“I had bad dreams, boy,” he said in a hushed tone. “Did I tell you what movie we saw last night when we went to the last show at the theater? Dracula. Not the new one we saw the time we found Bunnicula, but the old one with Bela Lugosi. It wasn’t even in color and the special effects were totally lame. I didn’t think it was scary at all when I was watching it, but, boy, Harold, it sure was scary in my dreams.”
I looked him in the eye and panted to let him know I understood.
“Aw, you understand, don’t you, boy?” he said.
Works every time.
“I’ll tell you one thing, Harold,” he said, yawning. “You’d better stay out of Mom and Dad’s way today. They’re pretty bummed out about this theater thing, losing the battle and all. You know what’s going to happen on Tuesday? Boom! They’re coming in with a wrecking ball and down it goes!”
He yawned again. “Well, I’m going to try to get some more sleep. What are you going to do?”
He ruffled the hair on the top of my head, then crawled back under the covers, and before I’d had time to find out if his question was multiple choice or essay, he was sound asleep.
Looking out the window, I could see that the sky was beginning to grow light. Bunnicula, whose sleeping and waking hours were at odds with everyone else’s in the house, would be going to sleep soon for the day, and that meant it was time for his old buddy Harold to sing him a lullaby.
As quietly as I could, I removed myself from Toby’s bed, stretched out my aching muscles, and lumbered down the stairs.
On first encountering the familiar scene in the living room, I felt immensely reassured. Bunnicula was in his cage, Chester was curled up in his armchair, Howie lay sprawled under the coffee table. Each was in his proper place. Serenity was spread over the room like cream cheese on a bagel.
Now for those of you who haven’t read my first book, Bunnicula, the idea of my singing a lullaby to my little furry friend in the language of his native land (a remote area of the Carpathian Mountains region) may strike you as peculiar. For those of you who have read the book, the idea probably strikes you as just as peculiar, but at least you’ve been warned. You see, soon after Bunnicula’s arrival in our home, I discovered that this particular lullaby soothes him, and so I have sung it to him regularly ever since. Roughly translated, it goes something like this:
The sheep are in the meadow,
The goats are on the roof,
In the parlor are the peasants,
In the pudding is the proof.
Dance on the straw
And laugh at the moon
Night is heavy on your eyes
And morning will come soon.
So sleep, little baby,
There’s nothing you should fear,
With garlic at the window
And your mama always near.
Admittedly, it sounds better in the original. I only regret that I cannot record the melody here, for there is a wistful melancholia about it that would touch you, I’m certain, as it touches me when I croon it in my throaty baritone. And I know it touches Bunnicula as it carries him off to dreamland. On this occasion, however, I noted a new response on Bunnicula’s part—one that struck me as curious and, under the circumstances, somewhat alarming.
“Do rabbits cry?” I asked Chester after Bunnicula had fallen asleep.
Chester had roused himself from his night’s slumber and was in the middle of doing that stretch cats do where they extend their front paws out on the floor in front of them as if they’re praying and raise their rear ends up high like they’re waiting for the whole world to notice and say, “Hey, that’s some nice tush you got there.”
I explained that as I was singing the lullaby to Bunnicula—the same one, I pointed out, that I’d sung him many times before—tears were rolling down his fuzzy little cheeks.
“Rabbits don’t have a sentimental bone in their bodies,” Chester said, dismissing the whole thing categorically. “Especially vampire rabbits.”
And with that he marched into the kitchen for breakfast. End of discussion.
I glanced out the window. The sky was gray, and a misty rain was beginning to fall. The perfect sort of day for serious napping, I thought, and that was exactly how I intended to spend it.
And that was exactly how I was spending it until some time later when I heard Chester’s voice buzzing in my ear like a gnat.
“Harold, Harold,” he buzzed. “I know you’re in there, Harold!”
What next? I thought. We’ve got you surrounded?
“Okay, fine,” he went on, “it takes you time to open your eyes, I know that. I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself, have a heart attack or something, from the effort of pushing up your eyelids too quickly, so just listen.”
Do I bite him now or later?
“I’ve got it all figured out, Harold.”
“He does, Uncle Harold, he really does.”
Oh, joy. The junior detective is also on the scene.
“Howie, let me handle this, will you?” Chester said.
“Sure, Pop.”
I began to snore.
“Stop trying to pretend you’re asleep, Harold,” Chester pressed on relentlessly. “Okay, here’s my theory. First, when was it that Bunnicula started acting frisky and playful and when, not so coincidentally, did he start his most recent assault on vegetables? Right after Mr. and Mrs. Monroe received calls from their mothers, that’s when. Now, when did everything change? Two weeks later, on Mother’s Day, Harold! When he heard the other mothers were coming, he must have gotten it into his little hare brain that his long-lost mother might be coming on Mother’s Day, too, and when she didn’t … it was down-in-the-dumps for our little furry friend.”
“I’ll bet he thinks she doesn’t love him anymore,” Howie chimed in. “And you know what they say—you’re no bunny till some bunny loves you.”
Fascinating. I could actually hear Chester gritting his teeth. “What more evidence do you need, Harold? Think about it. He cried when you sang him that silly lullaby. He cried, Harold. He misses his mother! But that’s not the half of it. He has plans, Harold, I’m sure of it. Some of those tears were because his plans were not fulfilled. Come on, let’s go. I know that you know that I know what must be done!”
Slowly, I raised my eyelids. “Do you talk that way just to drive me crazy?” I asked. “Or do you actually think in sentences like that?”
“If there’s any chance Bunnicula’s mother has returned, we’ve got to find her before he does,” Chester said.
“Before he does,” Howie echoed.
“It can’t all be coincidence, Harold. Just think about it. Mother’s Day … and what movie was playing at the theater? Dracula, Harold, Dracula!”
I looked at the two of them. I looked out the window. I thought back to Chester’s description of Bunnicula’s half-finished attacks on the vegetables, as if it were a sport. Maybe he was celebrating in his own way the possibility of being reunited with his mother. There was some logic to that.
“But it’s raining,” I pointed out.
“So?” said Chester. “You’re waterproof. If Bunnicula’s mother is out there, who knows how many more vampire rabbits are on the loose?”
“Okay, okay, I’ll go with you,” I said. “Just give me a minute to look for my mind, will you? I seem to have lost it.”