“Perfect.” He straightens his tie. “Come on, Sally.”
Half an hour later it’s 17:55 by the airport TV screens. 5:55 by my watch. I’m standing in front of the airport LOST AND FOUND office, clutching my Commodores soccer bag.
The press conference is over. Police and reporters and cameras are gone. So is Frieda’s dad, who remembered important business back at the office, kissed his wife and daughter, patted the dog, and jumped in a limousine. Is Frieda disappointed? She doesn’t seem to be. Maybe she’s used to it. Her mom has her hand on Frieda’s shoulder. That may be something she isn’t used to. But I bet she can get used to it.
Frieda’s suitcase isn’t in the LOST AND FOUND. “Maybe someone mailed it to you,” I say. “Maybe someone saw your address printed on the luggage tag, and mailed your suitcase to the house.”
Frieda laughs. So does the lady in charge of the LOST AND FOUND. Even Mrs. Miller finds a smile for the hayseed from out of town.
I don’t feel much like smiling myself. I’ve phoned Frieda’s place three or four times, using Mrs. Miller’s cell phone. No word from Dad.
My soccer bag looks exactly the same as it did this morning. Exactly the same as it did a few weekends ago, when I took it to Victor’s cottage on Rice Lake. I can’t help wondering if I look any different. I feel different.
“I’m sorry your father’s late,” says Mrs. Miller. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly normal explanation.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Well, I suppose we’d best be getting back for dinner.”
“Alan’s coming back with us, isn’t he?” says Frieda. “We can’t just leave him here. You can stay to dinner with us, can’t you, Alan?”
“Sure,” I say. Where else do I have to go?
Back on the moving sidewalk, on our way out, Frieda and her mom are having an intimate conversation. I don’t want to listen, but I can’t help hearing. “Remember what the therapist said? It would be natural for you to blame me.” Mrs. Miller puts her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “I guess that’s the reason I’m afraid of you.”
“But why would I blame you?”
“For letting you down. For somehow making you the way you are.”
“You’re my mom. You brought me into the world.”
A medium-sized guy steps on one moving sidewalk as we step off the other. He’s going into the airport as we’re going out. He is unremarkable in almost every way, except for the red hair, which is just starting to turn gray around the temples.
“Dad!” I say.
I drop my bag and almost fall down. Sudden weakness in the knees. Dad steps off the moving sidewalk and strolls towards me. “Hey, champ!” he says. “Great to see you. Nice shades. Been waiting long?”
He looks so incredibly normal. Not tired or strained. Not ecstatic. His suit is buttoned. His hair is combed. His leather shoes gleam. He reminds me of my soccer bag – nothing has really changed about him since the last time I saw him. He’s pleased to see me, and that’s all. Has he been running around the city, frantic with worry? He has not. Are his knees weak, now that we’ve finally found each other? Bet not. “Your plane was early, then,” he says.
I don’t say anything. I can’t. I want to say something not uncool, but I just can’t.
He holds out his hand. I take it because what else am I going to do?
“Where … oh, Daddy, where have you been?” I say. Uncool. Damn.
“What do you mean? Your plane isn’t due in for almost another hour. I didn’t want to miss it, so I cut my last meeting short and hurried over. How about that – I’m forty-five minutes early for something. Your mom won’t believe it.” He’s still smiling. He doesn’t get it. He has no idea of what has been going on.
Mrs. Miller takes over. “Alan flew to New York with my daughter.”
“That’s great. Nice to meet you, Mrs….”
“Miller. Gladys Miller. My husband is … I mean, my daughter is named Frieda.”
“Nice to meet both of you.” Dad shakes hands. His smile isn’t forced or strained. “So, why was the plane so early? Tailwinds or something? My schedule has you arriving at 18:45. That’s, what, quarter to seven. Gee, I hate this military time.”
He holds out an official-looking piece of paper. I practically tear it from his hand, to see the time. 18:45, all right. “There was a mistake,” I say. “It should say 8:45.”
Dad shakes his head. “No, champ. That can’t be right. You haven’t been here since 8:45 this morning, have you?”
He stares at me and Frieda.
“Oh, champ. Oh, buddy boy. How awful. I’m so sorry. Hanging around an airport for ten hours. Your day must have been so boring.”
There’s a pause. I find myself giving my dad a quirky little smile. “No,” I say, finally. “It wasn’t boring.”
Me and Bruce Willis. Only I’m not in a movie. This is my life.
My dad and I did stay in a hotel, and order room service, and it was not uncool. We got to a baseball game the night before I came home, and I went to the bathroom by myself in the fourth inning. And I took my time. When I got back to my seat, Dad was looking a bit anxious. I smiled.
He went with me to the airport, and let me pick a souvenir gift. It was an easy choice. Sleek, black, palm-sized, with four functions including speed dial.
I survived the plane trip back to Toronto. Mom met me at the Toronto airport, and made me write my dad a card to thank him for an exciting vacation. He hasn’t written back yet.
School starts next week. Grade eight – am I ready? My new teacher is Mr. Reynolds, an old man who wears zippered cardigans and yells all the time. I used to be frightened of him. Now I don’t know. His gray hair is natural. And he doesn’t wear cologne.
I talk to Frieda fairly often. Having my own cell phone makes a difference. Apparently Mrs. Miller has quit the Tutankhamen Society and Sally has turned the sarcophagus into her own doghouse. Frieda talks about Sally all the time, but doesn’t mention Norbert. I wonder if he’s still there. I’d call him up if I knew the number.
Frieda’s got another operation scheduled in Toronto around Christmastime. Maybe we’ll get together. Last week she sent me an article from Discovery magazine. The author, Dr. Malchus, is described as a noted expert in the field of Egyptology, currently awaiting trial. The article is titled: “The Truth about the Great Pyramids.” I haven’t read it yet.
I got a postcard from Bird in today’s mail. He’s having a wonderful time, and feels right at home where he is. I don’t know where that is, exactly. There’s no stamp or postmark on the card. The picture on the front is of a little baby sleeping on its mother’s stomach.
From The Nose from Jupiter:
I started to sneeze. I sneezed and sneezed and sneezed. Finally, about twenty sneezes later, I stopped. I couldn’t feel anything. I sniffed a few times, experimentally. Still no feeling.
Fine. I must have dislodged the … whatever it was. I went back to the lawn mower. That’s when I heard the voice.
– Here we are at last, it said.
I looked over my shoulder to see who was talking, but somehow I knew there wasn’t anyone there. The squeaky voice was coming from inside me. Inside my nose.
– Ah, this is nice. Say, this is a great place you’ve got here.
“Hello,” I said. “Who are you?”
– Living room, bedroom, kitchen, back room. And a garage, of course. Very nice indeed. I think I’m going to be happy here.
“What are you talking about?” I said.
– If you could see the place I was living on Jupiter, this … this is luxury. Just like the commercials you people send out. This is the life. Ah.
“That’s my nose you’re talking about,” I said. “Isn’t it?”
– You tell me. I’m a stranger here myself.
A high and squeaky voice, coming from inside my nose.
Copyright © 2000 by Richard Scrimger
Published in Canada by Tundra Books,
75 Sherbourne Street, Toronto, Ontario M5A 2P9
Published in the United States by Tundra Books of Northern New York,
P.O. Box 1030, Pittsburgh, New York 12901
Library of Congress Control Number: 00-131578
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher – or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency – is an infringement of the copyright law.
National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Scrimger, Richard, 1957-
A nose for adventure
eISBN: 978-1-77049-043-7
I. Title.
PS8587.C745N674 2000 jC813′.54 C00-930680-3
PZ7.S37N0 2000
We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) and that of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Media Development Corporation’s Ontario Book Initiative. We further acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program.
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