“Let’s say I’m right about Bunnicula’s mother,” Chester said, “which of course I am. My guess is that Bunnicula hasn’t figured out where she is. Maybe he hasn’t even made the connection between his mother and the movie theater. Otherwise, he would have broken out of this joint a long time ago. So he’s still waiting for her to come to him. Fine. Here’s what we’ve got to do.”
He paused to look at us.
“Why do I feel like I’m addressing the Roman Senate?” he asked.
Howie and I looked blankly at each other.
“Is that a trick question?” Howie said.
Chester shook his head wearily. “Togas,” he said. “You look like you’re wearing togas. The way they did in ancient Rome. Don’t you two ever read?”
He should have known better than to ask.
“I read a book about ancient Rome!” Howie piped up enthusiastically. “Screaming Mummies of the Pharaoh’s Tomb. FleshCrawlers, number twenty-eight. There were these twins, see, Harry and Carrie Fishbein, and they found this time-travel machine in their grandfather’s attic. They were just fooling around with it, but before you knew it—poof!—they were in ancient—”
“Egypt!” Chester snapped, cutting Howie off. “They were in ancient Egypt, Howie, and the two of you look like ancient Romans, and there is an actual difference between ancient Egypt and ancient Rome, and why I even bother to bring up historical or literary references with you two dolts is beyond me!”
Chester kept on ranting, but I’m not sure what else he had to say. Drowsy from my bath and the room’s warmth, I nodded off somewhere around “historical or literary references.” When I regained consciousness, he was carrying on about Plan B.
“So we’ve got to keep our eye on him at all times,” he was saying, “because if he does start making connections, there’s no stopping him. Either we have to prevent their reuniting entirely or, better yet, use Bunnicula to lead us to his mother. He may still be weak, but even so I’m going to need your help. Maybe we should work in shifts.”
“We have to put on dresses?” Howie whined.
Chester grimaced. “We’ll take turns, okay?”
“Oh.”
Just then, Mr. Monroe came into the room to give us a final rubdown. He looked at us and smiled.
“Chester, you look like you’re addressing the Roman Senate,” he said.
“Uncanny,” Chester commented after Mr. Monroe had left.
“Yes,” I said, thinking of yesterday’s breakfast, “it was nice having fresh meat for a change, wasn’t it?”
“Hey, Uncle Harold,” Howie said. “I get it. Fresh meat. Uncanny. That was pretty good.”
“Thanks, Howie,” I said, leaving it at that. It’s embarrassing when you make a joke and don’t even realize it.
The night watch began. Why I was supporting Chester’s harebrained scheme I don’t know. Sometimes you just find yourself doing things Chester expects you to do. So I volunteered to take the first shift, figuring that it would be better to get it over with and have the rest of the night for uninterrupted sleep. What I hadn’t counted on was the discovery I would make while I was on duty, one that would keep me awake—and alert—the whole night.
Bunnicula was sick. Really sick. Far weaker than he would be from Chester’s depriving him of his carrot juice. He wasn’t moving at all. When I talked to him, his ears didn’t twitch or stir as they normally did. At times, it seemed he wasn’t even breathing.
Not wanting to alarm Howie, I let him sleep through his shift. As for Chester, well, I tried to convince him that Bunnicula was in trouble, but he wasn’t having any of it.
“Either he misses his mother or he’s faking” was his unscientifically arrived at diagnosis. “Neither one is fatal, Harold. And if it is—”
“Chester! What are you saying?”
“I think you know what I’m saying, Harold.”
Desperately seeking some way of comprehending Chester’s devious mind, I asked, “Chester, are you still drinking Bunnicula’s juice?”
“Not all the time,” he answered, “although I have developed a taste for the stuff. No, I have other ways of foiling his plans now.”
“But, Chester, he may be really sick,” I said.
“Harold, once and for all, you’ve got to understand. Bunnicula is not the Easter bunny. He’s a spinach sucker! The bane of broccoli! A bad rabbit with bad habits! If he can lead us to his mother, we may be able to put an end to this race of terrorizing hares once and for all!”
“But, Chester, you said yourself, he probably hasn’t made any connections yet, and he certainly isn’t going anywhere. He can barely move. How is he going to lead us to his mother when he can’t lift his head?”
Chester narrowed his eyes to slits. “Don’t underestimate his vampirical powers. Believe me, Harold, if he can’t lead us to his mother, he will somehow manage to bring his mother here to him. You can lead a horse of a different color to water but it’s still a horse.”
Don’t ask.
As it turned out, Bunnicula did go somewhere, but it was not under his own powers—vampirical or otherwise.
Unable to stand it any longer, I woke Toby just before dawn and dragged him by the sleeve of his pajamas downstairs to Bunnicula’s cage. It didn’t take him long to get the picture.
“Mom! Dad! Come quick!” he shouted. “Bunnicula’s really sick! I think he’s going to die!”
Mr. and Mrs. Monroe raced down the stairs. Mr. Monroe, still half asleep, tumbled over the armchair, which sent Chester flying. Chester’s indignant screech in turn woke Howie, who bolted from under the coffee table just in time to get tangled in Mr. Monroe’s legs. Nobody, other than Chester, seemed to notice or care, though. All eyes were on Bunnicula.
“Oh, Robert,” said Mrs. Monroe, touching her husband’s arm as he opened the cage and lifted the limp, languid rabbit from it. “I knew we should have taken him to the vet on Saturday. We’ve waited too long.”
Mr. Monroe held Bunnicula close to his chest. “His breathing seems normal, if a bit slow,” he said, stroking the bunny lovingly. “But there’s definitely something wrong with him. I’ll call Dr. Greenbriar right away and leave a message that I’m bringing Bunnicula in on my way to work this morning. I’m pretty sure his downtown office is open early on Mondays.”
“Can I go with you, Dad?” Toby asked.
Mr. Monroe shook his head. “You have school today, young man.”
“But I could miss it, couldn’t I? What’s one day of school?”
“You have tomorrow off because of teacher conferences. That’s enough days off for this week. Besides, it’s Bunnicula who’s sick, not you.”
“But what if Bunnicula d—” Toby stopped himself from completing his sentence. I bumped up against his leg to remind him that his pal Harold was there for him. I felt his hand come to rest lightly on the top of my head.
“Now, son,” Mr. Monroe said in a soft, soothing voice, “I’m sure Bunnicula will be fine. Maybe there’s a problem with the food we’ve been giving him. Or maybe it’s some kind of virus. Whatever it is, Dr. Greenbriar will figure it out and have him all fixed up in no time flat.”
“Promise?” Toby said.
I looked up at Mr. Monroe’s face. There was something in it that told me he wasn’t entirely comfortable with his answer.
“Promise,” he told Toby.
Later that morning, after Mr. and Mrs. Monroe had gone to work and Toby and Pete to school, the phone rang.
Howie jumped up from where he was napping and began running in circles. “I’ll get it! I’ll get it!” he yipped.
The answering machine picked up.
“Boys,” Mr. Monroe’s voice said. Howie stopped yipping at once. “I just wanted to leave you this message since you’ll get home before I do today. Dr. Greenbriar is keeping Bunnicula overnight. He needs to run some tests. The important thing is not to worry. Bunnicula will be fine, guys. Okay? Bunnicula will be … fine.”