Leon and the Spitting Image (11 page)

Later that night, after a coffee-shop sandwich that failed to make the grade (Frau Haffenreffer had forgotten the extra J on his PB&J), Leon let himself into his apartment and plodded into the bedroom. Without bothering to flick the light switch—he didn’t have to; the neon glow from the convention-center sign lit up his small room—he flopped on the bed.

He felt as if he had weights tied to his arms and legs. It was a struggle just changing into pajamas. As he got under the covers, an annoying phrase started looping through his head:
Try more, try more, try more
…

Then another phrase, this one even more annoying, took its place:
Repeat the year, repeat the year, repeat the year
…

Soon the two phrases tangled together like twisted strands of thread:
Try, repeat, try, repeat, try, repeat
…

Leon sat up in bed and studied the map of the world. He hoped the pins marking his past achievements
would temper his crummy mood. But they only made things worse. He hadn’t added a new country in weeks and weeks. At this rate he would
never
nab Suriname.

He reached under his bed for the bag of Zapp’s Kettle-Cooked Mesquite Bar-B-Que Potato Chips he kept on hand for emergency situations. But even potato chips failed to lift his spirits.

Just when he thought things couldn’t get worse, the map pins began to vibrate.

Click-click-click-buzzzz
… … … … … … … …
Grind-groan-rumble-CRASH!

The Ice Queen was at it again, casting her odious spell.

Leon dropped the chip bag on the floor and shoved his head under the covers. He knew that the queen would repeat her hex.

And sure enough, she did. Only instead of the predictable clicks and buzzes, she now emitted an entirely new set of sounds.

Leon listened intently. An odd assortment of bangs, scrapes, and thumps replaced the usual three-click overture.

What
is going on? he wondered.

Leon jumped out of bed and tiptoed into the hall. When he reached the alcove that abutted his bedroom wall, he discovered that the Ice Queen had company.

Two burly hotel guests had their shoulders pressed against the side of the ice maker.

“A little to the right, Sauly,” one of the men said between gasps.

The man he’d addressed—Sauly—responded by rocking the massive machine. “How’s that, Pauly?”

“Over more to the left.”

The two men, Pauly and Sauly, were so focused on moving the machine they didn’t notice Leon.

“What are you guys doing?” he demanded.

The men eased the ice maker back onto the carpeting and straightened up.

“What are
you
doing, kid?” said the man named Pauly. “Shouldn’t you be home sleeping?”

“I can’t sleep. And for your information,” Leon added defiantly, “this
is
home. I live right next door.” He tapped the wall.

“Yeah? Then I ain’t surprised you can’t sleep,” said Pauly. “Not if you live near this baby.” He gave the Ice Queen an affectionate slap and looked at his pal. “Are you surprised, Sauly?”

“Ain’t surprised at all,” said Sauly.

Pauly turned to Leon. “See, the bozo who did the install totally messed up on the clearance. Ice Queens ain’t supposed to touch the wall.”

“Don’t forget about the venting,” Sauly interjected.

“I ain’t forgetting about the venting,” said Pauly with mild irritation. “If you’d let me finish telling the kid. As I was about to say, the venting is whacked.
Also, something’s wrong with the harvest bin. Plus, from what I’m hearing, I wouldn’t be surprised if the compressor’s out of alignment.”

Sauly nodded respectfully.

“You guys sure know lots about ice makers,” said Leon.

The two men smiled at each other.

“Hey, Pauly,” said Sauly. “Do we know lots about ice makers?”

Pauly chuckled. “Enough to have earned the stars.”

As if on command, both men patted the patches on their work shirts. Leon looked more closely. Their patches said
MASTER PLUMBER, UNITED ASSOCIATION OF PLUMBERS AND PIPEFITTERS, LOCAL
51
(PROVIDENCE)
and were rimmed with a circle of stars.

“They don’t hand these out for looks, kid,” said Sauly.

“Are you guys saying you can fix the Ice Queen?”

That prompted more chuckling. “Sorry, kid,” said Pauly. “I know where you’re going with this, but no can do. Sauly and me—we’re here for the toilet-tank convention. Call your local refrigeration professional if you want this baby overhauled. We’re done for the night.”

“My mom’s
tried
getting her fixed,” said Leon. “She couldn’t find
anyone.”

“Well, she
is
a relic,” Pauly admitted. “The ice maker, I mean. Not your mom.”

“Please,” Leon pleaded. There was no way he was
going to let an opportunity like this slip through his fingers. “She keeps me up
all
night—the ice maker, I mean. Not my mom.”

Pauly again let out a chuckle and rubbed the back of his neck. “Hey, Sauly,” he said. “How’d you get down to the city?”

“How do you think, Pauly? Took the van.”

“Got your tools with you?”

“You kidding, Pauly? I
always
got my tools with me.”

“Well, go get ’em. And while you’re at it, bring up some of that high-density insulation, a length of thread pipe, and ten feet of three-eighths-inch feeder line.”

“You got it!” said Sauly.

“And don’t forget the doughnuts,” Pauly joked.

“Not so fast,” said Leon. “Doughnuts are
my
department.” He tore down to the coffee shop and arranged some goodies on a plate while Frau Haffenreffer poured out two cups of coffee to go.

Twenty minutes later the two repairmen had cracked open the Ice Queen. Coils, screws, wing nuts, tubes, and O-rings spread over the shag carpeting. (Along with doughnuts, napoleons, and cups of piping hot coffee.)

“See, kid,” said Pauly. “Just like we told you. The compressor is all messed up.”

“Don’t forget about the harvest bin,” said Sauly.

“Plus, like Sauly here says, some dimwit inserted the harvest bin backward.”

Pauly and Sauly spent the better part of an hour unplugging, uncoupling, unscrewing, cleaning, lubricating, repairing, and realigning parts. Once that was done, they snapped everything back in place and repositioned the ice maker three feet from the wall.

“Go ahead, kid,” said Pauly. “Test her out.”

“She’s awfully quiet,” Leon said doubtfully. “You sure she’s plugged in?”

“Is she plugged in, Sauly?”

“She’s plugged in, Pauly.”

Leon pushed the dispensing lever and braced himself for the usual racket.

It never came.

There were no clicks.

There were no buzzes.

There were no grinds or groans or crashes.

In fact, the Ice Queen dropped two ice cubes into Leon’s cupped hand without making any sound at all. None whatsoever.

“Wow!” Leon exclaimed. “Wait till I tell my mom! That repair’s been in the logbook for
years!”

“Tell her tomorrow, kid. Right now, go grab some shut-eye.”

Leon didn’t argue. It was late, and he was tired.

That night he fell asleep thinking about the Ice Queen. She wasn’t at all like the one in the fairy tale, he decided. She wasn’t an evil witch. She was just a weird, cranky, out-of-date curiosity in need of special handling.

T
he following night Leon conked out to the glorious sound of …
nothing
. The only
click
he heard came from the light switch near his bed. And in the silence that followed, he slept for eight full hours, three hours more than he had averaged during the Ice Queen’s noisy, wall-shaking reign.

The next night Leon got
nine
hours of sleep, and he got
ten
the night after that.

If sleep is brain food, Leon’s long-famished brain was suddenly served a feast. So was the rest of his body. The rings under his eyes started to fade. His pale skin gained some color. But most important, his fine motor skills slowly started to rev up. Shoelaces got a little easier to tie. Dodgeballs landed with greater accuracy. The stingy flute teacher, Miss Brunelleschi, stuck
two
gold stars in Leon’s music book for deftly completing finger exercises she considered especially challenging.

Even Miss Hagmeyer tempered her usual criticism. “Not bad, Mr. Zeisel,” she said when handing back a penmanship worksheet. “Your cursive Ms are actually beginning to look like camel humps.” But then she
spoiled it. “Pity,” she added, “you can’t show a similar turnaround in the animile department. I’m
still
waiting for your dinosaur
and
your unicorn.”

Leon didn’t respond—at least not directly. But he decided then and there to finish his overdue assignments and make Miss Hagmeyer eat her words.

That afternoon, back at the hotel, Leon zipped through his signboard duties—VVelcome VVinch Operators of VVisconsin!!!!—and set up shop in the office behind the reception desk.

Maria came by to clean while he was working on the diplocaulus. She waved her feather duster over the animile’s arrow-shaped head. “Your project is looking
real
sweet.”

“It better, Maria. I’ve got to hand it in on Monday.”

“I’m not worried, Leonito. You’ll show that Miss Panty Hose!”

Leon stitched through the weekend, fueled by Maria’s encouragement, plus a steady supply of PB&J (extra J), Haffenreffer dough balls, and Zapp’s Mesquite Kettle-Cooked Bar-B-Que Potato Chips.

When Monday rolled around, Leon handed in his second animile …
and
his third!

The double submission shocked Miss Hagmeyer. “My, haven’t we been productive,” she said suspiciously.

“Yup,” said Leon with pride.

Miss Hagmeyer inspected and approved the dinosaur without comment, then turned to the surprise submission—the unicorn. She positioned it on the desk—horn down, legs up—and pressed her tape measure against its belly.

She gave Leon a sideways glance. “Is there something you wish to tell me, Mr. Zeisel?”

“Not really.”

“Perhaps I should rephrase the question. How do you explain completing
two
animiles over a single weekend?”

“Discipline and diligence?” Leon said tentatively.

“That’s terribly commendable,” said Miss Hagmeyer. “However, it does not explain the stitch count on your unicorn.”

“What’s the matter with it?”

“It averages
five
s.p.i.”

“Isn’t that good?”

“Extremely—for a student who averages two. Must I schedule another meeting with Principal Birdwhistle?”

“Why?” said Leon anxiously.

“Why? Because this seam is too tight, too precise to be yours. Who helped you? Was it your mother? Someone from class?” Miss Hagmeyer scanned the room for accomplices. Her gaze locked on Lily-Matisse.

“I haven’t
touched
his unicorn!” Lily-Matisse protested.

“She didn’t,” said Leon. “I did it all by myself. Honest.”

“We’ll see soon enough,” Miss Hagmeyer said skeptically. She grabbed a pair of scissors.

Leon watched in horror as she cut open the stomach of his animile. His brain began to throb as panty hose popped out of the unicorn like guts from a wounded beast.

“How’s it feel, Sir Panty Hose?” Lumpkin said with a snigger.

“Quiet down, Mr. Lumpkin,” Miss Hagmeyer admonished before turning back to Leon. “If you sewed this well once, Mr. Zeisel, you can do so again.”

Leon grabbed the unicorn and marched toward his seat.

“Halt!” Miss Hagmeyer commanded.
“This
will be your workbench.” She tapped her desk with the instructional needle. “Redo that seam where I can watch you.”

Lily-Matisse stood up and craned her neck to get a better view.

“Ms. Jasprow,” said Miss Hagmeyer. “If you’re
that
interested in your friend’s handiwork, why not come up and join him?”

“Okay,” Lily-Matisse replied, ignoring the sarcasm.

“Can I watch, too?” P.W. said in a daring show of solidarity.