The End of FUN

by Sean McGinty

  He went back into his bedroom and returned with a big framed picture.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Portrait of Mary,” he said.

  It was quite a picture, actually—there was more than just Mary. But yeah, in the middle it was her, Mary, holding baby Jesus in her arms, and it was a pretty terrifying scene: the two of them were sitting up in a cloud above the fiery flames of hell, tormented souls reaching up for their ankles, and an angel at the bottom right grabbing one of them like, “Sorry, pal, you need an appointment to talk to the lady.”

  “It was hanging in his living room. Look behind the portrait of Mary, right?” Dad turned it over and handed it to me. “Thought I’d let you do the honors. Rip into it. Let’s see if we got some money here.”

  And in my head I was like, We?

  The backing was wood, and it wasn’t easy to rip into. I had to pick it off piece by piece, like taking apart a puzzle. When at last I’d unveiled the back of the canvas…there was nothing there. Zero. Nada. No words. No message. Just the back of the canvas.

  “Houston, we have confirmation,” said Dad. “The goat was crazy.”

  “Well, was there anything behind the picture?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like on the wall. Like a secret compartment.”

  “Nope. Just the wall.” Dad gazed at the broken pieces at our feet. “It doesn’t matter. You and Evie can still sell the property.”

  “So you keep saying.”

  He shot me a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “He left it to me. It’s my decision what I do with it or who I share it with.”

  “You know what your sister would do if it was her name on the will? She’d put it on the market the next day and split it with you.”

  “Would she?”

  “You bet. If you don’t believe me, go ask her yourself!”

  “Maybe I will!”

  But first I had to deal with the dog. When I went for my shoe, her lip curled and she let out a low warning growl.

  “Yeah, she gets like that. Your shoe is her new favorite—isn’t it, Bones? Give her a couple hours and she’ll get over it. You wanna go to Evie’s? You can wear something of mine.”

  “I don’t want to wear something of yours.”

  I reached for my shoe again. Bones growled louder.

  “It’s either that or go barefoot with a bloody hand,” he said.

  “Fine. Whaddya got?”

  YAY! for my shoes, Osmos™IVs, and BOO! for the cheap, low-cut moccasins my dad offered me, hardly footwear at all. True, it was only a couple blocks to Evie, but even so…who offers moccasins when it’s snowing? I made it maybe half a block before losing one in a snowdrift.

  It took me a good ten minutes to find the moccasin—I’m not even exaggerating—and let me tell you, standing on one foot in the snow can really put a guy in a foul mood. By the time I got to my sister’s place I’d really worked myself into a lather. Give her half. She fakes an illness, skips the funeral, and I’m supposed to reward her for that? OTOH, I knew deep down that it was true: Evie probably would share half with me. That’s just how she is.

  When I banged on the door, my sister didn’t answer. Instead, it was Sam.

  “Aaron! Why, you’re freezing! Get in here!”

  YAY! for Sam Latham, whose congenial nature and big heart is like a megadose of the HeartHealth™ lifestyle of Kashi® Heart to Heart™ Honey Toasted Oat cereal. Sam’s a big guy with a crew cut, and he’s Evie’s housemate and also her best friend—and we’ve always gotten along real well on account of he’s without a doubt the nicest guy I’ve ever known. Over the years he’s helped me out with all kinds of stuff, from dating advice, to fashion, to the best way to conceal a fat zit. Basically, he’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to another big sister.

  “How’s your day going?” he said.

  “Well, I buried my grandpa, talked to a weird old lady who told me about Jesus, a dog stole my shoe—and here I am.”

  “And here you are!”

  He brought me in and sat me down on the sofa, told me Evie would be with us shortly, then handed me a blanket, a cup of tea, and a plate of snickerdoodle cookies. I munched on a doodle and he filled me in on the latest news of Evie’s disease.

  “We spent the morning in the emergency room—as you might imagine, it was an ordeal.”

  “What’d they say?”

  “The results were positive. But there are several strains of Avian Superpox, and only the Zanzibar and Vatican strains have made it over to America, and neither of them is all that super. More like a mild case of chicken pox. She’s not even contagious anymore. It’s going to be over in a day or two, which is a good thing, because I have to be in Utah in two days to meet my oldest sister’s latest baby. Her third, by the way. All my sisters are returning to the homeland to spawn. Sandra also has three. Shaley has two. Not even twenty-five years old and I’m already an octuncle. Can you believe it?”

  I could believe it. Sam’s nine sisters were well known throughout the area for their extreme hotness, desirability, and untouchableness due to them pretty much being Mormon princesses.

  Sam’s gaze drifted to the hallway. “But what do we have here? Could it be? All fresh and smelling of lavender and calendula and—is that rosemary? Honey, you smell good enough to eat.”

  Yep, there she was: my sister, Evie. Scrubbed clean but still looking a little harried in her bathrobe, and also a little hairy—the curse of our family—shower-fresh Evie with unshaven legs and dots all over.

  “Hi, Aaron,” she said. “No comments about my appearance, please.”

  “Let me tell you,” Sam whispered loudly. “She’s been handling the whole thing just wonderfully.”

  “I have not. I’ve been a big baby.”

  “Well, yes, Evelyn. That, too. You’re itchy. Who could blame you?”

  “Not you.”

  “Certainly not. Neither of us would. Isn’t that right, Aaron?”

  “Holy cow, Evie! Look at your face!”

  Evie frowned. “Look at my all of me. I’ve even got them on the bottom of my feet. I’m not even going to tell you where else.”

  “Her b-hole!” Sam whispered. “And also her—”

  “Samuel Latham!”

  So it was true. All of her—at least as much of her as I could see sticking out of the robe—covered in these little red bumps. This was a first. Evie had an affliction that was actually visually verifiable. You didn’t have to take her word for it. It was all right there to see.

  And I would’ve expected her to be as smug as a bug in a rug about it, but she seemed more worried than anything else. Would her pristine complexion survive this assault? Or was she going to come out looking like Little Miss Acne Scars? Sam told her she’d be fine. Skin is amazingly resilient. She needn’t worry. They were taking every precaution. I got the sense that this was territory they’d covered before. Sam sounded a little weary defending his position.

  “Just listen. Even right now, at its very worst—it isn’t even that bad. It’s like you’ve got…freckles. Think of it as your redhead phase, dear. Your face has a new—how shall I say it?—geography. Isn’t that right, Aaron?”

  “More like topography.”

  “Exactly. Little points of interest.”

  “Mountains and volcanoes.”

  “Stop!” cried Evie. “This isn’t helping.”

  “Or like little towns.”

  “Yes, exactly! Proud hamlets with British names: Northmouth, Eastmouth.”

  “Westforeheadshire.”

  “Spotford upon Eyebrow.”

  “You shut your mouth right now,” said Evie. “Both of you.”

  Sam went to the kitchen to make more tea, and after that it was just me and my sister. She did look fairly miserable, sitting there with her knees drawn up to her chin, scratch-scratching at the red spots on her ankles, and for a moment I felt my cold heart soften. I was just about to tell her,
Be happy, I’m cutting you in for half the inheritance, so snap out of it already. I swear—I really was. But then I noticed the furniture: a cabinet of some kind. Or maybe more like a buffet. Some kind of dresser? I didn’t know what exactly to call it, but I recognized it. I knew I’d seen it before, and I knew where.

  “Hey. That’s Grandpa’s cabinet, isn’t it? What’s it doing here?”

  “Dad brought it here,” said Evie.

  Then I remembered the old record player back at Dad’s place—it was from Grandpa’s, too. Right. It all made sense. “You guys are already divvying up the inheritance!”

  “No,” she said. “Dad was worried about someone breaking in, that’s all. So he moved a few things. And then I commented that I liked the cabinet, so…” My sister shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me. It’s all yours, right? That’s what you’re getting at, right?”

  “Hey, it wasn’t my decision. I guess he just liked me.”

  “He was crazy, Aaron.”

  “Look, I’m definitely going to cut you in for some of the profits, so don’t even worry about that. You want the cabinet, you can have the cabinet.”

  My sister scowled. “I don’t want the cabinet! I just said it was nice. I don’t want any of it. But you know who could use some help right now? Dad. Have you thought about him? I’d split it with him, if I were you.”

  “Oh—wait.” I held up a hand. “I get it.”

  “Get what?”

  “It’s all so very clever.”

  “What’s clever?” she said. “What are you even talking about?”

  Yes, it was clear to me now: they’d discussed this. Planned it out. Hatched a clever plot. Evie and Dad would each say they didn’t give a shit for themselves and instead ask for a portion on the other’s behalf. It was actually pretty brilliant. They could each present their case as if they were only acting out of concern for the other. And here was the really clever part: if I refused, I was the asshole.

  “Wow,” said Evie. “Just—wow.” She scratched her ankle. The little dots were, like, glowing red.

  “What?”

  “Dad’s paying for your school! Or have you forgotten? And now you have the nerve to sit there and act like it’s somehow crazy for me to suggest that you share some of the inheritance with him?!”

  Here’s the thing about my sister: it’s a good idea to avoid pissing her off. She looks harmless and all, but there’s a fire burning in that dork. The other problem is, she’s usually right.

  “Look,” I said. “Fine. Whatever. It’s cool. I was going to share it anyway. I’m just maybe a little ticked off that everyone’s always telling me what to do before I even get a chance to think about it. It’s like everyone assumes I’m gonna be an asshole about everything.”

  Sam came back with more cookies.

  “No one assumes you’re an asshole, Aaron,” he said. “Have a snickerdoodle.”

  I grabbed a cookie. “Everything’s just been happening really fast lately. I didn’t know what I was stepping into. Also, I don’t care what the will says, I’m not taking a retarded dog with me back to San Francisco.”

  “San Francisco?” said Evie. “Why are you going to San Francisco? And the dog’s not retarded. It has PTSD.”

  I told her I meant Sacramento, and she didn’t seem too suspicious, maybe because she was still so pissed off about me calling the dog retarded.

  “Anyway,” she said, “I think Dad’s going to keep the dog.”

  “It’s been quite a little journey for all of us,” said Sam.

  “What’s that mean?” I asked.

  Sam turned to Evie. “Are you going to tell him, or do I get to?”

  My sister frowned. “You mean about the vet’s?”

  “I mean the freezer,” said Sam.

  “What about the freezer?” I said.

  “Check it out,” said Sam.

  “No! Don’t,” said Evie.

  I went to check it out—a Frigidaire® v180 with frostguard™ (YAY!). Inside, where the frozen peas or whatever should be, there was a single yellow bag, and on it was written the word BIOHAZARD in red capital letters.

  “You don’t want to open that,” said Sam.

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” said Evie. “When you see a bag that says biohazard, you do not open it. Common sense.”

  “Yes,” said Sam, “but is it also not common sense to not store biohazardous materials in a residential kitchen freezer? I can never unsee what I saw!”

  “Why? What’s in there?”

  “Puppies,” he said.

  “Puppies?”

  “For the record I did not authorize this. I told your sister that freezer is a public space, and she knows how much I like my frozen pizzas and ice creams and bagel dogs. Oh my God—did I just say that? Bagel DOGS? Anyway, yes, after she heard about the abortion mistake, dear sweet Evelyn marched down to the veterinarian’s office and demanded to be given the puppies.”

  “It was so awful! They deserve a proper burial.”

  “Dear, that’s all well and good, but in the meantime—”

  “So why haven’t you buried them yet?” I said.

  “Yes,” said Sam. “Why haven’t we?”

  Evie sat up glowing red. “In case you didn’t notice, I happen to have superpox. Also, it’s freezing cold outside. Also, there’s a foot of snow on the ground. But if you clowns want to go bury the puppies, by all means please grab a spoon because, oh yeah, we also don’t have a shovel.”

  No one wanted to bury the puppies in the snow with a spoon, so instead we sat on the couch and ate snickerdoodles. Homie™ popped up to ask if I wanted a recipe. Sam kept teasing Evie about something, but I couldn’t follow where he was going, only that it wasn’t the puppies—something else she didn’t want me to know.

  “Sam…” she warned him.

  “Oh, come now. You can’t keep love a secret forever, dear.”

  My ears perked up. “Keep love a secret?”

  “Sam! I thought we agreed—”

  “Shush. We didn’t agree on anything. Why don’t you share the good news with your brother?”

  “What good news?”

  “Boyfriend,” he sang.

  “Sam!”

  “That’s right! Evelyn has a boyfriend!”

  “He is not my boyfriend!”

  “Oh, really? Then what is he?”

  “I don’t know. Just a good friend.”

  Sam turned to me. “His name is Isaac, and he’s about this tall, and he’s got beautiful brown hair, and beautiful brown eyes, and a beautiful nose, and all his teeth and fingers—and he’s an Ivy League–educated scientist.”

  “Environmental impact engineer,” said Evie.

  Evie getting freaky with a scientist? This was news.

  “And they are in love,” said Sam.

  “No! Isaac is just—he’s a person I’m becoming friends with.”

  “Really? Friends? Friends don’t let friends put their hands where you two friends have put your hands!”

  “Aaron,” she said. “Don’t listen to Sam. Isaac is a very nice person, but he lives in New York and—”

  “And he’s out here practically every other weekend!” said Sam.

  “For his research! He’s studying the effect of optical radiation on birds, and it’s just—it’s nice to meet someone once in a while who you have, you know, an intellectual connection with because—”

  Sam laughed. “So that’s what the geeks are calling it these days. Intellectual connection.”

  “And what about you?” said Evie.

  “What about me?”

  “Mr. International is what, fifty years old? And do you know where they met, Aaron? In some filthy chat room.”

  “A pox on you, Evie!” Sam touched her nose. “Oh, wait—you’ve already got one! I just can’t fathom where you get your ideas. If you want to know, we happened to have met the old-fashioned way: face-to-face in a ladies’ restroom. The men’s was out of order. And h
e isn’t fifty—he’s not even forty. Barely even thirty.”

  “You distinctly said it was a filthy chat room.”

  “No. I said we chatted in there about how filthy it was. The women’s side is supposed to be the clean side, right? At any rate, it was a lovely encounter. We exchanged numbers and have been in touch. The only problem is, he lives in Canada half the year, and also he’s having FUN®, so even when we’re hanging out, it feels like he’s only half there….Sigh. But he is beautiful, and he has a cottage on a lake, and I’m going to visit it one day and go rowing through the mist at dawn.”

  “They’ve got FUN® in Canada now?” I said.

  “Apparently so. It’s seems like it’s everywhere now….” Sam put his face close to mine. “You’re not on, are you? But then why do I see a faint flicker around the retina?”

  Oops.

  “You’re on FUN®?!” said Evie.

  “Well, they say ‘having FUN®.’”

  “Since when? Who said it was OK? How exactly are you paying for it?!”

  What was there to say? I could feel my forehead breaking out into a sweat. I sat there wishing I had some SweatBlok® Clinical Strength Forehead Wipes as seen on Classic Rachael Ray (YAY!), or better yet, a way to tell her everything and just get it off my chest—but I knew that if I told my sister everything, my life as I knew it was over. So instead I just told her a little bit. I told her I’d started having FUN®, yes, but that it was totally manageable. I was earning my way, even making some extra money on the side.

  She wasn’t convinced.

  “What about school? What does Mom have to say about all this?”

  BOO! for those questions, and YAY! again for good old Sam, who leapt courageously to my defense.

  “Well, but Aaron appears to have control over it. My Canadian friend most certainly does not. There’s a difference. You don’t play games, do you, Aaron? Mr. International spends all day playing games. What’s that one everyone’s always talking about?”

  “Murder Driver?”

  “No.”

  “Flower Stomper?”

  “No…the one with the exploding panda baby.”

  “Tickle, Tickle, Boom! That’s a great game.”