In the end, with public outrage focused on the self-righteous German couple who had run the place — plus Walter’s genius tactic of continually referring to the Happy Bunny’s owner, Alf, as Adolf throughout the entire trial — Parsifal was practically hailed as a public servant, a person who, like an undercover officer, had just let things get a bit out of control in the course of his investigation. It happened all the time.
Also, given Parsifal’s looks, the judge probably figured he’d been punished enough.
And as a matter of fact, who would have guessed the Happy Bunny Preschool didn’t have a sprinkler system? Parsifal thought there must be building codes exactly for that kind of thing.
So, as it turned out, did the judge.
Among the many good effects of spending so much time in libraries was that Parsifal learned the Dewey Decimal System, so it wasn’t long before Jocelyn and he could play little games while they waited for the library to close. For example, one night while waiting at his table by the newspaper rack, Parsifal wrote the number 127 and quietly left it on Jocelyn’s desk when she was busy helping someone else. When he returned after that person had left, he saw that she had written beneath it “The Unconscious and Subconscious Mind,” followed by the symbol for a happy face. That same night he was flipping through the pages of a pen magazine when out of the corner of his eye he saw Jocelyn behind her desk, holding up an index card with the number 716. Quickly, Parsifal found one of the scraps of paper they kept around the place and, using a stubby yellow pencil, wrote down “Herbaceous Plants.” Then, pretending he was just another library patron, he brushed by Jocelyn’s desk and dropped it where she might find it. When it was time to leave, Jocelyn signaled Parsifal by holding up a card with the number 021: “Library Relationships.”
How Parsifal missed Jocelyn!
How sorry he was things ended the way they did!
One might well think that a person such as Parsifal, who was able to distinguish between the calls of a red-headed and a downy woodpecker, between a finch and a warbler, between the chucklings of a grouse and a partridge and a turkey, would have an excellent ear for music. Alas, this was not the case. Parsifal could barely tell a bossa nova from a symphony, a fado from a fandango, and yet as he walked blindly forward in search of a stream to help him find his way out of the woods, he was certain that he could make out most, if not all, of the words to Bob Dylan’s “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue” coming from a dark spot in the trees before him — and sung not by the poeticizing master of rock and folk rock himself (what would he be doing in these woods at this time of year?) — or even in an amplified recording of his voice — but by three slurred and mostly off-tune voices, two men and a woman.
Parsifal staggered on in the direction of the sound, but the sound kept moving away. Either they were traveling rather quickly, he decided, or in his weakened state he was moving hardly at all. Then he walked around the trunk of a hickory tree and found them.
On the other hand, lightning.
Let’s settle one thing now. All the small scars left from his day-to-day life in the forest are nothing compared to the one that bothers people most, the really big one, the one to which Walter was referring in the courtroom, the one Parsifal got on a weekend when his father happened to be there for a visit.
It was a night right after Conrad had arrived when he called Parsifal aside. “Parsifal,” his father said, “your mother here and I need to discuss things such as your college education. Why don’t you go off for the next few hours and practice woodcraft? I’d hate to think you were getting rusty.”
So Parsifal followed his father’s advice and had collected nearly a bushel of edible roots when it began to rain really hard. But that kind of downpour wasn’t unusual, so he crawled into a hollow tree to wait. He figured the rain would let up in an hour or two, then he would go back home. He remembered that the Old Trapper had mentioned something about trees in rainstorms, but couldn’t quite remember what, although concerning that particular tree there were, at least in retrospect, two important facts: first, Parsifal was grateful to be dry, and second, after about five minutes of being inside the trunk his hair stood on end and then there was a crack. That’s all.
The next morning Parsifal woke split open from the top of his head down to the soles of his feet. He couldn’t move, and around him the tree was still emitting smoke. He looked like an overripe plum, or maybe an overcooked sausage, or maybe a melon that had been left in the field too long, or an Italian squash that had grown too big — a giant zucchini beginning to burst apart.
Then he heard a voice that belonged to Conrad, who, sensing trouble when his son hadn’t returned home by morning, had gone out to find him. He picked Parsifal up and carried him back to their house, where Pearl wrapped him in furs and animal fat and put him to bed.
“Get well soon,” Conrad had said. “I’ll see you in a while.” Then he packed his briefcase, adding in the lunch Pearl had prepared for his trip back to the city.
It was a long time before Parsifal saw him again.
“Ouch,” Joe said. “That must have hurt.”
“It’s the Pen Man!” Misty shouted. “Oh, wow!”
The fresh air of the forest and her good spirits had made her even more beautiful than before. Her skin shone beneath a glistening layer of perspiration, and her blouse clung to her body in an entirely natural, yet revealing way. She was also wearing something that looked like running shorts.
So, yes, the singing voices Parsifal had heard earlier that day belonged to none other than Misty and also — as she introduced to Parsifal her two friends — Cody and Black Dog.
“Far out,” Cody mumbled.
Black Dog stared at his fingernails until, after what seemed an unusually long time, he added his own “Far out,” as well.
“Pen Man!” Misty said. “Hey, what are you doing here? We were just — you know — taking a walk and a few things — and now you’re here with us too. How did that happen?”
Black Dog stooped to pick up a marble-sized round stone and held it close to his face. Cody had caught some of his long light-brown hair in one corner of his mouth, was wetting it to a point, taking it out, studying it, then wetting it again.
“Pen Man,” Misty said. “It’s the Pen Man!”
“Are you all high?” Parsifal asked.
Misty giggled. “Pen Man. What are you doing here?”
He briefly explained that this very forest had been his old neighborhood for a time, and he had returned to find an article he’d left behind when he was forced to leave in a hurry.
“Like what?” Misty said.
“Maybe a potty,” Black Dog offered. He and Cody saluted each other with high fives.
“Guys,” Misty said.
The guys settled down, and Black Dog showed Cody the rock he had just found.
“Actually, it was a cup,” Parsifal said.
“Yes, a cup. That’s perfect,” Misty said. “A cup is perfect. That’s so great, a cup. Right, guys? Did you hear? It’s a cup.”
Cody waved both hands over his head like a boxer who has just won a bout, and it seemed to Parsifal that he was genuinely happy to hear the news. Black Dog, on the other hand, held the stone close to his eye, as if he were examining it through a nonexistent jeweler’s loupe.
“And how are you doing with your search?” Misty asked.