All About Sam Page 8

  "I might," Sam agreed.

  "What have you been doing today?" she asked him after they had sat down together at her kitchen table with a plate of cookies and a glass of milk each.

  Sam sighed. "Anastasia won't play with me because she's busy writing a code," he said. "And my mom is doing the laundry so she can't play with me right now, and she didn't understand about codes, anyway.

  "Do you know about codes?" he asked, looking up at Gertrustein. "If I said, 'I don't want another cookie,' it would really mean, 'I do want another cookie' because it would be a code."

  Gertrustein passed the cookies to Sam, and he took another.

  "I know a code," she said.

  "Do you really?" Sam asked. "Or are you talking in code? Because if you're talking in code and you say, 'I know a code,' then it would really mean 'I don't know a code.'"

  Gertrustein chuckled. "No, actually, I do know a real code. Not a made-up one like Anastasia's. I know the Morse code. I learned it during the war. I wonder if I can remember it."

  She closed her eyes, thinking. Sam sneaked his hand over to the cookie plate while her eyes were closed.

  "Dit dah," Gertrustein said aloud.

  Sam stared at her.

  "Dah dit dit dit," she said with her eyes still closed. "Dah dit dah dit."

  Quietly Sam pulled his sneaking hand back, away from the cookie plate. He slid off his chair. He decided that he would escape through the back door, run home faster than a speeding bullet, and tell his mother that something was seriously wrong with Gertrustein. His mother could call an ambulance.

  But as he was tiptoeing across the kitchen toward the door, Gertrustein opened her eyes.

  "I remember it! Every bit of the Morse code! Let me find a flashlight, and I'll show you!"

  That night, after Sam was bathed and in his pajamas and had brushed his teeth and had had his bedtime story and had kissed everyone good night and been tucked in and his light was turned out, he decided that he didn't even need his night-light, for the very first time.

  "Are you sure?" his mother asked. "You've always had your Mickey Mouse night-light."

  "Tonight I don't want it," Sam said firmly. His mother leaned down to where Mickey lived in the electrical outlet on Sam's bedroom wall. She clicked Mickey off.

  "Do you want me to leave your door open so you'll have a little light from the hall?" his mom asked.

  "Nope," Sam said. So she said good night and closed his door.

  His room was very, very dark. After a moment, when Sam's eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see the two big windows and the dark sky outside and a few stars.

  He reached under the covers and found his daddy's flashlight where he had hidden it.

  Then he tiptoed, carrying the flashlight to his window.

  He balanced the flashlight on the windowsill, aimed it across the dark yard, and with his thumb, Sam found the button that would turn it on.

  Dit dah dit dah, Sam flashed. That meant: Desire to establish contact.

  He and Gertrustein had studied Morse code all afternoon. Gertrustein had said that Sam had a mind like a steel trap. Sam pictured the inside of his own head, shiny steel with springs and teeth like a bear trap, grabbing at the Morse code and holding it tight so it would never escape.

  Dit dah dit dah, he flashed again, remembering the signal he had learned with his bear-trap mind. He waited. He knew how slowly she walked, and how long it took her to do things with her aching arms and legs.

  After a minute, across the yard, from the upstairs window of the next house, he saw her answer. Dah dah dah dah dah, she flashed. Contact established.

  Sam grinned in the dark. Dit dit dit dit; dit dit, he flashed. Hi. It was very easy to do hi in Morse code. Probably even someone who didn't have a bear-trap mind could do it.

  Hi, Gertrustein flashed back.

  Sam and Gertrustein had decided that they would flash "Hi" to each other every night for the rest of their lives.

  She had taught him other messages, too. Dit dit dit; dah dah dah; dit dit dit was the one they would use only in case of emergency. If Sam happened to see scary monsters, for example, he could flash dit dit dit; dah dah dah; dit dit dit to Gertrustein, and she would save him. She would save him the very next instant, she promised.

  If Gertrustein fell and broke her aching leg in fourteen pieces, she needed only to flash dit dit dit; dah dah dah; dit dit dit to Sam. He would rescue her in no more than thirty-two seconds, he had promised.

  Sam watched through the dark, but there were no more flashes. Only the "Hi." No emergencies, no accidents, no monsters. Gertrustein was safe. So was Sam.

  Content, he crept back through the dark room and climbed into his bed again. Carefully he aimed the flashlight at his ceiling and tapped out one more message with his thumb. A private message only for himself. Dit dit dit; dit dah; dah dah, he said to the ceiling. That meant Sam.

  Dit dit dit; dit dah; dah dah, he flashed to the closet where occasionally there might be monsters. Sam. Any monsters would understand what that meant, and that they should go away.

  Dit dit dit; dit dah; dah dah, he flashed to the Mickey Mouse night-light. Sam. Mickey would understand what that meant: that he wouldn't be needed anymore.

  Dit dit dit; dit dah; dah dah, he flashed to his trucks in their cardboard garage. To the little box of dirt where King of Worms had once lived. To his books. To his jeans in a heap on the chair. To his sneakers with their Velcro fasteners on the floor. And to a half-eaten egg salad sandwich that he had hidden behind the curtains just last week.

  Sam, he flashed.

  Sam.

  Sam.

  Sam.

  That's me, he thought with satisfaction, and he fell asleep.