He reached for a guava-flavored fruit pie but, after seeing the prominent APU label, put it back.
Then his eyes refocused on the Morphtronic sign in the window. As the words “Free DNA test” morphed into “With Purchase of 1 Crate of Dehydrated Sea Greens,” Claude saw a row of dark clouds in the distance and wondered if another tornado was on its way.
Two carriages pulled into the yard, one driven by a fat couple wearing large sunhats and gauze beach jumpers, the other a Mother’s Milk delivery branigan. Claude marveled at the image on the branigan’s side: the faces of the blue-eyed mother and her smiling plump baby that had served as the Mother’s Milk emblem for decades. It was such a cheesy, old-fashioned picture, such a pathetic attempt to tug at customers’ hearts, and yet, stupid and simplistic as it was, it worked. Claude’s mother had plied him as a child with Mother’s Milk yogurt and Mother’s Milk North American Cheese Balls and Mother’s Milk Soda-Flavored Vitamins, leaving him with a fondness for the brand, and the cheesy, old-fashioned picture of a blonde, blue-eyed mother and child. He could denounce APU all he wanted, he could even boycott Mother’s Milk and the thousand other APU-owned brands, but he couldn’t shed the affection he felt, programmed into him involuntarily as a child, for the stupid brand. What right did APU or any corporation have to expose young children to their brands? It was brainwashing, pure and simple.
Something in the street caught his eye: a silver-plated carriage that he immediately recognized as belonging to Eric Watson. Stefani Philips was sitting in the carriage next to him while Jayesh, running his hand through his hair and laughing, was riding at their side.
“Look at this,” Carolien said.
Claude jumped. “Scheisse. You scared me!”
“Sorry,” she said. She was holding up a magazine open to the image of a woman’s face decorated in what looked like war paint—stripes of red, black and yellow on her cheeks, eyebrows plucked into dagger shapes. “What if I did myself up like this for the meet?”
“Great,” Claude said distractedly. As the sound of thunder rumbled in the distance, he looked out the window, but Jayesh and his friends were gone.
Carolien studied the picture. “You think so?”
Claude marched off. “Can we go?” He tried not to look out the window.
“Yeah. Let’s scram,” she said, tossing the magazine back on the rack.
Outside Claude looked in the park and down the street. About a block away, he saw Watson’s carriage and Jayesh’s mount hitched at a water stall.
“What are you looking at?” Carolien asked.
“Nothing. Just trying to figure out if it’s going to storm again.” He shifted his attention to the sky, which was getting darker.
“Crazy weather.”
“Yeah. Hey, that XCaff is making me thirsty. I’m going to run back for an Ice Wash.”
“Better hurry,” she said, slipping the XCaff into the cup holder on her saddle.
“I will.”
She mounted Mattie. “So you’re coming to the meet tomorrow, right?” she asked.
For a moment he didn’t know what she was talking about. “Definitely. It’s so cosmic that you’re in the first round. Of course I’m coming.”
She smiled. “I need you to cheer me on,” she said.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be there,” he said.
She flicked the reigns. “Ya,” she said, trotting off.
“Auf wiedersehen,” Claude shouted, watching her go.
When she was gone, he perched on a bench with an unobstructed view of the street, waiting for Jayesh to appear.
Chapter Four
The Contest
A few blocks from home, Carolien’s ears filled with the familiar jingle for Blots candy: “Brightens, whitens, and lightens your mood...” Looking up, she saw the Blots blimp. Mattie—startled by the orchestral vibrations—shook her head and twitched her ears as if trying to shake off flies.
“Sorry girl,” Carolien said, giving the filly a sturdy pat.
As the blimp moved on, fat drops of rain began to fall, and Mattie quickened her trot. In less than a minute they were home, and Carolien guided Mattie on the rutted path from the cobbled street to the barn.
Their house was old and in need of repairs, but they didn’t have the money, so Carolien’s mother had developed the habit of calling everything that was falling apart, like the rotting window frames and the crumbling stoop, “charming,” as if they were weekend visitors to a Victorian country house rather than full-time residents of a decrepit aluminum-sided ranch.
Carolien pressed the remote on her saddle and the barn gate hummed open, revealing not only Gretel, her mother’s Choctaw, but Great Emancipator, Grandma Bets’ regal black Morgan.
“Howdy, GE,” she said, worried. Something must be wrong—only bad news could explain a surprise visit. Hurriedly, she dismounted, removed her saddle, and latched Mattie’s stall. On her way out, she greeted Great Emancipator with a scratch behind his ears. The stallion nuzzled her arm. He was still warm and slightly moist, his coat silkened by a sheen of sweat.
As the auto-gate shuddered closed, she ran up the path and burst into the kitchen.
The tableau that greeted her was as far as possible from anything she might have anticipated. The kitchen furniture had been pushed against the walls, which usually happened only when there was a leak, but instead of a bucket to catch rainwater, Grandma Bets sat in the middle of the room, perched like a queen in a high-backed dining room chair. Her eyes were shut as Carolien’s mom applied eggplant-colored eye shadow. A movie-maker sat on a tripod a few feet away, and nearly a dozen lamps were scattered around the room, occupying every surface: counter, kitchen table, trashcan, windowsill, cabinet.
“Is that you Car?” her grandmother said. She twisted in the chair, trying to look over her mother’s head.
“Sit still,” her mother mumbled, a blush applicator in her mouth.
“What the Hades…?” Carolien said, careful not to trip over any of the electrical cords crisscrossing the room.
“Watch your tongue,” her mom said, only it came out like “washington” because of the applicator lodged between her teeth. Her mother indulged in swearing when they were alone but insisted on linguistic piety in Grandma’s presence.
“We’re making a moving picture,” Grandma Bets said.
“Wait…,” her mother warned again, making small, careful dabs above Grandma Bets’ left eye.
“A moving picture?” Carolien was out of breath, and her heart was beating fast. “I thought… I was worried when I saw GE…”
Her grandmother raised a hand to indicate that she couldn’t answer. Her mother touched her face lightly with the brush a few more times and then leaned back to study her handiwork. She puckered her lips, tilted her head, looking at Grandma Bets from various angles, and nodded decisively. “Perfect,” she declared.
Grandma Bets, smiling, turned toward Carolien and spread her arms. “How do I look?” She usually preferred denim and sneakers but today was fully adorned, not only with blush, mascara and eye paint, but a shimmering jacket, trim skirt and perilously high shoes.
“You look cosmic, Gran! Stunning.” She bent down and gave her a hug.
“Thank you, dear.”
As she straightened up, Carolien looked around the room. “So why a moving picture?”
“It’s for a contest,” Grandma Bets said. “I only just found out about it, and the deadline is tomorrow.”
“Ah,” Carolien said. That explained the surprise visit. Grandma Bets loved contests. Last year, her winning jingle for Landscape Warehouse earned her a year’s supply of Fast Grass Mass fertilizer. She crowed about her triumph for at least a month even though she didn’t have a lawn and ended up donating her winnings to the Chicago Parks Department.
“How much fertilizer can you win this time?”
“Don’t make fun,” her grandmother said.
“Sorry, Gran.” She flashed a big grin to show she meant no harm.
“What’s the prize?”
“A trip to …”
“Paris?”
Grandma Bets shook her head. “Arctic,” she said. She couldn’t have sounded more excited than if she’d already won.
Her mom sighed and looked at Carolien with tired eyes. “Doesn’t that sound exciting?” she asked, punctuating her sarcasm with a frown.
Grandma Bets puckered her lips. “Don’t be a party poop,” she said.
“Don’t listen to her Gran. It sounds fantastic. Can I come if you win?”
“Of course. As long as you help me work that movie-maker.”
“Sure, Gran.”
From the inside of her jacket, she extracted a pair of sequined reading glasses and a piece of paper. “I jotted down the rules,” she said. She balanced the glasses on the end of her nose and unfolded the paper on which she’d written a few sentences in small but neat lettering. “The contest is being run by the Greater Arctic Development Corporation. Their logo is: It’s Been Blank for too Long. Let’s Fill It In.”
“Lovely,” Carolien said, frowning.
Grandma Bets sighed. “Let’s hope they fill it in with something nice,” she said.
“They won’t,” Carolien said.
Grandma Bets continued reading. “They want what they’re calling ‘personal family stories that exemplify the courage, resilience and ingenuity of the human spirit.’ They’re going to pick five winners from each continent, and each’ll get a free trip and companion ticket to the…,” she paused to bring the paper closer to her face, “All Products United Mega something or other Residential Resort Entertainment Complex.”
“I see. So what are the rules?”
“They want a moving picture of someone telling a family story,” she said, peering at the sheet. “It can’t be more than 10 minutes. It has to be original and it has to be based on fact.”
“It can be about anything?” Carolien asked.
“The theme is ‘A Brave Adventure.’”
Mom snorted. “What do you know about brave adventures, Ma?”
“More than you think.”
“Learning to ride a unicycle to celebrate your 70th birthday?” her mom asked.
“Hades, Mom. Would you please… ” Carolien began. Before she could finish the sentence with “shut-up,” her mother sat up, raised a warning finger and snapped, “Don’t take that tone young lady.”
Grandma Bets cleared her throat dramatically. “I thought I’d tell Molly and Moore’s story.”
Carolien’s mother’s expression softened. “It’s a great story, but I wouldn’t call it non-fiction,” she said.
“Are you saying it’s a lie?” Grandma Bets asked.
“No, no, no. I would never say that—at leastwise, not with you sitting so close,” she teased.
“Let her tell whatever story she wants,” Carolien said.
“You heard me talk about them,” Grandma Bets said, looking at Carolien.
“Of course. They were slaves, right?”
Grandma Bets nodded. “That’s right. Molly and Moore were slaves and they were also your great-great-great-great grandparents.”
“Don’t you remember? I wrote a paper about them for my 4th grade social studies project.”
“Sure I remember,” Grandma Bets said, nodding solemnly.
Carolien squatted down and placed a hand on Grandma Bets’ knee. “It would be an honor to record you telling their story.” She didn’t know why, but for some reason she felt like crying.
Grandma Bets’ bright brown eyes probed her intently. “You’re looking queasy,” she said.
Carolien stood. “I’m fine. Totally fine.” She stepped to the counter and grabbed an apple from a bowl. “I think I just need to eat something,” she said before taking a bite.
“You sure?” her mother asked, eyeing her with worry.
Carolien nodded. “Hey, guess what?”
“What dear?” her mother asked.
“The coach chose me as a starter for Friday’s meet,” she said.
“Hooray!” her mother said, coming over to give her a hug.
“That’s wonderful, Car. I guess it’s a big honor to be a starter?” Grandma Bets asked.
Carolien nodded.
“That’s our girl,” Grandma Bets said, smiling.
While her mother adjusted her grandmother’s hair, Carolien probed the machine’s controls. It was a Polaroid FastPlay, which recorded in the new format, 4-D Surround-View Holographics.
She aimed the lens, adjusted the focus, and experimented with apertures, white balance, and filters. Then she pressed a button and the movie-maker projected a holographic image of her mother and grandmother, their likenesses reduced to the size of plums.
“Will you look at that?” Grandma Bets said delightedly, clapping her hands. “Who said you can’t be two places at once?”
The projection began to expand horizontally, getting longer and longer. It showed not just one image of them but many, representing motion over time. Within a minute, a series of images encircled Carolien like a lasso and then started over, new images superseding older ones.
“It’s making me dizzy,” her mother said.
Carolien pressed a button and the holograph disappeared. “They call it 4-D because it shows 3-D plus time. It’s like watching a 10-minute movie, but instead of taking 10 whole minutes to watch it, you see every frame spread before you at once. Pretty cosmic.”
Grandma Bets fanned herself with her hand, as if overcome. “Everyone says ‘new’ is better, but I wonder.”
“It’s like this, Gran: If you watched your mysteries in 4-D, you wouldn’t have to wait until the end to find out who the killer is. You’d know the whole story from beginning to end as soon as you turned it on.”
“Hon,” Grandma Bets said, “my mind doesn’t work like that. That’s for young people. I like my stories the old-fashioned way, starting at the beginning, moseying through the middle, and then ending with a nice, fat, happy…. well, ending.”
Carolien smiled. “Got it. Are you ready to start?”
“Sure am,” Grandma Bets said, smiling at the camera. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
Chapter Five
At the Bandshell
Jayesh was laughing with Eric Watson and Stefani Philips as they walked out of Woolworths, and Claude was jealous. He wanted to be the one to make Jayesh laugh.
Trax bobbed his regal Missouri Fox Trotter head and grunted, spraying Claude with horsey mist. “Thanks boy,” he said, wiping his face on his sleeve.
Jayesh sauntered to his steed. Look over here, Claude mentally commanded. But Jayesh looked the other way. Claude sighed. Even if they spoke, what would he say? “Hey, bud, are you into me or not? I’m a little confused by the mixed messages.”
Stupid. He needed to say something charming, irresistible, something to tip the scales, not some dreary whining kuhscheisse about mixed messages.
He watched nervously as Jay mounted his horse, trying to figure out how to get his attention. He didn’t care if Eric and Stefani saw him, so long as Jayesh genuinely liked him; in that case, Claude would look like a guy who knew what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to pursue it. But if Jayesh didn’t give a rodent’s ass about Claude, then he’d look like a fool, a pathetic twerp, a pox-sucking loser.
Eric and Stefani trotted off, leaving Jayesh alone. The sky had grown darker and the wind stronger, scattering leaves and stray branches. A lady hurrying into a carriage screamed as her purple hat lit off, carried on a draft over traffic and into the park, where it snared about 10 paces from Claude on a low branch of an evergreen. Jayesh pursued it, navigating his mare against traffic and then cutting into the park while Claude raced on foot, arriving a half second earlier.
Claude plucked the hat from the tree just as Jayesh, maintaining a trot, leaned down to scoop it up. He looked confused, probably thinking the wind had outsmarted him, but then saw Claude and grinned, bringing his mare around. “Better bring it to the frau,”
Claude said, offering the hat, which was festooned in ribbons that, in the gale, lashed his arms and face with surprising, stinging force.
Jayesh snatched the hat and spun around, but the carriage had already departed, as if it too had been carried away by the wind. Jayesh turned back to Claude, his hair flapping like the ribbons. “What should I do with it?” he said, holding the hat at arm’s length.
“Put it on,” Claude commanded, but Jayesh answered the question himself by throwing the hat like a discus. It bounced briefly on a blast of air and then cartwheeled sideways, landing on the grass and tumbling a few feet until it landed in a mucky puddle.
“Oops,” Jayesh said. “I didn’t mean to ruin it. I just wanted to see how far it’d go.”
“We did what we could,” Claude said.
“I suppose,” Jayesh said. “Lovely weather, huh?”
“If you were that hat you wouldn’t say that.”
“Ha. How true is that?”
Large drops of rain began to fall, landing with wet slaps. Jayesh looked skyward and opened his mouth, trying to catch them.
“Taste good?” Claude asked.
“Try it,” Jayesh urged.
Claude looked around, embarrassed. He didn’t want to be seen catching raindrops; and yet, wanting to please Jayesh, he looked up and opened his mouth. The rain was sparse enough that he could see the individual drops, and he jerked around trying to catch them, snagging a few on his tongue.
“Delicious aren’t they?” Jayesh exhaled, as if the rain was caviar.
Claude stopped jumping around and looked at him. “Not really. Maybe it’s an acquired taste.”
“Maybe,” Jayesh said, licking his lips. “I love rain. It’s the tornadoes I can do without.”
“It’s probably silly to be standing here,” Claude said, gesturing to the open sky. Silly was an understatement. It was stupid of them to be outside, given the weather and the fact that a tornado had already destroyed the train station just a few hours ago.
The Alternate Universe Page 3
