The Bulb People Read online

  We stand silent for a while.

  “I know,” Spider says, “talk to Mr. Kasinski.”

  “The Science teacher?”

  “Yeah, I was in his class,” Spider says. “He’s cool, he’ll listen.”

  Mrs. Cozzaglio reappears at the door, she looks really steamed now. Spider starts moving toward the house.

  “It’s been great knowing you, Ryan. Good luck!” he says. “I’ll still be going to the jujitsu club. Maybe we can hook up there.”

  “Yeah, sure, Mark ... Goodbye.”

  He disappears back into the house. I turn away from the awful sight and walk toward my neighborhood. The beautiful spring day has turned dark and heavy. I lug its weight on my drooping shoulders.

  Events are moving way outside my ability to understand or control them. Maybe Mr. Kasinski will have some answers.

  19: Conference with Mr. Kasinski

  I find Mr. Kasinski alone in his classroom at the start of lunch hour Monday. It’s a typical science lab with counters, sinks, and high stools. A chart of the atomic elements covers one wall, and wildlife pictures decorate the others. Less fortunate animals, frogs and stuff, occupy specimen jars on the back counter.

  The room has a faint formaldehyde smell, like a morgue maybe, though I’ve never been inside a morgue to know precisely what it smells like.

  Mr. Kasinski is sitting behind his desk, leaned back in his chair studying a book. With his free hand he munches a granola bar. Who’d want to eat in a stinky place like this? The lunch room is bad enough.

  I walk in quietly and stand before his desk. The book he holds is titled: Speak Portuguese Today.

  “Excuse me,” I say.

  He looks up, startled. The front legs of his chair bang down onto the floor.

  “Yes, what is it?” he says.

  “Uh, I’m not in your class,” I say, “but I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute.”

  Mr. Kasinski brushes granola crumbs off his shirt. He seems rather embarrassed at being taken by surprise.

  “What about?” he says.

  “I’m a friend of Spider’s,” I say.

  “Spider? ... Oh yes, Mark Cozzaglio.” Mr. Kasinski puts down the book and granola bar. “Is he all right? I heard his family moved out in a big hurry.”

  I like Mr. Kasinski at once. You can tell that he cares about people just by the tone of his voice. He’s younger than most of the other teachers – maybe around Mom’s age. Hard to tell, though, his curly blond hair and glasses might make him look younger than he actually is.

  “Mark’s fine,” I say. “I saw him yesterday just as they were leaving.”

  “Good!” Mr. Kasinski brushes more granola crumbs off his tie. “Can’t say as I blame them for taking a French leave, this town being the way it is.”

  “What’s a ‘French leave?’” I ask.

  “That’s when you suddenly take off without telling anybody.”

  Yeah, a lot of people are taking ‘French leaves’ lately – some of them involuntarily.

  “So what can I do for you ...”

  “Ryan,” I say. “Ryan Keppen.”

  “Okay, Ryan. Shoot.”

  He leans forward, resting an elbow on the desk. His face is serious, but you can tell by the way it’s set up that he is used to smiling a lot. I glance about to make absolutely sure nobody else is around.

  “I’d better close the door,” I say.

  Mr. Kasinski frowns a little, but he does not object. After closing the door, I pull a chair up close to his desk and, talking rapidly in a low voice, tell him the whole story – beginning with Mr. Thromp tearing past in his truck and ending with Larry’s disappearance and my narrow escape.

  As I speak, Mr. Kasinski’s face becomes grimmer and grimmer, until it is covered by deep frown wrinkles. His lips clamp together tight. By the time I come to the part where Larry gets grabbed, he has covered his face with both hands and is massaging his forehead, as if he’s nursing a giant headache. He doesn’t interrupt me once.

  Finally, I stop talking. The whole room is as dead and quiet as the frogs in the specimen jars.

  “You don’t think I’m crazy, do you?” I say. “You don’t think I’m making all this up?”

  “No, you’re not crazy, Ryan.” Mr. Kasinski’s voice comes out muffled from behind his hands. “And I only wish you were making all this up.”

  He brings his hands back down from his face. He looks as if he hasn’t slept in a week.

  “Did you talk to anybody else about this, Ryan?”

  “Just Spider, and he told me to see you,” I say. “My mom is still out of town, and my step dad, well, he’s ...”

  Mr. Kasinski nods, as if he understands about crappy step dads. It occurs to me that I haven’t mentioned my plot against Bob – maybe I’m not willing to divulge all my secrets after all.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I say. “Should I tell the police?”

  Mr. Kasinski’s eyes widen with alarm. “No!”

  I flinch back in my chair.

  “Sorry, Ryan.”

  I lean forward again. Mr. Kasinski lowers his voice.

  “Look, all I can say is that there’re bad people in positions of authority around here,” he says. “We don’t want them involved. Trust me on that.”

  He pulls a laptop computer out of a leather case and flips it open. “There’s somebody I need to inform about this. I’ll email him right now – if the dang internet is working.”

  “What should I do?” I say.

  “Just go back to class for now, Ryan, and don’t tell anyone what you told me, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “And don’t go near that field again!”

  I nod.

  “Not for any reason, understand?” Mr. Kasinski says.

  It’s as if he’s figured out my spray paint plot.

  “Not for any reason,” I repeat.

  I get up to leave.

  “Well, thanks for listening to me, Mr. Kasinski.”

  “Can you meet me after school,” he says, “at the town square?”

  “Sure.”

  I leave the room to the sound of Mr. Kasinski banging furiously on the computer keys.

  20: Interview with Mr. Thromp

  Sitting by myself on the park bench waiting for Mr. Kasinski, I squint my eyes down and try to pretend that I’m someplace nice.

  Through my eyelashes, the big, white courthouse alongside the town square floats like some magical mansion. Its broad stairs and high columns look very elegant. A warm breeze tickles my skin. The scent of flowers drifts by, and everything seems right with the world.

  But then I open my eyes again, and everything comes into full, depressing focus. The courthouse is really an ugly hulk, more like a haunted castle. Its white marble is discolored into a blotchy yellow, its high windows glower threats at me. People creep up the stairs as if they are on their way to the hangman.

  Around my bench, seagulls fight over scraps of food; pigeons walk by with odd, jerky-head steps. A particularly aggressive gull approaches my bench, demanding a handout. I wave my notebook at the thing.

  “Get away!”

  The bird struts off, protesting loudly. The wind shifts, bringing a greasy, fried-food odor from the Yookey Lake Bar.

  Mr. Kasinski finally arrives, his laptop computer hanging from his shoulder in its leather case.

  “Sorry I’m late, Ryan,” he says. “Let’s go.”

  I get off the bench.

  “Where to?”

  “I think we should see Mr. Thromp, first,” he says. “We need to find out exactly what happened to him last week.”

  “Yeah, that’s a good idea,” I say.

  “And we need to find out if he knows anything about Mrs. Thromp.”

  I nod. It won’t hurt to ask him, but Mr. Thromp can’t say anything about his wife’s disappearance that I don’t already know.

  After a ten minute walk, we arrive at the Thromp residence. It
is a big, old-fashioned place set on a double lot. Like most of the houses in Bridgestock, it’s pretty tacky. The porch sags and the walls are covered in gray, peeling paint.

  But a high ladder is leaned against one side, and part of the wall had been repainted a cheerful blue. A pile of old furniture and other junk lies at the curbside waiting for the trash pickup. Mr. Thromp is busy cutting the front lawn. He’s singing something, although I can’t make out any words.

  “Hello!” Mr. Kasinski calls over the lawnmower racket.

  Mr. Thromp jerks his head up. A smile spreads over his face.

  “Well, hello, young man!”

  He shuts off the motor.

  James Thromp appears nothing like the guy I saw screaming out the truck window last week. He looks fit and strong, a reddish sun tan is taking hold on his face and bald head. His hearty voice fills the lawn area.

  “Excuse me if I’m a little surprised,” he says. “I ain’t used to visitors, you know.”

  “I’m Morton Kasinski, and this is Ryan Keppen. Sorry to disturb you.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Mr. Thromp says. “I need a break anyway.”

  He points to the side of the house with its section of fresh paint.

  “It’s gonna take me a while to square things away,” he says.

  “It looks nice so far,” I say.

  “Just give me til Labor Day, though, and you won’t recognize the place,” Mr. Thromp says.

  “I’m a teacher at the middle school,” Mr. Kasinski says, “along with your wife.”

  Mr. Thromp seems to collapse within himself, crumbling before my eyes into a broken old man. His ruddy complexion turns ashy gray.

  “What about my wife?” he squeaks. “She didn’t come back, did she?”

  “No, sir, I’m afraid not,” Mr. Kasinski says.

  “Oh ... is that so?” Mr. Thromp says.

  He wipes a handkerchief over his face. The color begins to return.

  “It’s just that everything’s happened so quick,” he says. “Such a shock. I mean ... you can imagine how I feel.”

  Yes, I can imagine very well how he feels.

  “If it isn’t too difficult for you,” Mr. Kasinski says, “we’d like to ask about the incident last Monday. You were apparently rather frightened driving through town.”

  Mr. Thromp strokes his chin and narrows his eyes, studying us carefully, as if he’s trying to figure out if we can be trusted.

  “All right,” he finally says, “I guess the story has to be told sooner or later. We’d best sit down, though.”

  He brings us to the front porch and leaves us waiting on lawn chairs while he goes inside the house. He soon comes back with two Cokes and a 24-ounce can of beer. He hands the beer to Mr. Kasinski.

  “A little early in the day for me,” Mr. Kasinski says.

  “I wish you’d take it, young man,” Mr. Thromp says. “I’d like to get rid of it.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Mr. Kasinski pops the tab.

  “I ain’t touched a drop of alcohol for a whole week,” Mr. Thromp says. “But if I gotta talk about what happened last Monday, I just might want to fall off the wagon.”

  I exchange glances with Mr. Kasinski. He takes a long swig from the beer can.

  “If you could just tell us in your own words what happened, we’d be very grateful,” Mr. Kasinski says.

  Mr. Thromp sits on a battered old swinging couch and fortifies himself with a drag of Coke.

  “Okay,” he says, “you asked for it.”

  He proceeds to tell us a horror story that’s every bit as bad as mine – except that he didn’t have to watch somebody being yanked underground. While he talks, the sunny porch seems to get colder and darker, until it’s as forbidding as the dungeon in Castle Dracula. Mr. Kasinski’s eyes keep getting wider and wider behind his glasses.

  ***

  Mr. Thromp finishes his account at last:

  “I seen them Bulb People with my own eyes,” he says. “They was comin’ up straight from hell to get me, but I escaped. Why do you suppose that was?”

  “I don’t know,” Mr. Kasinski says in a very quiet voice.

  “Me neither.” Mr. Thromp throws up his hands. “But I’m sure making the most of whatever time I got left. You can bank on that, young man.”

  Mr. Kasinski stands up and clears his throat.

  “Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Thromp. This has been most edifying.”

  “You could call it that, I suppose,” Thromp says.

  We thank him for his hospitality and leave. The chill seems to follow us out onto the bright sidewalk. Mr. Thromp remains on his porch. He looks all worn out, but also calm and relieved.

  “Thanks for stoppin’ by!” he calls after us. “It felt good to get this off my chest.”

  Maybe his chest feels good, but mine seems to be crushed under a heavy weight.

  21: Reply from Brazil

  Mr. Kasinski mops a handkerchief across his forehead. Despite the pleasant, almost cool, weather, he is sweating quite a bit. His hair is even curlier than before.

  “That was some narrative,” he says. “What do you think, Ryan?”

  “I believe everything Mr. Thromp told us,” I say. “His story fits right in with my own experience.”

  “Yes, the accounts do seem to complement each other,” Mr. Kasinski says.

  We walk half a block without talking. Mr. Kasinski shoves a stick of gum in his mouth and chews furiously.

  “So, what’s next?” I say.

  “Let’s go to my place and check the email,” Mr. Kasinski says. “Can you stay for a while, Ryan?”

  “Sure.”

  “Maybe Doctor Rackenfauz has written back from Brazil. He might know what to do.” Mr. Kasinski mops his forehead again. “I sure don’t.”

  “He’s in Brazil?” I say.

  “Yeah, the Professor runs a botanical research station there,” Mr. Kasinski says. “Hopefully he’s in his lab today and not out wandering the rain forest.”

  We come to a square, two story building on the edge of the commercial district and climb to the top floor.

  Mr. Kasinski’s apartment isn’t bad, but you can tell that nobody is around to make him keep the place neat. The ‘living room’ is really a sort of office with a big desk and some other shabby furniture. A map of Brazil hangs on one wall, landscape type posters cover the others.

  “Nice place you’ve got here, Mr. Kasinski,” I say.

  He flops into a stuffed chair and loosens his necktie.

  “Please forget the ‘Mr. Kasinski’ routine. My friends call me Morton.”

  “Okay ... Morton.”

  He sure looks blown out, as if he’s been dragged across Melody Acres by the “Bulb People” as Mr. Thromp called them.

  “This would be a good day to take up smoking,” Morton says. “Too bad I quit already.”

  An exhausted silence falls over the apartment. I fill it by asking a question that has been bothering me all afternoon.

  “You seem to be pretty cool, Morton,” I say. “So why are you living in this crappy town?”

  A little smile crosses his face.

  “Very well put, Ryan. Why do you think?”

  I’m stumped. Why would any normal person stay here if he didn’t have to?

  “Is it because of a girl friend?” I finally ask.

  Morton nods.

  “She was a teacher at the elementary school,” he says. “She didn’t want to leave town, family and all that, so I stayed, too.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “I guess she changed her mind. She left town over Christmas break – with another guy.”

  “Oh.”

  “Things probably worked out for the best.” Morton shrugs. “At least I’m getting out myself now.”

  “You’re going, too?”

  “Yeah,” Morton says. “I was planning to take a French leave, but I thought better of it and decided to finish the school year. I’ll
be going right after finals.”

  My heart is sinking. First Spider takes off, and now the only other worthwhile guy in Bridgestock is packing up, too.

  “Actually, I’m taking a Brazilian leave.” Morton points to the wall map. “I’m going to visit Dr. Rackenfauz a while and work in his lab. I’ve been studying Portuguese, but I think it’s a lost cause.”

  I don’t care what language they speak in Brazil. I’m too worried about things in Bridgestock. Soon I’ll be the only sane person here – if I don’t crack up myself. Morton clears a space on the desk and sets up his computer.

  “Let’s see if Dr. Rackenfauz has gotten back to us, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Morton accesses his email. The inbox contains a message from Dr. Rackenfauz. It isn’t pretty:

  Morton!

  These creatures – did they come from the orchard by the old house south of town?

  How could I have been such a fool? I should have told you everything, but I didn’t want you to be involved any more than necessary.

  The attached document tells the whole story. I’m working on some antidotes. I’ll let you know the results as soon as possible.

  Jonathan Rackenfauz, Ph.D.

  Morton taps out a reply:

  Yes, Professor, they came from the orchard. I spoke to the man who accidentally dug them up with an earth moving machine.

  Morton removes his glasses and strokes the bridge of his nose. He looks even younger without the heavy plastic frames.

  “This has been quite a day,” he says. “I’d like to just kick back with a no-brain movie and some more beer.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “But I guess we’d better read the Professor’s attachment,” Morton says.

  He downloads the document. Its title page reads:

  Captive in Terror Orchard

  my diary

  by Billy Conner

  “I know that name!” I say. “Mark has a friend named Billy Conner at the martial arts school.”

  Morton nods. “That would be him. He’s a fanatic martial artist, all right.”

  He sends the document to the printer.

  “This could take a while to read. Can you stay, Ryan? I’ll order pizza.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’d better call home to see if it’s okay.”

  I pick up the landline phone and jab in our number. I sure wouldn’t want everybody to be worried about me!

  I pretend that the phone is actually a launch computer that will send a missile crashing into our lousy rented house, blowing Bob and Katie sky high. Mom will return form her business trip to find a huge crater in the ground.