Dewey Fairchild, Parent Problem Solver

by Lorri Horn

  Dewey had no idea why Clara had named him “Wolfie.” He appeared a good deal more like a panda cub than a wolf—an eighteen pound fluffball with a cotton-candy-pink tongue.

  “I’ve been thinking about hanging this picture for—oh, tartar sauce!” Clara had somehow managed to slam the hammer into her forehead as she pulled it back to hit the nail, and she tumbled off the step stool onto the floor. Sadly, her “cursing” sent Dewey into a fit of laughter, and, rather than helping her, he accidently tumbled over as well.

  Clara stood about four foot nine, which didn’t make her much taller than Dewey, and always had a smooth grey bun wrapped on top of her head. Even when she fell, her hair stayed in place. She pulled herself back up, put her small hands on her hips, and offered Dewey a hand.

  “Here,” she huffed, rolling her shoulders back like a soldier. “You hang it up, Papa Smurf.”

  Dewey hung the picture. “All done, Clara. Sorry. Really.” Then, he added, “Er, sir. Ma’am,” and he felt his cheeks get warm as he saluted her.

  “As you were, soldier.” She patted him on the shoulder warmly, and he knew they were good again, and he could go back to being the “real” boss.

  It was 1600 hours when he heard the telltale sign of a client. Pad, pad, pad. Thump! Chomp, chomp, chomp. Gulp. Pad, pad, pad . . . Thump!

  The air ducts had been set up so clients could enter unnoticed from the outside and crawl into the attic. Luckily, the house was built in the 1940s when rigid metal duct work was the norm. It was solid, just wide enough for the kids to crawl through, and there was no fiber in the air stream, which was a good thing if they wanted to breathe.

  On her way in on work days, Clara placed cookies and milk at strategic locations. They served both as a welcome gesture, and also to distract any clients who might be unable to appreciate the architectural genius of rigid metal duct work used for conveyance purposes due to their claustrophobia.

  She’d also fashioned herself a vent so that she could continue to bake the cookies in the attic during the day. The idea of having the oven delivered had stressed Dewey out. He just couldn’t conceive of how they were going to get a 200-pound oven up the stairs of the attic without his parents knowing.

  Then, one day, it was just there. When he tried to ask Clara about how she’d done it, she stuck a cookie in his mouth and smiled.

  The end of the road for the client was a slide that careened the cookie consumer directly into the office space onto a thick, soft cushion. Dewey and Clara had fashioned the slide out of wood, not plastic, as it created a more sophisticated and less “playground” feel, they’d decided. It was smooth—no splinters—and just steep enough to serve the purpose.

  That construction had required Dewey and Clara to do math—rise over run—to solve the slope needed. He’d asked his dad, who prided himself on being great at math, to help him; Dewey told him it was a word problem for school. They’d had a good time figuring it out, though Dewey wished he could have had Dad help him more. The last drop was a bit abrupt if the looks on the clients’ faces were any indication.

  Plop! The client landed right on the big, soft, lime-green cushion next to Wolfie’s cushion, which was also lime-green to accentuate his black and white coloring. Clara had set the cushion up on a small wooden platform across from Dewey’s desk. They’d recently added an extra cushion, so the drop wouldn’t be so abrupt. That seemed to solve the problem for the moment. They’d also added extra padding along the bottom of the duct work path, as Clara had said the spirit was willing, but the knees might start to get “fussbudgety” if some extra cushioning were not applied.

  Today, with little chocolate crumbs still on the bottom right of his mouth, at 1600 hours, in plopped Danny Tedphrey. A tallish kid with mahogany red hair like an Irish Setter, Danny had dark circles under his round, wheat-brown eyes.

  He looked over at Wolfie, worried.

  “I have allergies. I’m allergic to acacia, elm, eucalyptus, cedar, yellow dock, common mugwort, western ragweed, cottonwood, cocklebur, Kentucky bluegrass, cultivated ryegrass, perennial ryegrass, did I say eucalyptus? Yeah, well, eucalyptus, rabbit hair, chickens, cats, and dogs!”

  Dewey and Clara shot each other a look and not just because her last name, Cottonwood, was in his litany of allergens, though it did add to the humor of the situation.

  “Who, Wolfie? Don’t worry. He’s hypoallergenic. He’s not going to harm you at all.”

  Dewey then adjusted his glasses on his nose, as any good professional in any good book he’d ever read would do at this particular juncture. He didn’t really wear prescription glasses, but he felt that it was good to be able to adjust them at key moments with his clients. He’d had Clara purchase a pair without a prescription for him to slip on or off and adjust when the moment seemed right.

  “So, then, Danny, what brings you here today?”

  Clara, who had just finished baking a batch of snickerdoodles, picked up her cue and dropped off a clipboard, pen, and this questionnaire for Danny to fill out:

  Name:

  Grade:

  School:

  Home Address:

  Best Entry to Your Home Without Being Noticed:

  Top Three Hiding Places in Your Home:

  Siblings (names and ages):

  Pets:

  Parents’ Names:

  Problem Parent(s) Cause You:

  Danny had one siblings and a pet goldfish named Sophie. He hesitated for a while trying to figure out good entry and hiding spots, but he had no problem filling out the line about problems parents cause. His father was the problem: he was a big joker. His antics weren’t funny. And Danny was usually the butt of them.

  “Last week while I was studying for a spelling test, he put ice down my pants. This morning he apologized for eating all of my Halloween candy last night. After I started getting all upset and yelling and stuff, then he tells me he’s just kidding. Yeah. Really funny. Anyway, I want you to make him stop. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Mmm,” mused Dewey, “Halloween candy. I’d have to say my favorite ones are the Skittles. Love those. Got any of those left? I got hardly any this year. Nothing wrong with a Twizzler, either. Dark chocolate. That’s what I got. Those little rectangles in the brown and red paper pledging bliss, and then all you get is bitter disappointment. Literally!”

  “I like Kit Kats,” Danny offered, and Clara nodded in approval as Dewey seemed to be off in his own reverie.

  “Dark chocolate. What kid in his right mind wants dark chocolate? What kind of adult thinks it’s a good idea to stuff dark chocolate into some kid’s sack? Kit Kat? You just said Kit Kat? Now, the Japanese, they know candy! You want fruit? Did you know they’ve got Kit Kat Strawberry, Kit Kat Pear, Orange, and Apple? They have Kit Kat Apricot Seed, Peach, Kiwi, Lemon, Cherry Blossom . . . Hmm, what else? Oh yeah, mix it up! Fruit Parfait. Kit Kat Pumpkin, hello! Halloween, people! Kit Kat Watermelon and Salt. Now, you gotta admit that’s inspired, sweet and salty.”

  Before Danny could interject anything— not that he could think of a thing to say—Clara rolled up a chair for him to sit down in and tried, unsuccessfully, to make eye contact with Dewey, who had begun another pace around the desk and continued, “No good, you say? You’re more in a veggie mood? Sweet Potato, Edamame, and even Hot Chili Pepper! They have Kit Kats that rival Clara’s cookies, even—sorry, Clara! Kit Kat Cinnamon Cookies! Or a Strawberry or Blueberry Cheesecake Kit Kat!”

  Clara put a finger up to try and get a word in—her mouth opened, but before she could speak Dewey said, “Say, all this talk of eating Kit Kats is making me thirsty.” Dewey sat down in his chair, next to Clara and across from Danny. “I think I’ll have a Green Tea Kit Kat! Or some milk—”

  An elderly elbow landed squarely in Dewey’s left rib and he stopped short.

  “Right. Practical jokes. No good. Must stop him. Got it. On the ca
se. You’ve come to the right place, Danbear. Let’s get started.”

  Clara placed a fresh cookie and a glass of milk down. Part of the operation was to parcel out different flavors and textures of cookies one at a time. It kept the clients engaged while not allowing them to get too full too fast, though Clara wondered if Dewey’s Kit Kat tangent hadn’t just made all of this just seem a bit too simple.

  “Oh,” Clara inquired. “I suppose I should have asked this earlier. Food allergies?”

  “Nope,” Danny replied as he bit into a chewy oatmeal cookie filled with M&Ms. Wolfie got his without M&Ms and wagged his tail, which was curled up behind and over his back like a wire hanger covered with snowy tinsel.

  “I need a list of your dad’s favorite things—his favorite foods, hobbies, whatever. Anything that you can think of that he gets excited about, I want to know it. We’ll have him taken care of in no time.”

  “OK,” said Danny. “Is that it?”

  “Yes, for now,” said Dewey. “We’ll talk more after I get this profile information.”

  “OK, um, well, thanks for the cookies and the help. I’ll get back to you about my dad’s favorite stuff.”

  Danny went out the way he came in. Sort of. Admittedly, this was the least smooth part of their operation.

  Clara hurried over and placed a thick wooden board lined with shelf paper (“to class it up a bit”) atop the cushion right under the chute. She threaded her fingers together and provided Danny a step and hoist up to climb back in the way he came.

  Why they didn’t just provide a step stool or build a ladder is anyone’s guess. But the first time Dewey suggested it, Clara balked saying, “I’m as strong as an eastern lowland gorilla. I don’t see wasting materials when we’re all set.”

  And it was kind of endearing each time she put her hands together like a ranch hand helping a kid mount a horse.

  When Danny’s feet pulled up and away, Dewey leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk.

  “OH! I totally forgot Kit Kat Tiramisu!” he said to Clara. “Dark chocolate. Hmph.”

  “I don’t know, sir. I think I’d prefer dark chocolate over a potato bar—ha!! Get it, potato bar? Now that’s kind of funny!” she laughed and left to take care of some things at home.

  As Dewey sat at his desk, he wondered if the Japanese cut the crust off of their sandwiches. He bet they did.

  Well, enough of that—he had to start figuring out how to fix up Danny’s dad.

  He leaned over and gave Wolfie a belly rub for inspiration, and Wolfie made some noise that sounded a lot like “Rarara” which made Dewey feel all soft and warm inside. He sighed and stared deeply at the picture he and Clara had just hung on the wall and began to think.

  The Plan

  “What ore you doween?” Dewey’s little sister Emma had spotted him on his iPad. Now he’d never get anything done.

  His four-year-old sister had large, almond-shaped eyes. One evening they had played a family game of picking what color everyone’s eyes were in the big box of Crayola crayons and Emma’s, they decided, looked “Denim.” Emma, aka, Pooh Bear, had milky white skin, this little kitten nose, and, messy, soft, long brown hair, and, if anyone had bothered to pick a crayon color for her lips, they’d be “Pig Pink.” She was downright adorable. She was also downright annoying.

  Perhaps even more unfortunate, though, was the fact that Pooh Bear was stronger than he was, which, as you can imagine, humiliated him occasionally. OK, maybe a lot of the time. She had some letter problems which made her sound like a baby, but that didn’t seem to make her any less tough.

  One time, a runny-nosed brat tried to steal Dewey’s Transformer, and she put a swift elbow to that kid’s ear, grabbed it back, and then went right back in for his GoGurt. She was just two. Emma didn’t mess around.

  “Nothing. Just some stuff.”

  “What kind of stuff? Can I pway?”

  “I’m not playing. I’m working. Can you bug off?”

  “Yes! I wuh be a wady bug!! ‘Wady Bug Wady Bug fwwwy away . . .’ Hey, Dewey?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What ore you doween?”

  “Some research.” He sighed. “Do you want to help?”

  “Yes! Oh yes! I want to hewp, Dewey. Hey, Dewey? Can I hewp?”

  “I just said you can help! Here. Hold this. Now press this button. See? The cars are loading. We want to see if we can find the nicest red Corvette for sale online.”

  “I wike wed wowipops.”

  “Ha! I’ll bet you do! I wonder if I can find one right about now.”

  Dewey went to his Halloween stash and managed to find a green one.

  “Will green do?”

  Two nods of the head later and that kid was licking and sucking like a pool filter when the water level is low.