a single person about home, but he figured someone had — either Gigs, for kindly reasons, or that arch busybody, Bronwyn Baxter, because she loved to pass on gossip.
It was the best solution. In fact, it was the only solution. And if somehow — he couldn’t think how and he’d canvassed all the possibilities — if somehow Uncle George and Ma found out later, after camp, it would be too late to do anything about it.
“So, that’s that,” he said to Morrie and Robert Plant. “All settled.” He closed his eyes.
Or almost all settled. There was one remaining problem, of course. A three-foot-seven-inch problem with bulging eyes and rattling bangles, who could be guaranteed to do what everyone else obligingly did not — ask questions. There was no way out of that one — Frankie just knew.
He could hear Sydney’s questions clearly. He’d been hearing them in his head for two weeks.
“Question,” she would say in her raspy way. They might be anywhere, sitting at his desk, Sydney scribbling, Frankie shading the soft gray underbelly feathers of his rare bird. They might be sitting at the Pepys table doing their math or riding the bus to Frankie’s place or walking down the hill to the shops on an errand for Ma. Sydney would be no respecter of place or time.
“How come,” she would say with a bluntness that would make him flinch, “your mother
never
leaves the house?”
Frankie had spent a good deal of time thinking about how he would answer this. He had all manner of imaginary responses lined up.
“She has an allergy to sunlight,” he would say.
Or, “She’s actually clinically blind, but you can’t really tell.”
Or, “She has this incredibly rare foot condition. It stops you from walking any distance. Just easier to stay indoors.”
Or, “She’s in a witness protection program — she gave evidence in a big court case and now she has to stay more or less hidden in case any of them trace her whereabouts.”
It was all crap, of course, but it didn’t matter much what he said, because the other question would come hard on its heels, as predictably as frost on a winter morning.
“But how
long
has it been, how long since she went anywhere?” Sydney would fix him with those black bean eyes, her nose stud would seem to flash, and he would be stuck fast, a possum in the headlights, compelled to answer. Those eyes would pull the answer from him, draw it out slowly, like a syringe extracting blood.
“Hmmm,” Frankie would say, strenuously casual, looking away, fixing his eye on something solid and ordinary: a tree, a parked car, the dictionary, the black-and-white hatching on his rare bird, the cricket cup and the sharpened pencils pointing to the ceiling like a circle of bayonets. “Hmmm,” he might say again, so relaxed and unemotional he would seem practically comatose. “A while now, I guess.”
Then he might pretend to recall just exactly how long. He might narrow his eyes, seem to be calculating the time, as if it were so unimportant, he’d never bothered to do it before. . . .
“Let’s see,” he might say eventually. “About nine years. Most of my life, really. It’s normal for me. I hardly notice it. I honestly never really think about it. Really.”
“Really,” he would say again, ever so lightly.
“Did you know, the Russians had accidental daylight saving for sixty-one years and nobody noticed?” said Frankie. “It was Stalin’s fault. He ordered the clocks put back in nineteen thirty-eight and then forgot to un-order them.”
Frankie liked to pass on to Ma curious facts he picked up about Russia. He’d heard this one on a radio program about the history of daylight saving.
“I did
n
’
t,” said Ma. “He was a terrible person.”
“It’s more terrible ending daylight saving,” said Frankie. “Plunging us all into darkness.”
“Do
n
’
t you start,” said Ma. She was lying with her hands tucked behind her head, listening to some piano music. Russian,
It was the best solution. In fact, it was the only solution. And if somehow — he couldn’t think how and he’d canvassed all the possibilities — if somehow Uncle George and Ma found out later, after camp, it would be too late to do anything about it.
“So, that’s that,” he said to Morrie and Robert Plant. “All settled.” He closed his eyes.
Or almost all settled. There was one remaining problem, of course. A three-foot-seven-inch problem with bulging eyes and rattling bangles, who could be guaranteed to do what everyone else obligingly did not — ask questions. There was no way out of that one — Frankie just knew.
He could hear Sydney’s questions clearly. He’d been hearing them in his head for two weeks.
“Question,” she would say in her raspy way. They might be anywhere, sitting at his desk, Sydney scribbling, Frankie shading the soft gray underbelly feathers of his rare bird. They might be sitting at the Pepys table doing their math or riding the bus to Frankie’s place or walking down the hill to the shops on an errand for Ma. Sydney would be no respecter of place or time.
“How come,” she would say with a bluntness that would make him flinch, “your mother
never
leaves the house?”
Frankie had spent a good deal of time thinking about how he would answer this. He had all manner of imaginary responses lined up.
“She has an allergy to sunlight,” he would say.
Or, “She’s actually clinically blind, but you can’t really tell.”
Or, “She has this incredibly rare foot condition. It stops you from walking any distance. Just easier to stay indoors.”
Or, “She’s in a witness protection program — she gave evidence in a big court case and now she has to stay more or less hidden in case any of them trace her whereabouts.”
It was all crap, of course, but it didn’t matter much what he said, because the other question would come hard on its heels, as predictably as frost on a winter morning.
“But how
long
has it been, how long since she went anywhere?” Sydney would fix him with those black bean eyes, her nose stud would seem to flash, and he would be stuck fast, a possum in the headlights, compelled to answer. Those eyes would pull the answer from him, draw it out slowly, like a syringe extracting blood.
“Hmmm,” Frankie would say, strenuously casual, looking away, fixing his eye on something solid and ordinary: a tree, a parked car, the dictionary, the black-and-white hatching on his rare bird, the cricket cup and the sharpened pencils pointing to the ceiling like a circle of bayonets. “Hmmm,” he might say again, so relaxed and unemotional he would seem practically comatose. “A while now, I guess.”
Then he might pretend to recall just exactly how long. He might narrow his eyes, seem to be calculating the time, as if it were so unimportant, he’d never bothered to do it before. . . .
“Let’s see,” he might say eventually. “About nine years. Most of my life, really. It’s normal for me. I hardly notice it. I honestly never really think about it. Really.”
“Really,” he would say again, ever so lightly.
“Did you know, the Russians had accidental daylight saving for sixty-one years and nobody noticed?” said Frankie. “It was Stalin’s fault. He ordered the clocks put back in nineteen thirty-eight and then forgot to un-order them.”
Frankie liked to pass on to Ma curious facts he picked up about Russia. He’d heard this one on a radio program about the history of daylight saving.
“I did
n
’
t,” said Ma. “He was a terrible person.”
“It’s more terrible ending daylight saving,” said Frankie. “Plunging us all into darkness.”
“Do
n
’
t you start,” said Ma. She was lying with her hands tucked behind her head, listening to some piano music. Russian,
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