The Templeton Twins Make a Scene

by Ellis Weiner

  I’m glad you asked it, to the extent that you really did ask it. “Daunting” means frightening or intimidating. It is one of those words you almost always see in just one or two forms. You either see “daunting” (as in “The Templeton twins now faced a daunting challenge”) or you see “undaunted” (as in “No matter how daunting the challenge they faced, the Templeton twins remained undaunted”). What you never see is anything like “I would love to go skydiving but am daunted by it” or “I have no current plans to see the movie The Screaming Undead Prowl Our Grocer’s Frozen Food Aisle, because I don’t care for daunty movies.”

  Where were we? Oh, yes: the daunting challenge. The Templeton twins had to undauntedly face the dauntiness of the following challenge: to get through an entire day of school—to pay attention and answer questions and take out a piece of paper and a pen for a pop quiz, and form two lines for layups in gym, and “hang out” at lunch, and everything—when all they wanted to do was daydream about what would take place later that afternoon and cackle with satisfaction.

  Finally the school day ended and the twins went home. As soon as Manny arrived they told him the plan, and he expressed his deep admiration for it by uttering, in a low tone of wonder, “Whoa. Serious and fun!”

  He then drove the twins to the Academy, dropped them off at the Professor’s workshop, and went on by himself to the theater. As he walked briskly down the aisle toward the stage he saw that the entire production team for Let’s Live Life! was present, as was Gwendolyn Splendide. And standing beside her was Dean D. Dean. He was immaculately clad (clad is a slightly fancy way of saying “dressed”) in a suit of light gray with a thin white pinstripe, plus a pale-yellow shirt and a deep-blue tie.

  “Thanks for coming, everyone,” Manny announced. “Professor Templeton is running just a little late but he’ll be here any second now.”

  “I should hope so,” Dean D. Dean said. “We are all very busy people.” He gracefully waved an open hand toward Gwendolyn Splendide. “Especially Miss Splendide here—who, as you know, is Dean of the Academy and, therefore, the boss of everybody except me.”

  “Oh, Mister Dean,” Gwendolyn Splendide said playfully. “The Professor told me he had an announcement to make. If it’s what I suspect it is, I think you’ll find this meeting quite—”

  “Sorry we’re late!”

  It was Abigail, staggering down the aisle, her arms laden with a huge stack of drawings and typed papers. Behind her came John, lugging big cartons full of sketches, plans, and diagrams. Finally there came Professor Templeton, carrying a stuffed, bulging briefcase in each hand. The twins and the Professor labored to climb the little stairway that led from the auditorium floor to the stage, shuffled across to the middle as everyone moved aside to give them room, and dropped their various papers and boxes and briefcases onto the stage with little explosions of slaps and bumps.

  “There,” the Professor said, catching his breath. “Thank you all for coming.”

  Dean D. Dean stepped forward and eyed the pile of papers suspiciously.

  WHAT ARE YOU UP TO, PROFESSOR?

  he asked sharply. “Because I warn you: I will not be toyed with.” Before the Professor could reply, he added, “And neither will Miss Splendide. Isn’t that right, Madame President of Everything?”

  “Why, yes, it is,” Gwendolyn Splendide said.

  “Of course,” the Professor said. “That is why I owe you an apology, Mister Dean.”

  “How dare y—” Dean D. Dean started in surprise. “What? You owe me an apology?”

  “Yes,” the Professor said. “You said you’ve been working very closely with me on the development of the close-up lens, didn’t you?”

  Warily, Dean D. Dean said, “Yes . . .”

  “And Miss Splendide, you believe that Mister Dean should be allowed to share in ownership of the device based on how much he has worked on it?”

  “Based on his obvious familiarity with the project, yes, Professor,” she said.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” the Professor said. “Mister Dean, I trust you have another copy of that agreement I so rudely tore up the other day?”

  Dean D. Dean pulled a document from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to the Professor. “Don’t get clever. I have five more.”

  “Believe me, Mister Dean, I couldn’t get clever if I tried.” The Professor plucked out a pen from his own pocket, clicked it, and turned to the document’s last page. He was just about to sign it when he gave a little smile, looked up, and said, “Oh. One thing. Before I forget . . .” He put the document and the pen down on the stage and picked up the first few pages from the stack that Abigail had carried in. Holding them up before Dean D. Dean’s face, he said, “Look at this. The graph of magnification as a function of light intensity.” He pointed to the paper and continued, “This little blip here—any idea where it came from?”

  “Eh?” Dean D. Dean stared at the page and muttered, “Uh . . .”

  “Because look at the value at thirty thousand lumens. What do you see?”

  Dean D. Dean studied the graph but seemed not to know where exactly to focus on it. Finally he said, “I don’t see anything unusual.”

  “Except for the fact that it’s almost asymptotic!” the Professor said with excitement. “And then it straightens out again! Have you ever seen such a thing?”

  “I, uh, no. Never have.”

  “And then, compare that—” The Professor, moving with unusual quickness, put those papers down and grabbed a drawing from the box John had carried in. “—to the results we obtained here.” He pointed to a diagram. “And it makes no sense! At least to me. Perhaps you can explain it.”

  “Well . . . perhaps . . .” Dean D. Dean said, but then said nothing more.

  “Remind me: Were we measuring incident intensity, or reflected intensity?”

  “I . . . I don’t—”

  “Because, as I know you recall, we worked on this for a week,” the Professor said, shaking his head at the memory of it. “Remember how it drove me crazy?”

  “No. I mean yes. I mean I wasn’t there.”

  The Professor snapped his fingers. “That’s right! You were working on the reflector form, weren’t you?”

  “I—kind of, yes, in a sense . . .”

  “And you did it brilliantly.” The Professor turned to the crowd of onlookers, who were watching this exchange in fascination. “I kept saying to him, ‘Parabola, parabola, parabola.’ ” He turned back to Dean D. Dean and asked, “And what did you say?”

  “I don’t remember.” Dean D. Dean bent over and grabbed the document and the pen and held them out to the Professor. “Just sign this and we’ll discuss it later.”

  “Of course.” The Professor took the papers and the pen and was about to sign the last page, when he again put them down, opened one of his briefcases while murmuring, “Just one more thing . . .” and, with a look of perplexity, pulled out a table of numbers and waved it at Dean D. Dean. “Can you please explain these values to me? Because if they’re accurate, I think you really may be on to something.”

  “Later!” Dean D. Dean snapped. He snatched up the document and the pen and stood up and held them out. “Just sign!”

  The Professor shrugged. “Certainly.” He took the pen, turned to the last page, and signed. He held on to the document.

  “FINALLY,” Dean D. Dean laughed. “All right. No, I cannot explain those values to you. I didn’t work on that part of it. I worked on some other part.”

  “Ah! Of course.” The Professor rolled up the document and shoved it into the pocket of his big blousy white shirt, then dug through one of the briefcases as he said, “You worked on the voltage problem.” He laughed as he pulled out a diagram and handed it to Dean D. Dean. “Show them the mistake I made.”

  Dean D. Dean scanned the drawing frantically and said, “There’s nothing wrong with this. It’s fine.”

  The Professor stood next to Dean D. Dean and frowned at the drawing. “Oh. S
orry.” He gently took it and turned it around. “You’re looking at it upside down.”

  “I knew that! I meant it looked normal for upside down!”

  “Did you work on the bulb specs?”

  “I—Yes! I said it needs a bulb!”

  “How many?”

  “One! But a really good one!”

  “Actually, it uses ten bulbs.”

  “Look, it doesn’t matter!” Dean D. Dean held out his hand. “Just give me the document and we’ll all get back to work.”

  “I think it does matter, Mister Dean.”

  Everyone—well, almost everyone—gasped. Because this last sentence was said, not by Professor Templeton, but by Gwendolyn Splendide. She was staring evenly and without warmth at Dean D. Dean. “I, for one, would like to know exactly which parts of this creation you are responsible for.”

  “Who cares!” Dean D. Dean cried. He reached out and snatched the signed document from the Professor’s pocket and waved it around. “He admits I worked on it! He signed this!”

  “No, he didn’t,” John said.

  Dean D. Dean gave a gasping laugh of disbelief. “What? He did so! YOU ALL SAW IT! HE SIGNED IT RIGHT HERE! LOOK!”

  He held out the signed page toward the twins. Abigail peered at it and read the signature.

  X General George Washington

  SIGNATURE

  Then she said, sweetly—or, rather, fake-sweetly—“That’s not your name, Papa.”

  “Mister Dean,” Gwendolyn Splendide said sternly. “It is becoming obvious to me that you had nothing to do with Professor Templeton’s invention.”

  “But—”

  “You have deceived me. And when Gwendolyn Splendide is deceived, she feels like a fool.” She directed a sad, sorrowful look at the Professor and said, “Professor, I owe you an apology. This creation is yours and yours alone.” She addressed the others. “Everyone, the production is hereby unfrozen.” All the production people were about to cry “YAY!” and applaud and give each other high fives, when they saw Gwendolyn Splendide wheel on Dean D. Dean and continue coolly, “Mister Dean, you may leave the building and I will thank you never to return.”

  Dean D. Dean grit his teeth in fury as he glared, first at the Professor, and then at the twins. He drew himself up into a straight, dignified posture; adjusted the knot of his deep-blue tie; pulled sharply on the sleeves of his light-gray jacket; bowed toward Gwendolyn Splendide; and murmured, “As you wish.” He turned away lightly, then looked back at everyone with an expression that said, “I am not embarrassed, and you will all rue the day you crossed me.” He nodded and, with a single graceful step off the stage, plummeted into the orchestra pit, where he landed with a horrible clatter among the chairs and music stands and yelled, “OW!”

  When Dean D. Dean climbed out of the pit, it was obvious he had injured his left foot or his leg. He looked up and saw that everyone was staring at him. “My role in these proceedings is not yet over,” he said calmly. Then, limping, he lurched his way up the aisle and out the door.

  Everyone was too stunned to speak. Finally Gwendolyn Splendide cleared her throat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she announced. “I apologize for the unnecessary inconvenience I’ve imposed on you. Let us contact the cast and the orchestra and meet back here in twenty-four hours, at which time we will run through an excellent dress rehearsal and prepare for the opening, on schedule, of Let’s Live Life!”

  At that everyone finally did cheer and clap and start talking at once. Finally Roger Prince signaled for quiet. “The Dance Department has the stage all day tomorrow until around four-thirty,” he said. “So let’s say we’ll start at five o’clock. Break at seven for dinner, back at eight, and we’ll go however long we need.”

  As the excited group resumed chattering, John turned to his sister and said, “Dean D. Dean won’t just say, ‘As you wish,’ and go away and never come back.”

  Abigail nodded. “Remember what he said last time?”

  John nodded. The two of them said, at exactly the same time,

  ‘THIS ISN’T OVER.’

  FOR FURTHER STUDY

  Do you know what “asymptotic” means? No, but for some reason I believe that the Narrator knows what it means.

  No, but I have no doubt that the Narrator does, and that is what is important.

  No, but I am absolutely certain that the Narrator does, for he is indeed smarter than I am, as he has always maintained.

  A train is moving westward from Istanbul (in Turkey) to Paris (France) with 100 people on board. Do any of them know what “lumens” are? If so, what are their names?

  Show, in the form of a line graph or a pie chart, why you think this chapter was particularly well narrated.

  The twins got home from school at around 3:30 the next day. They went inside and dropped their book-laden knapsacks in the front hallway. And then, as though in response to a secret signal, they stopped and looked at each other. The house was silent.

  “That’s weird,” John said.

  Abigail nodded.

  Can you guess what John thought was “weird” and why Abigail agreed with him? Oh, please. To figure out the answer to this question, I suggest—in fact I insist—that you think the following things, in exactly these words, in your own personal head:

  1. Nothing happened to John or Abigail when they entered the house. Therefore the thing that is “weird” must be something they saw, something they smelled, or something they heard.

  2. The Narrator has not mentioned anything that the twins saw or did not see, or smelled or did not smell. But he did say that “the house was silent.” Thus, what is important is the fact that the twins did not hear anything. How could that be “weird”?

  3. Silence is only weird if you expect to hear something. What might the twins have expected to hear?

  I will now reveal the exciting answer to that question. If you guessed it correctly, please accept my heartiest congratulations. Well, wait. No, not my heartiest. I think I will reserve my heartiest congratulations for myself, for something wonderful that I will do. But I will offer you my acknowledgment that, by following the above (intelligent and perfectly worded) instructions, you were able to divine (which in this case means “guess”) the answer.

  What was weird was the fact that Cassie did not come barking and leaping and wagging and being ridiculous to the door to greet them, as she always did.

  “Maybe she’s sleeping,” Abigail said, but in a voice that suggested she didn’t really believe it. The twins went into the living room.

  “Cassie?” John called. They paused and heard nothing. “I’ll check upstairs,” he said. “You look in the kitchen.”

  John ran up the steps, skipping every other one. Abigail hurried into the kitchen. “She’s not here!” she called to her brother.

  After a minute he came down, looking grim. “She’s not upstairs, either.”

  At that precise second they heard a sharp knock on the front door. It made them both jump. They ran to open it and beheld Nanny Manny Mann. He was smiling. He said, “Big dress rehearsal today, right?” but, when he saw how worried the twins looked, he stopped. “What’s up?”

  “We don’t know where Cassie is,” John said.

  “It’s Dean D. Dean!” Abigail said. “He took her!”

  “We don’t know that—” Manny began.

  “Who else could it be?!”

  “Guys?” Manny said. “Before we freak out, let’s make sure.”

  They looked everywhere: under every bed, in every closet and bathroom, and in the basement. But when they met back in the kitchen, all three of them had the same report: The dog was nowhere to be found. Then Manny turned toward the back door, which led out of the kitchen into the backyard. “Look. Somebody broke in!”

  The twins joined him at the door. It was true: Someone had slammed something—a rock, say, or a hammer—into the mechanism that held the door shut, and shattered it.

  “Okay,” Manny said. “If
Dean D. Dean took her, he’ll call and tell us what he wants. But what if it was some burglar, and Cassie just ran out the door? That means she might be running around the neighborhood.”

  For the next hour John remained home in case a phone call came, while Abigail and Manny drove around, calling for Cassie and peering at every yard, porch, and garden they could. But they couldn’t find her, and when they got back to the house John had to report that no call had come, either.

  Then, to everyone’s surprise, the doorbell rang. Imagine their utter amazement when they opened the door and saw . . .

  But first, guess who they saw when they opened the door. And don’t say “Cassie,” because smooth-haired fox terriers aren’t big enough to ring doorbells. I’ll wait while you guess.

  Still waiting.

  You’ll never get it. Indeed, I would never get it, and—as you know—I happen to be a nonpareil guesser.23 But just guess anyway and then I’ll tell you.

  That’s your guess? Well, you’re wrong. Unless, that is, you said:

  Dean D. Dean, holding a leash, at the end of which was a bright-eyed, ecstatic-to-be-alive Cassie.

  “Hello, children,” he said pleasantly, or at least in a manner he thought was “pleasant.” He wore a sport jacket of tiny light-blue and gray checks, a pink shirt with no tie, and charcoal-gray slacks. He also had a big black bootlike cast on his left foot, and held a cane in his right hand. “I was passing by and saw this delightful doggie wandering around, so I thought I’d return him to you. Say hi, Cookie!”

  Abigail was too amazed to speak. John, meanwhile, stepped forward and said, “It’s ‘Cassie.’ And he’s a she. Thank you.” He held out his hand and Dean D. Dean gave him the leash.

  Indicating the leash, Abigail said, “This isn’t ours.” She took the collar off Cassie and handed it, with the attached leash, back to Dean D. Dean. Cassie trotted into the house as though nothing at all was amazing or astounding or weird.

  Abigail turned to Dean D. Dean and said, “You’re up to something.”