margaret asked.

  “I’ve come very close,” Dr. Brewer said, a pleased smile crossing his face. The smile lasted only a few seconds. Then, his expression thoughtful, he abruptly climbed to his feet. “Got to get back to work,” he said quietly. “See you two later.” He started walking across the lawn, taking long strides.

  “But, Dad,” Margaret called after him. She and Casey climbed to their feet, too. “Your head. The leaves. You didn’t explain it,” she said as she and her brother hurried to catch up to him.

  Dr. Brewer shrugged. “Nothing to explain,” he said curtly. “Just a side effect.” He adjusted his Dodgers cap. “Don’t worry about it. It’s only temporary. Just a side effect.”

  Then he hurried into the house.

  Casey seemed really pleased by their dad’s
explanation of what was going on in the basement. “Dad’s doing really important work,” he said, with unusual seriousness.

  But, as Margaret made her way into the house, she found herself troubled by what her dad had said. And even more troubled by what he hadn’t said.

  Margaret closed the door to her room and lay down on the bed to think about things. Her father hadn’t really explained the leaves growing on his head. “Just a side effect” didn’t explain much at all.

  A side effect from what? What actually caused it? What made his hair fall out? When will his hair grow back?

  It was obvious that he hadn’t wanted to discuss it with them. He had certainly hurried back to his basement after telling them it was just a side effect.

  A side effect.

  It made Margaret feel sick every time she thought about it.

  What must it feel like? Green leaves pushing up from your pores, uncurling against your head.

  Yuck. Thinking about it made her itch all over. She knew she’d have hideous dreams tonight.

  She grabbed her pillow and hugged it over her stomach, wrapping her arms tightly around it.

  There were lots of other questions Casey and I should have asked, she decided. Like, why were the plants moaning down there? Why did some of them sound like they were breathing? Why did that plant grab Casey? What animal was Dad using?

  Lots of questions.

  Not to mention the one Margaret wanted to ask most of all: Why were you gulping down that disgusting plant food?

  But she couldn’t ask that one. She couldn’t let her dad know she’d been spying on him.

  She and Casey hadn’t really asked any of the questions they’d wanted answered. They were just so pleased that their father had decided to sit down and talk with them, even for a few minutes.

  His explanation was really interesting, as far as it went, Margaret decided. And it was good to know that he was close to doing something truly amazing, something that would make him really famous.

  But what about the rest of it?

  A frightening thought entered her mind: Could he have been lying to them?

  No, she quickly decided. No. Dad wouldn’t lie to us.

  There are just some questions he hasn’t answered yet.

  She was still thinking about all of these questions late that night—after dinner, after talking to Diane on the phone for an hour, after homework, after watching a little TV, after going to bed. And she was still puzzling over them.

  When she heard her father’s soft footsteps coming up the carpeted stairs, she sat up in bed. A soft breeze fluttered the curtains across the room. She listened to her father’s footsteps pass her room, heard him go into the bathroom, heard the water begin to run into the sink.

  I’ve got to ask him, she decided.

  Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was two-thirty in the morning.

  But she realized she was wide awake.

  I’ve got to ask him about the plant food.

  Otherwise, it will drive me crazy. I’ll think about it and think about it and think about it. Every time I see him, I’ll picture him standing over the sink, shoving handful after handful into his mouth.

  There’s got to be a simple explanation, she told herself, climbing out of bed. There’s got to be a logical explanation.

  And I have to know it.

  She padded softly down the hall, a sliver of light escaping through the bathroom door, which was slightly ajar. Water still ran into the sink.

  She heard him cough, then heard him adjust the water.

  I have to know the answer, she thought.

  I’ll just ask him point-blank.

  She stepped into the narrow triangle of light and peered into the bathroom.

  He was standing at the sink, leaning over it, his chest bare, his shirt tossed behind him on the floor. He had put the baseball cap on the closed toilet lid, and the leaves covering his head shone brightly under the bathroom light.

  Margaret held her breath.

  The leaves were so geeen, so thick.

  He didn’t notice her. He was concentrating on the bandage on his hand. Using a small scissors, he cut the bandage, then pulled it off.

  The hand was still bleeding, Margaret saw.

  Or was it?

  What was that dripping from the cut on her father’s hand?

  Still holding her breath, she watched him wash it off carefully under the hot water. Then he examined it, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

  After washing, the cut continued to bleed.

  Margaret stared hard, trying to better focus her eyes.

  It couldn’t be blood—could it?

  It couldn’t be blood dripping into the sink.

  It was bright green!

  She gasped and started to run back to her room. The floor creaked under her footsteps.

  “Who’s there?” Dr. Brewer cried. “Margaret? Casey?”

  He poked his head into the hallway as Margaret disappeared back into her room.

  He saw me, she realized, leaping into bed.

  He saw me—and now he’s coming after me.

  10

  Margaret pulled the covers up to her chin. She realized she was trembling, her whole body shaking and chilled.

  She held her breath and listened.

  She could still hear water splashing into the bathroom sink.

  But no footsteps.

  He isn’t coming after me, she told herself, letting out a long, silent sigh.

  How could I have thought that? How could I have been so terrified—of my own father?

  Terrified.

  It was the first time the word had crossed her mind.

  But sitting there in bed, trembling so violently, holding onto the covers so hard, listening for his approaching footsteps, Margaret realized that she was terrified.

  Of her own father.

  If only Mom were home, she thought.

  Without thinking, she reached for the phone. She had the idea in her head to call her mother, wake her up, tell her to come home as fast as she could. Tell her something terrible was happening to Dad. That he was changing. That he was acting so weird….

  She glanced at the clock. Two-forty-three.

  No. She couldn’t do that. Her poor mother was having such a terrible time in Tucson trying to care for her sister. Margaret couldn’t frighten her like that.

  Besides, what could she say? How could she explain to her mother how she had become terrified of her own father?

  Mrs. Brewer would just tell her to calm down. That her father still loved her. That he would never harm her. That he was just caught up in his work.

  Caught up….

  He had leaves growing out of his head, he was eating dirt, and his blood was green.

  Caught up….

  She heard the water in the sink shut off. She heard the bathroom light being clicked off. Then she heard her father pad slowly to his room at the end of the hall.

  Margaret relaxed a little, slid down in the bed, loosened her grip on the blankets. She closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind.

  She tried counting sheep.

  That never worked. She tried counting to one thousand. At 375, she sat up. Her head throbbed. Her mouth was as dry as cotton.

  She decided to go downstairs and get a drink of cold water from the refrigerator.

  I’m going to be a wreck tomorrow, she thought, making her way silently through the hall and down the stairs.

  It is tomorrow.

  What am I going to do? I’ve got to get to sleep.

  The kitchen floor creaked beneath her bare feet. The refrigerator motor clicked on noisily, startling her.

  Be cool, she told herself. You’ve got to be cool.

  She had opened the refrigerator and was reaching for the water bottle when a hand grabbed her shoulder.

  “Aii!” She cried out and dropped the open bottle onto the floor. Ice-cold water puddled around her feet. She leapt back, but her feet were soaked.


  “Casey—you scared me!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing up?”

  “What are you doing up?” he replied, half asleep, his blond hair matted against his forehead.

  “I couldn’t sleep. Help me mop up this water.”

  “I didn’t spill it,” he said, backing away. “You mop it up.”

  “You made me spill it!” Margaret declared shrilly. She grabbed a roll of paper towels off the counter and handed him a wad of them. “Come on. Hurry.”

  They both got down on their knees and, by the light from the refrigerator, began mopping up the cold water.

  “I just keep thinking about things,” Casey said, tossing a soaking wad of paper towel onto the counter. “That’s why I can’t sleep.”

  “Me, too,” Margaret said, frowning.

  She started to say something else, but a sound from the hallway stopped her. It was a plaintive cry, a moan filled with sadness.

  Margaret gasped and stopped dabbing at the water. “What was that?”

  Casey’s eyes filled with fear.

  They heard it again, such a sad sound, like a plea, a mournful plea.

  “It—it’s coming from the basement,” Margaret said.

  “Do you think it’s a plant?” Casey asked very quietly. “Do you think it’s one of Dad’s plants?”

  Margaret didn’t answer. She crouched on her knees, not moving, just listening.

  Another moan, softer this time but just as mournful.

  “I don’t think Dad told us the truth,” she told Casey, staring into his eyes. He looked pale and frightened in the dim refrigerator light. “I don’t think a tomato plant would make a sound like that.”

  Margaret climbed to her feet, collected the wet clumps of paper towel, and deposited them in the trash can under the sink. Then she closed the refrigerator door, covering the room in darkness.

  Her hand on Casey’s shoulder, she guided him out of the kitchen and through the hall. They stopped at the basement door, and listened.

  Silence now.

  Casey tried the door. It was locked.

  Another low moan, sounding very nearby now.

  “It’s so human,” Casey whispered.

  Margaret shuddered. What was going on down in the basement? What was really going on?