The Nose from Jupiter

by Richard Scrimger

  I put some cookies on a plate and got myself a glass of milk to go with them. “Cookies and milk make the stomach feel smooth as silk,” my dad used to say all the time. Course he also said it about grilled cheese and milk, or coleslaw and milk; whatever he was eating. Mom hung up the phone and went back to work.

  “Did you used to play intramural sports in school?” I asked her. We’d talked a bit about the soccer game at dinner.

  Mom didn’t answer.

  “I wonder what the championship ribbons will look like,” I went on. “Sometimes they’re blue, sometimes gold. I hope they’re gold.”

  Mom made that noise to show that she’d heard me, but wasn’t paying a lot of attention. The kitchen table was piled high with case files. I pushed them out of the way, so I could make room for the plate of cookies. Without looking up, she asked me to be more careful.

  “They’re just files,” I said.

  She sat straight up. Now I had her attention. She spoke slowly, carefully, angrily. “They’re not files – they’re human beings. They’re not just paper, they’re flesh and blood. Each of these cases is a real living, breathing, troubled person. Don’t you dare call them ’files’ again. You’re so…insensitive!” It’s her bad word.

  I wanted to say, “What about me, Mom? I’m a human being too.” But I couldn’t. I was afraid. I was afraid that the cardboard and paper human beings on the table were more important to her than I was.

  Of course they were easier to deal with, in a way. They didn’t talk back. They didn’t spill cookie crumbs and forget to make their beds and stay out late and use bad words. They were living, breathing people, but they were awful quiet. And they didn’t take up much room. And when you were tired of them, you could fold them up and put them away.

  I finished my milk and cookies in silence, and went up to my room. The rain came down harder. The wind rose, and I saw the cedars across the road swaying back and forth. There were whitecaps on the puddles. Suddenly the night sky was split by a fork of lightning. Thunder boomed close by. I shivered.

  –Reminds me of home, said Norbert with a sigh.

  “The rain?”

  –No, the thunder. On Jupiter it thunders all the time.

  “Tell me more about Jupiter,” I said. “Do you miss it?”

  –Oh yes. He was silent for a moment. I wondered what it would be like to be four hundred million miles away from home.

  –Mostly what I think about are the smells of home. Smells are what you remember best. On Jupiter there are flowers everywhere, and shops selling cheeses. Ahh!”

  I didn’t know how I felt about cheeses. “You know what I’ve always liked?” I said. “I’ve always liked the smell of chlorine. Swimming pools smell like that.”

  –Oh yes. Chlorine is great. And wood burning in a fireplace. Apple wood is nice.

  Norbert was right. Smells are very strong in your memory. “Is that why you decided to stay in my nose?” I asked. “To be close to the smells?”

  –I’m here because I fit here. And it’s a great space for me. Jupiter is a big planet but it’s crowded. Here I don’t usually have to worry about intrusions. Hey!

  I hastily removed my finger. I hadn’t even realized what I was doing. “Sorry.”

  –What else do you like the smell of? he asked.

  I had my eyes closed, remembering. “Oranges at Christmas,” I said. “And grass early on a summer morning.”

  –What about bacon?

  “Yes, bacon’s not bad. Sort of sweet and smoky at the same time.” We hadn’t had bacon for awhile. We used to have it more often when Dad was around. Mom says it makes a big mess and doesn’t give you much nutrition. “Bacon-flavored potato chips are good too.”

  –Or sour cream and onion. Mmmmm.

  We’ve had this discussion several times. “What about that old book I opened at the library?” I said. “Remember – the big old atlas with the funny pictures in the maps? I liked the spicy dusty smell. It was like the smell of secrets.”

  –Or the fall fairground. Remember? Straw and candy and grease and lots of people? That was the smell of excitement.

  “Or the first warm day of the year, after months and months of winter. It’s the day you take off your big coat for the first time, and feel the sun on your back. It’s all the growing things peeping through the cold wet earth…it’s like the smell of hope.”

  –Warm bread fresh from the oven.

  “Bedsheets that have been dried outside on the clothesline.”

  –Or the smell of your mom, when she bends over to kiss you goodnight. Her hair and maybe her face powder, and the smell of her cheek against yours.

  The smell of love. I nodded without saying anything.

  Norbert liked talking about Jupiter, but it made him homesick. “Why don’t you go home then?” I asked him. He said he would, one day. He was going to regret leaving the space in my nose, he said, but he missed his parents. I talked about my parents too: told him how screwed up they were, how bad I felt that they weren’t together. And that they didn’t really love me. Especially Dad.

  What is it about dads? They’re the ones who leave, so what does it matter if they love you? You never saw them when they lived at home, and you never see them after they go. I don’t know, but it would make all the difference in the world if my dad would say he loves me. Just once. If your folks are separated, you’ll know what I mean.

  Mom is different. She loves everybody. Maybe it would be nice to hear her say she loves me more than anyone else … more than her work, anyway. But I don’t worry about her love. Maybe because she’s there day after day telling me to tidy my room. Maybe because moms are, well, moms. But my dad … would it hurt him to give me a hug? One hug? To tell me he loves me? Oh well.

  It was a really nasty storm. The sky opened up like a cardboard carton and poured rain all over everything. The wind rattled the windows and moaned around the chimney.

  “Listen to that weather,” my mom said, tucking me into bed. “Sounds like winter’s coming pretty soon.”

  “I’m glad I’m inside,” I told her. She kissed me and closed the door on her way out.

  –No night for nose or beast, said Norbert.

  Mom poked her head back in. “Did you say something?”

  “Just goodnight,” I said.

  “Night.”

  Way to Go, Squeaky!

  The next day was bright and still, and the ground was covered in frost. My feet sounded like I was walking on tiny fragments of broken glass as I made my way down our street to Victor’s. His mom opened the door.

  “Hello there, you darling boy,” she said with a bigger-than-usual smile for me. “Victor’s already gone to school,” she said. “He took a lift with his father this morning.”

  “Oh.” I wondered what was going on. Victor hated driving with his dad in the grocery van. Usually he waited for me. “I’ll be going then,” I said.

  “I hope you enjoy your assembly this afternoon. I hear she’s really something. I’m that tempted to go myself.”

  I wondered who Mrs. Grunewald was talking about. I waved good-bye and left.

  I walked the long way to school again, arriving with not much time to spare. The playground was a hive of gossip. Groups of kids and teachers buzzed at each other, broke off, and reformed in different groups.

  “I hope she sings ’Don’t Be Stupid.’”

  “I hear she’s going to try out something new.”

  “What’ll she wear?”

  “… been going through old yearbooks and I can’t find her.”

  “Maybe it’s not her real name.”

  Who were they talking about? I went up to the nearest group and asked what was going on. “Haven’t you heard?” they said. “Don’t you know about the special guest at our assembly?”

  “Someone who used to go to school here,” I said. “I didn’t hear who.”

  “Well, it’s –”

  The lineup bell rang, and my informant ran away without te
lling me.

  I found Victor in line. “What happened to you this morning?” I asked. “I went by your place and your mom said you’d already left.”

  “Sorry, Alan. It’s just that … I was worried. You know the Cougars have sworn to get you for making all those comments during the game yesterday.”

  “Oh.”

  “Why did you do it, Alan? You made them so mad. Prudence especially. You know her … she’s going to kill you. And I … I didn’t want her to think…”

  “That you were a friend of mine? In case she kills you too?”

  “Well… yes.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Just until she beats you up. Then I’ll walk to school with you again.”

  “Thanks a lot, Vic.”

  “Unless you can’t walk. Then you and I can both get a lift with my father. In the van.”

  I nodded. “Thanks. And smell like onions?”

  His face fell. He looked up and down the line, and then surreptitiously sniffed his hands and under his arms. “Is that what I smell like? Honest?”

  Poor Victor. “I was just kidding,” I said.

  “No, really, don’t kid me about this. Do I smell like onions?”

  A teacher told us to find our places in line. I left Victor sniffing and asking the guy behind him if he smelled onions.

  “Hi,” said Miranda. I said “Hi” back, and slipped in behind her.

  “Going to be a great assembly,” she said. “I’m so glad we won the intramural trophy. She’s going to present it to us … and shake our hands. Isn’t that great?”

  “Who?” I asked. “Who are we all talking about?”

  The bell rang again. Time to go in. We started to shuffle forward. Miranda was still favoring her ankle, I noticed. She whispered over her shoulder. “Shania Twain! Isn’t that great!”

  –Great! Just great! said Norbert.

  “You sound enthusiastic, Squeaky. I’m glad you’re a country music fan.” She smiled at me.

  “There’s a part of me that really likes it,” I said. “Something inside me.”

  “I didn’t know that. You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Anyway, I thought Shania was from Timmins. I never knew she used to go to school here.”

  The morning passed uneventfully, except for this ripple of country music excitement that wouldn’t die down. Norbert was as bad as anyone else. I tried telling him that Shania Twain was not coming, but he wouldn’t believe it. And every time he heard someone else talk about her, he got more and more convinced. The principal didn’t make matters better by reminding us about the assembly during morning announcements. “It’ll be a great show,” said Mr. Omerod. “I hope you’re all looking forward to meeting a truly remarkable individual.”

  We were doing flora in science class – that’s plants. Animals are fauna. Pretty dull, whatever you call it. Even Miss Scathely looked bored. She was going around the class asking us to think of different kinds of trees. “Do you have a tree in your backyard?” she’d ask. There was a growing list of trees on the board. I don’t know what I was thinking of when she asked me. My mind went blank. I couldn’t think of a single kind of tree. Not one. I looked up at the board for guidance, and one entry caught my eye: slippery elm. That’s the tree in the school yard, the one the bullies hung around before school. I pictured Prudence – braided hair, unsmiling face, matching sweater and slacks, heavy shoes. Perfect for kicking, I thought.

  “Alan?” prompted Miss Scathely. “Are you paying attention?”

  All around me was a kind of bored silence – no one cared whether I was paying attention or not – and then, with nothing useful going on in my head, Norbert spoke up.

  –What about shoe-trees? he asked.

  The class stirred slightly. Miss Scathely smiled. “I don’t think those are the kind of trees we’re talking about, er, Alan,” she said.

  –They’re the kind of trees we have on Jupiter, said Norbert.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  –Ah, the trees of Jupiter! The richly scented umbrella-trees, the deep and musty shoe-trees, the high roof-trees, the hard-working axle-trees, the sweet and tender pace-trees! And in every household, blooming and blossoming, a completely unique family-tree. Sometimes I wish I’d never left. He sighed.

  Now the class was awake. Most of them were giggling. I blushed Dingwall red, but I didn’t move. Actually, it was kind of nice to be able to make people laugh. Without even opening my mouth too.

  “What are pace-trees?” Miss Scathely asked.

  –They’re beautiful! Tarts and éclairs and layer cakes. Mmm! The scent of them on the summer breeze.

  “You mean pastries,” she said, laughing.

  –Didn’t I say that?

  Miss Scathely didn’t say anything about Norbert’s voice. She didn’t seem to notice at all. She leaned back against her desk. “Isn’t that interesting. I can just imagine what shoetrees and pace-trees would look like, if they really were flora. Let’s turn this into a game. Can anyone think of any other kind of tree they might have on Jupiter?”

  After a moment Miranda put up her hand. “What about industry?” she asked. Miss Scathely nodded her approval.

  “Yes, I can just imagine a crop of heavy indus-trees being cut down for timber.” The class laughed appreciatively. “Anyone else now? Wait – I’ve got one.” She went to the board and drew a sharp, angular outline of a tree. The foliage at the top looked like a triangle. “All right, class, what kind of tree is this?”

  Three or four voices came together. “It’s a geomettree!”

  Miss Scathely grinned.

  She drew another tree – this one had cans and jars and boxes hanging from the branches. No one said anything. She added a dangling skillet. I was trying to work it out but couldn’t.

  –It is! It’s a pan-tree! Norbert sounded wistful.

  “Good,” said Miss Scathely.

  I couldn’t help wondering if there were any lava-trees, and what their leaves would look like.

  –That’s exactly what a real pan-tree looks like. I can’t remember the last time I saw one. The ones on Jupiter are so lovely, full of gold and silver flowers. They’re not at all like the carpen-trees, with their sharp needles and spikes.

  The class laughed and laughed. Miranda started clapping, and the other kids joined in. “Way to go, Squeaky,” somebody shouted from the back of the room.

  “Who’s Squeaky?” Miss Scathely asked. And everyone except me – everyone including Norbert – shouted my name.

  “Well, Squeaky, you make Jupiter sound like an interesting place,” Miss Scathely told me.

  Not a Principal Kind of Joke

  Our principal, Mr. Omerod, stood at the microphone, smiling hard. “I’d like all of you to give a warm Edgewood Senior Public School welcome to Captain Sid Allinson,” he said.

  The tall stranger onstage, the guy we’d been trying to identify, stood up. He was square-shouldered, with a clean face and short hair. He had on a blue uniform with red doodads on the shoulders. He ducked his head modestly. The principal held up his hands and clapped them together.

  Poor Captain Allinson. A huge and spontaneous roar of applause did not raise the roof of the auditorium. No one fainted. No one rushed onstage. No one whistled. Instead, the entire auditorium dissolved in a sea of tossed and disjointed murmurs. “Who’s he?” “What’s he done?” And then three hundred people turned to their neighbors and whispered, “Where’s Shania Twain?” From where I was sitting, off to the side of the darkened auditorium, waiting to go onstage later to receive my intramural ribbon, it sounded like a disappointed giant sucking up the end of a milkshake. The principal went on.

  “I remember Sid in 1979, back when I taught physical education. He was a keen high jumper, but I hardly knew back then that he would end up in outer space. That’s a pretty impressive high jump…even with a rocket assist.”

  Mr. Omerod smiled. This was a p
rincipal kind of joke. Captain Sid recognized it, and laughed politely. The rest of the audience was still too disappointed to respond.

  “No doubt you have been following Sid’s exploits in the newspapers,” he said. “As the third Canadian in space, he has represented our country with honor and dignity. His mission with NASA was an unqualified success. The space shuttle Columbia successfully repaired a malfunctioning satellite. Sid, and the rest of the crew, met with the…was it the vice president?” He looked over. Sid nodded. “The vice president of the United States. Sid also met with the prime minister in Ottawa, and now he’s back home, using his fame and his knowledge to teach schoolchildren about space and science. A wonderful role model for the youth of today. And to think he was once a student in this very auditorium. He sat where you are sitting today. It’s enough to make you consider what you plan to do with your own life. Someday you may be sitting where he is now.”

  Silence. And then, from the shielding darkness at the back of the auditorium, a plaintive question drifted out into the air. “But can he sing?”

  No one dared to laugh.

  The principal frowned. Captain Sid approached the microphone clutching a sheaf of notes. He was a little nervous. The lukewarm reception wasn’t helping any. He probably felt he was better off in outer space. I’ll bet a lot of people would rather be in outer space than in front of a microphone at a middle-school assembly.

  I don’t know if Sid, as he asked us all to call him, ever understood what was going on. Rumors spread like weeds, and somehow in less than a day the entire school – from little Marianne Macadam, who could walk into a locker without turning sideways, to Mr. Valentine, guidance counselor and noted fan of country music – expected to see Shania Twain onstage.

  The captain got off to a bad start. “Hi there, boys and girls,” he said.

  Don’t you hate it when they do that? There should be a handbook for guest speakers at assemblies. Never call boys and girls “boys and girls.” Don’t call us “kids” either. Don’t refer to status at all. The correct greeting at an assembly is, “Hi.” Unless you’re famous. Then you say, “Hi, I’m Shania Twain.”