It was summer. But we sat outside on the porch and got goose-bumps. Even my face got goosebumps. My dad tied helium balloons to the porch because it was his and Uncle Thoby’s birthday. We sat and shivered. The pond bounced like black coffee. Everyone drank black coffee. Toff and Grandmother were assigned (by me) their own mugs. Toff’s had a rude cartoon of the Queen on it. Grandmother’s said London. I hoped they would feel homesick.
My eyes felt small and stayed small even at night.
When I said my face was cold, Toff said his beard was like a blanket. Then he picked it up and said, Want some.
That freaked me out.
And then: Hadn’t Toff and Grandmother come for my dad and Uncle Thoby’s birthday. But this morning they hadn’t said Happy Doozoo even after I’d said it, loudly, three times.
I’m sorry, Toff said. The Doozoo is—
Today, I said.
August twelfth, Uncle Thoby said. Toff continued to look mystified.
Le douze août, I said slowly.
Oh right. Of course.
And why hadn’t they brought presents. Grandmother seemed confused. She said the presents were in her runaway bag. If you say so, I said. Audrey, said my dad. At least there were the helium balloons (from me) because Uncle Thoby loved helium. And a new phone for my dad (from Uncle Thoby). And a bowl with a very realistic fly painted on the rim for Uncle Thoby (from my dad). And a bottle of sherry for Uncle Thoby (from my dad).
Pour, oh pour the pirate sherry, Uncle Thoby sang in the kitchen, his pirate hair falling over his eyebrow.
His mug was replaced by a little red glass.
That night we had chicken lasagna for dinner. I stood up and gave a toast to Andrew Toti, inventor of the automated chicken plucker.
Grandmother and Toff lifted their eyebrows.
And the life vest, I added. Amen.
Amen, said my dad.
The lasagna had three layers and each layer could be cut into a twelve-car parking lot and each parking space eaten separately. Occasionally I took a break to play with the corkscrew.
Sometimes she has hairy armpits, I said, lifting her arms.
And sometimes hairy shoulders.
Don’t interrupt, said my dad.
Which would you rather have, I asked the table at large.
Silence. Then Uncle Thoby said, I’ve got both.
I patted his arm. Your shoulders aren’t hairy.
They sort of are, he said.
I returned to my lasagna.
Now there was a lull (for which they should have been grateful) in Toff’s story about his formative years as a choirboy. I glanced up to see some eye contact happening over my head. I was the only one still eating.
What, I said.
Take your time, sweetheart, said Uncle Thoby.
Before dinner I had been dispatched to my room to look for the corkscrew, which I had hidden in my bottom drawer. I was very fond of that corkscrew. I liked how it was part ballerina, part weapon.
Where is the goddamn corkscrew. Audrey!
Oui. I danced into the kitchen.
The corkscrew is not on the board.
Non.
Where is it.
Use Uncle Thoby’s knife one.
Where’s the proper one.
Am I allowed in my bedroom.
Of course.
So I clumped upstairs. I had not been in my own room for two days. Because now it was Toff’s room. And boy was I in for a rude awakening. First of all, it smelled really bad. There was an ashtray (full) and a wood brush with beard hairs in it on my dresser. And the tree painted on my wall seemed to be withering. Poor tree, I whispered and touched a leaf. Then I said it again, loudly. Poor tree, I wailed.
Uncle Thoby poked his head in. What’s going on.
My tree is dying.
It can’t die. It’s not a real tree.
Yes, but it is.
The tree was Uncle Thoby’s creation. The branches were long and bent onto the adjacent walls and ceiling so that they seemed to embrace the bed that lay under it. On the branches were little brown Velcro buds. Since it was summer, each bud had a green felt leaf stuck to it. Come the fall, those leaves would be replaced by red and yellow leaves. We had a ceremony, Uncle Thoby and me, called the Changing of the Tree, which occurred on the equinoxes and solstices.
I unstuck a leaf from a branch and sniffed it. Smell, I said.
He made a face. It’s not that bad.
Yes, but it is.
I know. But there’s nothing we can do about it right now. Come on. Why are you in here.
For the corkscrew.
He was unsurprised. Well get it and come on.
After dinner, Uncle Thoby and I went outside to untie the balloons. I stomped on the boards and said, Toff is trying to make my dad smoke.
Uncle Thoby sighed. No he’s not.
He’s trying to kill my dad. He’s like the man in the book my dad is not reading after dinner because we have guests.
Say that again.
I stomped back and forth. Like the man from Russia who also had a beard that disappeared under the table. Rumplestojffskin.
Rasputin.
I nodded. Rasputin had proved (so far) unkillable. He had not been killed by poison or by gun. Let’s poison Toff’s coffee, I said.
Let’s not, he said. He was bent over the railing, untying a ribbon. You want to give me a hand, he said.
I put my hand on his arm.
Ha.
The balloons tugged at their ribbons and leaned out towards the pond.
I’m going to make a loop, I said. And I set off, boards bouncing. As I passed the dining-room window, I heard Grandmother say, What on earth.
When I got back to Uncle Thoby, he was waiting with his arms open. This was a thing we did. I did a loop and he was waiting. He lifted me up and sat me on the porch railing. What a workout, I said, wiping sweat from my brow. I leaned back. He held my ankles. I leaned back until I saw the pond upside down.
I have a question for you, he said.
I have a question for you.
Okay, let’s hear yours.
I sat up. I looked around. Behind him the balloons were bobbing in the kitchen.
You don’t really have a question, he said.
Yes I do. And here it is. Are you ready. Okay. My question is. Did you have a Happy Doozoo.
He smiled. I had a very Happy Doozoo.
I put my face close to his. I pushed his hair aside so I could look into his eyes and see if he was lying. He was. I gave him a hug. I wrapped my arms around him tight. He picked me up and we walked the full orbit of the porch together. What’s the matter, he said in my ear. You’ve been acting very oddly.
I smooshed my face against his. I don’t like having guests.
I was a guest once.
Not the same, I murmured. These ones are très méchants.
Très méchants.
They have mean eyebrows.
He didn’t say anything. I asked him what his question was.
Oh yes. My question. Are you ready. Here it is. Did I see you drinking coffee earlier.
No.
I think I did. And I think that may be the source of some of the trouble. Are you tired.
No.
I think you really are.
No.
I think it’s time for bed, he said.
You mean cot.
In cot, I compiled a list of grievances:
It bugged me the way Grandmother watched me eat. Even when someone else was talking, she was focused on my plate. I also didn’t like the way she and Toff made eye contact against me like I was blind. Uncle Thoby explained later that they were agitated because they wanted to smoke, and it’s rude to smoke at the table when someone is still eating. Well, even if I wanted to, which I didn’t, I couldn’t just speed up. I ate slow. My dad ate fast. And Uncle Thoby ate medium-fast. When my dad finished, he read out loud from the biography. He read until I was finished eating. That was the rule. And just because he didn�
�t read at the table when we had guests, that didn’t mean I should throw a perfectly good habit out the window. Because what if I did. What if I did throw a perfectly good habit out the window and then got into the habit of eating fast. What would happen to our biography time. Dishes would come sooner. Bedtime would come sooner.
I did not like the way Toff talked on and on about Cambridge. It was ridiculous. He was always trying to get my dad to walk down memory lane. He needed to be interrupted more. That would be my job. I had already used the corkscrew to that purpose. Also I had asked him, How deep was that river you fell overboard into. Only up to my waist, he said. I laughed. Our pond has no bottom, I told him. Maybe you should go for a swim in it. Audrey, said my dad. But it was mean to Uncle Thoby, this memory-lane business, when Uncle Thoby had not gone to Cambridge, but had stayed in London to be a baggage handler and the black sheep of the family.
Grandmother didn’t kiss Uncle Thoby at the airport.
Uncle Thoby wasn’t included in any of the memory lanes.
I didn’t like how exasperated Grandmother sounded when she talked about my dad’s experiments. For instance, when he was little my dad used to rescue hurt insects and keep them alive, even if they only had three legs. There was a three-legged beetle he kept in a jar for years. You exaggerate, said my dad. Grandmother seemed equally exasperated (disgusted) by Wedge.
Wedge wasn’t allowed on the table while they were visiting. Not even to light a light bulb.
When I asked Toff what his favourite game was, he said Spite and Malice. What’s that, I asked. A card game. And then he showed me how you played. You had to stack the cards in their proper order, jack, queen, king, over and over. It was incredibly dumb. Then I asked Grandmother what her favourite game was. Solitaire, she said. What’s that. A card game. And she showed me how you played. You had to stack the cards in their proper order, jack, queen, king, over and over.
Jesus Christ doesn’t anybody love Clue.
My dad opened the door and said, Still awake, old goat.
Goddamn it. Etcetera.
And just when my eyes had adjusted and I was fully alert and ready to explain, or try to explain, all my grievances, he got into bed and turned off the light. I couldn’t see his feet yet, but when I did, they’d better have socks on them or be under the covers.
My dad usually started out on top of the covers and ended up under them. He liked to say he didn’t know how he got there. Well, guess what, that mystery was now solved because I’d seen him pull the covers over himself in the middle of the night. It wasn’t like they magically moved.
I’m blind, I said.
Give them a moment, he said. Meaning my pupils.
I turned over. My cot squeaked.
Tell me the story of the two men and the lion.
Why. Have you had a bad dream.
Yes.
And you’re just mentioning it now.
I just remembered it, when I got back into the same position on my cot.
Audrey, I’m really tired.
Oh, I said.
Oh what.
I’m not.
On nights when I’d had a bad dream, I was allowed to wake up my dad and relate—very briefly, sans embellishment—my nightmare montage, and then my dad would tell me the story of the two men and the lion.
Can’t I tell you about my dream.
Was it about a plane.
No. Guests.
I can’t guess.
No. Guests.
Go to sleep.
My eyes had adjusted. I could just make out his foot. I poked it lightly. It had a sock on it. I poked it again.
Stop.
I had wanted to play Clue since Toff and Grandmother arrived and finally the next night I was granted my wish. We gathered around the table. I would be playing Miss Scarlet. I made that clear from the get-go. And my dad would be Professor Plum and Uncle Thoby would be Mr. Green. All comme d’habitude. But now we had two more characters in the mix. Mrs. Peacock and Colonel Mustard. So all the Clue characters were accounted for. Except Mrs. White.
The plot thickens, I said, nodding.
What plot, said Toff.
You look like your character, I said. It was true. He was mustard-coloured, especially the fingers that held the cigarette.
Aren’t you going to sit down, said Grandmother.
No. I play standing up.
Since when, said my dad.
Since today.
Someone has had C-O-F-F, Uncle Thoby began.
That’s rude, I said, pointing at him.
Pointing is rude, he said.
I unfolded the board. I remarked on how much it resembled Grandmother’s house, only rolling-pinned flat. Silence while they pondered this.
Not really, said Toff.
Yes it does, I said. But actually, when I tried to remember Grandmother’s house, all I saw was the Clue board.
The Candlestick game piece was missing, so we replaced it with the Corkscrew. My suggestion.
I like to carry the Revolver on my person, I warned Toff and Grandmother.
Okay, said Toff.
And so we commenced.
Toff and Grandmother used the words accuse and suspect interchangeably, which was a bit confusing.
I paced back and forth with my cards in one hand and the Revolver in the other. I said, Very interesting, even when it wasn’t. After my turn I sometimes left the room on business.
Audrey, get back here. I thought you wanted to play.
I do.
Come back or it’s game over.
I clumped back. It was four turns until mine. I went into orbit around the table.
She’s looking at my cards, said Mrs. Peacock. I pointed at my chest. Moi.
Then I stood behind Toff and pointed the gun at his head for a long time without him noticing.
Uncle Thoby pulled out my chair. Sit, he said. Now.
So I sat. For a while.
Toff said why didn’t they make a Clue board with an upstairs. Bedrooms. A bathroom with a hot tub.
An adult version, said my dad. With a whole new set of weapons.
Long silence.
Walter, really, said Uncle Thoby.
Something that infuriated my dad: How I hardly ever rolled the dice. There was no need. Once you got to a corner room, you could leap across the board to the opposite corner without rolling. So my strategy was to just keep leaping back and forth.
Have you ever been to the Billiard Room, Toff asked.
Nope.
So you just keep jumping back and forth between the Conservatory and the Lounge.
Yup.
How do you figure out the room.
I have my ways.
Are they above board.
Bien sûr.
Grandmother now suspected Mr. Green with the Candlestick in the Kitchen.
You mean Corkscrew!
Sorry, Corkscrew.
The Corkscrew was too big. It didn’t fit in any of the rooms.
It is pure laziness not to roll the dice and walk to a bloody room, said my dad, studying his cards. Can’t help you, he said to Grandmother.
Well then, she said. I’m going to accuse.
Wait wait wait, I said. Are you really going to accuse. Or just suspect.
I’m going to accuse, she said. I accuse Mr. Green with the Corkscrew in the Kitchen.
I pointed the gun at her. Wrong, I said.
Grandmother reached for the envelope that contained the answer.
Stop! You have to wait till the next round.
Someone isn’t acting her age, Grandmother said.
Who, I said, looking around the table.
Mum, said my dad.
Walter, I just think—
I’m only one year old, I said.
You are not one, she said.
I’ve had one birthday, I said, holding up a finger. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.
Well, said Uncle Thoby, standing up. I think it’s time for cot.
&nbs
p; She means one leap birthday, my dad said.
I know what she means, Grandmother said. You’re seven, Audrey.
I did not like the way she leaned on the word seven.
Uncle Thoby took the Revolver out of my hands. Upstairs, he said. Nightie. Now.
The next morning I came downstairs and the coffee was not made. I could not smell coffee. My dad was unloading the new fly bowl from the dishwasher. This should not have been put in the dishwasher, he said. And his eyebrows were like Bert’s.
I pointed at the coffee maker. Where’s Ernie.
Audrey. Come back here a moment.
I was halfway down the basement steps. I looked up. He’s not down there, my dad said.
Why.
Come here.
Slowly I climbed the steps. Uncle Thoby always made the coffee. He was always the first one up.
My dad explained that Uncle Thoby had checked into a hotel. Temporarily. This would solve the problem of rooms. I could now move back into mine. And Toff would move downstairs into Uncle Thoby’s. As he said this, he was trying to separate a coffee filter from the stack. Fuck, he said, and put the stack down. He pointed at it. Could you, he said.
Was this my fault. Because I’d pointed a gun at Toff and Grandmother. Because I wasn’t acting my age, whatever that meant.
This was my worst fear. That I would wake up one morning and Uncle Thoby would be gone and we would be unable to separate the coffee filters. Life would unravel. It was like A Christmas Carol, but the reverse. Imagine Scrooge wakes up and is not happy but devastated because he fell in love with one of the ghosts. And now he hates the real people around him even more because they’re all bastards. Except his dad.
My dad was pretending to be cool, but he would not normally say fuck over filters. Now you’ll have your room back, he said again.
But this was not how I wanted my room back. So that Toff could move into Uncle Thoby’s new basement apartment and stink up the green walls.
Upstairs a toilet flushed. Fuck, I said and glanced at my dad.
Okay, he said. Meaning, enough.
But it didn’t make sense. If this was about sleeping arrangements, why had Uncle Thoby left in the middle of the night after I was in bed, sorry cot. What was the hurry.
Well, here is maybe a clue. The Grandmother-Toff reaction to the news that Uncle Thoby would not be joining us for breakfast this morning or any morning because he had checked into the Civil Manor: They lifted their eyebrows. For two seconds. Then put them back down again.
Come, Thou Tortoise Page 8
