A Skeleton in the Family

by Leigh Perry

  “Coming to the con was your idea,” I reminded him. “And since when do you breathe?”

  He ignored me as he pulled himself together, something I hadn’t seen for a while, and it never ceases to amaze me. One second he was a pile of bones, and the next he was connected again and climbing out of the suitcase. It only took him a few minutes and a little help from me to put on his costume.

  Shinigami from Soul Eater, also known as Lord Death, wears a black-hooded robe with lots of jagged edges and a kind of black lightning bolt on top of his head. The robe covers everything but his face and hands, which was why the character was a great choice for Sid.

  In a touch of irony that made me snicker, Sid was actually wearing a stylized skull mask over his normal skull face because Shinigami is a cartoon. Besides which, he needed to disguise the fact that there was nothing in his skull but dust.

  Shinigami’s hands are flat, oversized, and have only four fingers—I think they look more like hockey gloves than anything else—and he uses them to administer his signature move: the Direct Noggin Shinigami Chop. Since Sid was hoping to do some chopping in order to stay in character, he’d made his hands out of foam rubber to avoid damaging anybody.

  The shoes were the hardest part. Sid’s bony feet are close to the length of a normal person’s, but don’t have the meat to fill up a shoe, so we’d had to pad them with more foam rubber, put socks over them, then jam them into my father’s black snow boots. It didn’t look stable, but Sid managed it well enough.

  “How do I look?” he said when he had it all on.

  “Like death.”

  “Perfect!”

  I handed him his name badge. I’d gone to the convention’s registration table Friday afternoon to sign up the three of us, telling Madison it was to avoid standing in line on Saturday when in fact it was to hide the fact that I was buying three badges instead of just two. So as soon as Sid and I made arrangements to meet later on, he was ready to go, and after I made sure the coast was clear, he slipped out of the office. I waited a few minutes before I followed to make sure nobody knew we were together.

  As I walked across the quad several yards behind him, I could tell from the spring in his step that Sid was having a wonderful time being out of the house. I’d really neglected him for the past few years, but it wasn’t easy for me to tend to him when I was living elsewhere, not to mention the fact that Madison was my priority for tending to. From some of the things Sid had said—and hadn’t said—I was realizing that while Mom and Phil hadn’t exactly ignored him, neither had they made lots of time for him. He was lonely.

  Watching him as he encountered his first batch of fellow cosplayers on the quad, I decided I was going to have to get him out more, no matter how much of a pain it was going to be. By the time we both reached the student center, the building where most of the con’s events were being held, Sid was surrounded by people and he was posing for photos and happily performing the Shinigami chop. He was having so much fun he didn’t even notice me passing by.

  I picked up a program book and found a quiet corner in which to look over the schedule of events. There were signing sessions by people I’d never heard of, panels on manga and anime with which I was unfamiliar, and classes in creating costumes. I decided to forgo those pleasures to visit the artists’ alley, where artists of all skill levels were hawking wares ranging from prints of anime characters, pin-back badges with obscure jokes, crocheted Pokémon characters, hand-crafted jewelry, and an amazing assortment of T-shirts.

  I took my time making the rounds, not that I had much of a choice. The room was packed solid with excited otaku. It must have taken me a solid hour to make my way past all the tables, and I was on my way out when I ran into Madison and a group of friends clustered around a table labeled Interrobang Studios.

  “Mom,” she said, “Kevin Bolk is here!”

  I racked my brains, trying to remember why the presence of Kevin Bolk was so wondrous. Fortunately for my mom cred, I caught a glimpse of a picture of a character I recognized from a book Madison had left lying around. “The guy who does Ensign Sue Must Die?”

  She nodded. “He’s taking commissions for sketches, but he’s almost booked up. Do you think we can—?”

  “How much?”

  She told me. “Can we afford it?”

  I probably shouldn’t have, but I am nothing if not a rapid rationalizer. I’d just started a new job, the security deposit for my old apartment had taken care of my most pressing bills, and we were going to be saving a lot of money by living in my parents’ house. “Sure, we can swing it.” I pulled the money out of my wallet and got the requisite kiss before she turned away to talk to the revered artist.

  I escaped to the hallway, where there was actually enough air to breathe, then made a circuit of the dealers’ room. Another glance at the program book confirmed that I wasn’t missing anything I wanted to see, so I found a table at the campus deli counter—creatively named Campus Deli—where I could pull out my laptop and pretend to work while I watched people go by.

  Despite my ignorance about most manga—my experience was pretty much limited to Pokémon, Sailor Moon, and Speed Racer—I felt at home in the crowd. I was an old-school nerd myself: Star Trek, Robert Heinlein, and Ursula K. Le Guin. Still, a nerd is a nerd is a nerd. I idly speculated for a few minutes about putting together a research project about generational nerd culture—which books were considered essential to different age groups. Then I remembered how many papers I’d be grading for the next few months and the concept seemed much less compelling.

  Deborah wasn’t wrong when she tried to push me to publish more—along with attracting fat grants, publishing research was the tried-and-true way for achieving tenure. I’d just never been able to manage the research in addition to the heavy adjunct teaching loads in addition to being a single parent. Sleeping took up an unreasonable amount of my time, too. So instead of outlining a brilliant project, I spent the next few hours reading up on the next month’s classes so I could be more than one day ahead of my students.

  I saw Sid go by a few times, and he even gave me a friendly chop, to the amusement of the other attendees. Madison wandered by, too, but just long enough to grab half the order of nachos I’d intended to hog all to myself. My daughter has a highly effective radar system for sensing when I’ve scored junk food. Fortunately I’m used to her methods, so I kept the M&M’s hidden until she’d zoomed off again.

  About mid-afternoon, as I was wondering if there were more comfortable seats available elsewhere in the building, I saw adjunct-slash-reporter Fletcher Wildman making his way through the crowded hall, stopping now and then to take photos. I waited to wave until his viewfinder was aimed in my general direction, and he came over.

  “May I join you?” he asked.

  “Please do.” I shoved my accumulating trash to one side so he wouldn’t feel like he was sitting down at a garbage heap. “Are you here as an otaku or as a reporter?”

  “Definitely as a reporter, and I’m hoping otaku isn’t some obscure insult.”

  “Yes and no, actually. In Japan, it’s a derogatory term for anime and manga fans—like a nerd or a geek—but American fans call themselves otaku proudly. So no insult was intended.”

  “That’s good to know.” He pulled out a long, spiral-bound pad labeled Reporter’s Notebook. “How do you spell that?”

  I told him.

  “Can I assume you’re an otaku yourself?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’ve never mastered the technique of reading books backwards, which limits my enjoyment of manga substantially. I’m here with my daughter.”

  “Damn, I was hoping for a guide to this strange new world in which I’ve found myself.”

  “I can help you with the basics—I’ve taken Madison to quite a few anime cons.”

  “That would be great,” he said and, with a total lack of subtlety, c
hecked my left hand for a wedding band, earning points by looking pleased by the seductive sight of my bare finger.

  I gave him the same treatment, and was glad to see that his ring finger was equally exposed.

  Fletcher said, “I’m really out of my comfort zone, and I’m not at all sure what these people are dressed as. They are photogenic, though.”

  “Cosplay is a big part of the anime/manga scene,” I said, and launched into an overview of the tropes of the field, mentioning some of the most popular fandoms and identifying some of the characters walking by, including Sid in his robe. Fletcher scribbled furiously, and suddenly I realized I’d been talking for a solid half an hour. “I’m sorry—I went into lecture mode, didn’t I?”

  “No, no, this is great. My editor wants a long feature, and I didn’t know where to start. Can I buy you a drink to thank you?”

  “A Diet Coke would be great.” After all, I’d been talking a long time.

  “You got it.” When he returned, he bought a couple of extra-large chocolate chip cookies, too, and since it would have been churlish of me to reject his offering, I graciously accepted one.

  “I take it that anime conventions aren’t part of your usual beat,” I said in between bites.

  “My editor doesn’t believe in beats—she thinks a reporter should be able to cover anything from a car crash to a city council meeting to a high school football game.”

  “Which means she doesn’t have to hire as many reporters.”

  He nodded. “Back when I had a beat of my own, it was business. I’m a whiz at IPOs, zoning legislation, and retail strategy. Ask me anything.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. How did you end up at the Gazette?”

  “Newspapers aren’t exactly a growth market. I got laid off, and had to decide if I wanted to try TV, learn to blog, or go for a smaller paper. I thought I’d prefer the newspaper, but I don’t know if I’m cut out to be a general reporter. Next weekend I’m covering a kids’ soccer tournament and I know less about soccer than I now know about anime. I don’t suppose you—?”

  “Sorry, Madison always took drama classes during soccer season. But if I might make a suggestion?”

  “Please.”

  “You’ve got a class full of would-be journalists, and chances are that several of them play or have played soccer. Give it to them as a class assignment. You might have to do some editing, but still, you’ll get the article and they’ll get a publication credit.”

  “That’s brilliant!”

  “Moderately,” I conceded, “but it’s an old adjunct trick. I’ve let students critique one anothers’ compositions to cut down on my grading, and let them guest lecture on short stories and poems. They learn a lot, and it saves me work. A win-win situation. I’ve even worked deals with other adjuncts. I realized I had a class full of kids who didn’t know what it meant to fact-check, so I had my students critique papers for a bunch of history students, who then helped my students learn basic research techniques. It took some coordinating, but both classes started producing better work.”

  “Wow. You know all the tricks.”

  “Only because I’ve been an adjunct ever since I got out of grad school. McQuaid is my—” I paused to count it out on my fingers. “McQuaid is my seventh college.”

  “And I thought college professors had it easy with the tenure system.”

  “Once upon a time, sure, but more and more schools are using adjuncts to save money. They don’t pay us as much, they can hire and fire as class sizes change, and they only provide minimal benefits. From a business perspective, it makes all kinds of sense.”

  “What about the adjunct’s perspective?”

  “Most of us would kill for tenure.”

  Fletcher blinked.

  “Well, we’d maim for it, anyway.”

  “I had no idea. You know, this would make a great article. Something meaty, with depth.”

  “I can’t see the Gazette running it. McQuaid is one of their regular advertisers.”

  “True, but there are other places I could try.” He glanced at his watch. “Unfortunately, I’ve got to get going to make today’s deadline. I’m so glad I ran into you. This has been really helpful.”

  “My pleasure. Thanks for the cookie.”

  He gathered his things, got up, and then said, “Would you like to get together sometime?”

  “For an interview about adjunct trials and tribulations?”

  “Actually I was thinking dinner and a movie. Unless there’s another man in the picture?”

  “No, my picture is currently without male embellishment.” We exchanged smiles, and he left.

  To add to my pleasure, Madison wandered by just then. She looked at me with a questioning expression, and when I put on a look of studied nonchalance, she checked Fletcher out from the rear and gave me a thumbs-up.

  I had to agree with her grading. Not only was Fletcher more than presentable from the front, he had an excellent rear view.

  The rest of the day went by quickly, even without further visits from attractive reporters. Since the con was being held on campus rather than at a hotel, it had to shut down earlier in the day than was the norm for cons, and the last panels ended at seven.

  The plan had been for me to meet Sid back at my office at six so I could get him back out to the van before coming back inside to drag Madison away from her friends. But I’d been sidetracked by a particularly tricky level of Angry Birds, and I didn’t get back to my office until quarter after. I’d been worried Sid would also have lost track of time since his costume hadn’t included a watch, but as it turned out he was already in the office, and had packed up his costume and most of himself.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said.

  “No problem.”

  “Did you have a good time?”

  “Yeah.”

  I waited for more, but that was it and there wasn’t time to talk anyway, so I zipped up the suitcase and got him and his costume out to the car.

  We made it by the skin of my teeth. I’d just slammed the back of the van shut when I caught sight of Madison and a trio of new friends heading my way. When she introduced me to Nikko, Liam, and Chelsea, at first I thought she was just being polite and thoughtful, when in fact, she had offered them all rides home and knew it would be tougher for me to refuse with them standing there. Before we’d gotten out of the parking lot, that had morphed into an invite for them to come to our house, after a short stop for sustenance at the Aquarius Drive-In, the burger joint that had been an institution even when I was in high school.

  Most of the conversation during the drive was incomprehensible to me, but I did smile when I heard Madison say, “Did you guys see the guy dressed as Shinigami?”

  “Could you annotate that for me?” I said, pretending ignorance.

  “Lord Death from Soul Eater. He was awesome! He stayed in character all day long, and he was chopping people right and left. It was so funny!”

  “Oh, him,” I said offhandedly. “He chopped me, too.” I hoped Sid could hear about the good impression he’d made.

  Unfortunately, Madison’s new coterie hung at the house until after midnight, which meant that I didn’t get a chance to debrief with Sid. I had to wait until Madison went to bed to get his suitcase out of the van, and left him at the bottom of the attic stairs to make his way up by himself.

  “I’ll come get you tomorrow morning,” I whispered as he reassembled himself.

  “Don’t bother,” he said. “I think I’ll stay home.”

  “Didn’t you have fun?”

  “It was fine. It was good. I just think one day is plenty.”

  “But—”

  I heard Madison’s bedroom door open, and slammed the attic door shut.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I thought I saw a bug.” Which
was the first thing I could think of.

  “G-mom and G-dad must have bug spray.”

  “I’ll take care of it tomorrow. You better get to bed if you want to go back to the con tomorrow.”

  “Just getting a drink of water.”

  With Madison wakeful, I didn’t dare risk speaking to Sid again that night, and though I checked with him again the next morning, he insisted he didn’t want to come along. So I hung out near the deli for most of the day, playing Angry Birds and hoping in vain to see Fletcher again.

  9

  Monday was one minor disaster after another: Madison had forgotten to take her school clothes out of the drier, which meant they were a wrinkled mess; I spilled most of a carton of orange juice on the kitchen floor; my right rear tire had gone flat and I’d let my AAA membership lapse; my students were unexpectedly surly; and just before dinner, Madison announced that she needed poster board for a project that was due the next day. In other words, I had no time for Sid.

  Tuesday wasn’t much better, and Madison and I snarked at each other most of the day. I wasn’t sure if it was her fault or mine or a combination, but when Deborah called and asked if I minded her running off with my daughter for the evening, I was delighted to give my blessing. I’d have given her my VISA card to pay for dinner, too, if I weren’t nudging the credit limit.

  As soon as they were out of the driveway, I headed up to the attic and knocked on the door. “Sid? The coast is clear!”

  There was no response.

  “Sid?”

  “I’m reading.”

  “You can read anytime. Come down and visit.”

  “I’m getting to a really good part.”

  Now I was partially suspicious, and partially worried. Sid loved to read, but he could read all day and night, whereas I’d never known him to pass up a chance to gossip.

  I tried again. “I’ll put on your Bone Songs mix disc so we can dance.”

  “I’m not in the mood.”

  “We could watch The Nightmare Before Christmas.”

  “No, thanks.”