The Slippery Map Read Free Page A

narrow broom closet, and broom closets are usually narrow. His head was surrounded by broom handles. The vacuum cleaner’s rectangular nose blocked his feet, its one lung packed tight with dirt. The little pistols of blue cleanser bottles pointed at him. The broom closet’s door, bloated from the heat, didn’t shut all the way. Through the crack, Oyster watched the kitchen fill with nuns. Sister Mary Many Pockets wasn’t among them. Whenever things looked bad for Oyster, he relied on Sister Mary Many Pockets to remind the nuns of how much they loved him. The first morning after Sister Mary Many Pockets had found Oyster, she’d brought him to the dining hall as if nothing was unusual. She fed him porridge. There he was, pinned to her chest like a hungry broach. And the nuns jockeyed for seats across from him, so that they could smile and gaze.
    Now the nuns formed a fuming circle around Mother Superior—her wimple and veil askew from all of her flapping. (Had the bird found its way out? Oyster wondered.)
    Mrs. Fishback stood next to her. She had meaty calves and a pomp of bleached hair. Leatherbelly waddled up. His belly was so big that it dragged on the ground. (The dragging of his belly had caused it to callous, which is how he’d come by his name.) Oyster could see Leatherbelly’s short tail. His purplish tongue was busy licking his own shiny black nose on his thin face. He seemed to be looking at the broom closet. Would he rat out Oyster? He could. Oyster knew. He could if he wanted to.
    The nuns were waiting for some kind of explanation. Oyster could hear the clicking of Sister Helen Quick Fingers’s knitting needles. Mother Superior was rattled. She raised her hands to get their attention, then scribbled on a piece of paper and handed that paper to Mrs. Fishback, who read it aloud:
    â€œOyster is at it again, I know. But let’s be calm, sisters. Let’s remain steady. He’s just a boy, you know.” Mrs. Fishback stopped reading. She eyed the nuns and then turned to them and said, “If you ask me, a nunnery should be quiet. Imagine it here without the bother of that awful child! Imagine peace. You could have peace and live right, if you ask me. Aren’t you tired of that terrible boy? He shouldn’t be here! He should be sent off! It would be for his own good! It would be for your own good! Don’t you deservethat?” She looked the nuns up and down.
    Oyster could hear some of them harumphing in agreement. (The nuns couldn’t talk, but they could cough, sneeze, screech, and harumph—though they used their harumph judiciously.) Other nuns, though, were shaking their heads no, no, no. He could see Sister Alice Self-Defense with her arms folded across her chest. Sister Elizabeth Thick Glasses, her eyes magnified not only by her glasses but also by deep worry. What did Sister Bertha Nervous Lips think? What about Sister Augusta of the Elaborate Belches and Sister Patricia Tough-Pork? And Sister Theresa Raised on a Farm? And Sister Elouise of the Occasional Cigarette? Couldn’t he count on her? He heard Sister Margaret of the Long Sighs and Withering Glare sigh loudly and the continued anxious clicking of Sister Helen Quick Fingers, lost in a knitting frenzy.
    One of the head shakers, Sister Hilda Prone to Asthma, jotted down a note and handed it to Mrs. Fishback.
    Mrs. Fishback read it: “It would break Sister Mary’s heart if we all decided to send Oyster away!”
    Mrs. Fishback glared at Sister Hilda Prone to Asthma. She’d been beaten by kindness. Her face pruned, as if she’d swallowed castor oil and was waiting for it to take effect. Leatherbelly padded toward the closet, his nails clicking on the tile. He nudged thecloset door with his squat nose.
    Luckily, the mini-TV had Mrs. Fishback’s attention. “Look!” she said. “The boy who disappeared!” She rushed to turn up the volume. Oyster squinted