by PV Lundqvist
Part of the groundskeeper’s duties was to take care of the Capuchin—such as what he was doing right now, refilling Bony’s food bowl with a yummy mix of fruit, flowers, nuts, and dead beetles.
Yes, dead beetles.
Tony pointed to the now-working intercom. “That your doing?”
“What you expect?” Tu answered in his Vietnamese accent. “I work for your mother. She say intercom no work, I get man to fix.”
The flaw in Tony’s plan, he realized, was thinking that Mom could be stopped so easily. It must be so great to have a henchman like Tu. Somebody to help you with all the stuff you can’t do yourself.
(And I can’t get my trained monkey to get me a soda.)
There was a crackle out of the intercom before he heard his mother speak again. “Remember to dress for later.”
“I’m not going.”
“Tony! You have to go.”
“You’re not.”
There was a sigh on her side of the intercom. “Don’t you know I want to? So badly? I…can’t.”
“I can’t either.”
The door bell rang out an eight bit tune.
“Who’s that?” Tony asked nobody in particular. People didn’t normally drop by.
“Your new health aide,” his mother answered.
“I already got one.”
“He quit.”
How could that be? They were getting along so well. It couldn’t be because Tony pointed out that the worker’s home country ranked 181st out of 195 in sanitary drinking water. And 131st in literacy. Could it? People can be sooo sensitive sometimes.
The thought of having yet another stranger assist him in the bathroom was puke-worthy.
(Ugh, the touching.)
It was humiliating not to be able to take care of his own body. Machines could extend his reach into the world, and his eyes could go anywhere. But sit him on the toilet? Nope.
Tony used the outside surveillance camera to zero in on the health aide.
Some dude. Didn’t look murderous.
Tony buzzed the guy in. “I’m on the second floor. Take a left, and I’m at the end of the hall.”
“We’ll talk about this later,” Mom said from the intercom, “when you’re on your way.”
“No, we won’t—”
The intercom clicked off.
The health aide might have had ten years on Tony. Maybe. He had male-model hair, dark jeans, and one of his leather boots was scuffed while the other was polished.
He spoke first. “Sorry I’m late. This estate is enormous.”
The leather chair squeaked as the guy sat down. His hands laced together before he spoke again. “Are those computer glasses you’re wearing?”
Tony nodded. “My retinal mouse. Works with eye blinks.”
“I always wanted a pair, but I was worried I’d look dorky.”
Tony stared.
“Not that you do, I mean.”
Stared some more.
“It’s just I don’t wear glasses—”
“What’s your name?” Tony interrupted before the guy could dig himself in any deeper.
“Hawes.”
“Is that even a name?”
Hawes snapped his gum and smiled. “More of a sound, actually.”
(Sassing me back.)
This could be an interesting contest.
“What’s that fan noise?” Hawes asked.
“My oxygen concentrator.”
He shrugged. “Didn’t cover that in my classes.”
“It filters out the oxygen in the air and puts it up my nose.”
“Cool.”
“Did they teach you anything useful at this school?”
“Not so much. Got real good at ultimate Frisbee, though.” Hawes played with a bobblehead of Carl Sagan on the sideboard. “You go to school?”
“Dropped out. Well, I mean, right after they expelled me.”
“There’s GOT to be a good story there.”
“My dad made me a two-wheeled tablet holder. I’d stay home, but the virtual me would go to class.”
“Where’d it go all caddy wonkus?”
“Got caught smoking in the boys’ room.”
Hawes laughed. A snorting, horse laugh. “Don’t you know cigarettes are bad for you?”
“Especially through a USB port. Fried the motherboard.”
Hawes tried to keep a straight face.
Failed.
“Might want to try menthol next time,” he said through a snicker.
“School was boring, anyway. I only enjoyed getting into trouble.”
Bony chattered down at them from his high shelf.
“Lookit, a monkey,” Hawes said. Then he directed this comment at Tony. “You’re a regular Pippi Longstocking, you know that?”
“Do you see red hair and pigtails?’
“Not so far,” Hawes had to admit. “Hey, did you know we’re evolved from monkeys?”
“Maybe you are. I’m descended from apes, thank you very much.”
“You sure it’s not monkeys?”
“College kids, these days.” Tony shook his head. “Did you interview with my mother?”
“Sort of…”
“How’s she look?”
Hawes opened and closed his mouth. Started again. “Are you saying you don’t know?”
It was Tony’s turn to shrug.
“That’s weird. I mean, isn’t that weird?”
Tony did his best blank stare.
“Well,” Hawes continued, “funny thing is, neither do I. I went to the other house—”
“The guest house—”
“Yeah, the bungalow. Housekeeper led me to this room with a camera and microphone. Your mom could see me, but I couldn’t see her.” Hawes scrunched up his face like he was trying to picture a fourth dimension. “How long’s it been since you last…?”
“Eight years.”
Hawes whistled long and low. Moved on to a new subject. “Is there an elevator tucked in here somewhere? Because I didn’t see so much as a stairlift.”
“Nah-uh.”
“How the heck do you get downstairs?”
“I don’t.”
“This your whole world, huh?” Hawes whistled again and then pointed to Bonaparte’s cage. “Sorta like your pet here.”
Bony jumped down to the sideboard next to Hawes as if he had taken offense. He stretched to his full height of two feet, raising his arms over his head and SCREECHED.
Hawes didn’t flinch. Instead he drawled, “Chiiill, Kong.”
And surprisingly, the monkey did.
“My dad made the cage. Completely automatized.”
“Smart guy.”
“He was. When he was alive.”
“Dangit!” Hawes relaced his fingers. ”That wasn’t in the ad.”
“What did you two talk during the interview?”
“How I was supposed to get you up and out the door today.”
“Out. As in, outside?”
“Do you a world of good, Tony. Paper only wishes it had your complexion.”
The room started to feel warm. A trickle of sweat curved down Tony’s back. “I’m NOT going outside.”
Hawes came over and put his hands on the armrests of the wheelchair and leaned in. “Come on, wind in your hair—”
“There are blow dryers.”
“—sun on your face.”
“Rather kiss a light bulb.” Tony maneuvered out of his reach. “I haven’t been outside in years!”
Hawes fell back into his chair. “Overdue in my opinion.”
“Who is interviewing who? I think you forget yourself.”
“Happens to me, like, all the time.”
This contest was slipping away from Tony—he could feel it. He flipped down his retinal mouse and used it to click a web link leading to a page of standard interview questions.
“Do you have any references?” Tony asked.
“Well there’s…” Hawes pointed vaguely to the west. “A
nd then again there’s…” Pointed to the east. “Not really. Got another, easier question?”
Tony abandoned the list and instead asked, “Why is one of your boots scuffed and the other not?”
“I switch gears on my motorcycle with that foot. I liked that question. You got another?”
“Yeah. An important one.” Tony got out his laser pointer. “How do we get Bonaparte to give me that.” He red-dotted the can, currently on its side on the floor.
“Easy.”
Hawes slid off the leather chair, scooped up the can and dropped it into the cup holder on the wheelchair.
Tony dialed up the mocking tone. “Already, you’re siding with your monkey ancestors.”
“Come again?”
“The point was to get Bony to give me the drink.”
Tony spun his wheelchair around so all Hawes could see was the back of his head.
Not because he was mad. No.
He didn’t want his new health aide to see his now-smirking face. His eyes darted from side to side.
Tony had once read that silence was a great negotiation tactic. It was like a vacuum; people rush in to fill it. And in a contest like this one, the first person to speak loses.
(One-one thousand, two-one thousand.)
Hawes broke the silence. “Does that mean I don’t get the job?”
Tony spun back around. Put his serious face on and spoke.
“There is one little thing you could do to convince me.”
“Not something funky, like making me change the monkey’s diaper,”—Hawes shook a finger at Bony—“because those fangs look nasty.”
“Nothing that a normal teenager wouldn’t ask.”
Hawes bit his lip. “And if I do, you’ll hire me?”
“Absolutely.”
Hawes slapped his hands together and rubbed his palms. “What you need done, boss?”
(For the win.)
“How good are you with shears?”
- 2 -
Tony had a towel wrapped around his neck.
“You sure about this?” Hawes asked.
Tony nodded at him through the bathroom mirror over the sink. Hawes turned on the electric razor.
VVVZZZZZ.
“Traditional mohawk or statue of liberty?”
Tony consulted with himself in the mirror. “Like a Mohican. Grab the purple dye while you’re at it.”
The vibration of the electric razor against his scalp sent a tingle down his spine.
“So what do you like to do, Tony? You know, when you’re not receiving free hair sculpture.”
Tony was tempted to say ‘skeptic’ but decided that wasn’t exactly an activity. “Debunking.”
“Like what?”
“Pseudoscience.”
“Fake science? That’s a thing?”
“You know, things like ghost hunting, UFOs, astrology. ESP. Stuff that a lot of people believe in but isn’t really true.”
“Wait, they aren’t?” Hawes cut hair through a comb. “I get it: you’re trying to educate people.”
“God, no. I’m showing them how stoopid they are.”
Snip. “That’s not very nice.”
“I’m not very nice.”
“So why do you do it?”
“Because people like that are the first to make fun of what they don’t understand.”
“You make fun of EVERYTHING.”
“Ah, but I understand what I’m mocking.”
Hawes applied the purple dye. “No need to buy a new hat with this haircut, Tony—your head is nooot shrinking.”
“I look at it this way,” Tony explained, “the ability to reason is tacked on to the human brain like an aftermarket stereo.”
Hawes waggled his hand in the mirror. “Doesn’t quite fit or match the dash.”
“Exactly. It’s not that people can’t think rationally—”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s that they choose not to.”
Hawes snipped off some more hair. “What do you believe in?”
Tony wanted to jerk the wheelchair back and forth, a habit he had when thinking, but didn’t want his ear clipped by accident. ”Whatever can be proven. If you can’t graph it, it doesn’t exist.”
Hawes teased and hairsprayed the mohawk into place. Taking a hand mirror off the counter, Hawes showed off his handiwork.
Not spiky, exactly, but a narrow strip of purple hair standing straight up. “Professional,” was Tony’s opinion.
Hawes beamed. “I did used to be a cosmology major.”
Study of the origin of the universe? (Don’t think so.)
“You mean, cosmetology?”
“Yeah, that. You know, like in the commercial? ‘Look like a model, or just act like one.’” Hawes put his hands on the back of Tony’s wheelchair. “So, do I have the job or what?”
“Oh, yes.”
(Henchman.)
Hawes removed the purpled towel from around Tony’s neck.
“Now let’s get you ready to go out like your mother wanted.”
“You mean, to my father’s funeral?” Said as innocently as angel wings flapping in heaven. On a Sunday.
A second went by.
“Shut up! You did not just say funeral.” Hawes looked from side to side while his thoughts seemed to ping pong inside his head.
“Mom didn’t tell you?” Flap, flap went the angel wings.
Wendolyn wasn’t born a Pandy, but she could leave out details with the best of them.
“You can’t go to a funeral like this.”
Tony put his fingers over his mouth in mock surprise.
“And you knew that!”
“Oops?”
“What a manipulator!”
“Says the man who shaved the head of a child without asking his mother’s permission first.”
Hawes stood there stunned into silence.
“And to top it all off,” Tony said, “this isn’t even my bathroom.”
Hawes blinked dramatically. “Whose is it?”
“My dead father’s.”
Hawes looked at the towel like it was haunted.
Tony added, “You must admit, I’m very convincing.”
“That trick only works once, Tony-full-of-boloney.”
The intercom blinked on and off.
“Mom’s calling,” Tony informed Hawes. “And because this is a bathroom, you need to press down the button to talk. Cuts down on the inadvertent farting noises.”
The intercom blinked again.
Hawes pinched at his lower lip again and again. “Is this a me problem or a you problem?”
“I think you. Nobody will believe I shaved my own head.”
“No, but I suspect these shenanigans go on all the time. Amirite?”
Tony didn’t answer.
Hawes pressed the TALK button. “This is Hawes.”
“Is Tony ready to go?” His mother asked.
He took his finger off the button. Now she couldn’t hear. “Do I throw you under the bus, Tony? Or do you take responsibility?”
Tony fidgeted with his wheelchair. “Lie for me.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“To keep your job.”
“Uh huh. Try a better one.”
Tony paced with his wheelchair, accidently wrapping himself up in air hose. “I’m not going to the funeral with this hair, obviously.”
“Obviously. But that doesn’t mean you still can’t go outside.”
The intercom light blinked again.
“You wouldn’t dare tell my mother.”
“Me? I’m the king of dare.” He laid a finger on the TALK button.
Tony unwound himself from the air hose as he considered his options. “Okay. You win. I’ll go outside.”
Hawed pressed down on the button. “Mrs. Pandy?”
“Is Tony ready?”
Hawes covered his eyes. “I’m afraid he’s had a setback.”
“Is he alright?”
“N
othing that a little rest won’t cure.”
“Are you sure he’s really ill? He can be very manipulative.”
Tony was about to reply when Hawes beat him to it. “Don’t I know it, Mrs. Pandy.”
“Argh.”
The intercom clicked off.
“Did she just hang up on me?” Hawes asked.
“She does that.”
“Am I fired?”
“If so, that means I was fired from being her son long ago.”
Hawes flicked a finger between himself and the intercom. “Do you think I should call her back?”
“Don’t bother.” Tony started rolling away in his wheelchair. “Mom does the calling, never the answering.”
Hawes followed him out of the bathroom and into the hall. “Hey, hey! Don’t think I forgot our deal.”
“Seriously?” Tony accelerated away. “Because I have.”
Hawes chased him down the hall. “You’re getting dressed. We’re going out.” He entered Tony’s bedroom and threw open the closet door. “Gawd, do you own anything besides pajamas?”
Tony looked down the central stairs to the first floor landing.
“Carrying you is the only way,” Hawes said.
“You put your hands on me?”
“Believe me, Tony, I was really hoping for a stairlift.”
“And then what?”
Hawes ran down the stairs and opened the door to a side closet. “Your mother did tell me there was,” rummaging sounds, “this.” Hawes unfolded a push wheelchair and positioned it at the bottom of the stairs. “Still has plastic on the armrests. Never been used.”
“Yuck. I’d rather my chair.”
“You’d need a crane to lift that bad boy.”
“I can wait.”
Tony pulled back on his joystick, and the wheelchair went in reverse. Bumped into the back wall, taking a chunk out of the wallpaper.
Hawes walked slowly up the stairs.
Forward, into the banister. Chunk out of the wood. Backward…
Hawes leaned against the stair rail. “What’s up, boss?”
Forward, bang. Backward, bang. The wheelchair made a sickening MERV, MERV, MERV sound and stopped moving.
Battery died.
(Always doing that.)
“I get that you’re scared, Tony.”
“It’s not that.”
“So tell me.”
Tony wiped his nose. “I like to pretend the outside doesn’t exist.”
“What?”
Tony flicked the dead joystick back and forth. “Outside reminds me of everything I can’t do anymore.”
Hawes nodded vigorously, like he should have realized that himself. “My job is to get you to the best health I can. Going outside means fresh air, mental stimulation, interactions—”
“I interact plenty.”
“Typing words into a chat box isn’t the same. All the studies support the therapeutic effects of social interaction.”
Apparently Hawes had learned something more than ultimate Frisbee at college.
“Nice book talk, professor.”
“And a beneficial effect on mood, grumpy-pants.”
Tony lifted up his air hose. “Won’t reach outside.”
“Are you trying to tell me there’s no portable oxygen?”
Tony nodded his head. As earnestly as possible.
Hawes opened up the back bin to the wheelchair. “Bingo.” Pulled out a metal bottle labeled O2. “I figured you must have some stashed away somewhere for emergencies.”
Tony considered his next move. “You don’t know how to use it.”
“But the beauty of it is you do. Why don’t you tell me about this rig?” He held up the shoulder straps of the portable breathing unit he dug out of the bin. “Looks like you could go deep sea diving for Nazi submarines in this thing.”
Tony shrugged. “You’ll find the adaptor kit back there too.”
Hawes handed the parts to Tony to assemble. “Look, I get that maybe you’d want family to help you with this instead of me.”
“Nobody else lives here but me.”
“This whole house? There’s got to be ten bedrooms.”
“Empty.”
“And downstairs?”
“Dad’s workshop takes up most of it.”
“A tinkerer, huh?”
Tony screwed the O2 bottle into place. “If you call designing complex systems for in-home manufacturing, tinkering.”
Hawes laughed. “In-home, what now?”
Tony caught his breath. The changeover to portable oxygen always made him anxious. “Say you bought a cell phone. With my father’s machine, you could download the dimensions, add materials, press a few buttons, and voila! A custom case.”
“That’s cool. Like a microwave, only something new pops out.”
Tony nodded. “No going to stores or waiting for delivery.” He tried his best to keep his voice sounding casual. Not manipulative. “I could show you.”
Hawes cocked an eyebrow at him. “Hey, I’m not falling for diversions. We have the grounds to explore.”
“Ha!” Tony folded his arms over the portable oxygen unit.
“Come on, don’t you like a mystery?”
“Some mystery. I’ve lived here my whole life.”
“Said it yourself, haven’t been out in years. Things change.”
“Double ha!”
“I bet you a full week of staying inside we’ll find something interesting on this trip.”
Tony sat up straighter. “I’ll take that bet.”
Hawes looked down the front porch stairs to the pavement. “I’d forgotten there’s no ramp.”
“We could just give up,” Tony suggested.
“On our first mystery, The Case of the Missing Ramp?”
“Nice try.”
Hawes scratched at his head. “It’s almost as if somebody is pretending there’s nobody in a wheelchair living here.”
“Orrr because nobody in a wheelchair ever leaves.”
Hawes spotted some plywood leaning against a tool shed. Dragged it on over. “This’ll do the trick. For now.”
Tony was wheeled down the makeshift ramp a bit quicker than he would have liked. His good hand came up as if to protect himself from a fall that never came.
“If I remember correctly,” Hawes said, indicating to the left, “that way’s your mom’s house.”
“And being that I’m too sick to leave the house—”
“She’d have to have pretty good eyesight, Tony.”
“Binoculars. That’s what she does all day. Scanning for danger.”
“Other way, then.” Hawes pushed Tony over to the paved road that parted the woods. “Where’s this lead?”
“Eventually, the ocean. Once past the dock it loops back again.”
“Got a boat?”
“Nope.”
“Who has a dock and no boat? Sounds like a mystery.”
“Who has a wheelchair and no ramp? No mystery at all. That’s irony. And if you liked that, just wait till you see what’s up ahead.”
A few minutes in, a path separated from the road on the right. A curved white roof could be seen rising above a line of trees.
Tony pointed. “That way to the hangar.”
“No plane, amirite?”
“Ding, ding, ding.”
“Mystery!”
“Quit it.”
As Tony was being wheeled along, he mentally ticked off all the things he hated about the outdoors and why:
Flies. (Plague.) Raccoons. (Rabies). Insects rubbing their whatevers together. (Gross.)—and just how much pollution is in wind, anyway?
Hawes was breathing harder as the path continued upward.
“Getting tired, Hawes?”
“Me? I can go all day. Where’s this other path lead?”
“To the groundskeeper’s house.”
“We won’t go that way, then.”
Tony shrugged. “Tu’s probably at the funeral.”
/> Hawes slowed his pushing. “You don’t seem to like him much.”
“He’s mom’s henchman.” Tony fiddled with the armrest.
“And you’re wondering if I’m one, too, huh?”
“You are her employee. You have to do what she says.”
“You’re my client,” Hawes said, pushing again at full speed. “I do what’s best for you.”
“Very noble sounding, but my father always said ‘trust the money.’ It’ll never lie to you.”
Hawes laughed. “It’ll never shake your hand, either.”
Up ahead on the left was a pond with a knee-high stone wall.
“Whatddayouknow? You have your own swimming hole.”
(Swimming hole? What backwoods is this guy from?)
Hawes brought the wheelchair to a gradual stop. “What’s the real reason you didn’t want to go to the funeral?”
“I don’t own black pajamas.”
“Ah-huh. I see we haven’t reached the trusting stage.”
“We don’t exactly know each other,” Tony said, always on the lookout for information. “For instance, is Hawes your first or last name?”
“Both.”
“And where are you from? That accent is atrocious.”
“Down South.” Hawes came into view, sly grin on his face.
“That’s kind of vague.”
“How’s this? South of Friendly and east of Nitro.”
”Oh, evasion. Very nice.”
“Why are you acting like a detective all of a sudden?”
Here Tony was, out of doors, alone with this stranger. His paranoia kicked in. “Where did my mother find you? In line at the methadone clinic? Homeless shelter have a job fair?”
Hawes brought his eyebrows together into a line. “You’re kinda mean, you know that?”
“I’m in a frickin’ wheelchair!”
“That’s an object, not an excuse.” Hawes started pushing the wheelchair again. “How ‘bout you share something personal, and I’ll follow your lead.”
Tony considered the question for a minute.
On this very spot was where Tony had last run. He was six years old. He remembered yelling, ‘I’m well, I’m well,’ to his father. Unfortunately his illness was already making his right foot drag a bit—he stumbled, opening up his knee on a rock.
Just like the one they were passing right now.
“Mind kicking that rock?”
“Sure enough.” Hawes booted it into the trees.
Did Tony share this memory?
(Nah.)
Instead he said, “You start.”
Hawes cleared his throat. “I lost my father at fourteen. Young, like you. Got my first job that summer, to help my mom.”
“Cropping tobacco?”
“Moonshine, mainly,” Hawes joked. “You sure like your Southern stereotypes.”
“Isn’t fourteen too young to work?”
“Too young to lose your daddy, too.” Hawes kept pushing the wheelchair along. Light played off a fixture in the middle of the pond. “Hey, what’s that?”
It looked like a juicer for giant people. Had to be twenty feet high off the water.
“A fountain, I think. Doesn’t work anymore, that I know of.”
“A fountain that doesn’t shoot water—”
“Don’t say it.”
“Mystery, mystery, mystery.”
“Broken, broken, broken.”
They came to a field with overgrown grass. In the middle was a barn, four boards short of ramshackle.
“Was this farmland, originally?” Hawes asked.
Tony couldn’t quite figure out why Hawes was being evasive about where he was from. Perhaps this was a way to draw him out.
“Remind you of home?”
“Not exactly. What’s inside?”
“My father’s hobby was restoring antique vehicles. Or failing to.”
“Wanna go over there?” Hawes was halfway into the high grass as he spoke. “Because I do.”
“Nope.”
“Aren’t you curious?”
Tony shook his head and looked away.
Hawes picked at a grass stalk so high it was bent over. His mood turned serious. “You’re going to have to say goodbye to your father some time.”
“He’s dead. There’s no point.”
“How’s that?”
“He can’t hear me.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Either way, fathers have a way of continuing to live on in your head. I hear mine every time the oil light to my bike comes on.”
The wind picked up—just a whiff of salt in the air, this close to the ocean—and blew on his bald scalp, sending a chill through him.
The outside was so annoying.
“Not today.”
“Okay, boss. Not today.”
“I want to go back home now.”
Hawes spun the wheelchair around, heading back the way they came. “This was a fine first outing, don’t you think? Maybe after we get a vehicle—”
“My mother will never allow it.”
“What if you ask her sweet as pie?”
Tony shook his head. “The funeral was a special circumstance.”
“Even to visit your father’s grave?”
“Missed my chance.”
“Come on, maybe in a week—”
“Leave it alone!” Tony’s shout was so loud it echoed.
For a few seconds there was just a faint, repeating squeak of a wheelchair axle that needed lubricant.
“Why, Tony?”
The trip back was all downhill, but Hawes was pushing noticeably slower.
(He’s not going to let this go.)
“I don’t need any more reminders that I’m dying.”
- 3 -
“Boy howdy.” Hawes kicked at a pebble that needed kicking. “That wasn’t in the ad, either.”
“And please don’t start with, ‘There HAS to be something.’”
“I was going to go there,” Hawes admitted.
“Stop. Don’t.” Tony looked across the pond. “I’m going to die. That’s a fact. I may lie to other people but not to myself.”
“But what if—”
“I’m done! I won’t hear it from doctors. I certainly won’t hear it from someone with a college degree in hair.”
If Hawes was offended by the taunt, he didn’t show it. “Even if the prognosis is right, there’s diet, exercise—”
“For what? An extra day? A week? Heck, shoot for a month! What’s it matter?”
“Depends on the amount of living you want to cram into such a small space.”
In his bedroom, Tony stuck a baby pea into the hole of a macaroni. And then another pea to plug up the other end.
Dropped the unit into place.
This cheese was the best glue Tony had ever gotten to work with. Easy to apply, hardened like rubber. He was a couple of macaroni short of completing his master work—the Leaning Tower of Pandy—and well short of finishing his lunch, when he had a thought.
(Mom.)
Dad liked to say that Wendolyn Pandy believed that the whole universe was connected. Every atom and thought. That’s why she wouldn’t eat so much as a cherry without first considering the tree it could have become.
“But, honey,” he would joke, “what about cherry pie?”
That would make her laugh. She’d forget all about her theories that invisible strings were attached to everything like a quantum violin—each pluck a destroyer of worlds—and instead enjoy the cherry.
Now, he was gone. And soon Tony would be, too.
What would happen to her then? She had nobody left. Already a shut-in in her little house—would it get worse? Would she go down to one room, perhaps?
(If so, the bathroom. Definitely the bathroom.)
Tony lived with her when he was very small. She loved taking long baths and endlessly preparing her face for trips she would never take. Tony remembered watching the light beneath the closed bathroom door as he waited for
her to come out and play Hungry, Hungry Hippos.
(Loved that game.)
The bathroom smelled of lavender. Potpourri in bowls. Towels in every size.
Would she stop eating? Like he has done?
Who would be there to worry about the woman at the other end of the intercom when his pasta tower was truly complete?
“Oh, man.” Hawes said. “More food sculpture.” He retrieved Tony’s plate, squashing the tower with an unused fork.
“You’re paid to deliver the food. Not to be an art critic.”
“The point of food is to be eaten.”
“Why are you hassling me?” Tony paused for effect. “Employee?”
Hawes sighed. “Don’t do this.”
Tony folded away the built-in food tray. “That’s what you are.”
“Should that be my attitude? Eat or don’t, pay’s the same?”
“I’m just being honest.”
“And an employee can’t care, one way or the other?”
“You wouldn’t understand, Hawes. You’re poor. If somebody acts like they like you, they probably do. Me? I’m thinking it’s the money.”
“I feel you. For me, it’s my good looks. Do they really love me or the awesome hair?”
Tony laughed.
Then Hawes turned serious. “Is that your excuse for not having any friends?”
“I have friends.”
Tony instantly regretted opening that door.
“Oh, really? I’ve been here for weeks and I’ve yet to see another car here, ever. Or bike or longboard.”
Trying to get Hawes off of the subject, Tony asked, “Why would you care?”
“Let’s see. I’m in a caring profession—that involves caring for people—whom after a while I CARE ABOUT.”
“Nobody will blame you for me not eating.”
“Dammit, Tony—”
Tony hushed up his caregiver with a finger to his mouth and pointed to what was outside his bedroom window.
The brim of a straw hat, bobbing.
Hawes went over to the window pane and rapped his knuckles against it.
The brim ducked down.
“I’ll be,” Hawes said. “It’s Tu on a ladder.”
Tony took one of his many remotes out of his glove box and opened the automatic window. “No point in hiding,” he called out to the groundskeeper.
Tu put his face in the window frame. “Bah.”
Bonaparte chitter chattered from inside his cage.
Hawes said in his aw-shucks way, “I can’t tell if the little fella is saying howdy or get lost, Tu.”
“Capuchins don’t like any of us hairless apes,” Tony said.
“He like me,” Tu insisted.
“Did you have one of these little guys as a pet back home?” Hawes wanted to know.
“He a new world monkey. From here. I am not.” Wide grin on his face. “You a dummy.”
(My dummy.)
“Why are you here?” Tony asked Tu.
“Mother sent me to listen.”
Tony had finally put his father’s robo-arm to good use, cutting the intercom wires and screwing the face plate back into place. Good luck to anyone trying to fix the thing.
Hawes popped open his eyes like he just had a thought. And it was painful. “Tu gets to see your mother?”
“Nobody gets to see her.”
Tu agreed. “Mrs. Pandy pay a lot of money for her privacy.”
Hawes rolled his eyes. “And you think that’s normal?”
“People believe what their paycheck tells them,” Tony observed.
The gardener waved that statement away like a bad smell.
“Seriously, Tu? You don’t think so?”
Perhaps now was the time to put some of his research on the groundskeeper to good use. Tony glided over to his computer and, using his retinal mouse, pulled up a document from a folder labeled BLACKMAIL.
“Did you know,” Tony began, “there was somebody with your exact name and birth date, also from Vietnam, who used to be a government employee—”
“Minister,” Tu corrected. Then looked like he wished he hadn’t.
“It says here that this Mr. Tu Ngu liked taking money in return for handing out government contracts. I believe the word for that is bribery.”
“Fifteen year ago! A smear, to disgrace me.”
“I didn’t know you used to be important, Tu,” Hawes said.
Tony couldn’t tell whether he was mocking the groundskeeper or admiring. Hard to tell with Hawes.
“Terrible lies!” Tu insisted. “I went from head of dam project, in my country, to cutting branches that no longer bear fruit, in yours.” A string of very nasty-sounding Vietnamese words fell out of his mouth, directed at Tony.
Tu supplied his own translation. “Wheeled devil.”
Surprisingly, for someone who had enjoyed trolling tens of thousands, and had been called hurtful names before, Tony didn’t enjoy this confrontation. Face-to-face with somebody he knew in real life was totally different.
“You no extort me, Tony Pandy. Mother know ALL about it.”
Tony rolled closer. “Whatever she’s paying you, I’ll double it.”
“You no inherit till eighteen. I’ll take Mrs. Pandy. She nicer.”
(And bound to live longer.)
Tu was smart enough to know that and smart enough to keep that thought to himself.
Hawes laughed out of nowhere like he just got the joke. “That’s why you were trying so hard to find out my full name and where I was from. To do to me what you’re now doing to Tu.”
The groundskeeper took that moment to disappear down the ladder.
Hawes wasn’t done. “Ever consider that this manipulation thang you’ve got going on is why you have no friends?”
Tony opened his mouth, but stopped from making the same mistake as before.
Too late.
“Oh, that’s right. You have a friend. What’s his name?”
“She’s called Juniper.”
“Is that even a name?” Hawes said, repeating Tony’s line from before.
“More of a sound, really.” Tony played along.
“Ever meet her?”
Tony shook his head.
“Invite her right on over!”
Shook his head again.
“Why not?”
Shrugged.
“Use up all your words, Wheeled Devil?”
“I’ve got everything I want right here.”
“Setting aside the fact she’s a person and not a thing—really? Never wanted anything else, ever?”
Tony jerked the joystick to his wheelchair back and forth. “Before my terminal diagnosis, I—skip it.”
“Come on, out with it.”
“I wanted to go to college.”
“Well, why not?”
“I wouldn’t be able to finish. No point.”
Hawes tapped his forefinger on his chin. “Or is there?”
The sand in Tony’s bedroom was deep enough to bury the bottom of his chair’s wheels. An open red beach umbrella was leaning up against the corner near the Tyson poster. Heating up the room was a sun lamp.
“How,” Tony asked, “does a beach party relate to college?”
“If not for parties, college would be something you download.” Hawes spritzed water into the air with a spray bottle.
“Ah! I’m wet.”
Hawes set down the bottle. “Duh, it’s the beach.”
Even inside, the outside was annoying.
“Shades on,” Hawes instructed. “Let’s get this party started.”
He turned the stereo on and music hip hopped its way out. Hawes rocked his neon-green swim trunks, and Tony swore he could smell suntan lotion.
“I don’t like this music!” Tony yelled over the thumpity thump.
“How about classic rock?”
“No!”
“Even my grandma likes classic rock.” Hawes threw his head around to the beat. “What are you, more of a po
p fan?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“Classical.”
Hawes whipped the volume knob down to zero. “We are NOT playing funeral music at my party.”
“I don’t like modern music.”
Hawes settled into a beach chair. “Listen, Mozart is nothing more than pop music from when powdered wigs were popular.”
“Which is still around after a hundred years,” Tony countered. “Come back to me in another hundred and tell me all about how the philharmonic has been replaced by two guys with a microphone and turntable.”
Hawes unpacked a beach ball. “Anywaaay, let’s try something else.” He blew it up to size. “Ready, dorm buddy?”
“Ready.”
The ball bounced off Tony’s head and back at Hawes.
“Hands, Mr. Pandy, hands. You can do it.”
This time Tony connected with a closed fist, making the ball scoot sideways and rebound off the monkey’s cage.
Bonaparte screeched.
“Score a point for the freshman.” Hawes opened a cooler and twisted the cap off a bottle. “Now for some brew-ha-has.”
“You bought me beer?”
“Oh, no. That would be wrong. And illegal. This is a merely a fermented malt beverage.”
Tony slurped some down. “Tastes bad enough to be beer.”
“Just so we’re clear: During this simulated drinking event, there’ll be no operating of heavy equipment. I won’t be held responsible for you wrapping your wheelchair around a banister.”
Tony considered his bottle of (what did Hawes call it?) fermented malt beverage. The label was missing. “Is this seriously what college was like for you?”
“Whenever I could get away with it, Tony. Whenever I could.”
“Can we really fit all of college into a single night?”
“You doubt?” Hawes jumped out of his beach chair and rifled through his jacket, still hanging on the bedroom doorknob. He returned with color-coded index cards. “Ready?”
Tony tipped his bottle in Hawes’ direction and nodded.
“Instead of teaching you what you’ll only forget anyhoo, I’m skipping to what every graduate remembers from college. Pay attention, there’ll be a test later.”
Hawes squinted as he read. “Number one: No matter how well you dissected that fetal pig in bio, you never did find the bacon.” He shuffled to the next card. “Number two: The Pythagorean theorem is what now?”
“Hey, I know the Pythagorean th—”
“Silence, freshman. I’m the TA for this course. ‘Number three: Bunsen burners are fun, but little flame throwers aren’t everything.’” Hawes took a swig. “Now you drink.”
“I’m not thirsty.”
“Doesn’t matter. Part of the essential guide to college is the ability to learn while intoxicated. Or ‘simulated’ intoxication.”
Tony fulfilled Hawes request. “Is there more?”
“Much.” He took another index card off the top of the pile and sat on the rest.
“Have you ever pulled an all-nightie?” Tony asked.
“All-nighter. Staying up all night to study? Yes. Like we’re doing tonight. Drink!”
They clinked bottles together.
Hawes cleared his throat. “’The Two Biggest Disappointments From College.’ This will definitely be on the final, by the way.
“First, coed showers. No thrill, believe me. You don’t WANT to know what girls are doing in there. Another?
“Roommates. Always suck. And never, ever tell them that if one of you die the other automatically gets straight A’s for the semester.”
“Is that true?” Tony asked.
“As true as I’m sitting here. All I’m saying is you better hire a food taster for the rest of the semester if you let that fact drop.”
“Are you trying to make me think I didn’t mush much?”
(Moosh mich?)
Miss much! Where did his brain go all of a sudden?
“Nonsense.” Hawes again jumped up from his beach chair, sending sand everywhere. “Almost forgot.”
He pulled a hoodie out of a shopping bag and put it on Tony. The front read, ‘Forget U. The university that never asks for donations.’
Then Hawes handed Tony a pennant. He kept the vuvuzela for himself and blew a mighty blast: VUUUUUUU!
Tony felt it in his tailbone.
Switching props, Hawes pulled out his phone. “What would college be without sports?” He streamed a college football game from last December. There were lots of first in tens and, oh, what a hard hit!
“Who’s playing?”
“Does it matter, Tony? Really?” They clinked bottles again. Hawes turned off the broadcast. “School break is over. Back to classes.” Hawes picked up the remaining index cards from his beach chair. “Next up, final exams!”
“I rebember all the answers,” Tony slurred. His bottle was in the cup holder—tilting.
“Why do we really go to college, freshman Pandy?”
“Parties!”
“Ah, but why do we go to parties?”
“Fomented mall beverages!”
“Ooooo, so close. The answer of course is smooches. Amirite? Nobody gets to graduate without asking at least one guy or girl out on a date.”
“Really?”
“It’s part of the CORE curriculum. The Health Ed requirement. Look it up if you don’t believe me.”
“There’s no girls here.”
“What about Juniper?”
“She’s not here.”
It was like Hawes was getting dumber the more Tony drank.
“You have her phone number, right?”
“Sort of.”
“Call her! What are you waiting for? The afterlife? Where’s the phone?” Hawes didn’t wait for Tony to answer, instead taking a nearby wireless phone off its cradle. “What’s her number?”
“Speed dial 2.”
Hawes pointed the phone at Tony like an accusing finger. “Speed dial! Really? But you’ve never called her before?”
Tony nodded.
Hawes twitched his mouth around like he was thinking something over. “What’s speed dial 1?”
“Ambulance.”
“3?”
“Oxygen people.”
“Which number is mine? Dare I ask?”
Tony thought about it. “Phone can hold up to 50 numbers…”
“Save the soul crushing news for later. Tonight, we’re calling Juniper.”
Tony accepted the phone in his good hand. Stared at it. “I’m not ready, Hawes.”
“Dude, you’re totally calling this girl tonight.”
Tony looked at Hawes.
Hawes arched an eyebrow.
“Okaaay.” Tony highlighted the listing for Juniper. Pressed TALK. The phone sung out the tones.
“What are we doing tomorrow, Hawes?”
“Time to give up childish things and go on to graduate school. We’ll simulate working for tips at an off-beat coffee shop, living off rice noodles, and growing a beard…”
Second ring.
“…and never finishing your thesis.”
“Hello?” she answered.
- 4 -
Hawes opened the side door of the rental van and pressed a button. The attached pneumatic lift unfolded and lowered down to the ground.
“What do you think?” Hawes asked.
Tony was up on the porch, by the makeshift ramp. “I’m going nowhere in that overstuffed minivan.”
“That’s not very nice.”
“Why does this keep surprising you?”
Hawes breathed on the side mirror and polished it with his shirt sleeve. “Never was a good learner.”
“Get something else.”
“No time. We’re supposed to go see that girl today. Unless this is your excuse for chickening out. Bluck, bluck, bluck.”
“That’s your strategy? Bird taunts?”
Hawes went up the stairs and took a knee on the porch so th
at Tony and he were eye to eye. “What’s this really about?”
Tony licked his lips. “What if she doesn’t like me?”
“She knows all about you, right?”
(Maybe not about the wheelchair.
Or dying.
Or being younger than her.)
Tony squirmed. “Yeah. Everything.”
“What’s to lose?”
(My only fantasy girlfriend.)
Hawes paused before he spoke again. “You do want to go, right?”
Tony nodded. He was so excited he even wore clothes that weren’t pajamas.
“Okay then. Let’s get your mom’s permission, and we’re off.”
(Uh-oh.)
“Don’t we have that already?” Tony bluffed.
“I’m pretty sure we don’t.”
“I’m-pretty-sure-we-do,” Tony insisted.
Hawes lost his smile.
Mom was never going to okay this trip. Tony knew that. ‘You’ll crash! Your dead body in a ditch!’ That’s why he didn’t bother trying.
“She loves the idea,” Tony full-on lied.
“No offense, Tony Baloney, but I’ll need to hear that from her.”
(Okay, plan B.)
Tony opened his glove box and removed a wireless house phone. “Call her. If you doubt me.”
Hawes sucked in his checks. “I think I will. Which speed dial?”
“50.”
“Hot dog, I have a lower number than your mom.”
(Keep telling yourself that.)
Tony propped up his tablet computer on his forearm and started the sound app Phoney Phone. All inconspicuous-like.
Hawes made the call.
“Hello?” His mother’s voice came through the phone.
“Mrs. Pandy?”
“Could we make this quick? I’m in the middle of something.”
Hawes put his hand over the receiver. “Not in a good mood.” Back on the phone, “As Tony probably told you—”
“Yes,” said his mother in a bored voice.
“I’m not…done…asking…?”
Tony had tapped the sound file too early. He went back to file 3 and sent it to the phone.
“Could we make this quick? I’m in the middle of something.”
“Okaaaay,” Hawes began again, “is it all right with you if I take Tony out to visit a friend?”
Mom’s chipper voice. “Have a nice time!”
Tony had gotten that recording from when he told his mother he was going dungeon crawling online some months ago.
“It’s okay with you?” Hawes asked, into the phone.
(Tap.)
There was the bored ‘yes,’ again.
Hawes pushed the hang up button. “Your mother is so weird.”
“And such a limited vocabulary.”
The inside of the van was imitation wood paneling where there wasn’t puke carpeting and matching vinyl. There were marks left on the floorboard where a row of seats had been removed to put in metal brackets to lock in a wheelchair.
The on-board oxygen unit was covered in dials, gauges, and toggle switches.
(Steampunk. But not in a good way.)
A small torpedo-like canister stored the frozen liquid oxygen, and a hose connected it to the on-board unit—which it warmed up the air so it wouldn’t popsicle his lungs—and another hose delivered the O2 to his backpack unit sitting on his lap.
This was nothing like his oxygen concentrator he had upstairs. Unfortunately, that unit was not portable.
Hawes clapped him on the shoulder. “Know what you’re doing?”
“Definitely,” Tony lied.
He knew any delay, such as getting another oxygen system, would increase the chances his mother would catch on and cancel the trip.
Tony dialed in his usual air flow rate. If he was reading the gauges right, he should have enough oxygen for four hours.
“How long will it take to get there?” Tony asked.
“Hour. Hour and half.”
(Plenty.)
He would have to be careful, though. Breathing hard would use more oxygen with this type of system.
(Stay calm, Wheeled Devil.)
Tony toggled the oxygen on and took a breath. Dusty, but otherwise breathable. The spare oxygen canister got stowed in the back bin of the wheelchair.
Hawes slammed his driver’s side door shut, making the whole van rattle. “Alright! Let’s get this road trip going.”
He started the engine.
Guitars wailed out of the car speakers, and there was singing about the metal tears of Frankenstein.
“Ugh. Can’t stand rom rock,” Hawes said.
“Never heard of it.”
“Come on, those bands with their frilly Lord Byron shirts—all about being warrior poets? Gawd! I still have nightmares from my seventh grade hop.”
“That was before I was born,” Tony teased.
“Bite your tongue off, I’m not that old. And besides, wasn’t Mozart before you were born?” Hawes switched the channel. “Ooooo, dance music.”
He put the van into gear, and after a few minutes they arrived at the main gate. The motion sensor swung the gate open.
“What’s with the face?” Hawes asked Tony. They could see each other through the rear view mirror.
“I can’t remember the last time I was off grounds.”
“Well, wakey, wakey, Rip Van Winkle.” Hawes pointed to the words worked into the wrought iron on the gate. “I’ve been meaning to ask you: Why does it say ‘Seahome’?”
“No clue.”
“Mystery!“
“Stop it.”
“Aren’t you the slightest bit curious?”
Tony shook his head. “You got me outside. You can drop the mystery bit.”
“You can deny it all you want, but I see nothing but question marks around here, and they’re all pointing in your direction.”
Hawes pulled the rental van out onto the road. Soon they were on the highway, passing cars.
“Which way are we going?” Tony asked. He had an app pulled up on his tablet to track their progress.
“I was thinking I-84, to bypass Newbridgeport. The Loop is longer but less congested.”
“I’ve never been to the city.”
Hawes smiled in the rearview mirror. “Next road trip.”
They passed a hockey arena. A blue neon sign called it the NEW! NEW! home of the Silver Seals.
Hawes tapped on the window in the direction of the arena. “It’s wheelchair accessible.”
“I hope this ride isn’t going to become one long, boring commercial for what a cripple can do.”
“Finding out what people want and giving it to them? You should try that some time.”
The traffic bunched up. Hawes swerved into the right hand lane and accelerated past a truck that seemed to be poking along.
The traffic ahead was full of red tail lights.
“Uh-oh,” Hawes said.
“Problem?”
“Traffic’s jammed. Must be a hockey game today.”
Tony checked on the air tank gauge.
(Still good.)
“No problem,” Hawes continued. “We’ll take this exit and go around.”
There was no street sign, but—if asked—Tony would have named the road ‘Pothole Boulevard.’
Where were they? Tony couldn’t find their location on the map and that made him anxious. He took a deep breath.
The oxygen pressure needle wiggled.
“Tell me about this girl,” Hawes asked. Making conversation.
Tony didn’t know that much really. “She likes to shorten words to single syllables.”
“Such as?”
“Her favorites are ‘obs’ for obviously, and ‘totes’ for totally.”
“That’s interesting, I guess. Is Juniper her real name?”
“Her online name.”
“What is it really?”
Tony wasn’t sure, so he bluffed. “Jennifer.”
&
nbsp; “Uh-huh.” Hawes didn’t sound convinced. “She cute?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I’m partial to a pretty face, myself.” Hawes looked left and right before pulling out onto another street. “So was your dad, it seems.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Pictures in your mom’s house. She looks like she might have been fun back-in-the-day.”
According to what his mom told Tony, she always favored granny dresses and poetry readings. “She was never any fun.”
“That’s what all moms tell their sons. But today’s girlfriends are tomorrow’s moms.”
(And future’s shut-ins.)
The van pulled up to wooden gates with orange slashes on them.
“Road closed.” Hawes slammed his hand on the steering wheel.
Tony resettled in his chair. This detour was giving him some time to think. What if Juniper freaked out about the wheelchair? He never told her.
(Never thought we’d meet.)
Not that he ever lied about it. He did the next best Pandy thing: Never brought up a fact if it was inconvenient.
He would have to win her over. Somehow.
Hawes tapped on the GPS display in the dashboard. “It’s telling me to go back to the arena. Don’t think so. I’ll backtrack to I-84.”
“How much longer will that take?”
“I dunno. Half an hour?”
Making his way back to the highway, Hawes accelerated up the ramp, got back onto the Loop, and headed in the opposite direction from which they had come.
DING.
That sound came from the on-board oxygen unit.
“What was that?” Hawes asked.
Tony tapped a fingernail on the air gauge, and the news wasn’t good. Down a quarter tank. He must be breathing more than he thought.
(Duh. I’m excited.)
But that didn’t stop him from lying. “It’s the all-is-well bell,” said in as light a tone as he could manage.
There was still time to turn back. Maybe postpone to another day. Get more oxygen. But then there was the real possibility of running into Tu, and he would blab for sure.
A couple of highway exits later and they were on I-84 heading north. The silver skyscrapers of Newbridgeport were coming up on their right.
DING.
Half a tank, now.
(That can’t be right.)
Perhaps a loose connection had allowed air to leak out? If so, that would mean there was a ton of pure oxygen floating around inside the van.
(Nobody light a match.)
Tony checked his air hose from the backpack to the onboard unit. Good and tight.
(That’s not it.)
He tried to calculate in his head how much longer the air supply would last at current usage. None of the answers made sense. He would have to be breathing like he was running a marathon.
Hawes cleared his throat to get Tony’s attention. Looked at him through the rearview mirror. “You really don’t know this girl, do you?”
Tony opened his mouth to lie again, but…couldn’t. Not to that face. “Not very well, no.”
“What else you not telling me?”
The GPS interrupted by saying, in a proper British accent, they were ten minutes from their destination.
This visit could actually happen.
(Oh God, oh God.)
Juni was never going to get over how he had misled her, all these months. Hawes was right. Tony didn’t know her. Or she, him.
Who’s kidding who?
(So cold.)
And not talking cold feet, here. Being wheelchair bound meant staying warm was a constant issue. But suddenly he felt like an ice cube bobbing in the Arctic Ocean.
DING.
(No, no, no!)
Tony checked the air supply. The arrow was in the LOW zone. Marked in red.
How could that be?
His hand reached around the on-board unit feeling for the other connector when he found out why.
Ice.
The connection from the sub-zero canister to the unit had frozen.
“Tony, you okay?”
This visit wasn’t going to happen, after all.
Tony pulled up the street view of Juni’s house on his tablet. There it was, a split level ranch with mismatched siding.
He switched to satellite view. Zoomed in.
Was that a girl in the backyard, waving up?
DING. DING. DING.
Hawes turned around in his seat to face Tony. “You’re blue.”
(Must get spare oxygen…)
Tony reached around to the back bin.
Stretching.
Got it.
Hawes shouted at the dashboard. “GPS, find nearest hospital!”
“Very good, sir. Please proceed up the motorway.”
“Where did I put my phone?” Hawes asked himself, throwing gum wrappers and rental paperwork out of the center console. “We have to call your mother.”
Tony was wheezing. “She…doesn’t…know.”
“What? I spoke with her.”
“Remember?…She never answers…the phone…”
The edges of Tony’s vision began to tunnel like he was looking through two empty paper towel rolls. Shrinking by the second.
The spare oxygen bottle dropped out of his hand. And when the van switched lanes, the metal cylinder rolled under the back row of seats.
(Somebody should really go get that.)
But the thought never reached his mouth.
Hawes was accelerating, bypassing the stalled traffic by moving into the breakdown lane.
(Must tell Hawes, not his—)
Blackness.
- 5 -
Breathing. He could hear himself. In, out. A clear, flexible oxygen mask was over his face—and, boy, was it ever tight.
(That’ll leave a mark.)
Hard to see. Was it the mask? Or was it because his eyes were all gooped up?
Blinked.
Clearer now.
Vinyl window blinds on one wall and a TV riveted to the ceiling. Metal bed rails.
A hospital room.
(Must be.)
Tony closed his eyes. So tired. A headache besides. When he woke up again, there was Tu snoozing in a side chair and it was nighttime.
A day later Tony was back in his own bedroom, typing into his computer using his retinal mouse. He logged on to the Dino Cogs forum, found Juni online, and let her know why he hadn’t shown up.
(Okay—not exactly.)
The part about running out of oxygen was left out. Instead he said his car broke down. No cell phone.
Lying was so much easier with words on a screen.
Hawes was fired, he typed.
Obs.
He didn’t deserve it.
Totes.
My fault.
…
What was she supposed to say? Juniper didn’t have the facts. The real ones anyway. He was looking for someone to say it was his fault, but not his fault.
(You know?)
His chest felt heavy. He checked his oxygen hose—no kinks anywhere. His air flow rate was set correctly and only green lights on the concentrator.
Must be something else.
I’m tired, Tony typed. I’m going to sleep.
Come on. There’s an AMA with the band coming up.
Not up for it.
Ok. LYL—
Tony had already closed the browser window.
Kwame Paix Opoku-Boateng leaned over Tony’s computer desk, because, well, there was no chair.
(Duh. I already got one.)
And stared at the monitor. He was figuring out why the video connection wasn’t working.
(Come on, come on.)
In ten minutes there was going to be a reading of his father’s will in downtown Newbridgeport by a lawyer named Dorchester Foulke. That’s when Tony would find out what was going to happen to him and his mother now that his father was gone.
Tony couldn’t be there, but he cou
ld be tele-there.
Mr. Opoku-Boateng’s long fingers typed into the programming window on the computer screen. No clicking on icons for him; he was typing directly into the computer’s brain.
(Which probably means…)
He was the guy who reprogrammed the intercom software for his mother. That would make him her computer henchman.
(Hate to break it to you, Kwame, but…)
No amount of tapping on keyboards was going to make the intercom’s snipped wires work again.
Tony fingered the technician’s business card. Why not get to know him better? “You have a long name.”
“Heh, yes.” The tech smiled, but his eyes never left the screen.
“Must be cool to have such a different first name,” Tony said. “Mine is so ordinary.”
“Kwame is common name where I come from. Many boys born on a Saturday are named thus.”
Green bars marched across the screen as the volume was increased, and the monitor flickered into a picture of a wall with many framed diplomas—and one monster of a desk.
(No wonder there’s no mahogany left in South America.)
No sign of his mother.
“Why so many names?” Tony asked.
“Every one of them is im-por-tant.” Kwame had one of those deep, vibrating voices. “They tell about my family, my tribe, and people im-por-tant to my country.”
“I think I was named after a pizzeria.”
“That’s not true,” snapped his mother’s voice over the speakers.
Tony’s eyebrows went up in surprise.
Kwame chuckled. “Connection is two way. People in front of camera can see and hear you.”
“Glad I wore my formal pajamas.”
Tony whirred his chair over to the computer and flipped down his retinal mouse. On the other end of the video feed someone blocked the view for a second and then sat down at the desk.
The lawyer, Tony presumed.
Dorchester Foulke was in a striped suit that wasn’t fooling anybody into thinking he was slim. And he didn’t look happy: a combination of upset stomach and shoes too tight, at a guess.
Foulke spoke to someone off-screen with his finger pointing. “Ahh, is this Mrs. Pandy’s feed?”
(No two-way for her.)
“Will Reginald and Ronald be attending?” the lawyer asked as a follow up question. Tony heard a distant ‘no.’
They were Tedward’s children from a previous marriage. Tony had never met them.
And now?
Probably never would.
“Honey?” That was his mom. “Can you see alright?”
“Everything except you.”
Tony booted up an app on his computer called Cartoon Me. He used it mainly to slap mocking animations over photos and, with the upgrade he just got, live video as well.
Step one: Circle the image on the screen.
Step two: Drag over one of a gazillion animations.
Step three: Laugh until butt falls completely off.
The software was smart enough to follow the object around as long as it didn’t leave the screen.
Granted, only he could see the animations, but entertaining himself was always job number one for Tony Pandy. And mocking was the only way he could see himself enduring this meeting.
“Mrs. Pandy,” Mr. Foulke said, “may I start by saying how sorry I am for your loss…”
If mom answered, Tony didn’t hear it.
“…and if I may ask, with great sympathy for your situation—”
“What is it, Mr. Foulke?” Mom sounded impatient.
“There’s the matter of my fee on behalf of your son.”
(Me?)
Tony had thought they were here because of his dad.
“Can we discuss this another time, Mr. Foulke?”
“You duck my calls. Don’t return emails.”
“What of it?”
“This work was never supposed to extend—”
“Extend? Tony was never supposed to live this long, you mean.”
Based on his reaction, Dorchester’s stomach must have done a double flip. “All to the good, I’m sure.”
“Are you sure? Because you sound like you’re complaining.”
Tony let this arguing go on without him. He clicked on an animation and considered it. How would the lawyer look in a sombrero?
“Not at all,” Foulke said. “The fact is, Mrs. Pandy, you are the representative payee now. A change is within your authority.”
(Representative what now?)
“Mr. Foulke, you were never my attorney. Those bad bargains are not my concern.”
“I wish you’d reconsider.”
Awkward silence.
(No love, lawyer man.)
What about a handlebar mustache for ole Dorchester? (Nah.) Tony clicked to another choice.
Foulke sighed heavily and flipped open a document stapled to blue card stock. “To the matter at hand, the last will and testament of one Tedward Anthony Pandy. Does anyone object to me skipping the boilerplate?”
(The boring part, he means.)
Tony found the perfect animation. Using the retinal mouse, he dragged a cartoon cigar into place and it wig-waggled on Foulke’s lips as he talked.
It even drops ashes!
“Ahh, I could find no provisions for life insurance, so I’ll skip to his various holdings. There’s his game company which owns the rights to GRASSHOPPERS HATE ANTS. Version one, two, and G.H.A., The Reboot.”
It was a cool little game. At least Tony thought so. You could play as the plodding ants and collect food until time ran out. Or you could be the grasshopper and hop on ant heads and steal their food. Each game taking about a minute.
(Perfect for when you’re taking a wizz.)
Foulke read Tedward Pandy’s words out loud. “‘All rights will be granted to my sons, Reginald and Ronald. To be shared equally.’”
Sure, it wasn’t a lot of money. Anymore. The big bankroll came from before Tony was born. But still.
“That can’t be right,” Tony’s mother said.
“Black and white, Mrs. Pandy. Signed and notarized. And, ahhh, not by me.”
“What about his other company?”
Foulke began reading from a separate document. “As of noon today, Pandy LLC, maker of home factories, is in bankruptcy.”
“Can’t be,” his mother exclaimed.
“But it is. The company was deep in debt. ”
“I don’t understand?” his mother asked. “How much do we get?”
“Nothing,” the lawyer said without a trace of sympathy. “In fact, my understanding is that the remaining equipment will have to be auctioned off to pay creditors.”
Mom’s gasp cut right through Tony. His hands began to tremble on the armrests.
Foulke closed the blue-covered will. “Any questions?”
“Didn’t he leave me anything?” Tony asked from so far away.
Foulke smiled uncomfortably. “’Fraid not. Nor Mrs. Pandy.”
“There must be some mistake,” Mom whispered.
“What about the estate?” Tony asked.
The lawyer addressed his mother’s feed before answering. “With your permission, I would like to advise Master Pandy about the trust.”
‘Trust?” Tony asked.
The surprises kept on coming.
Foulke looked right at Tony when he spoke. “The house you live in, as well as the grounds, are held in trust on your sole behalf.”
“Mom doesn’t own the estate?”
“No. Like Tedward before her, your mother will be the representative payee. The trust pays her, and she pays your bills.”
“Who owns the trust?”
“Nobody, technically. It is a legal entity used for property.”
“Who started it?”
Foulke straightened up and jerked down his vest which had begun to ride up. “That’s a matter that does not concern you.”
“How does this not concern me?”
&nbs
p; Mr. Foulke left the question unanswered.
“Does it have a name, at least?” Tony was pounding on his armrest now.
What did the lawyer just say? Hofflove? Who was Hofflove?
“And, ahh, for your information, the trust provides for a more active role for me as of your fourteenth birthday.”
The one coming up at the end of the month.
“And what role will that be?” asked his mother.
“Making sure the conditions of the trust are being met.”
“What conditions?”
“For one, that Master Pandy remain functional.”
Tony could hear the irritation in his mother’s voice. “Even more arrangements I didn’t know about.”
“And if I’m not?” Tony asked.
“Total liquidation of the estate,” Foulke answered. “The selling of the guest house, main house, the outbuildings, the land—everything.”
“How often will Tony be tested?” Her tone sounded whipped. Tony sure felt that way himself.
“Monthly.”
“For how long?”
“Until his death or eighteenth birthday, whichever comes first.” Foulke’s big chair creaked as he shifted position. “Eventually, a trustee will be appointed who will specify tasks to determine whether the primary condition is being met.”
(Flaming hoops?
Scavenger hunts?
Learning Greek?
What?)
“When will I get to meet the trustee?” Tony asked.
“Maybe never.” The lawyer rested his head on his upturned hand, elbow on the desk. “If I may share with you, that is the oddest part of this whole arrangement. A commission drawn up by the originator of the trust will elect the trustee. He, or she, will remain anonymous to me and possibly to you as well.”
“Anonymous?” Mom was back on hysteria mode.
“Highly irregular, I agree. But the instructions are very specific. Any communication containing a coded signature is to be obeyed as long as it comports with law. Thereafter, my role will be to judge whether these tasks are accomplished.”
“Mr. Foulke,” Mom said with false friendliness, “I’ve reconsidered your request for a change in fee—”
“Most unethical, Mrs Pandy. Any alteration at this point would look like bribery.”
Tony could tell that Foulke wished it wouldn’t.
“But it’s my estate, too.” Mom was having none of this.
“Mrs Pandy, if that were true, you’d be right. But you know very well you don’t own title to the Seahome Estate. Never have. It has been your privilege to live there as the trust’s guest. If I were you, I would make sure that Tony meets the trust’s requirements if you want that to continue.”
- 6 -
Functional.
(What does that even mean?)
Tony rolled over on his bed—or as much as twisting his upper body could manage without a lot of help from his legs.
But he could do it.
What he could no longer do was transfer himself from his bed to the wheelchair. Tony didn’t have the upper arm strength anymore. For that, he needed a health aide—and that lady from the agency was outside in the hall.
English was not her first language. Tony imagined she was listening for certain keywords: HELP, TOILET, GO PEEPEE NOW.
(She can wait.)
Although his full bladder said otherwise.
The intercom came on with its familiar BA DINK sound.
“Tony, you awake?” asked his mother.
“No.”
Then it occurred to him.
(Intercom’s working?)
Someone had not only repaired the intercom but also had encased their fix in a hard-plastic bubble.
With a lock!
(No wonder she sounded muffled.)
When was it fixed? He had not left his bedroom since the hospital. At no time would anyone have had time to—
(Last night.)
The lady from the agency had given him a shower in his handicap accessible bathroom down the hall. That’s when.
(Which means…)
His health aide was in on the scheme and, therefore, mom’s henchman.
Team Mom was kicking his butt.
Tony couldn’t decide whether he felt more betrayed or outsmarted. If given a choice, Tony would have gladly traded his diversionary sponge bath for a last peek at father’s workshop before it went on the auction block.
One floor down, but might as well be a galaxy away.
He remembered visiting his workshop. That last time his father had said, “Stretch for it, Tony. Press the button.” And stretch he did, setting into motion the printer nozzles and plastic polymers of his father’s in-home manufacturing machine.
“Another bobby for your collection,” his father had said about the emerging bobblehead. “Machines are our future, m’boy. Do everything for us one day.”
“It’s been two weeks,” Mom said, getting Tony’s attention back to the here and now. “Please tell me you’ve been reading the lawyer’s emails.”
Tony picked up his tablet and deleted another message unread. “Every one,” he said.
“That’s not what Mr. Foulke tells me.”
Not that Tony hadn’t been busy sending the lawyer email. In fact, he spent a good deal of time subscribing Dorchester Foulke to all sorts of emailed goodies: Road Kill Picture of the Day, for instance. Rapid Weight Gain Club, now with nutritious recipes.
(Hmmhmm, kale smoothies.)
And then there was Tasteless Lawyer Jokes dot com. Why are all lawyers drunk? They only have to pass a bar once. They sent this hilarity once every hour.
The lady aide snuck a look at him. His glare forced her retreat.
(Diapers wouldn’t be so bad.)
Tony looked over at his pet monkey and his clothed butt.
“Right, Bony?”
Or maybe a machine he could glue right onto his—
“Are you listening to me, Tony? Do as the lawyer asks.”
“Demands.”
“I will not be made homeless because of your ego needs!”
The health aide scampered a bit farther down the hall. Loud sounds seemed to scare her real easy. Tony wondered if it might be because her home country was currently fighting a civil war. He’d have to ask her about that later.
“Tony, you know I can’t leave this house. I can’t leave this room, most days.”
Tony thought about how far away his wheelchair was. He only wished it was his choice to remain in bed. “Why didn’t you tell me about the trust?”
Bony rattled his cage as he climbed up one side. Cocked his head.
“I, I, I never thought you’d find out. There, I said it.”
Tony’s bladder started sending distress signals. He ignored them. This discussion was much more important.
“I’ve been doing a little investigating, Mom. Did you know Dad’s name wasn’t even Tedward?”
She hesitated. “Yes, it’s Theodore. Theodore Edward. But he hated that name.”
“But there are some questions that Google can’t answer, like, why don’t you own the estate? How come Dad didn’t leave us anything in his will?”
The wait-for-an-answer stretched on. Then—
CLICK.
The intercom’s light went out.
(She hung up on me!)
The one thing she could still do for him—and never have to leave her room for—was answer questions. Tell him about himself.
(But, no.)
Tony was suddenly jealous of Kwame Paix Opoku-Boateng. There was someone who knew who he was.
Bladder!
Yes, that again.
What was the health aide’s name?
(Juanita? Bonita? Or maybe…)
“Angelita?” Tony raised his voice. But not loud enough to scare her. “Bathroom por favor.”
He had that dream again.
THUD, THUD. The ground shook. WHOOSH of the wind past his face.
It’s him—running.
His legs are covered in chrome, equipped with pneumatic pistons and servos. Tall as a lamp post.
He’s laughing, jumping over cars and fences, creating craters as his shiny metal feet hit the ground. Past the hangar, past the barn, past Tu’s hut. But instead of arriving at the dock, there’s a cliff up ahead.
Every time.
Tony sprinted over the grass, then on to the rocky dirt. Not slowing—can’t slow. Does he have brakes? Will he sprout a jet pack and fly?
Never finds out. Wakes up, every time.
Days later.
The wheelchair had become quite a bother. After all, what was it really?
(A mobile bed.)
And not even that comfortable.
Tony transferred all his data to his tablet computer. Now, he need never leave his mattress.
Why had this never occurred to him before?
From here, Tony could use his retinal mouse on the computer. Well within range. The wheelchair always needed charging anyway.
Sure, he had to get over the initial, ugh, of it. But it was not like Tony had to empty the bedpan himself. That was Angelita’s job.
(Serves her right.)
And when she did, she used a string of her native words—which most online sources refused to provide a translation of without first getting him to affirm he was eighteen or older.
His tablet chimed.
It was an email from Dorchester Foulke with the subject line, Abuse of Email. Or some such.
Tony deleted it unread.
What the message did remind Tony about was that nagging question he had.
(Is the trust real?)
Okay, everyone was acting as if it was real, but, come on, who would put a dying kid in a wheelchair through this misery? Here he was, the great debunker, skeptic extraordinaire, the guy who made OTHER people feel stupid—being punked.
Let’s say there was a trust, he asked himself. Somebody must have set it up, right? What stranger would give him and his mother an enormous estate and fat bank accounts?
This is where Tony applied Occam’s razor. The principle that the simplest solution was most often the correct one. Either his whole life had been a snot-ton of lies, where everyone was in on the conspiracy but him, or there was only this one booger of a lie.
Therefore, no trust.
That would explain why his mother freaked out about his questions. She hadn’t had time to make anything up. What he couldn’t make sense of was why his mother was going along with this make believe.
There was something missing. Something he didn’t know.
The play-acting continued as the deadline came closer. Tu talked about removing the makeshift ramp, saying it made the place look trashy, and the new owners might not like.
(Tu, Tu, Tu. He’s not fooling anybody.)
On the surveillance cameras, Tony watched a van unload men and women with clipboards. The wrapped-on advertising said WHOLE ESTATE APPRAISAL SERVICES. ‘We’ll Put a Price on Anything!’
(Ha.)
Probably some out-of-work soap opera actors.
Tony directed the laser pointer at the mini fridge on the bedroom floor.
(Soda time.)
He opened the monkey cage remotely and thumbed open a plastic tub full of grapes.
Bonaparte looked Tony up and down. Licked his lips. Then, instead of going towards the fridge, he took a running leap.
On to the bed.
(THAT’S never happened before.)
The Capuchin yanked the container away from Tony, screeching. The grapes bounced everywhere.
“Hey!”
The monkey jumped down and grabbed a grape off the floor. Leaped on to the sideboard. As he ate his booty, Bonaparte looked over at Tony with primate disdain.
“Just watch, stupid monkey. I’ll have Angelita get me a soda.”
BA DINK. The intercom.
“Tony…?” His mother’s voice.
He said nothing.
“I know you’re there.”
As if he needed it pointed out that he had become about as mobile as a sofa.
Bony made a soft chittering sound and jumped down to the floor. Probably to get the rest of the grapes.
“Listen,” Mom continued, “the health agency left me a message. I know all about you regressing.”
“Yeah, well, so has Bonaparte.”
“I don’t care about the monkey, Tony. I’m worried about you.”
Bony used the bedspread to pull himself back onto Tony’s bed.
(What’s he doing now?)
The Capuchin hopped over Tony, climbed on to his pillow and sat on his head.
His head!
Totally flattening his mohawk.
Tony’s good hand couldn’t swat the monkey away.
“So, I decided,” Mom continued, “after some omigod-should-I-really-be-doing-this? moments…”
Tony tried to wriggle him off, but Bony was as comfortable on his head as if he were on a recliner.
“…I called Hawes. I know, I know, I fired him…”
(What did she just say?)
“…But he was the only person who could motivate you…”
Tony held up his head, lifting Bonaparte up and off.
